Sorry this took so long :l But I hope you enjoy anyway!
Also, the overwhelming majority of people voted against Sherlolly, so I won't be including it. I don't think there'll be any shipping at all unless I get a really good idea. So thank for all the support on the last chapter, it was really great getting all that feedback.
I've stopped.
Even though I'm so close to the light, even though I'm so close to being gone, I've stopped.
I can't move anymore. All I can do is sit there, back pressed against the wall, so close to the light that it's nearly blinding.
I still shake, but the pain has subsided some. It's no longer the ceaseless fire from earlier, but more of a dull ache. It's a constant one, but an improvement nonetheless. And because of it, my mind has finally cleared some. But it's still too much.
I close my eyes tightly and lower my head, curling up once more in an attempt to shut out the light flooding my vision. I cover my ears too, in an attempt to shut out the noises.
I'd been so distracted before by the impossible pain that all thought had seemed pointless. The light never burned more than the fire in my blood, and the other noises were never worse than the beat of my own weakening heart.
But now the light is blinding, the noise a consistent almost mechanical buzz.
But curling up helps some.
And with this small respite I have time to think, free of delusions and almost free of distractions.
I have finally have time to think about the voices.
I'd heard them on and off for the past while, ever since the pain started to subside, but they seem to have stopped. At least for now.
In the beginning, when I was still pushing forward to the light and when the pain had still been fire, they'd been almost impossible to hear over the din in my own mind. Frantic shouts, unrecognizable voices. I couldn't remember them, but they hardly mattered.
The ones that came after mattered most. They
They'd been fainter still, wavering like a bad phone connection as the pain ebbed off.
First came a voice I recognized all too well, even though I could scarcely follow the one-sided conversation.
Mycroft.
When I first registered it, distant and soft, I expected mocking. I expected hatred.
Because he did hate me, and he did love to mock me. Whenever we'd been in these situations before, with my drug-use out of control, he mocked me relentlessly. I was weak in his eyes. I was stupid and weak because I needed the drugs. I was a screw up, throwing away all the gifts I'd been given because I was nothing more than a child.
But he didn't understand. He couldn't fathom why I used, why I needed it so much. And because he didn't understand immediately...he never tried to. He never cared enough to do so.
When things were "fine", when I was under control, he ignored me until he needed my talents. But when thing weren't so great, he got it in his head that he could meddle with my life. He decided that I couldn't be using drugs even though they gave me my only form of relief. He decided what was, apparently, best for me.
He only did so because he had to.
He was a political official, he was important and constantly in the public eye. He couldn't have a junkie brother, it would reflect poorly on him. People would know, they would find out.
So he couldn't let me live my life as I saw fit, simply because junkie brothers didn't make for good gossip.
He didn't care about me, he cared about his image. If he cared about what I wanted, he would've know what was best for me. He would let me go.
But what did I matter? My own choices meant nothing simply because most people thought it was wrong.
He didn't understand. I had nobody and nothing, with only a mind that tortured me at every turn.
I could never be normal, so what was the point in pretending?
But he kept trying for his own good, not mine.
He would continue to ship me off to rehab center after rehab center, never taking full responsibility for me. He would visit me once in the hospital, perhaps, only to gloat about his new victory. And he wouldn't visit me again until it fit his needs, and usually that was only when the country was in grave danger and he didn't have the time to hunt the criminal mastermind down himself.
He used me when I was clean and farmed me off to someone else when I wasn't.
So I expected mocking. I expected hatred when I heard his voice.
But it's not what I got.
It was tinged with sadness. It was tired and low.
I couldn't hear most of what he was saying, but I could tell that he was...sad for some reason.
Why is he sad? He hates me, despises me. I'm the stupid little brother. I'm nothing more than a burden
And then...
Then came John, a voice even more tired and even sadder.
Broken, exhausted, cracked, echoing.
So long since I heard him. I thought he was gone, I though he'd stopped caring.
But I could actually hear his words this time. I could hear what he was saying.
He was asking me, no, begging me, to live. To get better. To come back.
Pleading.
What am I supposed to do?
I bring my head up, braving the blinding light.
But I don't look toward the light, like I had before. I don't keep moving towards it.
No, I look toward the darkness behind me. The long corridor I had so painfully traversed. Mycroft...John...they're calling me back. They want me back.
Can I turn around? Do I have that choice?
Can I still live?
Is it too late?
Looking forward to the next chapter? Let me know what you think!