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The process is almost meditative.
At the kitchen sink, Sherlock decants a mixture of the finest grade of street heroin he could source from his contacts, citric acid and a bit of water from a graduated cylinder into a tablespoon. Grabbing the lighter, he flicks on the flame – and he lights a candle on the kitchen counter that John had left behind before he had moved. A Pillow Talk candle. Purchased by one of his old girlfriends. Guaranteed to spice up your conversations in bed. The insert had proclaimed. Aromas of lavender, ginger and sandalwood waft delicately from it as the wick burns. It definitely sets the mood. Sherlock grimaces at the thought as he holds the spoon over the candle, letting the mixture gradually liquefy.
He had missed it. This old ritual. He has been clean for years now. He hadn’t dared to partake of any during the Fall while cleaning up Moriarty’s web. It had been hard, of course. Some of his contacts had been intravenous drug users, and his veins would itch every time he saw someone go under the influence.
He knows it. That he really shouldn’t be doing this. But the reasons not to seem to be dwindling with the passage of every day.
There is no one rushing in to stop him. No one to stop him from his old self-destructive habits. John is gone now. For good. His badly bruised face and the torn stitches on his back are a testament to that. Mrs. Hudson had gone out with her bridge girls tonight, and would stumble in drunk some time during the wee hours of the morning. He had evaded all of Mycroft’s surveillance measures and removed all the bugs he could find from his flat.
Even London has moved on since he left. People out on the streets recognize him from the papers. The media. He is a curiosity. Give it a few weeks, and the interest will wane. The reality is that no one really knows him. Even those supposedly close to him. He had thought that he had been utterly alone during the past few years, going from disguise to disguise. A chameleon. Adopting different languages, accents, background stories and so on and so forth. Living the life of lies. But at least, then – he had the glimpse of hope that his loneliness would end upon his return. Heck, he doesn’t even know who he is anymore.
Yet now – he feels lonely beyond measure, surrounded by familiar settings. The ghost of past laughter echoes in the walls here. Even Mycroft had said that he is no longer lonely. Molly has a boyfriend. Mrs. Hudson has a boo (her descriptor, not his) as well. The heroin has dissolved completely, so he picks up the syringe attached to a lab-grade filter and draws up the crystalline fluid. He repeats these steps a few times until he has several syringefuls of this potent drug.
Instead of snuffing out the candle, he brings it with him – along with the syringes to the living room. The couch? The armchair? His bed? Bed then. Sherlock kicks the bedroom door further open and places the candle on the nightstand. How appropriate. Pillow talk with himself. A little self-romance. He lays the syringes down and goes back out to grab a few packets of sterile needles and a pair of disposable nitrile gloves. Again, no one bursts in to stop him at this critical moment.
He lies down on his freshly made bed. He hasn’t had heroin in years, so the likelihood of overdosing is high. But who gives a fuck? Not him. Certainly not everyone else who had moved on. Maybe he should finally finish the job. After all – he had been the one to hurtle himself toward many a dangerous situation. He had tried almost every recreational drug under the sun. Perhaps, he could have saved everyone else the trouble and jumped for real off Bart’s after Moriarty had blown his bloody brains out.
He snaps on the gloves and attaches a capped needle onto each syringe. There’s no need for a tourniquet. Sherlock knows his veins. Cephalic it is then. He wipes his skin with an alcohol prep pad to disinfect, before resting the tip of the needle against the flesh of his left forearm. So tantalizingly sharp. He counts to ten, and slowly – he pushes.
Closing his eyes, he waits for the pain to fade.
*****
He is floating, heady with euphoria. His limbs are heavy – but it doesn’t matter. When awareness returns, he finds himself face-to-face with Mycroft in his usual resplendence of three-piece suit. He hadn’t heard the sound of the key at the doorknob. Nor had he heard anyone walk in.
“Sherlock.” To an outsider, his brother’s tone may sound grave, but Sherlock can parse out the nuances of worry, concern and even panic. There is something unfathomable in his normally icy blue eyes. The barest glimmer of care. Ah. So his subconscious had picked Mycroft over John. It has recognized that Sherlock’s actions today are a demand for help.
Words feel weird in his mouth, but Sherlock tries. “I had hoped that it was you that I would see today.”
“What… are you doing to yourself, brother? I thought that you had moved on from this phase in your life.” Sherlock can see hallucinatory Mycroft survey the syringes on the nightstand with a mixture of distaste and frustration.
And disappointment.
“Can we skip the why, the how and the what for later, brother? It’s rare enough that I get good hallucinations during a high, and it’s even rarer when my visitor is you.” Sherlock sits up – determined to seize the moment. “Let’s go straight to the fun, Mycroft.”
“Fun?” Mycroft freezes – standing at his full height. His brows knit in confusion at the conclusion of his deduction.
Sherlock slips off the bed and advances closer to Mycroft. “Yes, fun! Sex, Mycroft. Let’s skip the ‘you have enough drugs to kill an elephant on your nightstand’ speech, and let me show you how much sex does alarms me, hm, brother?”
Mycroft takes a large step back. His eyes (so gloriously blue!) scrutinizes him from head to toe. He states. “You are high, baby brother.”
“Obviously. Or I wouldn’t be proposing sex, Mycroft. Real you would never accept the proposal. Bloody inconvenient words like incest, illicit and immoral would get in the way. Boring.” Sherlock says dismissively while reaching over to grab another syringe. Perhaps another would lengthen the duration of this experience… It certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Mycroft snatches it immediately out of his hand and grabs his wrist roughly when he tries to acquire another.
“Hey!” Sherlock shouts in indignation. “You aren’t supposed to take my drugs! Give it back! Give it –”
“Lock.” Mycroft sighs deeply, using a nickname that Sherlock hasn’t heard since childhood. Ah. This version of his brother is sweet. Damned good heroin. “No more drugs. I won’t idly stand by and watch you destroy yourself again. I am going to take you to the physician…” The voice is stern – unyielding, but there is an alarming amount of compassion in it.
“No! No. No. Damn it, Mycroft – even hallucination-you is a party-pooper! Damn it, brain – maybe you should have brought me John instead! Maybe he would be more interesting!”
“Little brother.” Mycroft sighs resignedly, before enunciating every syllable carefully. “I am not a hallucination. I will not be replaced by Dr. John Watson, who seems to delight in using you as a punching bag of sorts these days. I am afraid that you are stuck with me –”
“Still a hallucination. I didn’t hear you walk in. Ooh.” Sherlock stumbles forward a bit, and Mycroft catches him. Mm… so solid. Feels so real. Ah. The scent. The mixture of English Breakfast, minty toothpaste and bespoke cologne. His brain had really outdone itself this time in the creation of this imaginary Mycroft. He smells so good. Deliciously, so. “Besides, why would you be here? Don’t you have a party at Lady Smallwood’s country house to be at? To be surrounded by the crème de la crème of British society? Where your paramour is supposedly at? Who is he or she anyways? I know you have one, Mycroft.”
When his brother starts to move his mouth again, Sherlock interrupts, feeling pain ripple through his entire being. The idea of his brother being with someone else is too much for him to bear. It’s one thing to not have him, because Mycroft isn’t interested in anyone, but it’s another thing if Mycroft prefers a goldfish over him. “Stop. No. Nevermind. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need my own hallucinations repeating my deductions back to me. It’s Lady Smallwood, isn’t it? She’s been trying to sink her claws into you since the very beginning. Or… is it that new agent of yours? Richard. The handsome one?” He slaps himself.
God. He’s wasting valuable hallucination time here. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time is mercilessly marching on. “No, you are not real, Mycroft – and I don’t have time for this.” He says, with a touch of sadness.
“Fine, I am a hallucination. Tell me what you want, brother. Tell me all your sordid secrets.” Mycroft changes tactics, which causes Sherlock to wryly smile.
“There’s no way you would be here in actuality. I peeked at your social calendar a few days ago. You have a life, brother mine. That doesn’t involve me.” Sherlock actually falls to his knees here – slipping easily out of Mycroft’s arms, letting his face rest on Mycroft’s thigh. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? I spent my late teens and twenties and even early thirties pushing you away, when all I wanted was the opposite. I wanted your attention. Your affection. Your –” Sherlock swallows the words, even he wouldn’t dare admit so much to a hallucination. There might be bugs in his bedroom that he had missed out on. “No, I am wasting time again.” With all his might, he stands up. He reaches for Mycroft’s shoulders and steers him toward the closest wall.
“What are you –” There is a bit of fear in Mycroft’s voice.
Sherlock disregards him. Hallucinations don’t have real complaints anyway. This is just his brain being difficult. Not even giving him a false happy-ending without working for it. He pushes big brother against the wall and leans in, letting his lips brush against his. They are softer than he had ever imagined. Warm. This is the most realistic rendition he’s ever had.
It’s a shame this isn’t real.
If this was reality, Mycroft would never be kissing him back like this. No, he would be pushing him away with horror. It’s so fucking sweet that Sherlock wants to cry. He will enjoy it for what it’s worth, and if he remembers it in the next sober moment – he will treasure and savour this memory forever.
There is that feeling – that sensation of when one has built up a dreamworld with so much vivid detail and care to the point where one feels like they are immersed in the plane of reality only to have it slowly decay and eventually rudely evanesce upon awakening. Like having the carpet ripped out abruptly from under one’s feet. The cruel, cruel realization that what had been so beautiful had been merely figments of imagination. Mere electrical impulses dancing amongst his little grey cells.
Desperate, Sherlock presses Mycroft against the wall, kissing him and touching him with all the fervour he could manage – greedily taking what he could before this ersatz world inevitably collapses upon itself, and he would wake up and be surrounded once more by suffocating loneliness.
Reverently, he slides his lips away from Mycroft’s lips, peppering his jaw and stubbly cheek with kisses. His hands slide down further, enjoying the exquisite texture of all that bespoke tailoring and the natural contours of his brother’s trim body. His brother practically moans when Sherlock sucks at his neck, leaving a trail of increasingly wet and filthy kisses down his neck. God. Who knew Mycroft could make noises like that? Fuck! Just as he is about to press together their bodies, wanting more –
“Sherlock! Stop. Please.” Mycroft comes to his senses. His words are frantic as he seizes Sherlock’s wrists once more to bring him to a halt.
There is both horror and fear in his voice, and it makes Sherlock feel like he wants to throw up. And cry. The last thing he wants is his brother to hate him. Despise him for this. For feelings that he had repressed for so long, and now refuse to be buried – emerging with the finesse of an ultra-Plinian volcanic eruption. Sherlock looks back up at his brother, daring to meet his eyes – and instead of disgust, he sees sadness. Wistfulness.
Or perhaps that’s him projecting.
After all, this is his own heroin-laden fantasy.
“Not like this, brother mine.” The words are soft, bordering on tender as Mycroft’s hands slide up his torso in a surprisingly affectionate way. This feels too real to be a construct of Sherlock’s imagination. But yet – this certainly must be a dream, because there is no way Mycroft would willingly touch him like this. His brother’s large hands cup his cheeks. “We can’t be like this under false pretenses. Or illicit mind-altering substances. It’s not fair to either of us, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He needs to have a talk with the dealer. What kind of bloody heroin is this? “Fine, Mycroft – you are real. Now, can you please warm my bed and share pleasure with my otherwise virgin self?” He plunges forward again to steal another kiss from his brother’s lips – before Mycroft could retreat from him again.
“Sherlock. Sherlock… Sherlock. No. Do you honestly believe what you’ve just said?” Mycroft’s voice is filled with a heartbreaking amount of patience.
“Why are you here then, Mycroft? If you are real. I picked a day where everyone would be too busy to –”
“Lock. Did you really want to end it tonight?” Mycroft has never sounded so deep in despair in Sherlock’s entire life.
A small nod. Reluctantly, he admits. “Maybe. I thought I would have one, and see where my head is at. I can’t live like this anymore, Mycroft.” Softly, he concludes. “It isn’t worth it.”
Sherlock – much to his horror – starts crying. Full on ugly sobbing. Giving release to so many feelings that he had kept to himself over the years and recent days.
“Oh, Lock.” Mycroft’s arms are around him again. It’s the most beautiful feeling that Sherlock has ever experienced. His brother’s fingers slide into his too-long-curls, and strokes his scalp as he combs through his locks. “You are not alone, darling boy.” Lips tenderly kiss his forehead, and Sherlock finds himself being cradled against his brother’s chest. It is nirvana. The closest to heaven a heathen like him would ever experience. “Don’t ask me how, but I had a premonition tonight was going to be a dangerous night for you. Perhaps, with how deliberately you’ve been evading the surveillance in the last few days to get what you thought you needed. No. I decided that I didn’t need to go to the Charity Ball.”
“Lady Smallwood would be livid.” Sherlock mumbles between sobs.
“That’s not new, brother dear. I’ve been pissing her off with every rejection of her unwanted overtures.
“Unwanted…?” Sherlock blinks. He laugh-cries. “You are so clever, Mycroft. Even as a hallucination! For that few minutes – I thought that you were real. No – this is still a dream –”
“This is hopeless. Sherlock – go clean yourself up and shower. And I –” Mycroft grimaces while gesturing to all of Sherlock’s drug paraphernalia. “Will get rid of all of this.” Seeing Sherlock still clinging onto him, he reassures. “I promise you, brother – I will still be here when you are clean.”
What a caring hallucination. Sherlock protests reluctantly. “No – brother – I… just need to sleep.”
“Trust me, you will feel better after a shower. I will bring you your clothes. Now go.” Mycroft adds just the edge of steel that he assumably orders around his minions with to his voice for the last two words – and Sherlock finds himself obediently walking to the loo.
*****
The first jets of hot water that strike him are more than enough to sober him up. The fact is that heroin has a half-life of a few minutes, so Sherlock had several syringes ready for when the high fades. Of course, he’s still under the influence of its depressive metabolites – morphine and 6-acetylmorphine, which have half-lives in the order of magnitude of hours and minutes, respectively. Mycroft hadn’t followed him into the bathroom, but he could hear his footsteps echoing outside.
Fuck. His brother hadn’t been a hallucination. And Sherlock had virtually forced himself on him. He could feel his cheeks burn with shame. Damn. After all these years of getting high, and only now he breaks and reveals everything? If Mycroft never wants to speak to him after this night, he would understand. He would be devastated, but it is what it is. Drugs are, after all, very good at destroying every facet of one’s life. Even one’s non-existent love-life.
Those memories feel tainted now. The feel of Mycroft’s lips against his. His brother kissing him back with sweetness in equal measure at the beginning. The sensation of Mycroft’s exquisite fabrics against his fingertips. The taste of his neck. He gives a shuddering sigh of despair, just as the door of the loo creaks open, and a shirt-clad arm with sleeve-garter slips in and places a neat stack of Sherlock’s clothes next to the sink. He shuts off the water, deciding that he would rather face the music now, rather than have Mycroft recover the rest of his wits and flee from Sherlock’s life – never to return.
Grabbing a fluffy towel, he quickly dries himself off before slipping on his pyjamas. He frowns at his frazzled appearance in the mirror. Too gaunt. Too thin. Then there are those hideous scars on his back. The drugs. A life rife with terrible decisions. Why would Mycroft want him anyways? Out of his league. He doesn’t even bother with his hair – which is a disaster curling every which way.
When he steps out, Mycroft is still there. He had removed his waistcoat and sleeve garters. His facial expression is neutral and Sherlock cannot quite read his eyes. They aren’t cold like they usually would be. Bravely, he steps forward and places his hand against Mycroft’s chest – over the anterior aspect of his left ventricle of his heart. Just in case this is the last chance he ever gets to touch his brother. He can feel his brother’s heart beat via the transmission of vibrations through his chest wall underneath his palm. It’s steady. Constant. This is real. His brother doesn’t move his hand away, nor does he speak.
In lieu of anything else to say, Sherlock states. “I should… ah… go to sleep.”
“Very well.” Mycroft inclines his head. “I should probably –”
“No, My – stay. Sleep with me.” Sherlock gives him his most imploring puppy-dog eyes. After all, one never gets, if they never ask. And as hard as Sherlock had worked to keep his ‘hallucination’, he would fight hard to keep the real one in his presence.
He has nothing to lose now.
A dubious eyebrow quirks upward. Perhaps ‘sleep with me’ was not the best choice of verbiage, considering that Sherlock had propositioned Mycroft for sex earlier. “Like… sleep, sleep. I won’t… ugh – molest you.” Sherlock winces at the words.
What an enticing offer, indeed!
But miraculously Mycroft sits on his bed. Sherlock scrambles onto the far side of the bed and slips beneath the duvet. He’s surprised when a pair of arms wrap around him, spooning him.
It’s more than he had ever deserved.
“If you remember anything at all, brother – we can talk tomorrow. If not, we will just discuss about your suicide attempt and nothing else.”
“Mycroft – I –”
“Sleep, Lock.”
The voice is firm, putting an end to any objection Sherlock wanted to utter. Just after he wiggles a bit to get comfortable, he feels the distinctive press of lips against his curls – and he finds himself falling asleep with a smile on his lips.
*****
Sherlock wakes up feeling awful. He is drenched in sweat. There’s an urge to throw up. And his muscles ache unbearably. Fuck. Withdrawal. It’s goddamned awful. He tries to move, but there’s two arms still holding him. Oh god. Mycroft. He hadn’t been too far gone to forget what had happened last night. The things he had done. The words that he had said.
His brother doesn’t seem to hate him though. A good sign.
There are so many things he wants to say. Most of them happen to start with the word ‘sorry’. His brother’s arms have loosened enough that he flips around to face Mycroft. Instead of saying something, he ends up burying his face against his chest. Crying. For what, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know what to feel. His brother’s fingers find their way back into his hair, gently stroking through his locks. It just makes him sob harder. Sherlock realizes that he’s horribly touch-starved, and desperately needs physical contact with a human being – preferably with Mycroft.
“Lock, dearest Lock.” His brother murmurs soothingly. “Sh… everything will be okay.”
“Will it? I don’t think I can take anything that I said back, big brother.” Sherlock murmurs.
“I don’t want you to. Tell me, brother – are you in the habit of making out with your hallucinations?”
Sherlock chuckles weakly. “Hallucinations when I am high on heroin are infrequent. But sometimes, I get a person. Sometimes it’s a client. Lestrade has shown up once or twice. Mrs. Hudson once. And you – a few times. I didn’t have any hallucinations since John and I shared the flat, so he’s never appeared. And I only make out with –”
“Me.” Mycroft finishes the sentence.
Sherlock can only nod.
“Why?”
“Why not?” Sherlock counters. “I can’t do it in real life, so why not indulge in fantasy?”
“But you don’t have –”
“Mycroft. Don’t be dense. There’s only one person in the world that I’ve ever been romantically and sexually interested in. And once I discovered who it was, I realized I was doomed to be untouched forever. I pushed you away when I found out.”
“Oh god – Sherlock! That’s a long –”
“Time, yes.” Sherlock agrees.
“Why didn’t you –”
“Tell you? It would have torpedoed your burgeoning career if it ever came out. I thought you might have been disgusted and never want to see me again if you had found out. I couldn’t risk –”
“Sherlock, please don’t tell me you’ve been doing drugs just to indulge in hallucinatory sex with me…”
Mycroft is dismayed when Sherlock doesn’t immediately dignify the statement with a refutation.
“It was definitely an incentive, but it happened far too infrequently for it to be a reliable reason to get high. Of course, I had always hoped that it would be you who came to visit.”
“Don’t do it again.” Mycroft whispers sternly. “Not when you can have the real thing.”
It’s Sherlock’s turn to be stunned speechless. Yet the truth is inscribed so clearly in the warmth of Mycroft’s irises. “I can?”
“You can.” Mycroft leans forward to kiss his cheek.
“No Lady Smallwood? No hot agents? No pool boys? I don’t share, Mycroft.”
“Neither do I.” Mycroft smiles.
“Good, now that’s agreed –”
“Unless you have a condom, we aren’t having any penetrative or oral sex – or even frottage in the nude, brother – not until you get tested again for blood-borne illnesses.”
“Damn it.” Sherlock huffs. Obviously, he doesn’t have such materials on hand. And he proceeds to pout, even though he knows he would never dream of putting his beloved brother at risk for any of these infectious diseases. Despite every caution he takes in ensuring that everything that touches him in his ritual is as sterile as he could possibly make it.
Mycroft’s smile breaks into a grin. His hand reaches out for Sherlock cheek, and he leans forward for a gentle kiss in a valiant attempt to snog the pout away. Sherlock sighs into it, while Mycroft’s thumb rubs appreciatively at his zygomatic arch. Their kissing is languid, each focused on learning every minute detail of the other’s lips while categorizing the sounds they could coax the other to emit.
Sherlock’s own hands work on undoing his brother’s shirt – wanting to see what lies underneath. His fingers end up combing the fur on Mycroft’s chest, while his brother purrs at the caresses directly against his mouth. The burn of arousal is slow and steady – and they both moan together when their groins finally come into contact with each other. Mm. Frottage. Avec des vêtements. As much as Sherlock craves for skin against skin – the practicalities of their coitus is an excellent reality test. Hallucinations wouldn’t care much for sexually transmitted infections. But real Mycroft would.
“This is real, brother.” Mycroft breaks their kiss to say.
“I know. We can make our own reality together, brother.”
“God. This feels so good.”
“I know. Mm… I adore you, Mycroft. So much.” Sherlock seeks just a little bit more friction, rubbing a bit more frantically against his brother. “Are you close? Let’s try and cum together.”
Mycroft nods. “Lock. You mean the world to me. Do you understand?”
“I think I – I am going to cum!”
“Then cum, dearest one. Cum for me.”
With a gasp, Sherlock ejaculates into his pants. His brother cums a few seconds after, undone by seeing Sherlock succumb to his pleasure. Sherlock breathes heavily, feeling rather like someone had driven a train over him.
Mycroft holds him like he’s precious – and somehow, he finds that even more meaningful than the dry-humping and orgasm they had just shared. He desperately needs water, the cum is fusing his pants to his skin and his flu-like withdrawal symptoms are making themselves known again, but he doesn’t want either of them to leave this cocoon of post-coital bliss yet.
But, Mycroft knows him – having nursed him through many withdrawals in the past and all too soon his brother gives him one last peck before reluctantly vacating the bed to go clean himself up and to tend to Sherlock’s needs afterwards.
Sherlock sighs happily, sinking into the pillows despite his physical discomfort. For the first time since returning from Serbia, he feels like he has finally arrived home – enveloped in the reality of Mycroft’s care and love.
***~FIN~***