Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.
Set in February 2005. Referenced in 'Trefoil' chapter 24.
Trigger warning: homelessness, crime scene, non-consensual drug use, overdose
It was cold.
No, it was bloody freezing.
A sudden cold snap on Valentine's Day had brought heavy snow across the region. Snow was a rarity in the Capital, and it hardly ever stayed for long, melting away under grit and the tramp of thousands of footfalls. But the arctic temperatures lingered leaving all but the gritted pavements as icy death-traps. Greg knew from his contacts in uniform that bodies of the homeless were turning up in numbers, caught out by the sudden change in temperature. Even the Sally Army, churches, various homeless shelters and night hostels had been caught out. They quickly filled up, having to turn away hundreds across the capital to an uncertain future.
Greg's mind strayed to Sherlock Holmes. He'd helped out on several crime scenes now, appearing at the tape and demanding to see the DI. Greg had to admit, he had a remarkable eye for evidence, and could pull together the minutiae that even the more experienced forensic guys missed. If he was honest, Sherlock's sharp eyes and even sharper brain had helped clean up two cases that, when he first arrived at the scenes, he thought would be headed for the cold case file.
Anderson had been the lead tech on one of them. As usual he'd missed a few key pieces of evidence in his haste to draw his own conclusions about the crime. Every time they got back to the Yard, Greg had to remind him that his job was to find and document all available evidence, placing it in context, and Greg's job was to pull it together and solve the case. He had nothing against the bloke, and on the whole he was a good scientist, he was simply too easy to distract, overlooking or discounting evidence because it didn't fit how he saw the crime. Greg had already decided that he was going to give him one more chance before asking that he be moved to another team and perhaps given a refresher course. He couldn't risk screwing up cases because the forensic tech wanted to be Quincy.
Greg had spent the afternoon at his desk. He'd had to endure the muck that passed for coffee from the vending machine in the break room. Nobody was willing to go outside for a coffee run. He'd spent the afternoon in relative warmth catching up on paperwork and keeping his fingers crossed that the murderers were all keeping indoors in the warm too.
By four o'clock it was dark outside. Flurries of snowflakes still fell, but were too small to settle, melting away to nothing as soon as they hit the damp ground. His phone rang. A call diverted from the switchboard. The Emergency Call Operator explaining the caller had dialled 999 and had specifically asked to speak to Inspector Lestrade, urgently.
As soon as he said his name the voice of a young man began to whisper down the phone. The voice sounded frightened but determined. The accent was indeterminate, possibly originally from the Midlands, but hardened by long exposure to the clipped tones of London.
"Is that Inspector Lestrade. Good. Listen. Sherlock's in trouble. 'Ee was trackin' a dealer selling bad shit to kids. Wiv the bad wevver 'ee said it was as good a time as any. At least 'eed be out of the cold. 'Sept I think 'ee got made. Went into those flats their refurbing on Webber Row, top floor, furvest from the street. I was watchin' see. Lookout like. 'Ee went in sweet, then these two ovver blokes show up. Smart whistles and shooters. Fing is, 'ee asn't come out an neever 'ave they, an' it's been too long. 'Ee told me, if it went tits up ta call you, so that's what I've done. Get 'ere fast, but no blues and twos when ya get 'ere. 'Ee needs ya."
"On my way. Thanks for the call." There was no point asking for the boy's name. He'd never give it and would have fled the scene by the time they arrived.
Greg grabbed his coat, pulling on scarf and gloves as he made for the lift. "Wilson, Carter, with me. Donovan, call SC&O19. Put an Armed Response Unit on standby in Webber Row. Silent approach, possible hostage situation. And call Murchison in Vice. I need to know everything they've got on a dealer operating out of Webber Row, probably selling bad drugs. If he kicks up a stink tell him to get me in the car. I need to get there fast."
The lift arrived and the three officers dashed for the car park. Lestrade briefed the sergeants as they drove through London traffic, lights and sirens clearing the way for them. Murchison called though as they drove. No known dealer on Webber Row, but they were aware of a bad batch of Ecstasy that had started appearing on the street. The dealers obviously knew it was bad, not risking it on their regular clients and dumping it cheaply on kids and the homeless. They hadn't been able to get hold of a sample for analysis but whatever it was cut with was lethal causing convulsions, tachycardia and hyperthermia at levels way above the norm. The few victims who had survived had suffered brain damage from their excessively high body temperature. Most users had died within hours on ingestion. Greg blanched when Murchison passed on the news.
"Why the interest Greg? If it's urgent I can have some of my lads over to you in a hour or so."
"I might need them, I'll let you know. In the mean time I've got one of my informants in there with the dealer, his crew, and maybe a couple of heavies with guns. I'm about two minutes out, so let me and my team go in first. Once I've got my lad out if there's anything worth your time I'll give you a shout. Give me thirty minutes or so to get the situation under control and I'll let you know."
Ending the call he glanced at his sergeant, listening intently in the passenger seat. "Carter, confirm that the Armed Response car is here. Also, we may need an ambulance. If this has gone sideways we'll need them."
Arriving by the flats, Lestrade gently parked up by the curb, his sirens and lights long since switched off. The black clad SC&O19 team were waiting round the corner, out of sight of the flats, already armed and ready to go. Lestrade briefed the team, then walked towards the flats, the rest of his support team hugging the wall and staying out of the sightlines from the flat. Greg quietly climbed the stairs and made his way along the walkway to the final flat. There was no sign of whoever had called, but then the homeless were very adept at remaining unseen when they wanted; a skill essential to survival on the streets.
The door to the final flat was ajar. Greg could hear voices from inside. The two dark suited bruisers had their backs to the door, talking to a Londoner further inside the flat. One of the bruisers spoke, his voice heavily accented. Something eastern European, but Greg couldn't place it. The men argued back and forth about 'the product', but no-one mentioned Sherlock, and Greg couldn't be sure he was there.
One of the bruisers indicated off to his right, possibly another room. "An' vot about 'im? 'As 'ee talked?"
"Nah, and 'ee won't. I've shot 'im so full'a coke 'eel be floating on clouds right up to tha pearly gates."
That was all Greg needed. Stepping back he let the armed officers in first closely followed by Wilson and Carter. He pulled out his phone placing a priority call for an ambulance to deal with an overdose. He then sent a pre-typed text to Murchison telling him the address was confirmed. The Vice boys would be all over it within the hour.
As soon as the flat was secure, Greg dived in the direction indicated by the thug. Sure enough Sherlock lay on the filthy single bed, a tube tied around his bicep and a needle hanging from his arm. Greg removed the needle, carefully handing it to Wilson to be bagged. "I need this tested top priority. Hopefully it's not contaminated with anything nasty, although I doubt it's clean. And chase up the ambulance. I need them here yesterday."
Greg checked Sherlock's pulse. It was weak and thready. "Come on sunshine, keep breathing. Ambulance'll be here soon and we'll get you tucked up nice and warm in hospital with clean sheets and all those pretty nurses. Come on."
Suddenly there was a rasp and then nothing.
"SHIT! Wilson, help me get him on the floor. I need to start CPR."
Wilson helped, but looked dubious about giving a homeless man mouth to mouth, much to Greg's disgust.
"OK, you start heart compressions, I'll do the mouth to mouth."
Between them they kept Sherlock alive until the ambulance crew arrived ten minutes later. Sherlock was still breathing when he was placed into the ambulance, Greg going with him having handed the scene over to the recently arrived Murchison. Sherlock was still alive when he arrived at A&E. He crashed en route to the treatment room, but was resuscitated. Greg paced the corridor awaiting news, unaccountably concerned for this man's well-being.
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."
The cultured male voice had not asked a question, but expressed his name as a statement of fact. Greg turned to face the owner of the voice expecting to see a doctor. Instead he stood before a man of similar height and age to himself, with tawny brown hair wearing an obviously expensive three piece suit, and somewhat incongruously, using a black umbrella as though it were a walking cane.
"Yes, I'm DI Lestrade. Do you have news about Sherlock?"
"No, not as yet. I am awaiting a report before I arrange for his transfer to a private hospital."
Greg nodded as he realised who the man was. Powerful, interfering, controlling. This had to be the brother.
"I don't think so. He's a material witness in an ongoing investigation, so you won't be taking him anywhere Mr Holmes."
If the man was surprised that Greg had discerned his identity, he didn't show it, his demeanour as glacial as before.
"Sherlock's spent four years avoiding you. Just because he got himself in a mess when investigating a drug dealer doesn't mean you can spirit him away. He put himself in danger to bring down a bloke that's killing kids with dirty E. We didn't know anything about him, but Sherlock does, so as soon as he's fit, he'll be talking to Vice so we can get these bastards and their muck off the streets. Understand."
"Thank you Detective Inspector. I do understand fully now. So, Sherlock wasn't …?" The question hung in the air.
"No Sherlock wasn't using. That bastard pumped him so full of coke he's crashed at least twice. I bagged the needle to make sure it's not contaminated with anything nasty before it's filed into evidence. I haven't spoken to anyone yet since they took him in. I'm hoping no news is good news."
"Yes. Quite."
The man turned and walked towards a cluster of blue plastic chairs, indicating that Greg should join him. Once they were uncomfortably seated it took a few minutes for the man to talk.
"Thank you Detective Inspector, for saving my brother."
"My pleasure Mr Holmes."
"Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."
"Pleasure to meet you Mycroft Holmes."
There was another long pause as both men stared straight ahead, lost in their own thoughts. Greg was going over the scant information Sherlock had imparted about his brother and what he could surmise from Sherlock himself. Obviously intelligent and well educated. The suit indicated a fair degree of wealth. Greg knew that the man was powerful and, according to Sherlock, almost omnipotent. Greg was broken from his reverie when the man beside him almost whispered into his phone "Yes my dear. Tell Her Majesty I will be delighted to meet with her tomorrow afternoon. Please ensure I receive no further calls tonight and clear my calendar for tomorrow morning. Thank you my dear."
Greg simply stared for countless seconds until his brain re-engaged. "Her Majesty? As in the Queen Her Majesty."
"Um, yes Detective Inspector. I hold a minor position in the British Government which occasionally necessitates meetings with the Monarch. I would greatly appreciate your keeping that information between ourselves. As a serving officer of Her Majesty's Police Force you have no doubt signed the Official Secrets Act. This knowledge is covered by the Act and I will not hesitate to enact it should my position or identity become common knowledge as a result of our talk."
"Right, right. Back off. I know how to keep a secret. Wouldn't be where I am if I couldn't."
Mycroft seemed to relax slightly.
"What is your relationship with my brother?"
Greg was a little taken aback. This almost sounded like 'the talk'.
"Shit, nothing like that. I've known him about six months. He wandered onto my crime scene one day and solved the case in five minutes flat. Bloody amazing. He turns up every now and then. Throws in his two penneth. Most of the time he's spot on, and when he's not he's there or there abouts. He's got a real gift for it. Reads a crime scene like it's an open book."
"At least he is being useful."
"Yeah, he is. Very. I wouldn't mind having him on the Force, but I doubt he'd survive the discipline. He's not one for taking orders. And I can't really approach him to assist in any consultancy capacity, not while he's living on the streets. Of course, that may not be an issue now as he's only been doing it to avoid you."
"Yes. An error on my part I'm afraid." Greg suspected that any admission of failure was painful to the man. "If he were to find permanent accommodation, would you be willing to perhaps allow him access to your crime scenes, in a consultancy capacity of course?"
"Don't see why not, if he's got a roof over his head and he can stay away from the drugs, especially after this. A massive dose like that can wreak havoc if he's not careful."
"Perhaps the threat of regular searches of his accommodation, strictly unofficial, of course, would ensure he remains focused."
"May be. But fake drugs busts could get me in trouble. I don't like using my badge to coerce people, especially unofficially."
"I applaud your ethics Detective Inspector. However, this is not so much coercion as protection."
"And it sounds very similar to what drove Sherlock away from you and into hiding in the first place."
For the first time since they'd met, Mycroft's façade cracked. A flash of guilt darkened his features before he brought the mask back into place.
"Consider the possibilities. You will have access to my brother and I will have him safe and healthy. Of course you will need to convince him. He must not know that we have discussed this. If he learns that we have agreed to this he will believe I am manipulating him again, something that must be avoided at all costs."
At that moment a doctor approached. "Detective Inspector Lestrade? Good news. The patient is out of danger. I understand that the drug was administered by force, so the usual protocols for a patient admitted in such a condition do not apply. He is still unconscious and we do not expect him to awake until the morning at the earliest. If you leave your contact details with reception we will call as soon as there is any change."
Mycroft stood, addressing the doctor. "I am the patient's brother. I would like to leave a security detail outside his door for his own protection."
"That should be acceptable, as long as they don't interfere with the staff."
"Excellent. Now, if you have no objection, I would like to sit by my brother's side. He should see his family when he awakes don't you think."
Saying their goodbyes, Mycroft followed the doctor to Sherlock's room, whilst Greg left his details with the receptionist before heading home, contemplating Mycroft's suggestion all the way. He didn't feel entirely comfortable, but, if Sherlock agreed, he'd be happy to take whatever assistance he could get.
-0-0-0-
This didn't feel like before. Instead of the gentle disintegration of the shimmering cocoon created by the cocaine, this was a cataclysm. His past experiences with the drug were calming, his mind wrapped in a protective shell. This was nothing like that. This time the experience was dark, jagged, with cold oppressive walls that stifled all thought. He raged against it, beating fists against the harsh barriers as his throat grew sore from his unheard screams. Then, suddenly, the walls began to splinter, shards raining down upon his Mind Palace. For what seemed an eternity he cowered under the barrage, until finally the noise abated and silence reigned.
He opened his eyes.
He was in a bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a comfortable bed with clean sheets. An IV stand dispensed fluids into his right arm, whilst a machine beeped quietly to the beat of his heart. Not dead then. Muted early morning light offered gentle illumination. Still fuzzy, he scanned the room. He heard a gentle snore. Someone was in the room with him. He turned to see Mycroft, suit crumpled and tie loosened, sprawled in an uncomfortable looking chair, his head lolled back on the head rest. Well that had blown it. Nearly five years of dodging his brother and now here he was, trapped again.
Sherlock lay back, staring at the uninspiring ceiling of his hospital room. Private no doubt if Mycroft had anything to do with it. He may as well enjoy it while he could. Mycroft would have him transferred to some private rehab unit soon enough under the guise of safeguarding his younger brother's welfare. Sherlock pondered whether Mycroft still had designs on him going to to his secret laboratory. Probably not as Sherlock's knowledge was seriously out of date and his skills rusty. But then, such a small obstacle would never deter Mycroft from achieving what he'd set his mind to. He was much like Mummy in that regard.
He did not allow his mind to dwell on Mummy and Daddy. He had more important things than the wellbeing of his parents and their disappointment with him to occupy the few moments before Mycroft awoke.
What the hell had happened? He had left Billy Wiggins outside with orders to contact Lestrade if anything went wrong. He'd knocked on the door of the flat saying he'd been sent by Blade; one of the dealers running a gang in Hoxton, who Sherlock occasionally worked on the door for. He knew Pitbull had been dealing the contaminated E. One of his homeless network had lost her close friend and companion to the drug. She'd been more than happy to point out the man and tell everything about where and how Kylie had met him. Nell's story was not dissimilar to several others Sherlock had heard over the previous weeks. He took the case, determined to bring this man and, with luck, his suppliers down. He would gather as much information as he could then hand the whole lot over to Lestrade.
Pitbull had welcomed him, offering a coffee and telling him to dump his stuff in the little bedroom. He'd only just set up in the new location, but was expecting the street dealers to start showing up that afternoon. Sherlock would do what he always did; make sure that anyone who came in was either a legit dealer or customer.
It all went to hell when the Serbians showed up. They didn't like the look of Sherlock; didn't trust him. Also, they knew Blade. A quick phonecall later and Sherlock's cover story was torn to shreds. After five years on the streets, Sherlock was fast and wiry, but not enough to dodge the brute who grabbed his arms and held him tight.
He began to writhe as he was held down on the bed, genuinely panicked at what could be about to happen. He was almost relieved when Pitbull walked in with a syringe and told one of his captors to rip open his sleeve. Terror reared its head when Pitbull sneered, his foul breathed whispers explaining exactly what was in the syringe and how long Sherlock had left on this earth. The needle stung, Pitbull not worried about any delicacy in finding a vein. As the cocaine hit his system the gentle opalescence he was used to instantly gave way to something terrifyingly darker. His last thought was "Let me live."
"Sherlock, brother, are you coherent? Sherlock, please."
"Really Mycroft, begging? How long have I got?" Mycroft looked nonplussed. "How long before I'm carted away under lock and key to some prison cell of your choosing. I'm sure you can convince a private clinic that I am a dangerously unstable character who requires constant supervision. I might go along with your plan if the narcotics are good. After all, I've spent my days on the streets shooting up at every opportunity. This last episode was an unfortunate miscalculation. What can I say, I am beyond redemption. Lock me away so I cast no further shadow upon the Holmes name. I'm sure Mummy will approve."
"She slapped my face and banished me from the house."
Sherlock brightened. "Really? Good for her. When was this?"
"When I confessed what I had done to you. You have my abject apologies. I used you abominably. Even now I shudder to contemplate how I treated you merely because I thought I knew best how you should live your life. It was unforgivable brother. That you felt your only recourse was to disappear into homelessness and poverty is intolerable to me. I spoke to your Detective Inspector. I understand you have found a niche for yourself. You should know that, however you choose to live your life is for you to decide. My role will be to support you in whatever endeavour you set your mind to. I will swear a blood oath if you choose."
Sherlock smiled gently as he recalled the games of their childhood. Before he left for boarding school, Mycroft used to play pirates with the young Sherlock, reading him Treasure Island and teaching him of the Spanish Main, blood oaths and parlez. That Mycroft referenced those times now meant a great deal to his younger brother. "I appreciate your apologies." Sherlock paused for a moment chewing his lip. "How are Mummy and Daddy?"
"Well. They've missed you desperately. I was only reconciled to them the second Christmas after you left. I don't believe either of them has truly forgiven me for driving you away."
"And Linley?"
"He's doing very well. Unsurprisingly he is pursuing a career as a thespian. He has had small roles in some forgettable television dramas popular with the masses. He received excellent reviews for his work with the National Theatre and RSC. He is still using the name Linley Safford. We agreed, when he went up to university, that it would be safest for us all if he did not use the Holmes name."
"University?"
"Yes. He achieved a BA with honours from RADA. We were all very proud."
"Well done Linley. I'm pleased for him."
"I should call the nurse. They requested to be informed when you awoke. There is some concern about the effects of the overdose on your mind. Also, you are severely malnourished. They have provided a recommended diet plan to return you to health."
"You learn to eat infrequently when your options for nourishment are limited. Similarly with sleep. When you are in permanent danger from thugs, thieves or being moved on by police, it becomes impossible to do more than nap."
Mycroft's look of distress at a further consequence of his own actions upon his brother's health tore at Sherlock's heart. "Brother, you are forgiven. Just don't do it again. Now, inform the nurse that I am awake and compos mentis, then perhaps you can arrange for one of you watchdogs in the hall to organise something vaguely edible for us. I feel in the mood for scrambled eggs, perhaps with a little smoked salmon."
Mycroft smiled. "That sounds most agreeable brother. And, if you have no objection I will call Mummy. Do you think you can suffer a torrent of recriminations and motherly love later today?"
"It will happen sometime so best get it out of the way sooner rather than later. Carry on brother. I will wait here for your return."
Mycroft accepted his brother's peace offering with a lightness of heart he had not felt in almost half a decade. He felt a moment of fear as he crossed the threshold into the hall, but no, his brother had made a promise. He would not run. He would remain in his room, awaiting the return to his family, apologies made and accepted, the past forgiven if not forgotten.
Sally Army = slang for Salvation Army
whistles = Cockney rhyming slang - whistles and flutes = suits
shooters = guns
tits up = gone wrong, gone badly
blues and twos = lights and siren on a police car
two penneth = two pence worth. Slang for an opinion usually within a group discussion. "He stuck his two penneth in."
-0-0-0-
I suspect that recovery from an overdose is usually much more prolonged and a lot less comfortable. However, as I've given Sherlock an atypical reaction to cocaine anyway of course, for the purposes of the narrative, he's also had an atypical recovery.
To those of you who have followed or favorited my stories, I thank you. To those of you who have read or reviewed these scratchings, I thank you. Your time and contribution is very much appreciated. If you wish to leave comments or constructive criticism, please do. Your input is always valued and an encouragement to continue.