It was always a matter of time.
Sherlock found his way here, dragged himself to the regular spot, shot up and laid there for hours. Sometimes he was thinking and other timesâsurprisinglyâhe was not. The latter wasnât what he did it for, although occasionally it was a bonus. What he did it for was⊠well, to fight boredom. To have something to do. To fill that empty space in his mind that needed something.
He wasnât asleep, so he couldnât be dreaming, but he was deep into the labyrinth of his mind palace. He should really redecorate some of these places. And there were definitely some rooms that needed a do-over. He hadnât been as good at organising data when heâd been nine and it showed.
He hesitated in front of a familiar door. His old bedroom door. He hadnât seen it in ages. Sherlock.
He never quite had the courage for it. The drugs were good for one thing, at least, as he raised his hand to the wood.
The image flickered, but it refocused and he took hold of the handle to push open the door. This is the first room he ever made and it held some of his oldest memories. Get. Up.
This time the door vanished entirely for a second, but he forced his way back there. He knew there was something behind it that he had to remember, but never had the guts to do.
He stepped into the bedroom, which was so familiar, yet seemed a lot smaller than itâd been when heâd made it. His bed stood exactly where it always had doneâcovers perfectly madeâand the glass on the night stand was half full of water.
He was, quite literally, dragged out of his thoughts. He blinked vigorously against the sudden brightness in the room, which probably wasnât bright at all. Heâd just not opened his eyes in hours.
âOh âz you,â he muttered, before letting out a groan. His head was pounding. More importantly, heâd been in the middle of something. âIâm busy.â
Mycroft didnât care whether Sherlock was in the middle of something or not. He had to get the hell up so he could take him home and if he wasnât going to at least try, then Mycroft would simply have to drag him down and into his car by his bloody ankles.
âI donât care what youâre doing,â Mycroft spat, once again yanking Sherlock up from the mattress.
âGet up!â he shouted again, forcefully pulling Sherlock upwards, despite the limpness in his body. This would be uncomfortable, possibly even painful, but he didnât care. He began to pull Sherlock away from the mattress and through the room towards the door, dragging Sherlockâs feet over the wood of the floor. He couldnât pick Sherlock up, not without Sherlock actually helping him to do so. âYou look damn pathetic,â he stated, before grabbing a fistful of Sherlockâs hair. Maybe that would make him stand up by himself. âGet yourself together.â