Monster

Chapter 4

Season three never happened in this story.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to BBC and ACD.

221B Baker Street was quiet. 221B wasn't supposed to be quiet. There should have been experiments going on. There should have been a violin being played at inappropriate times. Gunshots should have been ringing out from boredom. There should have been yelling at the telly.

The silence was driving John mad. He sighed and stood to get another cup of tea. Before he could even move, he gasped and nearly fell back into his chair. Standing in the doorway to the sitting room, in his impeccable three-piece suit, was Mycroft Holmes.

"Jesus, couldn't you have knocked?" John said, one hand over his pounding heart.

"I did. Mrs. Hudson let me in. She told me to 'go right up'," the other man said, leaning his trademark umbrella against the wall before coming into the room and sitting down in Sherlock's chair.

"Well, would you like some tea?"

"That would be lovely," the older man said, inclining his head.

Mycroft had been to the flat enough for John to know exactly how he took his tea. Once both men had their cuppa, John sat back down and stared at the other man expectantly.

"How is my brother, John?" he finally said after taking a sip of his perfect, though he'd never admit it, tea.

"Why don't you visit him and find out?"

"We both know he wouldn't appreciate that."

"He doesn't appreciate most things you do, but that doesn't stop you from doing it."

Mycroft just stared at John until the blond sighed.

"He's doing okay, I guess. He'd be doing a lot better if he wasn't so focused on Moriarty. You know they've got him giving him his pills and calming it down? That's their job, not his. Being forced to see him like that is not doing Sherlock any favors."

"No one is forcing him to do anything. He asked to be allowed to check on James Moriarty in exchanged for being checked into the hospital."

"And you just allowed it?"

"It was either that or have him escape."

"Escape? He can't−"

"He's Sherlock Holmes. He can and he would. I'm doing what I must to keep my brother alive."

"But just because he's alive that doesn't mean he's getting better."

"Will it make you feel better if I visit him?"

"Yes."

"Very well."

Sherlock sat in the empty room waiting for John. He was looking forward to letting him know that he had been trying. He wouldn't be happy about him still seeing Jim, but hopefully, he'd be glad to hear that he'd been trying to open up more in group therapy. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself as the door opened.

"You are not John," he groaned.

"Very astute observation, brother," Mycroft said, closing the door and sitting down beside his pouting brother.

"I didn't expect you to visit me."

"Doctor Watson insisted."

"Of course. For a moment, I mistakenly thought you actually cared."

"You sound as though you actually wanted me to visit you of my own accord."

"It's not as though I've got any other visitors aside from John."

Mycroft watched his brother out of the corner of his eye. He had unconsciously shifted closer to the older man, something he'd tended to do as a child. The elder Holmes said nothing, but he stretched his left arm along the back of the sofa.

"You've been participating in group therapy," he said, watching the younger man shift even closer.

"I promised John I would try."

"And have these efforts of yours paid off?"

"How should I know? I don't even know what's supposedly wrong with me."

"The same thing that's always been wrong with you. Only it's gotten worse."

"You really think there's something wrong with me, Myc?" The curly-haired man's head was now resting on the other man's shoulder.

"Nothing that can't be fixed, brother dear." Mycroft had to fight the urge to run his fingers through his brother's disheveled curls, something he hadn't done since they were children.

"The doctors aren't even trying to help Jim, Myc," Sherlock exclaimed after a moment, pulling away from his brother, "All they're doing is locking him away and plying him with medication. Well, they get me to do that part."

"And you no longer wish to do so?"

"No…no, I mean, I'm the only person who's helping him. I'm not going to stop. That's why you're here, isn't it? John sent you to force me to stop seeing Jim."

"How likely do either of those things seem? When did I start taking orders from John Watson?"

"When those orders involve trying to force me to do something." The two men stared at each other.

"How likely is it that I'd be able to force you to do anything?"

"Maybe you're going to sit on me with your fat bottom," Sherlock mumbled, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Please don't though. There's no need. I'm already here where you wanted me."

"That's less to do with me and more to do with James Moriarty."

At the mention of the former consulting criminal, Sherlock's gaze dropped and his hands moved to grip his toes.

"There isn't much that can be done for Moriarty," Mycroft said, "There's no 'fixing' him, but…if you were to improve enough to be released, I might be able to get him released into your care. Then you wouldn't have to worry about any mistreatment that might be occurring."

"And how will I know when I've 'improved' enough?"

"You haven't had a case in over two months."

"Yes, what's your point?" Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"You haven't had any mental stimulation. You haven't uttered the word 'bored'."

"Most people would see that as an improvement."

"A drastic change in personality after a traumatic event is not an improvement."

"It wasn't that traumatic," Sherlock mumbled.

"I had to stop you from throwing yourself off of a rooftop. That is not something I wish to experience again."

"I won't−"

"You've thought about it. At least, three, no four times."

"But I'm not going to−"

"No, you're not," Mycroft said, cutting him off, "That is why you're here."

Sherlock let go of his toes to fold his arms across his chest, a petulant frown on his face. He looked so much like his five year old self. Mycroft almost smiled. Instead, he stood and smoothed out his suit.

"Well, I must be going. A country to run and all that."

Sherlock continued to glare at nothing in particular until the other man reached the door.

"Grover hasn't visited me," he said.

"Who?" Mycroft's nose crinkled in confusion.

"Grover Lestrade," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "He hasn't visited me. He visited when you forced me into rehab, but he hasn't visited me since I've been here."

"First of all, his name is Gregory. Second of all, would you like for him to visit?"

The younger man shrugged and refused to look up at the other man.

"Good day, Sherlock."

The moment Mycroft left the room, a nurse entered to lead Sherlock to his individual therapy session.

While Sherlock was giving his therapist a hard time, Mycroft was making a phone call to a certain Detective Inspector.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking," Greg Lestrade said as he answered the phone.

"Hello Gregory," Mycroft said, staring out the window of one of his expensive black cars.

"Oh, hi My, I mean Mycroft," Greg said, clearing his throat, "Something I can help you with?"

"I just came from a visit with Sherlock. He was complaining about not getting a visit from you, Grover."

"Grover? Oh, that's a new one. Wait, he wants me to visit him?"

"He pointed out that you visited him rehab."

"Yeah, but he didn't seem to appreciate it very much, so I decided not to bother him. I'm not avoiding him if that's what he thinks." There was no response from Mycroft. "When am I allowed to visit?" Greg asked.

Sherlock was once again sitting in an empty room waiting on his visitor. John or Mycroft, he thought, Hopefully John. He frowned as he tugged on his sock-clad toes. One of the nurse had forced a pair of black and yellow stripped socks on him since his insistence on walking around the institution barefoot had caused him to catch a terrible cold that still hadn't completely gone away. His frown deepened as he wiggled his toes in their confinement. He started to pulled socks off when a voice stopped him.

"You probably want to keep those on. They seem to keep it pretty cold in here," Greg said, standing in the doorway.

"You're not John or Mycroft." He had forgotten mentioning Lestrade to his brother during his visit. Stupid medication.

"Good. Extra points if you can tell me what my name is. I'll give you a hint. It's not Grover," Lestrade said, removing his coat and taking a seat next to the younger man.

"Mycroft told you."

"If you wanted me to visit, you could have just asked. I would've visited much sooner if I'd known. I wasn't avoiding you."

Sherlock just stared down at his sock-clad feet.

"Okay, maybe I was avoiding you a little," Lestrade said, slipping his arm around the other man's shoulders, "I just knew it would be hard to see you like this, sunshine, but that wasn't fair of me."

Sherlock sniffed, it was the cold, and leaned into the older man. "You've started smoking again," he mumbled after a moment.

"I haven't started back. I just had one. Days ago. I'm surprised you can smell it."

Sherlock snorted.

"Of course, I shouldn't be surprised. You catch everything." Lestrade could feel the young genius curl in on himself. "That's part of what makes you so brilliant," he said, leaning down to kiss the head of curls.

"You still think I'm brilliant after I got involved with Jim Moriarty?" Sherlock asked.

"A lapse in judgment doesn't make you any less brilliant."

"I still love him. Even though, he's not the same, I still love him. I probably always will."

"You can't choose who you fall in love with, sunshine. You know I never thought less of you because of that, right?" Lestrade said, running his fingers through dark curly hair.

"Everyone seemed to think I was making a terrible mistake. Maybe I did."

"You were happy."

"I was stupid and blind."

"Love tends to do that to you."

"All the more reason to avoid it."

"But you said you still love him."

Sherlock hesitated before saying, "…I do."

"Do you get to see him in here?"

"Yes," he said, nodding, "Some days are good, but some days are bad."

"That's usually how it is in here."

Sherlock pulled away to look at the DI with narrowed eyes. "What would you−"

"What would I know about it? I've spent some time in a place like this after the divorce. I wasn't handling it well at all, so I took some time off work and checked myself into a hospital for about a month or two."

"After your divorce…we were working together then," Sherlock said, frowning, "I would have noticed your sudden absence."

"Remember that month you had to deal with Gregson?" Lestrade smiled as realization flooded pale blue eyes.

"That's where you were. How did I not realize−"

"You were too busy ranting about Gregson and Donovan and Anderson, and then−"

"Dealing with a relapse." Sherlock pressed himself back into the older man's side.

"Yes well, the point is I know what you're going through. You're going to be okay, Billy."

"Don't ever call me that," the younger man growled, elbowing the DI roughly.

"Sorry," he said, wincing as the bony elbow connected with his ribs, "I was just getting you back for calling me Grover. At least, Billy's actually your name."

"It's a moronic abbreviation of a very dull part of my name."

Lestrade laughed and kissed his curls again. "Good to know you're still you," he murmured.

"Mycroft has been telling you about my apparent drastic personality change." Lestrade said nothing. "I am just well aware that asking for a case at the moment would be useless as you cannot receive help from someone in my current situation."

"It's not that I don't trust you. I know you could solve any case from here, but I'd get into so much trouble."

"I am aware of that."

They sat there on the sofa in silence for about fifteen minutes before Lestrade had to head back to work. Sherlock stared down at his feet so Lestrade wouldn't see the disappointment that he knew was written all over his face. He didn't think about the reason for that disappointment until he was in group therapy sharing about the closest thing he'd had to a father since his died when he was just a boy.

I won't bore you with apologies for my lateness.