Chapter Text
The irony was not lost on him, even in his drug-ridden state; the man who had solved the most inscrutable of mysteries was now ensnared in the most confounding of all. The once invincible paragon of reason, was reduced to a trembling, incoherent figure. He clutched a stained and tattered notebook—his last bastion of sanity—as if it were a lifeline amidst the roiling sea. The pages, once a recipient of grand deductions and revelations, were now a jumbled mess of scrawled nonsense and fevered scribblings. Here, in this den he'd called home for the past few days, flickering lights cast shadows on his face.
He writhed in the throes of an artificial paradise, of his own making.
Even in this state, his eyes seemed to hold a semblance of intelligence, as if sense still occupied his otherwise ragged being.
His face, bloated from continual indulgence, was of a yellow, greenish, tinge. Reddish eyes gleamed like little embers smouldering in the heart of a dying fire. In this state, he could not think . It was a contradiction, of course. The very man who craved puzzles, and games, who craved the sensation of thinking, and succeeding, chased the opposite with twice the vigour now. His mindlessness was a sensation he'd always been grateful for.
Not a single thought crossed his mind of what had put him here, until it did.
John’s voice cut through the fog like a blade, sharp and resolute, though laced with a trembling sorrow that Sherlock could almost grasp through his haze. “You’re sick, you know that, Sherlock?” The words hung in the air, dense and accusatory, mingling with the smoke that curled lazily around the room. John’s posture was rigid, his eyes burning with a potent mix of anger and helplessness, their light fierce against the pallor of the room.
Sherlock’s blurred vision struggled to focus, the face of his friend shifting between clarity and distortion. He attempted to summon the capacity for comprehension, but his thoughts were like shards of glass, fragmented and scattered. He wanted to speak, to offer some semblance of defence or explanation, but his voice was a raspy whisper, drowned beneath the oppressive weight of the drug’s embrace.
The shadows seemed to dance mockingly in the dim flicker of the solitary lamp, casting grotesque forms upon the peeling wallpaper. John’s hand tightened around the head of his cane. Yes, his cane . Psychosomatic, or not. It hurt .
As if to punctuate the sombre silence, the door creaked open with a mournful groan, an unwelcome herald to the arrival of Mycroft Holmes. His entrance was a study in stark contrast: he stepped into the den, his imposing form clad in the immaculate precision of a tailored suit, an emblem of his detachment from the sordid spectacle before him. His gaze swept the room with a clinical, almost contemptuous, scrutiny, as if he were observing a curious yet insignificant specimen rather than his own brother in a state of ruin.
Mycroft’s voice, when it emerged, was as measured and unyielding as the ticking of a distant clock, its cadence imbued with an authority that brooked no opposition.
“John,” he intoned, his tone a mixture of controlled irritation and strained concern, “Thank you for calling, John. You may take your leave with this..." he gestured to Sherlock with his umbrella, "...free from your conscience.”
John’s response was one of exasperation as he continued to lean on his cane. He swallowed, reluctant to leave. As he was thinking however, Mycroft had dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, and although his face was tinged with the same disgust, his nose scrunched at the smell, there was also that concern in his eyes, a brotherly compassion, if you will.
Sherlock stirred, and blinked his eyes open, as if the light blinded him, as dim as it was.
Sherlocks gaze drifted from Mycroft to John, and a sort of realisation came upon him. “John? What are you doing here?”
Even intoxicated as he was, his words still seemed coherent.
John stared in disbelief at the audacity to speak to him like he’d done something wrong. “You called me, Sherlock.”
There was a look of confusion in his eyes as he scrunched his eyebrows just slightly. His expression was almost child-like. He looked down towards his hands. They were numb, as if he had no control over them, his notebook in one hand, and a phone he didn’t recognise in another.
Mycroft’s hands, though steady and practised, were gentle as he assisted Sherlock into a sitting position. His touch, though seemingly indifferent, carried an unspoken tenderness.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured, the words barely forming now as his head turned towards his brother. “Didn’t think you’d come… Just a bit of a mess…”
“Indeed,” Mycroft said, his voice calm but firm. “It appears you have exceeded even your usual capacity for self-destruction, brother mine. Have you made a list?”
The question was met with Sherlock’s eyes becoming glassier, as if pooling with tears. His brother was always emotional in this state. Sherlock broke eye contact and looked towards the book in his hand. Myctoft followed his gaze towards the item and pried it from his hands. They retaliated only slightly.
Mycroft was now sat fully on the floor, giving up on maintaining his poise. Sherlock, struggling to anchor himself in the shifting sea of reality and delusion, managed to focus on Mycroft’s face as he opened the little book.
Mycroft carefully turned the pages of the tattered notebook, his eyes scanning the chaotic scrawl that seemed to spiral into incoherence with each passing page. The familiar sensation of Sherlock’s unique handwriting, usually so precise and meticulous, was now reduced to a morass of erratic symbols and fragmented thoughts. Mycroft’s fingers brushed over sketches that could be mistaken for manic doodles, cryptic notes about experiments, and half-formed hypotheses.
After several minutes, he found a section of the notebook that appeared slightly more organised than the rest. His breath hitched as he recognized the familiar structure of lists, not all of drugs, thank God, but of various cases, observations and seemingly random words and symbols.
As he flipped back towards the beginning, however, things began to make more sense. He inhaled as he read the list he’d begun to make, the last entry being just two days after his disappearance. It had been a week since his people could not find him.
The gap in the records was glaring, and the realisation that Sherlock’s current situation was likely far worse than what was documented hit Mycroft with an almost physical force.
Mycroft’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, whose head lolled slightly to one side, as though he was drifting in and out of consciousness. “Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice, though barely more than a whisper, carried a trace of vulnerability. “What’s… what’s wrong?”
Mycroft looked on for a second longer, and they seemed to have a conversation on their own, one John had not been privy to. “Oh,” Sherlock realised. “I… I’ve lost track,” he mumbled, struggling to form coherent thoughts. “Couldn’t… couldn’t keep up…”
John, still standing at the periphery, finally moved closer, his face etched with a mix of remaining anger and concern. “So, what do we do now?”
Mycroft turned his head towards John, a sort of contemplative look in his eyes. “We?” he admonished. “You haven’t had contact with my brother in a month, John. There is no we.”
John remained silent, his fists clenched at his side. He pointed at Sherlock. “He was dead.”
Mycroft’s gaze was unyielding, but his expression shifted to one of determined resolve. “I start by ensuring that Sherlock receives proper medical attention. You may take your leave, John.”
His heart ached with the weight of the past month, a period in which he had wrestled with his own feelings of anger, and unresolved grief. God, he sounded like his therapist. The words Mycroft had spoken earlier, dismissing his involvement, echoed in his mind.
John took a deep breath, his eyes lingering on Sherlock, who was now slowly sinking back into the haze of his drug-induced stupor. There was a part of him that wanted to stay, to be present for every moment of Sherlock’s recovery, to offer whatever support he could. But another part of him was filled with bitterness and doubt—doubts about his own role in this unfolding drama, about whether he was truly welcome or if he was just an afterthought in the grand scheme of things.
‘Sherlock called him, right? Surely he wants him there,’ he reasoned. Still his bitterness and ego prevented him from succumbing to it. Sherlock was a selfish bastard, but was he a selfish bastard that was worth it?
“Hold on a minute. Don’t you control the British government, or something? You let him rot here.” His tone, although resentful, gave away his own guilt.
“You know Sherlock, John. I admit, even I can be fooled by Sherlock when he becomes this kind of addict. He’d do anything for a hit in this state. I suppose you know what drove him here?” He said the word ‘addict’ with such offence, as if the word was separate from his own brother.
John’s gaze remained on Sherlock.
Mycroft’s gaze was unwavering, though there was a flicker of understanding behind his stern facade. “I understand this is difficult, but your presence here could be more of a hindrance than a help at this stage.”
John’s fist clenched at his side. “You’re right,” he said quietly, his voice tight with emotion.
John swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on Sherlock one last time. The thought of leaving, of walking away from the person he’d once been so close to, was almost too much to bear. But his anger spoke for him.
With a final, lingering look, John turned and walked toward the door.
The door clicked shut behind John, leaving Mycroft alone with Sherlock in the dimly lit room. The tension between the two brothers was palpable, a mixture of past grievances and unspoken sentiments hanging heavily in the air. Mycroft's fingers traced the edge of the notebook, still filled with the frenzied scrawls that bore witness to Sherlock's decline, the ramblings of a man too far gone to remember his own name.
Sherlock blinked slowly, struggling to focus on Mycroft’s face. His lips parted, and though his voice was barely audible, there was a trace of something like clarity in his eyes. “Don’t… don’t want… more trouble,” he murmured, his words tangled with the remnants of his stupor.
Mycroft’s gaze softened, despite himself. “You’re not trouble, Sherlock. You’re my brother. And that means I’m responsible for getting you the help you need, even if you can’t see it right now.”
He carefully closed the notebook, his fingers lingering on the cover. “Let’s get you out of here,” he repeated, more to himself than to Sherlock. “There’s a team waiting to assist you. They’ll have you in a proper facility where you can begin to recover.”
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, his head sinking back into the grimy pillow. Mycroft’s chest tightened at the sight.
The medical team moved with practised ease, assessing Sherlock’s condition and preparing him for transport. Mycroft stepped aside, allowing them to do their work, but his eyes never left his brother.
As they made their way to the waiting transport, Mycroft glanced back at the dilapidated room. The flickering lights and peeling wallpaper were a stark reminder of the situation that lay ahead, one filled with the emotion he despised all too much, the same emotions he was glad he had.