Disclaimer: Not mine, Sherlock, The Great Game and its characters belong to the BBC and Sir ACD.
A/N: Apologies for lateness, blah blah blah. I just caught up in other stuff, BUT I am writing on a laptop again (not mine but still…) so hopefully the next couple shouldn't be too much longer to wait. I think the story is going to be longer than I thought. Anyway, this chapter is pretty short but it seemed like a natural place to end it so I did. I'm going to get started on the next one while the creative juices are still flowing though!
It took me a long time to be happy with my Mycroft but I actually really enjoy writing him so that's nice for me. I'd love to hear your thoughts on him anyway.
As always, thank you for the lovely reviews. If I didn't get back to you, it may be because I haven't seen them but more likely, I just haven't had the chance I'm afraid. I will try to reply to more though. In particular though, thank you to all those who offered condolences on the loss of my beloved laptop – I don't know when I'll get it replaced but hopefully there shouldn't be any more laptop related disruptions.
As always, read and review and I hope you like it!
"It seems we have reached a familiar impasse, Sherlock." Mycroft leant back in his chair, regarding his younger brother. Sherlock glared back. "You, I presume, have no intention of desisting in this…detestable behaviour voluntarily?" Sherlock shook his head almost imperceptibly, and Mycroft sighed. "Are we, then, to stage some form of intervention? Look into rehabilitation clinics, perhaps?" Mycroft suggested congenially. Sherlock's glare softened, eyes narrowing into uncertainty rather than resentment. Mycroft's voice hardened. "Or will we instead be expected to endure your whimpering and snivelling your way through the withdrawal once more?"
"Now, hang on a sec!" John exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and reaching out one arm as if to touch Sherlock despite being sat on the far side of the room. Mycroft raised his eyebrows expectantly. "You can't say…I mean, he's made a massive mistake but I think that's a bit harsh, isn't it?" He turned to Lestrade for support, who eventually raised his eyes from the floor long enough to meet his gaze.
"Well, yeah…but, I mean…it's tactics, right? Y'know, tough love and that." Lestrade said awkwardly.
John gaped for a moment, looking from Lestrade to Mycroft to Sherlock and back again. "Not anymore it's not." He pointed out quietly, easing back into his chair resignedly.
"Your concern for my dear brother's delicate sensibilities is touching, Dr Watson, though I fancy that concern is overwhelming your medical judgments in this matter." John bristled at the accusation but found he could hardly deny it. "I was exaggerating, of course," Mycroft continued serenely, returning his attention to Sherlock, "we needn't worry about withdrawal or rehabilitation, need we, Sherlock?" At John and Lestrade's puzzled expressions, he explained somewhat patronisingly, "One must be engaging in the use of such substances in order for withdrawal to become an issue."
"He's not…you mean, he hasn't…but we found…I don't understand." John finished blankly, staring at Sherlock who refused to meet his gaze.
"You mean he's not using?" Lestrade asked bluntly.
"One can hardly say it has not crossed his mind, but no. He is not, and has not engaged in this," Mycroft gestured at the stash of brown and white powders, "for some time."
Lestrade ran a hand over his face, clearly relieved. "Oh." He said, eyeing at Sherlock apologetically.
"I did tell you." Sherlock commented softly, speaking for the first time since Mycroft had entered the flat.
"Yeah." Lestrade said faintly.
"That's…good." John said finally. "That's…I'm glad, Sherlock."
"Not going to examine me to make sure?"
"No, of course not! I – "
"I'm glad Mycroft's word is good enough for both of you."
"Sherlock, come on! What were we supposed to think?" Lestrade exclaimed defensively. He sighed exasperatedly. "Look, I'm – we're – obviously glad you're not taking anything, but to be honest, Sherlock, it doesn't make any difference."
Sherlock suddenly went very still, regarding Lestrade carefully. Slowly, he turned questioning eyes to John who shrugged grimly. "He's right."
"It doesn't make any difference," Sherlock repeated very slowly. Suddenly, he lurched to his feet, excused himself and left the room. A few seconds later, they heard the bathroom door lock.
The three remaining sat in silence for a few moments until quite suddenly John sat up straight. "You don't think he's got anything in there, do you?"
Neither man answered but Mycroft smiled pityingly at him and Lestrade shook his head slowly.
"Do you think he's coming back?" Lestrade asked of nobody in particular.
"Not until I leave, I suspect." Mycroft answered cheerfully. "He can be terribly petty, you know," he commented with a slight laugh, "I recall he once – "
"Your brother's facing drugs charges, is now really the time to reminisce?" John said, exasperated.
Mycroft cocked his head to one side in interest, clearly unused to being interrupted. "Perhaps not. Remind me, Detective Inspector, why do you feel that charges are the correct, nay, only course of action?"
"Anderson." Both John and Lestrade supplied shortly.
"Ah." Mycroft said softly, steepling his fingers and leaning back. "Well, I daresay he can be…taken care of." John's eyes widened in alarm – he and Mycroft may have been on fairly friendly terms but he still hadn't quite recovered from his initial, somewhat sinister meeting with the man in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. "Not to worry, Doctor Watson. I simply intend to explain to Dr Anderson why his natural response to this incident will not be conducive to his continued association with the home office and Scotland Yard. I see you have the same absurd inclination towards the dramatic as my brother."
"I'm not arresting him then?" Lestrade asked in relief.
"Not today."
"Sherlock? Cup of tea outside the door." John announced, hesitantly knocking on the door. He sighed and returned to the lounge where Lestrade and Mycroft were sipping their drinks in silence.
"Why does he have it then?"
"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft said blankly just as Lestrade asked, "What are you on about?"
"The drugs." John clarified. "He could start dealing with the amount in there." Here, Lestrade scoffed. "It must've cost a fortune, and he hasn't used any of it."
Lestrade shrugged and returned to perusing the books on the shelves lining the wall. John rolled his eyes and looked expectantly at Mycroft.
"I suspect," Mycroft said in a slightly scolding tone "that that is a question you ought to ask my brother, Dr Watson, not me. And, having said that, I believe it is high time I departed," he said, rising to his feet. "There is no need to summon a cab, my car is waiting outside. Detective Inspector, can I offer you a ride to the Yard?"
"Er, yeah, all right." Lestrade said, surprised.
"I shall take this and dispose of its contents appropriately," Mycroft said, pocketing the box of drugs, "My brother will emerge within the next fifteen minutes unless I am very much mistaken; even so, if you would inform me of his return, Dr Watson, I would be most grateful. Goodbye, Dr Watson."
With that, Mycroft strolled from the room.
"Right…well, I'll see you soon, I suppose." Said Lestrade awkwardly, "Let me know when he…" he gestured vaguely towards the locked bathroom door. "I'm still gonna want a word with him!" He added in a much louder voice, angling his head towards the door.
John nodded and began collecting mugs from around the room. "Yeah, well…join the queue. Listen, Greg, I really appreciate this – you know, not arresting him and that."
"If I didn't charge him five years ago, I'm hardly gonna to arrest him now, am I?" John raised his eyebrows pointedly. "That is, if Mycroft can sort this Anderson thing out." Lestrade amended.
John 'hmmed' then considered Lestrade for a moment. "So, when you met him…he was, you know…?" He asked hesitantly. Lestrade nodded once. John looked as though he was debating whether to continue or not, but finally continued, "Then you – I mean, someone – must've gotten him off them then? I mean, he was clean when I met him, so…." The question trailed off and they were left in awkward silence.
"Yeah. I sort of…I mean, Mycroft…it was a bit…" Lestrade stammered, "He got clean." He finished lamely. Suddenly, he brightened. "Still up for that pint tomorrow?"
John blinked at the abrupt change in conversation. "Erm, is now really a good time? I think I should probably…" he gestured regretfully towards the bathroom.
"Nah, he'll be fine. It's only a few hours." John looked doubtful. "Bring him with you?" Lestrade suggested, badly suppressing a grin.
John rolled his eyes. "I hardly think so, Detective Inspector." Lestrade gazed disappointedly for a moment, then pulled out his mobile as it announced an incoming message.
"My presence is awaited at the Palace. MH"
Lestrade scowled. "How do they do that?"
"Mycroft?" John inquired, "Sherlock reckons he's had your number for years."
"Yeah, but I've changed my number about four times since then." He pocketed his phone, "I'd be lying if I told you the two were entirely unconnected." He added conspiratorially. John smiled sympathetically. "Anyway, I'd better be off – don't want to keep the other one waiting. That pint though, John, if not tomorrow then soon, yeah?"
John nodded, seeing the DI out the door before returning to the flat. "They've gone, Sherlock." He announced as he walked past the bathroom. He was rewarded with the sound of the bolt sliding back, though it was not until he reached the kitchen that he saw Sherlock's dark figure slink across the landing and up to his bedroom.
A/N: Yup, sorry. Sherlock is NOT back on drugs, sorry to those who were happy when they thought he was (nasty people!). But that is not the end of the drugs issue, all shall be revealed… R&R!