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Quick and Gritty	By : wanderlustmind Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3263 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 3: Protect Me From What I Want
Author's Note: Thanks again for the patience. No excuse for the long delay, but I do apologize a lot. Still can't say how long this is going to be though I am continuing it now so it will be at least another chapter. Your reviews encourage and mean so much to me! Constructive criticism is also fantastic (please, do let me know if you think anything is OOC, feel free to Brit-pick, etc.) Still no beta and no clue how to get one, so all mistakes are mine. Mentions of drugs and drug abuse, Mystrade if you squint.
He was aware of the uncomfortable hospital chair underneath him and the white washed walls of the single patient hospital room in a way only a Holmes could be aware of, as unconscious of it as he could be. The steady beep of the monitors echoed in the quiet, and soon they, too, faded to the background, noticed and unnoticed all at once.
As practiced as Sherlock was to blocking out the world, it was a learned and honed behavior that was not always successful. Things still broke his concentration—conversations, so simpleminded and stupid, Anderson being…Anderson. The real world often intruded upon his self imposed isolation, deep inside the rapid fire thoughts of his mind.
But right now his mind was still. Right now he was as focused on a particular real world imperative detail as he would be on a whole case.
Breathing.
Once he had told John it was boring, and he had meant it then, but his eyes were fixed on John's chest, rapt on the slight rise and fall of it, on straining his ears to catch the gasp of his breath.
He literally ached to crawl underneath the covers, to huddle so close he could feel the ghost of the breath on his skin, warm and alive and tickling his hair. He would press his whole body atop John's to be certain, to be as wrapped in the man as he could, move with his chest and breathe with his breath and let his heart beat with his heart.
But Sherlock's back was rigid, his whole body so tense it almost vibrated, his jaw locked so tight his molars might shatter.
An outsider would call it an improvement. Sherlock had yelled so vehemently at the EMTs once John was ambulatory—they were taking so long in figuring out what was wrong with John—they should be fired for their incompetence; anyone who watched a bit of television could tell this was a drug overdose—yelled so hysterically that his face had purpled and spittle had flown. When John finally arrived and he'd started convulsing, Sherlock had to be restrained after he'd slammed an unsuspecting nurse against the wall and demanded that she stop thinking about the boyfriend (who had recently proposed to hide the fact that he was cheating on her) and hurry up and do something.
The ER doctor had fared no better, and the only reason he wasn't bodily thrown out was because of Mycroft's predictable timing.
But Sherlock was never one for restraint, whether or not his brother was involved (sometimes especially) and these weren't the reasons for why Sherlock stayed seated, kept his distance.
John was here because of him.
Sherlock cared; he was afraid, in ways he didn't think possible. The way his body refused to remain detached from his emotions was in every way his stomach felt like an endless pit, as if his heart had dropped into it, was falling and falling. The sheer nervousness of it all paralyzed him as strongly as surely as the urge was to pace, to scream.
'…tachycardia—not a heart attack, but…went into seizure…'
He never would have expected this behavior from John. Ironically enough, this was one of the things Sherlock loved about the man: his ability to surprise him.
But—John was a doctor who drank but didn't get drunk, didn't even smoke cigarettes. How could someone so…good go from that to cocaine? Especially with a sister already saddled as an alcoholic.
'…overdose…waiting on…kidney, even brain…some bleeding…'
Sherlock tried to imagine, really tried to imagine what John had been doing in their flat. Was he deliberately looking? Did he suspect that Sherlock had never stopped, not really?
The feeling of falling slowly dissolved to coils, snakes in his stomach, writhing knots. No, John trusted him. For whatever reason, whatever misplaced hero worship and loyalty John felt, he trusted Sherlock, the liar, the cheater, the thief, the amoral (at best) sociopath.
"Idiot," Sherlock said, and the noise, the voices of his brother and doctor, the smell of the hospital rushed back, and Sherlock was finally able to move, to shift, lean forward toward John's prone frame, his eyes frantic and wild.
"We never talked about it," his voice was a barely concealed sob—placating, defensive. Would he have confessed if they had?
"I tried." As if that would make it better.
"I needed it." That might have made it worse.
Sherlock clicked his mouth shut and pressed his forehead to the bed, just shy of touching John's hand. It felt wrong, somehow, to touch him now without his consent, after what John must view as a betrayal.
"Why did you take it? Why would you…" Sherlock's voice trailed off, lost in the sheet. He didn't quite know what to say.
"To get back at me?"
Then, softly: "I'm sorry."

Mycroft was a busy man. A lot of people assumed so, as he tended to dress like someone of importance. Impeccable, expensive, untouchable. More often than not, three piece suits and an exuberant amount of ties. Leather shoes, locked briefcase.
'Wealthy businessmen.' Most people thought. How stupid.
When, if ever, he dared to correct them by stating he in fact occupied a small, unnoticeable, unnamed position as a civil servant, other people nodded. 'I knew it,' they'd proclaim. How dull.
The fact that his small, unnoticeable, unnamed position as a civil servant helped practically (mostly) run the (entirety of) British government was on a purely need to know basis.
(Very few people were on that list. How cliché.)
And as if the safety of the commonwealth was not enough on his plate, Mycroft Holmes had the unfortunate circumstance of being of relation to the world's only consulting detective.
Though perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps one could say that Mycroft was so adept at picking up after a government like it was his own wayward child was because he grew up with Sherlock—and Britain was not as smart, nor as spoiled as Sherlock.
Who, at this very moment, was literally twitching and looking like he would crawl into bed with his lover at any moment.
The need to rub his temples was a great one. With practiced ease, Mycroft hid the minute twitch of his fingers in the flipping of the page of John Watson's medical chart. The doctor whose care he was under was due back to continue their little chat about the likelihood of developing a drug addiction after a near fatal overdose (but he wouldn't be, if Anthea was any good, which, oh, she was) and Mycroft needed this chance to steel himself for what he knew was going to be a very difficult confrontation with his brother.
He neatly placed the chart back in its cubby and used his umbrella to push open the door.
"Sherlock," he called, and his voice was loud in the room though it was an octave above a whisper, but with the look Sherlock gave him he may as well have shouted.
"Get out!" he snarled. There was a haunted look in Sherlock's eyes, in the way he held himself, hunched and vulnerable.
It gave Mycroft a start, must have reminded him of all sorts of unpleasantness, because suddenly Sherlock was all naked sallow skin, sickly, with protruding ribs and cheek bones, the track marks in his skin all but invisible, careful. Suddenly Sherlock was reckless and selfish, taking hits after hits, with no other outlet for his genius except on trying not to kill himself in his own flat. Suddenly Sherlock was wasting away all over again, his addiction quite literally sucking him dry.
Mycroft blinked and the images faded, but the bitterness of memory remained, the lump of a heart in his throat. He let out a long suffering sigh and composed himself. Like the practiced diplomat that he was, he ignored the outburst and closed the door behind him, leaned against his umbrella, doing his best to feel as if the weight of the world was lessened. It wasn't, but he carried on anyway, trying to be tactful.
"If you'd take a minute," —he ignored Sherlock's immediate 'no,'—"I'm simply here to inform you that the doctor's are not concerned about John's recovery. He'll be fine, Sherlock."
"He should have woken up twenty-nine seconds ago."
Mycroft remembered the chart, what the doctor had warned about, and barely glanced at the prone man on the bed. "You're off by a few minutes, little brother." He bit his tongue before he corrected his brother further. Of course he wouldn't remember to factor in that his cocaine was a rather strong solution, nor the probability of John eating earlier (low, Mycroft would gamble that he didn't) because, and wasn't it obvious: sentiment was cloudy to judgment.
Sherlock stopped fighting and turned all his attention back to John. Mycroft continued. "If he was brought in with it, John could very well face charges and lose his medical license."
Clarifying what 'it' was to his brother would be redundant.
Sherlock huffed at what he believed to be an empty threat, and Mycroft could not dance around the issue any longer. Like a rubber band pulled taut, his patience snapped. "He should."
"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft—"
"You do not get to lecture me on the ridiculousness of behavior, Sherlock! If you do not give it to me, records will read that he came in with it, illegally! At ninety-six pounds, I quarantined you to get that filth out of your system! I put your eyes in sight of detective work like you put the Yard's nose on the scent of killers. I've bent the rules for you, to help you! To what ends, little brother? So you could use between cases with none the wiser?"
"Mycroft—"
"It doesn't matter," Mycroft insisted. "What good is Doctor John Watson to me, to you, if he cannot keep needles from puncturing his own skin?"
"It's my—"
"Do not dare make out his idiocy to be your fault! When will cocaine stop being a postlude to excuses, Sherlock? For you, for anyone? When?" He felt drained, suddenly, the band was lax and raw as he breathed hard, struggling to calm himself.
But if he looked ruffled, mussed, Sherlock was doubly so.
"Please," Sherlock's voice was soft, pleading, very much the scolded child. "It's flushed. You can check for yourself."
There was fear in his eyes, and Mycroft wanted to give in to the sheer genuineness of it. It would be so much easier to concede now. How many times had he been taken in for that same look?
The beast that ravaged Sherlock's heart and mind, no matter what anyone wanted to believe, did nothing but leave destruction in its wake. It enveloped everything around it, tainting, damaging.
Everyone fell prey to it, eventually.
'Love.'
And Mycroft knew he would not concede until he was completely certain that the love of a drug was completely overshadowed, utterly broken and beaten by the love of a Doctor John Watson.
Though nothing showed on his face, Sherlock seemed to understand the slight softening of his shoulders as acquiescence. He turned back to John as Mycroft quietly stepped from the room, wondering who he was fooling.
Anthea became his silent shadow as he managed not to trudge down the hallway to the waiting room.
No one stopped them or questioned their presence. Mycroft took this moment to send a few texts. (Now was not the time for phone calls.)
As expected, DI Lestrade was alternating between pacing and standing to fidget. The end of a nicotine patch was visible under his sleeves. Mycroft stopped in front of the obviously concerned detective. "Let me dispel any fears you might have, Gregory."
Gregory combed his fingers through his graying hair, a habitual gesture. His downcast eyes and pursed lips shouted his internal conflict between relieved concern and disbelieving anger. "That would take a while, Mycroft." he admitted.
"Then perhaps you'd care to sit over coffee in the hospital cafeteria?" At the DI's nod, Mycroft began making his way there.
"When you rang me," Lestrade said as they walked. "You could have at least warned me it was John in here for drugs, not Sherlock."
Mycroft's face was grim, but he said nothing.
Two shadows.
He tried to revel in the feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world.
He picked a table and sat. A bit hesitantly, Gregory did as well, and within moments Anthea set tea in front of Mycroft and coffee in front of Lestrade. Neither men moved to touch the Styrofoam cups, and as Mycroft explained John's rash, foolhardy decision, the steam escaped, filling the air between them.
"Christ," Lestrade said at last, "I thought John was the smart one of the pair." Mycroft made a noncommittal sound. Half of being a diplomat was, of course, knowing when to talk, and he knew now was the moment to let the detective come to his own conclusions. Another run of fingers through already tousled hair. "Did Sherlock…admit to it then? How long has he been on the shit again?"
"He didn't say," Mycroft was not about to confess that he did not let Sherlock get much of a word in edgewise.
"So for all you know he could have just had it lying around."
"Tell me, Detective, in your history with the Yard, how many former—" and it did, it did pain him to use the words—"drug addicts keep cocaine lying around without using it?"
He swore. "Where'd he keep it? We've looked, but…"
"My people are looking into it now."
"I'm not keeping him on the cases, Mycroft."
"That would be…unwise."
"I told him it had to stop. I meant it. I still do. No more cases, not until I get a bloody negative drug screening. Supervised. Fuck, from both of them."
"Normally I would be inclined to agree with you." Mycroft tried to put it delicately. "But John, I'm afraid, can no longer be trusted to keep himself, or his wits, aligned with what my brother needs. Sherlock will need something to occupy his time while John is…indisposed."
"Rehab? You think there's a chance he might be addicted?" At the raised eyebrow, Gregory exclaimed, "Mycroft, you can't just make John disappear." The silence and Mycroft's look must have reminded him that he, indeed, could, because he rushed on. "If it—I'd be obligated to launch a full investigation, you know."
"I'm afraid that will not be necessary, Gregory. Or, if you must, I need not remind you of the unfortunate, albeit rare, occurrences where paperwork goes missing on the cluttered desks of overworked Detective Inspectors."
Mycroft tried to smile to soothe the stricken expression, caused by the utmost seriousness of his words, but it seemed to have a somewhat opposite effect.
"Wait, wait! How do you know this won't—help him? Sherlock's changed since he's met John, you can't deny that. Maybe being on the outside of addiction he'll realize it's a shit idea, learn to empathize, maybe. A bit."
'Well. Now wouldn't that be interesting.'
It was rare that ordinary people—and it wasn't necessarily that Gregory Lestrade was stupid, it was more that they all were—set ideas in motion that Mycroft hadn't already been secretly cultivating. (Or maybe he had been, and Gregory just had the kindle and flame.)
Mycroft's features set themselves to neutrality. He sighed, gave the impression of relenting. Smiled with barely feigned hopeful relief, and finally sipped a bit of tea.
And with that Gregory almost relaxed. He tried to make a joke of it, saying, "You're just upset because he didn't agree to spy on your brother. Remember I told you to sod off when you asked me to do the same, in case you can't recall."
"But that is why I like you, Gregory. Whether you realize it or not, you do tend to do what I want."
Mycroft rose, but Gregory's hand was a warm pressure on his arm. "They'll get through this, Mycroft." Mycroft found himself on the other end of eyes that were not extrapolating weaknesses or faking emotion. He nodded, pleased, warmed by the sincerity of it all.
"If you'll excuse me, Gregory, I must attend to the matter of John's release."

Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism greatly appreciated. :]
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Quick and Gritty