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English
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Part 1 of I'll Always Be There For You
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Published:
2016-01-10
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1,410
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1/1
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An Understanding

Summary:

There will always be a list.

 

Mycroft tries.

Work Text:

It starts with a phone call.

"Mummy," Mycroft says. "To what do I owe the pleasure." He deliberately doesn't raise his voice at the end. 

Mummy rambles on for a few minutes. Mycroft allows his eyes to glaze over, but he makes a few non committal hums to keep her happy. It's only when she asks, "And how is Sherlock?" that his attention returns.

"You would know better than me, Mummy," he says testily. 

"Don't be difficult, Myc. I meant has he been behaving himself?"

"What?"

"Didn't he tell you when he arrived? Father and I are back in Oklahoma, we thought Sherlock would be better off staying with you. He does love London."

Mycroft rubs at his eyes. "You're in America? So soon after..." But then, the full thing hits him, and his stomach twinges, just a little. "Sherlock isn't with me," Mycroft says. "I've not heard from him."

~

"You have reached the Holmes family. Please leave your message after the tone."

"Sherlock, it's- it's me. Mummy... apparently you told Mummy you'd be staying with me? In any case, I've not seen you. Um, obviously. Maybe... maybe you're still at home? ...Well, you've not picked up, so... just, call me when you get this. Please."

~

Despite his parents assuring him that Sherlock is probably at a friend's house (almost laughable), Mycroft drives to their family home in the countryside. When he pulls up to the driveway, he sees that not a single light is on in the house. He lets himself in.

"Hello? Sherlock! I'm here! Sherlock?"

Nothing.

Mycroft heads up the staircase, scanning the landing, and freezes. Sherlock's bedroom door is closed. But, he hates... Mycroft shakes that thought away, and raps on the door. Again, nothing. He pushes the door open. The room is empty. But, that is only the first thing worth noting. Mycroft also notices that the bed was made in a hurry this morning, and that Sherlock's small travel suitcase is not in the wardrobe. More importantly, he realises that the only clothes missing from there are a thin t shirt and tracksuit bottoms.

Mycroft stands in the room, and all he can think is he'll be cold. 

~

"You lost something?"

 Mycroft sighs. "Someone."

This is probably the most ridiculous thing he's ever done. Practically the whole day spent traipsing through London, all while trying to think if I were Sherlock, where would I go? He's tried all the tube stops, bohemian cafés, Hungerford Bridge, the poky bookshop where he got Sherlock a first edition of Treasure Island. And now, he's hit dead ends everywhere, and is faced with wandering the streets on the off chance that he'll miraculously bump into Sherlock.

The homeless girl glances him up and down. "Your brother, yeah?"

Mycroft stiffens. "How did you know?"

The girl blinks at him, and she looks very sad all of a sudden. "Follow me."

~

Mycroft doesn't want to believe that it's him. That boy huddled up, dirty and shivering, simply cannot be his little brother. It's impossible. Should be impossible.

"Sherlock," he whispers, shaking his shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock stirs, his eyes still closed. "Hmm...Mycroft...was on a pirate ship." He shifts and his head falls onto Mycroft's shoulder, lolling sideways.

There is something very wrong, something beyond tiredness. It is staring Mycroft in the face, but he can't admit it. "Sh-Sherlock," he says, and his voice does not come out as strong as he intended, not at all. "Sherlock, open your eyes."

Sherlock moans and his eyes flutter open for the briefest moments, but long enough for Mycroft to know that Sherlock's pupils are grotesquely dilated. 

"What have you taken?" His heart is in his throat. Sherlock's eyes flutter one more time, and then they roll back, and Mycroft slaps him. "Sherlock! Answer me! What have you taken? What have you taken? Jesus Christ, no-"

~

Mycroft feels like he might be sick in the ambulance, and that won't do. "He's sixteen," he says. He doesn't know how many times he's repeated it. "He's only sixteen." They had asked him if he knew what Sherlock had taken, and he had said no, he didn't; Sherlock wouldn't, couldn't tell him, and Mycroft had been suddenly unable to infer anything, pathetic, all he saw was a Sherlock who was far too pale and was sleeping like the dead, and that wasn't, isn't right-

All Mycroft knows is that he is holding onto Sherlock's hand as the ambulance turns on its sirens, and he can't think of anything or anyone in the world that would make him let go.

~

"Were you trying to kill yourself?"

Sherlock sighs, and turns his head away from Mycroft. "You tell me."

"That's not a good enough answer, Sherlock."

Sherlock sits up a little straighter, moving the hospital pillows to the side. "You're angry," he says.

It's Mycroft's turn to sigh. "No." At Sherlock raising his eyebrows, Mycroft adds: "At least, not now. I was- am..." Sherlock frowns, and Mycroft swallows. "Scared," he finishes, and the look of utter astonishment on Sherlock's face would have been comical under different circumstances.

Now that it's already been said, Mycroft is encouraged to press on: "You scared me, Sherlock. When the ambulance... they asked me what you had taken, and I- I couldn't answer them. I had no idea."

Sherlock raises his eyes to the ceiling. "Would you prefer it if I'd written a list?"

Mycroft chooses to ignore the scorn. "Yes, yes I would have. Now that you mention it. Although the plan is for there not to be a repeat performance."

"Alright."

"Sherlock."

Something changes. Sherlock finally looks at Mycroft, and his near enough permanent frown disappears. Mycroft takes a chance. "Promise me?"

Sherlock nods, and closes his eyes. "Yes. Okay. Yes."

~

 

Sherlock moves into Mycroft's flat. The first night is hell.

"Perhaps," Mycroft suggests delicately. "Perhaps you should have a shower." 

Sherlock exhales, the irritation obvious in the hunch of his shoulders. "Fine."

Later, Mycroft hears a heart-stopping thunk from the bathroom. He rushes in to see Sherlock sitting down in the shower, knees to his chest. The water thunders down at a horrifically high pressure, steam rising, the heat turning his skin red raw. Mycroft does not know what to say.

"Oh," is all he can manage. He opens up the shower door, and kneels down, reaching inside to place his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, steadying him.

Sherlock puts his head in his hands. "I- I can't," he whispers.

Mycroft is soaked through already. He stands up to turn off the water, and says, "Alright. That's alright, Sherlock. You can try again tomorrow."

Sherlock sniffs, and looks up. "Your shirt is wet."

Mycroft tries to smile. "Never mind that."

~

The first page of the notebook is a tally chart: Danger Night... 

~

It happens again. And again. And again.

But, this time is the worst. Mycroft is sure of it. 

"Did you make a list?"

The smell of the place is vile. Mycroft nearly gags on it. All he wants to do is scoop Sherlock off that threadbare mattress, and take him home, for God's sake, home.

Sherlock recoils, but not before moving his clenched fist to Mycroft and letting the list fall to the ground. Mycroft picks it up, reads. Right, then. 999 it is.

Abruptly, Sherlock vomits, all over the mattress and his clothes. He retches a few more times, and Mycroft rubs his hand over Sherlock's back.

"It's okay, you're okay, it's going to be..."

Mycroft trails off at the sound of Sherlock choking on his own sobs. They are worryingly quiet, desperate sounds.

"Oh, Sherlock," he murmurs. "Ssh, ssh, you're going to be-"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says. Then: "H-he's dead, isn't he."

Mycroft thinks that the one thing he cannot do is cry. "Yes. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

~

"We need a word," Mycroft announces over tea. 

"Pardon?"

"You won't tell me when you're feeling... what you're feeling. So, if we just had one word, it might make it easier...?"

Sherlock scowls over his mug of tea, and Mycroft flushes. Please, Sherlock. Don't make this any harder for me than it is.

"Redbeard," Sherlock says, and it takes every effort for Mycroft not to flinch. He cannot yet tell if Sherlock is saying it out of spite, or genuine choice. 

Still. It is a word. Mycroft can hardly argue with that.

"Redbeard," he nods, and writes it in the next page of his notebook.

 

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