The Past Reacts To Future Events (1/?)
So this is a commission fill for @chitarra10 that is based upon a song by Skillet and this piece of art by whimsycatcher (who I can’t seem to tag in the regular way). Hopefully I will finish this quickly. Please do not repost the art; I hve permission to embed it in the fic.
The Past Reacts To Future Events - After Sherlock is over his withdrawal from his overdose on the plane, Mycroft decides they need to have a chat.
Read Chapter 1 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt
He was worried about his brother.
That was his normal state, he supposed; almost everything he had done since he was young was for Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t know the depth or the breadth of things that had been done behind the scenes to accommodate him…
He had always been thankful Sherlock had forgotten about the incident. His uncle had done what he could to modify Sherlock’s memory, as pliable as it was after the disappearance of his best friend and the terror of the fire. He, of course, remembered everything in crystal clear detail. He remembered being afraid of his sister. He was afraid of her still, to be honest. And he was quite happy that Sherlock had no memory of her or anything really concrete from before the age of six.
But oh, the downsides of it all…
He had been away at university when his mother had called, telling him he needed to come take care of his brother. Of course they couldn’t; his mother was busy with her mathematics, his father was busy with his pursuits of leisure. Even though Musgrave Hall was gone the money they had was still around, and the money meant that they could afford the best facilities to put Sherlock in to take care of his “problem.” But it was up to himto do it. Mummy and Father didn’t want Sherlock to hate them, no, but it was alright if he despised his older brother.
He remembered with crystal clarity finding him in the squat, Sherlock’s school tie around his upper arm and the needle negligently sitting next to him. He wasn’t coherent, lost in a happy heroin daze, but Mycroft knew it would only be horrors ahead when the drug was taken away. He cradled his brother against him as he tried to make sure he would survive the trek out to the automobile waiting. Just to make sure his brother was alive, something his parents couldn’t be bothered with.
And he carefully put the hooded jumper on his brother, knowing even though he was warm to the touch soon enough he would be cold and shaking and sweating. He tried to carry him in his arms but it just didn’t work, and so he took an old familiar position with some prodding on his behalf, letting his brother ride piggyback, Sherlock’s arms draped over his shoulders and his head lolling to his shoulder, leaning against his. He had fonder memories of this position, back when Sherlock was young and carefree, and even when the two of them were a bit more at odds with each other and the world but still had each other's back.
That was only the first time he would have to carry his brother out of a drug den over the next few years.
That was when they made the agreement of the list, when Mycroft watched Sherlock in recovery and knew, deep down, they would be in those positions again. At least if there was a list he could keep his brother alive. That was what his parents wanted, after all; they wanted their darling baby boy alive, but not necessarily well.
But Mycroft would always fight for Sherlock’s health and well-being even if he had to become an Orwellian Big Brother in all senses of the word.
And yet here they were again, and he had failed. Not only had he failed to keep Sherlock sober not once but twice, but he had just barely kept Sherlock alive. He had been prepared to send Sherlock off to his death, but Sherlock had been ahead of him on that score. Had they not boarded the plane he was sure there would have been a lethal dose of heroin injected into Sherlock’s veins before the plane landed in Russia.
Damn him, Mycroft thought. He could have found a way to save his brother without Moriarty’s interference but his brother had no faith in him. This was how fractured they were, how broken, that Sherlock would rather off himself with drugs than give Mycroft another chance to fix things.
But, he supposed, that was the way they were. They had been this way ever since their sister had had her rampage and changed the dynamics.
He paused in watching the old family movies, the few things salvaged from the fire at Musgrave Hall, of happier times. Of his parents showing love for their children and not merely expecting obedience. Of smiles and laughter instead of silence and secrets. Of the whole family, together, pleased to be together.
What a fantasy it had been.
He glanced at the watch on his wrist and saw it was near the time he had planned to pay an unexpected visit to his brother. By now Dr. Hooper would have deemed him through the withdrawal and in good enough mental health to be left under Mrs. Hudson’s watch. Mycroft didn’t necessarily agree but he wouldn’t dare argue with Dr. Hooper over matters regarding Sherlock. That was a lesson he had learned years ago and did not care to repeat.
But no, Sherlock should be alone by now, and that meant time for a talk. The matter of Magnussen had been settled to the best of his ability.
Now it was time to deal with the matter of the overdose.
This was a conversation he dreaded, but it had to be had. He had an inkling of where the footage from Moriarty had come from, and he needed to prepare his brother. He had the feeling family secrets, and perhaps more than that, would come to light and he didn’t want Sherlock unprepared.
Because he was afraid, next time, he would be too late.
