A/N Hurrah, I'm actually on time for once! I'm posting today due to the fact that I'm off on another week long holiday tomorrow so won't be able to make Monday post but it'll be a Monday post still next week X) It's so good to be back and on schedule! :')
To both Guest and lolello, thanks very much for your kind words and reviews, I really do appreciate them but obviously I can't respond via personal message and so I have to tell you here :) Thanks for reading! Also, as ever, a HUGE thank you to all the patient, wonderful, intelligent, perfect reviewers and subscribers out there that have been reading, thank you so, so much :)
The only warning for this chapter is that there are a few very OOC bits in my opinion however they're kinda reasoned for. Oh and, lucky you guys, lol, 'cos I had good fun with this chapter as it's a FLASHBACK! Woo! Sorry, I like flashbacks, a lot XD It's a very Sherlock and Mycroft centric chapter with university!Sherlock, so lots and lots of fun for me XD Anyways, I'll stop jabbering and let you guys alone before I talk you to death XD Thanks once again for reading!
Disclaimer: The plan is this: Using a jet pack, my psychiatrist is going to fly up to the plane I'm going on my holiday to and use the human back hair to strap herself to the underbelly. Then, using super strength Best Buy binoculars, she will search for Sherlock from the skies! IT IS GENIUS AND, BETTER STILL, FOOLPROOF! This is gonna work out just fine :) I'll tell y'all when we've found him!
The rain hit hard at the window of the university dormitory, streaking the glass with droplets as it pounded onto the street below. Cars splashed into puddles on the road outside, the street being otherwise deserted as the pedestrians had long since run to find safe shelter from the storm brewing in the air. Thunder was hanging like an ominous threat yet to sound and the grey London sky cast a murky mist over the city as it settled in for the afternoon, bringing the sheets of rain and the cold, frigid air with it.
Mycroft hurried the short distance from his chauffeured car to the building's door, buzzing the electronic bell while huddling into his jacket, wishing that he had brought a coat or, at the very least, got his assistant to buy an umbrella for him. There was a slight cover from the rain in the doorway and Mycroft stayed close it as he rang the bell a second time, looking distastefully at the cluttered windows of the bottom floor dorms, taking in the stacks of beer cans and less savoury symbols of university life that shuttered out the outside world.
He was about to ring a third time when he heard the intercom stutter for a moment, as if pressed on once but then immediately turned off and then he heard another bleep as the door unlocked. Frowning, he pushed open the door quickly, brushing the water from his suit as he stepped into the tiny lobby area, the worry that was already clawing in his stomach multiplying ten-fold. He noted the dilapidated letter boxes and the frankly dangerous appearing lift in the corner of the room. Wrinkling his nose as the clinical, ever so slightly alcoholic smell emanating from the hall of downstairs dorms to his left, he decided to take the stairs. He'd much rather climb two flights of stairs than take his chances with the lift.
He contemplated his surroundings as he climbed the stairs. He had not felt as uncomfortable as this in years, the last time he remembered being so was during his first meeting in his new position in the government. Even for Mycroft, sitting in with the Prime Minister, a few cabinet officials, the head of the CIA and the FBI and the American President was a little overwhelming, especially given his young age.
Right now however he felt uncomfortable for a different reason. This place reminded him chillingly of home, the damp stairwell and the clinical smell of too much cleaning product and the tasteless choice in wallpaper all resonated painfully somewhere in his stomach and he remembered that Sherlock lived here permanently. He pushed down the feelings of guilt swarming in his stomach and it felt like a swarm of angry bees fighting to get out and he gripped the handrail extra hard. There was no money; he reminded himself quickly, not enough for university and good housing. However, had it only been the guilt and the sharp, stinging pang of familiarity, Mycroft could have coped, could have satisfied himself with burying the feelings somewhere deep down and pretended that this was just a routine visit, a quick hello between brothers and nothing more but Mycroft wasn't even sure that he had enough imagination to muster even that. He hadn't done a "routine visit" to Sherlock since helping him to move in here, much less a friendly check-in or a polite stop-off.
Things had changed after that day when Father left. Mycroft knew it, Sherlock knew it and yet neither of them had wanted to say it out loud. Sherlock had shrunk into himself even more, calling Mycroft when he needed him, growing clingy and frightened when he grew sick or had to be alone with a mother that had now changed for the worse and yet, that was all it seemed to stretch to. Sherlock knew he could depend on his brother, knew he could look after him and keep him safe and that felt good for Mycroft to know that, but other than that, there was something missing. There was a detachment that grew only larger through every passing year until now they were in separate lives completely, only ever happening upon the other's existence when a Christmas card appeared in the mail or one of them popped up as an achievement in a newspaper. Sherlock knew his brother would look after him and protect him but, no matter how hard Mycroft tried, it didn't mean that he had to trust him.
It was only now that Mycroft was forced to encroach on Sherlock because he had to. It had been almost two weeks before Mycroft found out that Sherlock was missing, his changing role in the government meant that time to keep an eye on his brother had become few and far between and Mycroft had only discovered that Sherlock had gone missing when a Professor in one of his classes noticed how long he was gone and called the building, only to discover that Sherlock hadn't been seen in ages. By the time Mycroft found out about it, Sherlock had returned and that thought made Mycroft's stomach churn. Sherlock could have been dead for two weeks and he wouldn't have known about it until the police called to tell him so. Where the hell was he? Mycroft thought sharply. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to wander off, even from being a small child, however it was worrying to hear that Sherlock had not turned up for classes as, despite how much Sherlock complained about them being dull and unintelligent, Sherlock had never missed a single one.
Mycroft reached the second floor with worry stirring like acid in his stomach. He took a moment to compose himself, silently scolding his worry when he was supposed to be here to find out where the hell Sherlock had been, what on earth he thought he was doing missing classes and not even telling anyone where he was. The anger however seemed to quail at the imagined scenarios in Mycroft's mind if Sherlock had not returned and he could only feel a mild sense of relief and ever present concern as he stopped at the first door on the hallway. Swallowing tightly, feeling like he was literally swallowing his pride, he knocked on the door, gently at first before becoming louder as he remembered that he was the older brother. He wasn't timid and he certainly wasn't scared.
There was the sound of fumbling from within the room and Mycroft thought he heard something heavy being knocked over, followed by a quiet curse. When the door finally opened, Mycroft had to hold back a gasp.
Sherlock looked deathly, his skin pale and clammy like he had the flu and there was a glassy tinge to his eyes that made them seem unfocused, the colour blurry like they were hidden behind a murky lens. His clothes were dry but they were rumpled in the irreparable way that happened when one stood in the rain for too long and the dimples of water become semi-permanent. Mycroft looked him up and down from the dishevelled, miserable looking hair to the bare feet and he grimaced, the sharp contrast to his own perfect suit and tie making the feelings of guilt crawl back up again, along with the blasted concern that never seemed to die when it came to Sherlock.
"Sherlock," Mycroft managed to breathe, "What on earth-"
"Don't start," Sherlock grumbled instantly, turning to head back into the flat and Mycroft was pleased to see that at least he left the door open enough to allow him to follow him in. He didn't know if that was through choice or because his younger brother knew that he would only persist until Sherlock let him in.
The dorm was in a similar state to Sherlock himself, tousled and unkempt, the mess expanding across the floor and onto the tables and chairs in the room. There were a mass of books, papers, experiments and files tossed around the room and although it didn't smell particularly unhealthy, Mycroft could taste the dust in the air from the weeks being spent unlived in. Sherlock apparently didn't seem to mind the mess as he picked his way across the room, hoisting himself up onto a chair and sitting on the top of its back, feet touching the seat as he swiped up a file from the little table next to it and began to flick through it nonchalantly.
"The mess isn't my fault," Sherlock said blandly and it almost made Mycroft smile, if he hadn't been so shocked, as it sounded like Sherlock as a child, petulantly insisting that he didn't need to clean his room, "I'm on a case. It's a difficult one, requiring much research and thought which means that you should leave and give me space to solve it."
The suggestion made the previously missing anger in Mycroft flare and he glanced around the room once again, allowing the cluttered space to press in on him.
"Where have you been, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, ignoring his brother's request. Sherlock scowled at him from over the file, eyes narrowed dangerously.
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said, his voice too quiet not to arouse any suspicion. Mycroft felt his heart catch for a second as the word stilled the atmosphere in the room. There was something wrong. Mycroft didn't know exactly what but he could sense it, the feeling of dread that crept into him at his brother's muted tone.
"Sherlock…" Mycroft pressed cautiously. He had been worried when Sherlock had disappeared but until now he had put it down to Sherlock just being Sherlock, going on a case or heading off abroad without telling anyone but now there was a heavy feeling in his stomach that it was more than that.
"Go away Mycroft." Mycroft took a step forward, careful not to tread upon anything as he did so.
"Where have you been?" Mycroft asked again and Sherlock's glare intensified, warning him to stop, dark eyes forcing him back. The look infuriated him and he took another step, then another, Sherlock's glower only urging him on. "Sherlock!" Mycroft snarled, voice rising as he advanced forwards, "Where the hell have you been? For God's sake, why won't you just talk to-"
He stopped, feet stuttering to a halt that almost unbalanced him.
"Sherlock, what-" Sherlock made a point of averting his gaze then, back to the case file with practice nonchalance as Mycroft stood stock still, staring at the item on the little side table that had come into his view. He wouldn't have noticed it at all had it not been haphazardly placed where what little light from the outside could hit it. The grey London light glinted off it and caught his eye, the misty, depressed chill outside being reflected in the glass and metal of the syringe.
"You told me you'd stopped that," Mycroft said. His tone was nothing more than flat and right then in that moment, he didn't care anymore. He felt spent. He had done so much and yet, no matter what he did, nothing made a difference. Sherlock would never trust him again, he knew that. I don't need you to trust me, Mycroft thought, looking up from the cocaine needle to look at Sherlock, I won't try to make me trust you anymore but I won't let you destroy yourself. He knew that what needed to be done for Sherlock's sake was not what was best for them both, he knew that it would always be a rift between them, but in the long run, it would be better for Sherlock.
"Well, I haven't," Sherlock said and it honestly sounded so indifferent, so uncaring to Mycroft that he couldn't help but stare, aghast at his brother. He didn't say anything for a long while, wading through his muddled thoughts and trying to think and when he finally did speak, it was subdued and empty.
"I can't do this anymore Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly, "I can't keep ignoring these things, I can't keep trying to look after you by myself. If you just had someone else then-"
"I don't need anyone else," Sherlock interrupted.
"But you do Sherlock!" Mycroft cried, "If not for yourself then for me, because I can't carry on trying to be your brother and being your… your protector or whatever I've been all this time, I can't do it!" He gave a bitter laugh and he realised that this was probably what it felt like to jump to your death, the giddy, stomach churning feeling, knowing that you can take no more and whatever the outcome from it would be, it would be messy and painful.
"I can't do them both when one conflicts with the other Sherlock, you're not giving me a choice! For heaven's sake, you said you'd stopped!" He knew that he must sound half delirious by now, nothing but the pain of 21 years of desperate care and protection was crashing down on him like a wave, pummelling him into submission. Sherlock glanced over at him, infuriatingly calm, for a moment both physically and mentally higher than his brother, looking down on him.
"I stopped when the work did. And now the work is back," Sherlock said smoothly and Mycroft threw his arms in the air, an angry noise escaping the back of his throat like it was ripped out of him.
"You stopped when-" he cut himself off and gave another laugh, unnatural sounding and wrong even to him, "I can't do what's right for you Sherlock when I'm trying to your brother or even trying to be something close to a friend, I can't. You need help and I- I can't get you it unless I stop trying to placate you all the time, to make you trust me – God damn it Sherlock, look at me when I'm talking to you!"
The last words were almost a scream and still Sherlock gave no response, looking as spent as Mycroft felt, weariness sweeping across his features in a swift show of hopelessness. Mycroft gave an angry shrug then twisted his face into a bitter, pain filled smile that Sherlock had never seen before and something about it made his stomach twist. He wants you to give it up, Sherlock thought desperately to himself, don't do it, don't give in. He'll go away if you don't give in. He couldn't give up. Not now, when he had a case. Not now that he was finally on the precipice of being anywhere near accepted by the Scotland Yard Detective he had begun to aid on a regular basis. He couldn't risk losing it.
"That's where you were these past two weeks, wasn't it?" Mycroft said, voice lowered once again, "You were using cocaine for two solid weeks, you went out looking for, for killers while you were goddamn stoned! You think it makes you smarter don't you?" He paused, waiting to see anything but cold distance in Sherlock's eyes and when he saw none, he sighed. "I can't watch you self-destruct like this Sherlock," he said softly. He saw Sherlock stiffen a little when he pulled out his phone from his pocket and there was a second of fear that flashed in Sherlock's face that almost made Mycroft relent, until he steeled himself. This is what he needs.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked quickly. Mycroft didn't answer.
"Mycroft? Mycroft, what are you doing? Wait, Mycroft-"
The fear was definitely there, now in his voice and Mycroft couldn't keep silent as the desperate, utterly terrified words hit his ears and he swore to God that his eyes didn't sting with sharp, hot tears that he was forced to push down.
"I won't stand by and watch it," Mycroft said, almost more to himself than brother, who had now risen from the chair, standing cautiously and looking at him intently, "You need to be stopped. By whatever means I have at my disposal." He dialled the number and Sherlock watched with horror filled agitation as Mycroft began to speak.
"I have some… information regarding illegal substances that I wish to report. It's a matter only for-"
Sherlock couldn't breathe as he heard Mycroft speaking, realising instantly what he was doing, who he was talking to and yet, he couldn't will himself to move, to stop him, couldn't think of how to escape the sudden nightmare that was facing him. As Mycroft hung up the phone, Sherlock felt the numbness swarm over his entire body, sticking in his throat and making it hard to breathe. Mycroft sighed, silently putting away his phone before looking Sherlock dead in the eyes.
"I'm sorry Sherlock," Mycroft said and he forced himself to sound aloof, forced himself to keep talking as if this was a meeting with the Prime Minister and he was simply delivering facts "There will be a car to pick you up soon… I've passed it along to someone you can… trust, so… jail time, if any will be very minimal." He wanted to say something else, something to take back what he had done, anything to wipe the betrayed look from Sherlock's face.
"You called the police," Sherlock finally choked out. Mycroft nodded, jaw clenched tight.
"I specifically called your friend at the Yard… Lestrade is his name, isn't it?" Mycroft said, his voice sounding cold and distant to himself.
"He's not my friend," Sherlock snapped suddenly, fists clenching as he pushed his chin up defiantly.
"Nonetheless, he'll be… dealing with this. It will be discreet, he's sending a car to pick you up as we speak and-" Mycroft cut off at the look on Sherlock's face, the desolate, forlorn stare that cut to his very soul, like his entire world had simply faded with that phone call. He had tried so hard, worked so long to get here, to be accepted, to almost be known as Sherlock Holmes, detective. And now it had all been wiped away. Lestrade wouldn't trust him after this. It was all gone.
For the longest time, Mycroft wished that he could take the phone call back, to simply take the syringe with him as he went and try to ignore the next time Sherlock was caught under influence or to ignore it when Sherlock went missing for days and returned, glassy eyed and sickly. I can't do this anymore.
"I'm so sorry Sherlock," Mycroft said tonelessly and he bowed his head, not wanting to look at the horrified expression on Sherlock's face. He waited a few moments to see if Sherlock would say anything and when he didn't, Mycroft nodded and began to leave, not saying another word.
"Mycroft." Mycroft turned around, almost at the door, looking back at his brother as the younger man stood, having lost it all, across from him. He seemed to consider the silence in the room after his word before he managed to speak again.
"It- it's still raining outside. There's an umbrella by the door."
The younger man turned instantly, walking, back straight and head as high as he could hold it in passive defiance, to look silently out of the window. Mycroft didn't tear his eyes from him for a few seconds, replaying the words in his mind, trying to ignore the small stutter in them for the sake of Sherlock's pride. To anyone else it would have sounded like an innocent, if out of place, sentence but to Mycroft it was something entirely different. He knew what this meant. It wasn't so much of a goodbye, but it was close enough that it made Mycroft's heart feel like it was being pulled at and stretched and the stinging in his eyes returned as the world blurred momentarily before he blinked them away. This was Sherlock's way of showing he understood. He understood that Mycroft would always be there to look after him, would always care, but the rest of it was gone. The trust, the times spent playing and talking as children, the Christmas cards and the looks to each other that only a Holmes could understand; it was all gone, left with only a cold expanse and colder silences between them. Talks would become jibes, playing would become arguing, looks would become glares and there was nothing left to fill the void between.
This was Sherlock's way of acknowledging the days now gone, lost in childhood. His one last, final effort for a thank you, for old time's sake. The words were a symbol, it was an act of protection that Sherlock could give to his brother, inverting their relationship in a way that scared Mycroft, like he was looking into a black hole and had no idea what was in it. It was a symbol of thanks, for what Mycroft had done for him all those years. Sherlock was bringing it full circle, protecting his protector, even in such a small manner. Completing the circle in order to close it, maybe forever.
Swallowing hard, Mycroft took the few paces to the door and stared at the umbrella leaning there, a full sized black item with a metal point at the end and it was undoubtedly something Sherlock had picked up on a case as it was nowhere close to his style. Mycroft looked at it for a few seconds before reaching for it, closing his hand around the handle. He breathed a sigh, looking back one last time at his younger brother before he turned and left the dorm.
He would never let anything hurt his little brother, not even now. But he was done with expecting more. He was done believing that Sherlock would ever chose him over his own pride, over the image of his father that he had created that still seemed to stay at the forefront of his mind, like a ghost haunting an old house. Mycroft considered creating the means to watch over him while not having to intrude on his life any longer as he looked out onto the grey London street from the doorway and watched as the black car pulled sleekly up onto the curb, splashing water onto the pavement. He didn't look back as he opened his umbrella and walked out of the life of Sherlock Holmes, not knowing if he would ever return.
A/N I hope that this chapter made sense :S I was trying to show that their relationship broke down in stages, that first Mycroft lost Sherlock's trust, then he lost the ability to ask for his trust and could only protect him from afar and then, finally, in the Moriarty incident, he was unable to even protect him, leaving them both with nothing. God my writing can be terrible sometimes, I apologise dear readers for the mess I am making of this story D': I also hated that last paragraph so much but didn't know how to change it :'( I'm so sorry for my uselessness!
However, the characters did some interesting things I wasn't expecting this chapter so it was at least very fun to write! All reviews are most welcome and much, much loved and I will reply to each and every one of them after my holiday X) Thank you so much once again for reading and I'll see you all soon! Byeeee! XD