This chapter is for thedragonaunt for making me stop and consider things from Mycroft's perspective. I don't think that I've ever tried to see the world through his eyes before, and it's been vey illuminating!
Thank you all for reading and reviewing. It means a lot and your comments often make a huge difference to the direction of travel of the stories.
Mycroft Holmes tapped quietly on the door to Sherlock's room, and then when there was no reply, opened the door and let himself in.
His brother was lying on the bed fully clothed, as if he had stood at the end of the bed and fallen headlong onto it, which, Mycroft reflected, may well have been exactly what had happened. He stood for a moment and listened to Sherlock's quiet and regular breathing. Had he overdosed? It was possible, but unlikely. The statistical probability was that his brother was simply exhausted from the events of the day, and had fallen into a deep sleep, from which he showed no signs of waking any time soon.
Sighing, Mycroft gently removed Sherlock's shoes; handmade, as DS Lestrade had so accurately deduced, obtained from their father's favourite shoe-makers on Jermyn Street. Both Sherlock and he had an account there, paid for by the estate. At least Sherlock would always be well dressed, even if Mycroft did keep him on a tight leash financially for everything else, for obvious reasons.
Mycroft frowned for a moment as he considered. He had arranged for Sherlock to have a small allowance; he paid his college battels bills - which included three meals a day. He was aware that Sherlock rarely if ever ate three meals a day, but still, it meant that the option was there on the rare occasions that he remembered to eat. He also paid his 'bedder', the housekeeper come cleaner who both cleaned the rooms and checked on the welfare of students, to ensure that he always had a supply of food in his room and that his sheets and towels were changed regularly, both duties outside those usually provided for students by the college. Because Sherlock, as Mycroft was well aware, had no interest in either providing himself with food, or in ensuring that he lived in clean or hygienic surroundings, if left to his own devices. Meticulous as he was with his own appearance, Sherlock had an almost child-like naivety when it came to the necessities of life. In his first term, the bedder, who Mycroft had slipped a substantial quantity of cash to when he had dropped Sherlock and his belongings off at college, had contacted Mycroft to inform him that the pile of Sherlock's unwashed clothes on the floor was growing by the day, and that when she had offered to give him a guided tour of the college's laundry, Sherlock had just looked at her blankly and returned to his textbooks.
With a sigh, Mycroft had thanked her for informing him, and had arranged an additional sum to be paid to her for ensuring that Sherlock's laundry was done, and that his shirts were ironed and placed back in his wardrobe. In their Great-Grandfather's day, Sherlock would have gone up to Cambridge accompanied by a valet, who would have assumed all of these responsibilities. In this day and age, students were expected to look after themselves, but Sherlock simply removed himself from the mundanities of life. It wasn't that he was unable to look after himself, it was that he was unwilling to do so. His priorities were chemistry and solving puzzles, not providing himself with food and clothing. And now drugs, it would appear, were a priority also.
Mycroft had not provided Sherlock with sufficient funds to obtain the sort of habit that he had confessed to James Harrison. Which meant that he must have obtained the money from other means. During the annual counting of the family silver for insurance purposes only a few weeks ago, the housekeeper had reported to Mycroft that several pieces were missing. Mycroft had suggested a few stern words with the staff, and a four week amnesty period, in which the missing places could be replaced by the offender without further retribution. It appeared that he should have looked closer to home for the culprit. If Sherlock had resorted to stealing the family silver, a cliche if ever there was one, then what else had he resorted to in order to fund his habit?
Watching his younger brother sleep, Mycroft felt both anger and guilt. Entirely illogically, he believed that he should have been able to prevent this. Infuriating as Sherlock could be, he was still Mycroft's responsibility; he was still his brother, and with both of their parents gone, he was all the family that he had left. And this was something that Mycroft had been warned about, after Sherlock's discharge from Elmhurst. Both James Harrison and Sarah had warned him of the risks of Sherlock attempting to self-medicate in order to reclaim control of his illness, and yet somehow Mycroft had missed the signs. And now, Sherlock had fallen into addiction in a way that not even he could have imagined. His brother was intelligent, brilliant even, so how had he allowed himself to be sucked into this cycle of destruction?
In his brief telephone conversation with him in the car on the way up to Cambridge, James Harrison had warned him not to judge Sherlock, not to chastise him, not in fact to be anything other than supportive and understanding. A challenge in itself, and a personality switch that Sherlock was likely to see through in seconds.
Mycroft had not been ready to become a parent to a disturbed teenager at the age of twenty three; at twenty seven, despite four years of practice, he felt no more prepared to deal with this than he had back then. But Sherlock was his brother, and he was important, of that Mycroft was sure. He had to do what was necessary to keep him safe, irrespective of Sherlock's own wishes. Because Sherlock's own wishes, once he sobered up, James Harrison had gravely informed him, would be to fuel his addiction and his cravings all over again.
'It is an illness, Mycroft,' he had informed him, gravely. 'As much as the bipolar is, partly because of the bipolar, in fact. He is not in control of his own actions, and if the depression and the self-loathing that will undoubtably result from, this go the way that I predict that they will, then he will be in serious danger. You need to get him to rehab and to keep him there. If he refuses, have him sectioned, if that is what it takes, although that would be better avoided if possible.'
Mycroft sighed again, as he pulled a blanket off the chair in the corner and laid it over Sherlock's sleeping form. The nights were still cold for May, and the old house was never warm, even in the heat of summer. Sherlock stirred slightly in his sleep, but did not wake, and Mycroft could do little more than making sure that there was a full glass of water beside his bed before retreating to his own room, anticipating the battle to come.