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Guilty Pleasures	By : CodyMThomas Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 8168 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content associated with BBC Sherlock, I am merely playing with them for my own amusement and make no money from this fic

Chapter List
- 1-Guilty Pleasures
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-Chapter 12
- 13-13
- 9
- 10
- 11
Mycroft actually pitied his brother. He knew exactly what it took for him to ask that.
For all the Holmes' brilliance was a useful thing, it was also a double-sided blade that could turn on its owner instantly or was accompanied by crippling side effects in some form or another. Even as a child anything that wasn't rational, logical, had a direct impact on his life, or was able to be quantifiably measured, tested, and irrevocably proven, Sherlock had dismissed as entirely unimportant. Unfortunately that had included several things that most people considered basic human characteristics, such as friendships, emotions, morals, boundaries, restraint, attachments, and 'sentiment' of any kind.
When Sherlock was seven, he had questioned with complete seriousness, why their mother was crying, after he had gone after a bird's nest in the dead of winter, and had taken a rather nasty spill from a tree overlooking the pond and fallen through the ice when the branch had broken. Sherlock had come out of it with a broken leg, a broken arm, a cracked skull, and hypothermia, he had been lucky the gardener had seen it happen and was able to pull him out in time.
Yet Sherlock had been completely unable to understand why getting so badly hurt and coming close to death could upset their mother at all. She'd been completely inconsolable after Sherlock had asked. She was a Holmes by marriage after all, she couldn't understand yet that Sherlock was a Holmes through and through, and that this was simply the first of many such instances to come and it had nothing to do with her capabilities as a parent.
Fortunately their brother Sherringford was simply brilliant with finances, besides that he had taken after their mother, and it was no secret he was closer to her than Sherlock and Mycroft himself were. He truly hoped it was a comfort to her to have a child she could somewhat relate to.
Incidentally on this particular generational branch of the family tree, the Holmes traits had become more prominent with each child their mother had borne, and Sherlock had the worst of it. The thrice refined and honed blade of his mind was razor-sharp on both sides, cleanly slicing through everything in its path, and then just as quickly, it's owner. Sherlock had become an addict for years in an attempt to escape his own mind, and though Mycroft didn't approve, he could understand Sherlock's reasoning, misguided though it was. If he made his mind speed up it all became a hum of white noise and was easier to ignore. At least it was a drug easy for Mycroft to obtain pure and to limit Sherlock's supply of, gradually cutting it with prescription drugs to aid his recovery until Sherlock's self medication was truly that. The now harmless combination of vitamins, minerals, amino acids, caffeine, and prescription drugs that Sherlock routinely injected these days still gave him a feeling of being high, but did him far more good than harm and wasn't in any way illegal, seeing as Sherlock had prescriptions posted in his medical record for everything, along with instructions to inject intravenously, even if he wasn't aware of it.
Mycroft knew that he himself was no better than Sherlock, though he did have an easier time of maintaining his condition through rigid, absolute, and complete control. Control of himself and his environment, the people around him, the events in his life, everything. He had systematically organized, compartmentalized, labeled, filed, and monitored everything in his world into beautiful order, leaving him holding an exquisitely entwined and complicated web of interconnected strings. He could pluck any number of any hundred thousand of those strings and know exactly the path the vibration would take, and all the strings it would touch along the way.
Sherlock had always been the most discordant string in his orchestra, as chaotic and unpredictable as a hurricane, to the point that even cleaning up Sherlock's messes had become perfected over time, and Mycroft did what he could to bring his brother's life into some semblance of sanity and order. The flat was covered, the bills paid for, his pin card always had a hefty sum available, the cupboards were constantly stocked with food and tea, a laundry service came by once a week, and a biohazard team scrubbed and re-stocked the makeshift laboratory once a week or after an experiment was finished.
Since all of Sherlock's physical needs were covered, it was a complete shock to Mycroft when Sherlock had started making inquiries about a flatmate. He could only conclude that it was a new experiment on how quickly he could drive someone out of their heads, and after the first three had all left in under a month, Mycroft had then had an extremely good laugh hearing Sherlock talking to Mike Stamford and saying he didn't know what the problem was, he must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for.
Then there was John Hamish Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. If Mycroft had been given to believe in such things as Divine Providence, he would have suspected its hand in not only creating the man, but also in placing him directly into Sherlock's path. The connection was so instant, perfect, and absolute, that Mycroft had been suspicious in the extreme. He had dug so far down looking for skeletons in the man's closet he had almost hit oil. John was too perfect to be real, and Mycroft admits, if only to himself, how jealous he was that John could not only connect with his brother closer than he ever could, but that he was also able to quiet if not tame the tempestuous storm that was Sherlock Holmes. Then again Mycroft had never thought he be so relieved to get a report that John Watson had shot someone either.
Sherlock mellowed considerably under John's influence, and his brother no longer raged alone against the world, frustrated with things he couldn't understand, he now had a guide, an interpreter, and someone, Mycroft was infinitely grateful to learn, who had a protective streak for his youngest brother that was a mile wide that he could encourage whole heartedly. So it had been a double blow when he'd seen the first tape of Sherlock's 'abuse'. He wasn't used to misjudging a person so badly, especially someone as transparent as John. But on the second time through, he realized what exactly it was that he was seeing. And for the first time in his life, Mycroft felt torn on whose side to take. It didn't last long.
And now it seems as if Sherlock had finally come to his senses, John had obviously said or done something that had been able to lead Sherlock's unceasing tangle of thoughts to the fact that what he was doing was wrong. Now it was all a matter of damage control, and Mycroft was VERY good at damage control, especially when it came to Sherlock.
In this particular instance, nothing, if you would be so kind. You have just taken on a new case, so you will be busy with that no doubt. You will still be able to relay any inquiries to him through text or email. -M
What do you want him for? What are you scheming? SH
I merely intend to do what I have always done for you, dear brother, Damage Control, nothing more. I will not be so cruel as to actually make you ask, but you do owe me a favor now, redeemable when I ask. -M
Where will you be taking him? SH
Where do you think? There is only one place we have ever taken our wounded. I assume you will join us once you finish up with your work? -M
Don't hurt him. SH
I daresay you have done enough of that all on your own haven't you? My people will be there before your Mrs. Hudson comes back from playing bridge. -M
Mycroft called his assistant and five minutes later he received notification alerts that there was a transport van and escort, a helicopter prepped and cleared to take off when ordered, and that all other details were ready. Mycroft gave the go ahead and set his phone to silently send everything directly to voicemail.
He swirled his brandy in his glass before taking a sip. This one would be a tricky string to maneuver and weave through. John was a study in dichotomy, both tough and delicate, fiercely courageous yet easily injured, a person of deep feelings yet ruthless resolve, a trained healer with very few qualms about killing, a beloved victim of his brother's misguidance. Such a pity that, he liked John.
Awhile later an incoming message chimed letting them know that the escort had arrived with John. He finished the last swallow of his brandy, stood up and straightened his suit, picked up the file from the woman by the door and walked out of the room.
A guard stood at the door where John was waiting and he stepped aside to let Mycroft in. John was sitting in the chair at the table and Mycroft nodded to the guard behind him. The man stepped forward and ripped the black cloth hood off John's head and before the doctor could get any of his bearings back, for the first time in his life, Mycroft got his hands dirty as he lashed out and punched John across the face with his fist as hard as he could. It hurt just as much as he thought it would, but he didn't let it show.
"I have to admit, John, that I have been rather... disappointed in you of late. I had thought my previous actions had been enough to impart upon you what I was expecting from you. For your sake I have buried three counts of murder, two counts of manslaughter, illegal possession of a firearm, illegal possession and acquisition of ammunition, multiple counts of discharging an illegal firearm in public, breaking and entering, theft, destruction of antiquities and public property, assisting in the deaths of foreign intelligence, fraudulent impersonation to gain access to a top-secret government facility, an ASBO, disturbing the peace, and several other charges that happen to accrue when one takes up to running around after my brother. I made everything go away John, no jail time, not even any inquiries, made it legal for you to have your gun, got you a promotion, made sure you would still get your pension, made it so no authority save the Queen herself could stop you from doing what I asked you to do. And I only asked you to do ONE thing John, do you remember what that is?"
"Protect Sherlock."
"That's right." He nodded to the guard who still stood behind John, who grabbed his hair, forced his head back and pressed a very large Bowie knife under the doctor's chin. "After all of my leniency and generosity, is this really the gratitude I receive in return John, Sherlock's physical and sexual abuse? Given your complete and utter repetitive failures in this endeavor, perpetuated by your own two hands no less, can you give me one singular reason as to why I shouldn't kill you right now and leave your worthless corpse to rot?"

A/N: Apologies my dear readers, I did not mean to be out of touch for so long, nor make you wait so long for an update or have it seem like I had abandoned this story. I haven't I promise. Many important and stressful things simply have come up one after the other these past few months, and honestly, writing fanfic has been one of the absolute last things on my mind. Thank all of you for your patience, and as a semi early Yule gift I will try to have the next chapter edited and posted within the next few days or so. Thanks again for reading and please leave a review if you like what I write. Feedback is muse food!
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Guilty Pleasures