A/N: As promised here's chapter 5! Be warned, it's pretty angst-y, as you probably could have guessed from the title.
Chapter 5: Flatline
Mycroft felt like his entire world shattered.
The moment he walked into his brother's bedroom, and saw Sherlock slumped over, sitting on the floor, his back propped up against the bed, completely still, no movement in his chest, pulse imperceptible.
He felt like his insides were being ripped to shreds as he picked up the phone, dialed 9-9-9, and somehow found the words to request an ambulance.
His heart was in his throat as he carefully rearranged his brother on the floor—there was already a bluish tint around Sherlock's lips—and started the chest compressions, desperate to get some oxygen flowing, knowing that if he wanted to save his brother, that meant he had to save his brain.
How long can the body go without oxygen before permanent brain damage is inevitable? He should know the answer—he does know the answer—but for once in his life emotion gets the better of reason, and all he can feel—all he can think about—is the fear.
It felt brutal, to be using such force on his brother, pressing down with the palm of his hand at the soft point below his sternum—over and over again—in a steady rhythm—and then a pause as he tried to feel for a pulse, but his own blood was pounding so loudly that he couldn't tell anything—all he knew was that his brother's skin felt cold and clammy.
The minute the paramedics arrived, he stepped back to let them do their work, while he watched helplessly from the edge of the room as they made their notes, searched for vital signs, began CPR themselves. It was like watching a movie, only this was real, this was Sherlock, his brother who could—might be—
His thoughts were interrupted by one of the paramedics asking him questions.
Do you know how this happened?
At first all he could do was shake his head. He felt like the power of speech had left him, as if any remaining breath he had was used up.
But of course, he did know. And so he told him.
Drugs.
What kind of drugs?
Who knows? Probably heroin, if the trackmarks and used up syringes were any indication. And of course, respiratory distress is a common cause of death—
Death
His brother—his brother, Sherlock—could die. He couldn't—how could he—without Sherlock—what would he do? How could he tell his parents—their parents—how could he tell Mummy and Daddy that Sherlock was dead?
It would break their mother's heart. She would start sobbing—she always has been the most expressive member of the family—and their father—well, his grief would be quieter, but no less sharp, no less painful for its silent expression.
They would be devastated. How could any of them survive it? Sherlock was the baby of the family—always has been—he was supposed to outlive them all.
Mycroft was eight years old when Sherlock was born. He was an only child up until the moment that he got that news—you're going to have a baby brother—and, although there have been many times where he has resented Sherlock's presence in his life, he never would have had it any other way.
Would he be an only child again, without Sherlock? Is that how it goes?
No, he can't—some things you can't go back to.
So what would that make him? An older brother, without a younger brother.
Forever after, he'll have to go through life with a hole in his heart—a hole in his life—a Sherlock-shaped hole.
How could he do this? How could this happen? It wasn't supposed to happen, not to Sherlock, not to his brilliant, stupid, reckless little brother.
He always felt a responsibility for Sherlock, to educate him, to protect him. To save him.
But he couldn't. He had failed. He couldn't save Sherlock from himself.
What would he do without his brother? Sherlock was all he had when they were boys. The only one who came close to understanding him, to matching him intellectually, to understanding the way he saw the world.
How was he supposed to—
"Sir! Sir!"
The shouting broke him out of his thoughts, and he forced his eyes to focus on the paramedic in front of him.
"Would you like to ride in the ambulance with us? We're taking him to the hospital now."
"Yes—yes of course."
"Okay, they're outside."
He'd never ridden in an ambulance before, never wanted to, hoped never to do this again, and years later, he would barely remember the details of that drive.
He was unaware of the speed of the ambulance as it dodged traffic—the wail of the sirens faded into the background. His entire focus was on his brother—the expression on his face, the stillness of his body.
And although he has never been a man of faith, Mycroft found himself praying to something—to someone, to anyone—
Please let my brother be okay.
Mycroft spent all night by his brother's bedside, watching over his brother, willing him to hold on, willing him to wake up. He felt like Sherlock's struggle with every breath was his struggle as well.
Then, finally, miraculously, Sherlock finally came back to consciousness, and the first word out of his mouth was, "Myke?"
Instantly, Mycroft was on his feet, and he grasped his brother's left hand in both of his, as he said, "It's me, Sherlock."
Sherlock closed his eyes again, as he said, quietly, "Stay."
Sherlock was already slipping back into sleep as Mycroft responded with, "Of course," but that didn't stop Mycroft from pulling the chair closer to the bed, so that he could sit hunched over, staring at his brother's sleeping figure.
Mycroft could only hope and pray that this would be enough—finally, please god, let this be enough—to stop his brother's desperate path of self destruction.
The next morning, Sherlock awoke again, but this time he was fully lucid, and back to being his sharp, sarcastic, vibrant self.
In a quieter moment, when the nurses and doctors were out of the room, Mycroft tried to start a conversation that he had rehearsed over the many silent hours of waiting by his brother's hospital bed.
"Sherlock, we need to discuss what to do about this."
"Don't worry, Mycroft. I've learned my lesson."
"Have you?"
"Yes, of course."
"There are treatment centers—people I could put you in touch with—"
But Sherlock just waved him off.
"That's pointless. I'm not some kind of mindless junkie. Besides, those places would be so boring."
"Sherlock—"
Suddenly Sherlock's temper spiked.
"What else do you want me to say, Mycroft? I've promised you I won't do it again. Now stop badgering me and get the nurses to bring me some decent food."
Mycroft let the matter drop. What good would it possibly do to argue with Sherlock any further? But he wasn't comforted by any of his brother's assurances.
It was hard to say whether Sherlock even believed any of the words out of his own mouth, but either way, when Mycroft came to the hospital 48 hours later to pick up his brother, he found an empty hospital room and a nurse who said, "Your brother discharged himself two hours ago."
Mycroft felt the breath rush out of him as the fear flooded in. He turned around and walked at a pace that was closer to a dead run, until he got back outside and into the car.
He would spent the next five hours driving around London in search of his brother—he tried all the usual places, and then the unusual ones, and then he spent thirty minutes searching every back alley that he could think of, but there was no sign of Sherlock.
Feeling defeated and emotionally devastated, Mycroft returned to the family home. When he got to the door, he noticed with a surge of hope that the knocker had been knocked off balance, and the light in the kitchen was now turned on.
He rushed inside, calling out, "Sherlock!"
He got no response, but he followed the string of lights and opened doors—his brother never had learned to tidy up after himself—until he reached his brother's bedroom—
And there, with the covers thrown off the bed, shoeless but otherwise still fully dressed, Sherlock slept soundly, his breathing quiet but visible.
Mycroft was light headed with relief, and he sank down to his knees, his legs unable to bear his weight any more. As he tried to catch his breath, his eyes settled on his brother's right arm—the crook of his elbow was visible below the rolled up sleeve—and he thought he could see in the dim light, another hole, fresher than all the others—
No, it couldn't be, not now, not after everything, not so soon after nearly dying—
He didn't want to believe—didn't want to know—but he couldn't stop himself, so he dragged his unwilling body closer to the bed, and he started to reach for his brother's arm, but then he stopped dead, as he caught sight of something that had rolled under the edge of the bed—
A syringe, fresh, recently used.
Mycroft picked it up and stared at it, before throwing it across the room.
He launched it with such force that it hit one of his brother's empty beakers, knocking it to the ground, where it shattered, and the sound reverberated even more loudly in the otherwise silent house.
Exhausted, overwhelmed, beyond desperate, and completely helpless, Mycroft leaned against the wall, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed.
Through it all, Sherlock didn't stir, except for the almost invisible rise and fall of his chest.
A/N: This is a pretty heavy chapter, but I hope it still made for a good read. The next couple chapters are already at least 3/4 done, and they'll be diving a lot deeper into the Mycroft/Sherlock relationship. These two have a lot to hash out.
Oh, and if you've enjoyed this story, you might want to check out my Lestrade POV one shot that's also set in this universe, To Serve and Protect. It's set post-Reichenbach, but it deals with some of the events that take place in this universe. It also ties into Road to Hell, the first part in this series.
Anyway, I'm hoping to get the next chapter posted within the next week or so. I've really appreciated the feedback I've gotten on the story so far, and I'd love to get feedback on this latest chapter as well. Thanks for reading :)