(Sorry for not updating for like, two months. I'll try to be a bit more regular!)
Sherlock sat from his perch watching John and Mycroft through the flat's windows.
"Mycroft, you don't look too well," Sherlock mumbled, "putting weight again. My fault, I suppose."
Everything was Sherlock's fault to Mycroft. Even his fake death was Sherlock's fault in Mycroft's eyes, unless John talked some sense into him. Sherlock hoped so, because he loathed his brother's self-pitying nature.
He did not loathe his brother, though. Rather, it was nice to see that Mycroft was actually interacting with the one person Sherlock kept close to his heart.
There was a time, though, that Sherlock did hate his brother. Hate him, indeed.
For Sherlock, the relative passage of time has shifted over a course of many years. Some months seemed longer than the rest, while others briskly whisked by. But this sort of waiting around for time to pass by was boring while sober.
Tonight, however, that particular passage of time was condensed into mere hours. The intensity of time was pounding out his brain, eroding his senses.
Drugs mess with that kind of stuff. A lot.
Sherlock slumped over the side of the dumpster and puked up the remains of his stomach. He had been drinking heavily in addition to the injections he had applied in his arm. He didn't even bother asking what they were. All he knew is that they supplied his devilish need. His need to alter his mind, his state of being. The shame and guilt that penetrated his normally cold persona washed away with the help of mind-numbing stimulants and depressants, all wrapped into one nice little present of a night of drug variety.
He felt good. Really, he did. He had finished puking and the swirling in his head was at a pleasant, slow speed. Years stopped playing out before his eyes, and he felt time to pass at more a stable rate. Warmth was in his heart. Ah, the walk home would be glorious, then.
Oh, a bit stumble here and there was fine. Tipsy was better than retching his stomach out.
He smiled, eventually letting out a small chuckle and then looking up at the sky and laughing brashly. Out of his peripheral vision he noticed blue and red lights flashing and heard a familiar voice.
"Sherlock Holmes!" it said, sounding like an assertive father that he never had. "Sherlock, this is the last time I am catching you like this. I don't care if you're Mycroft's brother, I have to take you into the station for disturbing the peace."
"Disturbing the peace?" Sherlock slurred, still looking up and now spinning around. "Oh no, I am merely enjoying the peace! The peace of the stars above! Look at them, specks of light in an almost absolute oblivion. They're…" Sherlock stopped spinning and looked directly at Lestrade, faltering in step. "They're beautiful." Sherlock pointed upwards. "And I am beautiful like them! My mind is a flipping bed of roses, and therefore, I'm beautiful."
"Alright, rose boy, you can be as fancy as you'd like, but that's not changing the fact that you're coming with me. I'll let Mycroft know that you're in the station and he can bail you out, but you need to learn your lesson."
"Yes, learn a lesson from that cretin," Sherlock spat, his tongue lazily forming the words. "He couldn't teach me a lesson even if I told him how to teach me a lesson, which, as you should know, I have done before."
"Yes, well, at least he's not a wino and is doing his job! Bloody Hell, Sherlock, I'd thought you'd be someone when we'd first met!"
"That was a long time ago, when I was cheapened with childish optimism that one day I might be accepted."
Lestrade paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. Sherlock had never once alluded to be wanted, to be accepted, let alone wanting to interact with another human being. It was sad, really. To look into Sherlock's soul, and not even in Sherlock's control. Drunkenness exposed the younger Holmes brother in an unnerving way, and Lestrade had too weak of a heart to deal with it.
"Well, maybe one day someone will come along," Lestrade said lamely, chastising himself for not thinking of something more inspiring while leading Sherlock into the car. "Maybe you'll find a trusty sidekick in all of your adventures."
All Sherlock could do was laugh bitterly.
"SHERLOCK HOLMES!"
Sherlock woke up, head maliciously being imploded from the inner depths of his mind. His brain felt like it had just been beaten up.
"Mmmrfh," was all Sherlock could muster in the presence of his disapproving brother. He was sitting slumped by the railing, looking up at his brother growing increasingly red in the cheeks.
"Sherlock Holmes, this is the last, and I mean the last time I will ever bail you out after a drunken night in jail! Oh, what will Mother think? You know I have kept this hidden from her for years, Sherlock, years! I think it's about time she know so you can shape up with your life!"
"Mycroft, why don't you just leave me in the cell and go away? I am not in the mood for your incessant squawking."
"If you got it your way, you'd stay with jail and admit defeat, hiding away from society. But as long as I am successful, Sherlock, I can not have members of the British government judging me on the account that I have a failure of a brother!"
"LIKE YOU'RE SUCH THE SUCCESS YOURSELF!" Sherlock roared, standing up and looking straight into Mycroft's eyes. His head was exploding with awful, awful pain, but his hatred for the man in front of him distracted him from it.
"Mycroft, not only have you cheapened yourself to become a pawn in a corrupt government system, you have countlessly and timelessly disappointed and betrayed me. If I'm a failure, then it is because you made me this way, you half-arsed hack!"
Sherlock was gripping onto the railing, panting from the rage. All of those things he just said had been bottled up for years, only being shown in small retorts and searing comebacks. Never had Sherlock been so angry with his brother but now. His brother, who blamed all of his problems on Sherlock. His brother, who had always cast him aside. His brother, who was the one that told the kids at school that he was a freak. His brother didn't love him. His brother merely saw him as another one of his pieces in a game that he thought he controlled. Mycroft's stupid little game.
Sherlock was surprised, then, when Mycroft started to cry. Sherlock had never seen Mycroft cry, he had only known Mycroft to go and be by himself if he ever was overcome with emotion. But here he was, the brother he hated, crying.
"Sherlock… I'm so sorry."
Mycroft left the cell. An hour passed and Lestrade let Sherlock out. As Sherlock walked into the world, birds chirping and tourists walking by, he thought, for the first time in his life that he might have to change.