The silence between them was so thick you could cut it. It was like quicksand, sucking them down and drowning them. Sherlock sat in one chair, Mycroft the other. Either side of the large fireplace in Mycroft's sitting room. The room with the expensive picture above the mantelpiece. The sturdy leather furniture, the reliable rich wallpapers and crystal decanters that told the outside world who Mycroft was. Or at least who he wanted everyone to think he was.
They sat opposite. Like bookends. But what was stacked between them wasn't books. There was the remnants of the same unhappy childhood. The sense of loss. The years of resentment. The betrayals of trust. The insults. The embarrassments. And finally the final problem. Mycroft wasn't indestructible. He was every bit as messed up as Sherlock. And Sherlock just could not forgive him for that.
The silence continued. Sherlock, pale, in his purple shirt and close fitting suit, ignoring the glass of Scotch Mycroft had poured for him. Mycroft, in jeans and a black shirt Sherlock would have never believed his brother would own, let alone wear, already on his second glass. Eventually Sherlock stood. Mycroft tilted his head up to look at his younger brother.
"Leaving so soon Sherlock?" Even his sarcasm was half hearted.
"There seems to be little point in staying. We have nothing to talk about and you are perfectly capable of getting drunk on your own. Goodnight."
"Yes. Quite."
Sherlock had made it to the end of the street when the strangest memory came to him.
Twenty six years old. A dirty floor. Filth, broken glass, needles. The razor blade had sliced through his skin. No one would find him. No one would care. No one needed to know he existed. Then a familiar voice in the growing darkness. "Oh my God Sherlock." He was being picked up. His blood soaking into the man who was carrying him. Once the blood was gone there would be nothing but skin and bones. And when the bones were picked clean and the clean bones were gone. Nothing. There was shouting. The air smelt of antiseptic. Bright lights. And the voice again. Two voices.
"I can't Mr Holmes. I'm very sorry. But we've already taken one pint from you."
"He needs more. Give him what he needs."
"I can't do that Sir."
"I think you can Doctor. I believe you can take four pints of blood from me before the effects become damaging."
"Sir you don't understand."
"No you don't understand. That is my little brother. He is all I have left. If necessary I will bleed myself dry for him with or without your help. Considering who I am there'll probably be a queue of people willing to help me do it."
Mycroft was no longer in the sitting room. Sherlock knew exactly where he would be. The room on the top floor was softly lit. The door pushed open and the happy sadness from the room leaking into the rest of the house. Mycroft was sat on the floor. His head in his hands. Sherlock thought he might be crying.
"Mycroft. The night I ended up in Charing Cross Hospital. How did you know where I was? There's no way, even with your surveillance you could have known I was in that flat."
"How did I know?" Mycroft raised his eyes. Red and swollen with tears. "Someone told me." Mycroft stood, reached up on to a shelf and handed Sherlock a note book. The book contained a series of English Compositions written in a spidery hand, and one loose piece of paper. Sherlock read and re-read.
Sherlock in Trouble. 89 Leadbetter Street. Flat 2. Go now.
The note was written in the same hand as the English essays. Sherlock knew what the front cover of the book would say. But he read it anyway. N J Garrideb. Elmfield House. English.
The book fell to the floor as he put his arms around his brother's neck and sobbed.
"Mycroft I'm so sorry." Mycroft hugged his brother back. Unable to speak.