Chapter 3: Black and Blue

When Sherlock walked into the kitchen, Mycroft continued reading his paper for several long minutes before finally looking up at his younger brother, at which point he couldn't help but ask—

"Sherlock, what on earth happened to your face?"

Although usually so quick with his comebacks, Sherlock instead stared at his brother blankly for awhile before finally replying, "Last I checked, it was still there."

"Have you looked in a mirror?"

"Mirror? No, not all of us spend hours examining ourselves in front of any reflective surface every morning. Of course, we also don't all have moisturizing routines that monopolize the toilet for—"

"Well, at least I shower, which is more than I can say for you at the moment."

"I showered."

"When?"

"I don't know. Is it still Tuesday?"

"Tues—it's Saturday, Sherlock."

"Hmm, I could have sworn it was Tuesday morning."

"It's Saturday afternoon. Do you even know what month it is?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that."

"Very funny."

"Yes, I am. But also very tired. I think I'll just be off to bed—"

"Sherlock, have you really not looked in a mirror?"

"Why would I?"

"Because you have a black eye, and the left side of your face looks like it's been dragged across asphalt for forty feet."

Sherlock paused, reached a hand up to his face, prodded tenderly along the side, and winced slightly.

"Only ten feet, as I recall."

"Ten—what the bloody hell happened to you?"

"A bit early for such profanity."

"It's four in the afternoon."

"Ah, yes, that. Really must invest in a watch."

"Why? So you can pawn it off for more drugs?"

"Is that what you do with all your valuables, Mycroft? Not very wise considering your lofty ambitions."

"For Christ—Sherlock, what happened last night?"

"I fail to see how that's any of your business."

"Don't make me call Mummy."

"You wouldn't."

"I most certainly would, even though I hate to ruin their adventure in the Grand Canyon. You do know how much they love 'the outdoors.'"

"Yes, baffling as it is."

"Quite."

For a moment, they enjoyed the small moment of brotherly humor, before Mycroft's expression turned serious once again.

"Have you been to a doctor?"

Sherlock was so caught off guard that he actually started to laugh, before wincing, and cradling his ribs carefully.

Mycroft took the whole scene in and then came to his decision.

"Grab your coat."

"Why?"

"Because it's cold outside."

"I'm not planning to leave the house."

"I'm well aware that you don't leave the house until nightfall these days—really, the whole vampire routine doesn't suit you, although you do have the right complexion for it—but you've given me no choice in the matter."

"I have no idea—"

"Doctor, now."

Sherlock stared back, mutinously.

"Fine, I'll just be calling Mummy, then."

Mycroft picked up the phone, started to press the first digit, then the second, and then—

"No need to interrupt their American adventure just because I tripped over some garbage cans."

"Don't lie to me."

"Why would I lie? Anyway, I'll go see the bloody doctor. Let me just take a shower—"

"And give you a chance to sneak out the window again? Grab your coat. I'll take you to the doctor myself."

"This is totally unnecessary. I'm perfectly healthy. Fit as a fiddle."

"Well, then I suppose this will be a very quick visit."

Two and a half hours later, the two brothers were walking back into the house.

"Three fractured ribs. Three! You could have punctured a lung!"

"Cracked ribs. Just a crack."

"Speaking of 'crack,' is that what you were after last night? Did you stray a bit from the usual routine?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb, Sherlock."

"To hear you tell it, Mycroft, I am dumb. Dumb as a rock."

"I've never said—"

"Yes, you have."

"Well, I never meant—"

"What else could you possibly mean when at every available opportunity you decry my intellectual abilities?"

"Sherlock, I know what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're attempting to distract me from the matter at hand, but it won't work."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

"Ah, very mature."

"If you're done picking apart all my personal failings, I'm going to go have a lie down. Unless you want to handcuff me to my bed, that is."

Mycroft shakes his head, but he doesn't dignify Sherlock's comment with a further response.

Sherlock turns to walk in the direction of his bedroom, but before he leaves the room, Mycroft adds, "Sherlock, do let me know if you need anything."

Sherlock whirls around, and bites out, "What could I possible need from you?"

Undeterred, Mycroft responds, "I don't know, but I am here if you need something."

"What I needed were some narcotics to take the edge off of my broken ribs, but I don't have that because someone forbid the doctor from giving them to me. Not that it's really any of your concern."

"Your welfare is absolutely my concern, and you left me with no other choice. How could I let you take those pills knowing that whatever the doctor gave you would be whatever cocktail you plan on knocking back, or injecting, or insufflating as soon as my back is turned."

Mycroft paused, waiting for Sherlock to respond, but when his brother offered no further argument, Mycroft added, carefully, "Now, if you would promise me that you won't take anything else, I could see what I can do."

"This is absurd! You're treating me like a child."

"You're acting like a child. A vain, arrogant, self-destructive little boy who can't even promise to go one day without blasting himself into a state of altered awareness—"

Before Mycroft could even finish the sentence, Sherlock turned around, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

A moment later, Mycroft heard the shattering of glass, and he knew another mirror had become the victim of his brother's mercurial temper.

Mycroft took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then he stood up, walked across the room, and cautiously opened the door that his brother had slammed shut a few moments ago.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, taking shallow breaths, staring at the pieces of shattered glass on the ground.

Mycroft made his way into the room, carefully avoiding the shards of glass that littered the floor. He sat down in the desk chair a few feet from his brother, and for several long minutes, waited to see if Sherlock would say anything. When he was only greeted by silence, he asked, "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"You don't know what it's like."

"What do you mean?"

"This—life—existing. It doesn't eat you alive, make you want to crawl out of your skin, make you regret ever taking your first breath."

Mycroft let out a deep sigh. "Do you honestly believe you're the only person to ever experience boredom? We are not like the masses, that's true, but I've found a way to balance the needs of my superior intellect with the drudgeries of every day life."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, fire dancing in his eyes, his voice tense and hoarse, "It's not the same. I can see it in your expression, in every muscle in your body. Yes I know—you're the smart one—smarter than me, smarter than everyone—but you don't have that ticking time bomb inside of you, you don't need the stimulation, the excitement, the way I do."

"That may be so, but even still—this is the brain you were born with. This is the life you've been given. Railing against it won't change anything."

"No, but the drugs do. The drugs give me the stimulation I crave—or at least they dampen the excruciating itch. I need it—you don't understand how badly I need it."

"Badly enough to risk your life?"

"That's the point of lives. They're meant to be risked—meant to be lived."

"This isn't living, Sherlock."

"How would you know?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're a stuffed shirt, and you've spent your whole life doing what you were supposed to do. You hate your job. You hate the people you spend your day with. In fact, you seem to despise everyone and everything, but you're too much of a coward to do anything about it."

"I don't hate my job."

"Do you like it?"

Sighing, Mycroft said, "That's not the point of jobs."

"Maybe not for some people, but when all you do is work—"

"Sherlock, stop making this about me."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are. You can tear my life apart all you want, but at least I'm not destroying my mind and my body with drugs."

"It's my life to destroy."

"Come now, Sherlock, are you really that self absorbed? Do you honestly think your actions don't have effects on anyone else?"

"I don't care about anyone else."

"Fine, you may not care about me, but are you really so unconcerned with Mummy? You know how she worries about you."

"She won't worry if you don't tell her about this."

"And I'm not planning too."

With disbelief, Sherlock responded, "You aren't?"

"I see no point in concerning either of our parents with this."

Caught off guard, Sherlock said, "Oh," and a moment later, "Good."

"Under one condition."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And what would that be?"

"No more, Sherlock. This ends now. If I ever catch you using again—if I have even the slightest suspicion—well, Mummy will be the least of your concerns."

Mycroft waited, and when he didn't get any response from Sherlock, he prompted, "Do we have an agreement?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Good, now get up off the floor while I clean up this mess you've made."

Sherlock pushed himself up, swaying slightly as all the blood rushed to his head.

Instinctively, Mycroft reached out to help steady him.

Quietly, Mycroft said, "I think one trip to the doctor is enough for the day. Let's get you into bed before you do any more damage to yourself."

Petulantly, Sherlock said, "I don't want to go to bed."

"You need to give your body a chance to recover, Sherlock."

"Fine, but I'll do it on the sofa. I'll go crazy if I have to spend the rest of the evening just staring at the ceiling in my bedroom."

"Very well. I'll be there in a bit."

As Sherlock turned to go, Mycroft took in his unsteady gate and said, "Exactly how long has it been since you've eaten anything?"

Without turning around, Sherlock responded "We got take out last night."

"That was four days ago."

"Oh, well then four days."

Mycroft opened his mouth ready to reprimands, but instead he let out a sigh and said, "Couch, now. I'm going to order dinner, and you're going to eat everything I put on your plate."

"Taking this whole pretending to be Mummy thing a little far aren't you?"

"Don't test me, Sherlock."

And for once in his life, Sherlock didn't.

Instead he made his way slowly to the living room, where he carefully stretched himself out on the couch, and turned on the TV.

Mycroft comes in a little while later, and he sits down in the arm chair.

"I ordered Thai. I hope that's acceptable."

"Did you get the spring rolls?"

"Yes."

"Good. And the chicken satay?"

"Sherlock, I ordered the same thing we always order."

"Does that mean you got the disgusting dish with the mushrooms?"

"Yes, but only because I know you won't try to steal any of it off my plate."

As Mycroft is speaking, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on the couch, wincing slightly. Mycroft watches him closely before saying, "If you eat dinner, and if you agree to spend the next 48 hours at home, recovering from your injuries, I'll let you take something for the pain. But don't try to fight with me to get more, and don't even think about trying to sneak out of the house."

"Fine."

A moment later, Sherlock says, "So, are you going to handcuff me to the bed?"

"Excuse me?"

"To make sure I don't sneak away. After all, aren't you going to work on Monday? Or are you planning on hiring arms guards to keep me in check?"

"I'll call in sick."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you always insisting that the entire country will fall into chaos if you aren't constantly available to prevent our demise?"

Offhandedly, Mycroft says, "I'm sure they'll get on without me for one day."

Then, as he stands up and heads to the kitchen he adds, quietly enough so that they can both pretend Sherlock hasn't heard—

"And I would let all of England fall if it meant keeping you safe."

A/N: I thought I'd throw in a nice little Mycroft being a concerned older brother moment. After all, there's lots of angst ahead for both of them. (Also, I'm simultaneously working on my much sadder story, In Absentia, so it's nice to have some Sherlock-Mycroft bonding.)

Anyway, if you have a chance, please let me know what you think of this chapter! I'm doing my best to keep everyone in character. I do so much love the way Sherlock and Mycroft bicker in the series.

The next chapter is tentatively titled, "Better than Drugs," and it will include a cameo appearance by DI Lestrade, plus some crime solving. Stay tuned!