Brothers of addicts
Jun. 16th, 2011 07:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNote: I needed to find out what happened after Sherlock got into the car in New circumstances, unfortunately it was this.
Summary: After a meeting with Mycroft John wonders if he has the conscience to walk away again or strength to re-enter a co-addiction
***
I’m sorry.
SH
John threw his phone across the room. Not very productive he had to admit, and he had never been an advocate for unnecessary violence. The phone wasn’t to blame for the message it received, a typical case of don’t-kill-the-messenger and John had failed. At least this one couldn’t break into a million different peaces as the old phones.
Disappointed beyond words John got up to fetch the phone, trying to convince himself that he should really have known better. This wasn’t the first time he had sent addicts to rehab. It wasn’t even the first time he had sent this particular addict to rehab. He thought too highly of people, Mary had always told him that.
Mary….
Last Monday it had been three month since she died. He didn’t cry anymore, at least not so often, but from time to time he could still be paralysed by grief. Working was close to impossible, but he did it, if only to be able to pay the bills and not go nuts alone in the flat. The appearance of Sherlock about two month go had brought him some hope, stupid, groundless hope. A naive dream about resuming his since-long-abandoned bachelor life and restoring a friendship he had always blamed himself for ending, even though most people had told him it was the drugs that had ended it.
Stupid hope, stupid dream. Stupid Sherlock!
He threw his phone again. This time hard into the ground, but it still wouldn’t break.
Stupid phone.
Just two days later John shut the door right in front of one of (what he can only assume to be) Mycroft’s little helpers. If one of the Holmes brothers disappointed him he wasn’t going to give the other one a chance to do it too. Not that he thought Mycroft could do anything to disappoint him really, since there was nothing he actually counted on him for, but at the moment it had felt like a sane argument.
Three more door-slammings (and one pretty nasty scolding) later John gave up. He always did, he had never been as stubborn as either of the Holmes brothers. Frustratingly enough, they both knew it and used it to there best ability. So the fifth time one of Mycroft’s men (who happened to be a woman) knocked on the door, he followed, wondering why he hadn’t given up sooner when he had known it would end like this.
That was also the first question Mycroft asked him when they met.
“It’s more fun this way?” John suggested, but neither he nor Mycroft seemed amused.
John had been brought to what he thought was Mycroft’s actual office. He had been here two, three times during the intervention-years and had come to the conclusion that this was Mycroft’s main office due to the picture of a young Mycroft and an even younger Sherlock standing in the bookshelf. It just didn’t feel like something Mycroft would put up anywhere and John had often wondered if Sherlock had a similar photo somewhere.
“I hope you didn’t mind me telling Sherlock about your wife,” Mycroft started and John shook his head without a word. He hadn’t minded at all, actually he had felt a bit comforted by the otherwise so disturbing interference of Mycroft Holmes. It did something nice to a person’s ego to know that one of the most powerful people in the country (maybe even the world) cared about you; even if the way of showing it was to send a drug addicted brother to your doorstep.
“Good,” Mycroft nodded slightly, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” John answered mechanically. It was what you were supposed to say, even if you didn’t believe it and even though it certainly didn’t make any difference in his life. For a brief moment he wanted to ask Sherlock’s brother if he actually was sorry about what happened to Mary. Only reason he didn’t was that he already knew the answer, even if he didn’t have the Holmes brothers’ deductive skills. All he knew about Mycroft was the things Mycroft wanted him to know and what Sherlock had told him (which very well could be the same thing) but that seemed to be enough of information to make a reasonable conclusion in this case.
Today the older Holmes looked tired and even a bit ill though. Actually, he looked a bit like Sherlock when he hadn’t slept for days during cases.
“I am informed that you know about Sherlock’s latest failure?” Mycroft continued and John nodded since the statement sounded like a question. He suspected it was mostly a polite way to use intonation that Mycroft had picked up, letting people confirm what he already knew made the invasion of privacy feel less obvious.
“He texted me,” John admitted in addition to the nod.
“Ah yes,” Mycroft sounded as if he had forgotten that detail, but his eyes just seemed fairly uninterested in the means Sherlock had used, “I must say I was surprised when I got his text two month ago.”
“But you’re not surprised about the result,” John noted, realising that he wasn’t that surprised either when the disappointment had faded. Wonder if Mycroft had been disappointed too?
“No, I’m actually more surprised that he’s still alive” Mycroft mumbled in a unusual moment of weakness before he cleared his throat and became more businesslike again “I’m sorry I got you involved in this again, it was not my intention at all.”
“Apparently it’s your intention now though; otherwise you’d just left me alone,” John had a rising suspicion that he would have been better off if he’d just had kept shoving doors in the faces of Mycroft’s bond servants for the rest of his life.
“Yes, I wish you would,” Mycroft said without blinking. Honesty did suit him well, but so did lies and deceit, whatever the situation needed of him.
“I can’t reward his behaviour with my company,” John said, using another mechanical answer; he had used that argument on himself so many times that he almost believed it. It was a textbook advice for friends and family to addicts of any kind, they needed to show that there was something to loose by using. Their company was often the only leverage they had. “Maybe you should think about that too.”
“You know perfectly well that I cannot do that,” Mycroft said calmly.
“No, I don’t know that,” John claimed, secretly being thankful for Mycroft taking care of Sherlock. He wondered how much actual contact the brothers had and how much of their relationship was just Mycroft keeping an eye on his brother.
“Yes you do,” Mycroft persisted in the same, calm voice, “As one brother of an addict to another, how many last chances have you given Harriet?”
“Seven.”
John’s heart sank and he answered without even needing to think about it. So far he had given his sister seven last chances, four of which she was actually informed about. He couldn’t help it; he always reached out a helping hand when she really needed it, because once or twice every blue moon she reminded him of the sister she once had been. The sister who had built sand castles whit him at there summer house; The sister who had complained every time she had been forced to watch one of his rugby games but who had cheered the most, and the loudest, once there; the sister who had shared his whole childhood. Just the memory of the person she had been before the alcohol earned her chance after chance after chance. That person, that version of Harry, had been amazing. He missed that person so much.
Wonder what memories made it impossible for Mycroft to remove his hand from Sherlock?
There was a long silence, far too long, and John got the distinct feeling that Mycroft Holmes was trying to read his thoughts. John was fairly certain they were painted all over his face, making it easy for Mycroft to see that he had really hit the mark this time. Many years ago, John had stopped trying to hide his emotions and feelings for Sherlock, it was just no use. Frankly it had been easier, sometimes it was wonderful to be read like a book instead of needing to explain things. The same seemed to go for Mycroft and John was relived.
“My wife just died,” he finally said when he realised Mycroft wasn’t going to say anything. In John’s world that translated to a graceful way of declining getting involved in Sherlock’s drug habits as a co-addict again. He knew Mycroft heard that subtitle so he could just pray he would accept it too.
“I am perfectly aware of that.”
“I know you are.”
That sounded better in his head.
Oh God how much he hated Mycroft Holmes. John had no idea how it had happened, but he knew he had already decided to try to help Sherlock again. When had it happened? How had Mycroft done it? How could the man’s silence be so much more persuasive than his words? Was it because you just can’t argue with silence, no matter how hard you try?
“Was he at least close this time?” John asked – the question feeling like an acceptance.
“Yes,” Mycroft tilted his head, “He said it was the only way to help you, though he didn’t really seem to understand how. I have never seen him so motivated before, quite frankly, I have never seen him motivated at all when it comes to this. So please John…talk to him again for me.”
This was a first. During all their interactions John couldn’t recall Mycroft ever asking something from him before. Not like this. Pleading, almost begging, to do something for him, not for Sherlock. It felt very unlike him and for a moment John was cynical enough to wonder if this was just a rhetorical tactic. Like the silence before.
“I…” John shook his head; he just couldn’t bring himself to say yes even though he knew he would never be able to leave this chair if he didn’t. Not just because he was less stubborn than the man behind the desk, but also because he wanted Sherlock to get clean almost as much as Mycroft did.
“Do you know where he is?” John said, straighten his back some. The decision was made but he needed to convince himself that it was the right one over and over again. Starting right now.
“Yes,” Mycroft nodded the slightest and John was thankful Mycroft didn’t look victorious or even pleased with himself for convincing John to help again.
“If you can get Lestrade to take him in and call me, then I’ll take to him,” John promised, not sure why this premise popped into his head. Maybe he didn’t think Lestrade would ever be able to catch Sherlock and therefore he would be free from his obligations.
Mycroft nodded again as if he thought it sounded fair. To John, it really didn’t sound fair at all.
So? That was it?
There was a long silence again while John wondered if he was supposed to get up or if Mycroft had anything else unpleasant John should oblige to.
“Thank you,” Mycroft’s words took John by surprise and now it was his turn to just nod slightly, “If there is anything I can do, please tell me.”
Some insane ideas about request a small country, or at least a bedroom at Buckingham palace, crossed his mind (and while he was cleaning up after dinner tonight, that thought would create his first true smile in months), but he honestly didn’t see anything Mycroft could do for him right now. Maybe leave him alone altogether, but no, he was pretty sure that it would be a wish wasted.
“I can’t think of anything,” John got to his feet, “but thank you.”
“Come to me when Harriet needs a new liver,” Mycroft said as casual as if he was talking about lending John some money for coffee.
“Let’s hope it’ll never every come to that,” John said with passion, he didn’t even want to think about a situation where he went to Mycroft for organs, with or without Harry getting cirrhosis.
“Let’s,” Mycroft produced one of his neutral smiles, “A car will take you home and I’ll make sure the detective inspector calls you.”
“You do that,” John confirmed, hesitating at the door, wondering if he should tell Mycroft that he also hoped it would work this time. He decided not to, convinced that Mycroft already knew.
Sitting in the backseat of the same car that had picked him up he stared at his phone, wishing desperately that Lestrade wouldn’t call.
Every time John’s phone rang during the next days John almost jumped out of his skin. Thankfully not that many people called him; otherwise his nerves would have collapsed. Maybe he wouldn’t have thought that every call was Lestrade or Mycroft if other people called him more often though.
He waited in a mixture of excitement and fear. At times it felt like there was no way in hell Sherlock would let Lestrade catch him and those times he was convinced that it would be best like that. Other times he was just as sure that Mycroft was going to assist just enough to enable a caption of the younger Holmes…and those times he thought that outcome would be the absolute best thing.
The waiting was the worse. The not knowing.
Eleven days after his meeting with Mycroft John got a text:
Fuck both of you!
SH
Before he had even figured out the meaning of it he got a second one:
Correction: Fuck all three of you!
SH
Lestrade must have failed.
A smile teased around John’s lips, but didn’t really break through. It wasn’t funny, or happy, or…or anything but sad. All of it was just sad and tragic and stupid and he had absolutely nothing to smile about. Still there was something, something in Sherlock’s need to correct his statement – his need to include Lestrade (at least John assumed that the first two were he and Mycroft and the third person the D.I.) – that made John want to smile. What kind of smile it would have been, if allowed to happen, was hard to say.
The same feeling that tried to make him smile also wanted him to text back. Just something small, a Fuck you too! or something equally mature and suitable for a doctor. What good would that do? Would it create the same will to smile in Sherlock? Would he see how sad and tragic and stupid everything was and come around?
No. Most likely not.
John put away his phone; this meant no call from Lestrade in the near future then. No, a new visit to Mycroft’s office would be more likely, but he wouldn’t be the one initiating it.
With or without Mycroft he needed to decide on a new course of action. During the last years he had (more or less) successfully manage to shut Sherlock out of his life; he had had so many other things to fill it with. Well, not so many things really, just Mary, but it had been enough. Just enough. Now he didn’t have that and his life had turned into some kind of perverted re-run of when he first came back from Afghanistan; he was alone, had not much to fill his days with and, all of a sudden, Sherlock showed up from nowhere, offering to fill the emptiness and ruin the routine.
Last time it had been exiting and welcomed, this time it was (again) sad, tragic and stupid. There was no way he could allow Sherlock to take over his life again, but was he strong enough not to let it happen? Cutting the contact with Sherlock had been the hardest thing he willingly put himself through; the idea of doing it again, without the support from Mary, felt close-to hopeless. Even if walking away was the healthiest, most sane thing to do, he wasn’t sure his conscience would ever forgive him for it.
The further into his thought he got, the more he began to think not only about Sherlock, but also about Mycroft; how tired the man had looked, how pleading the voice had been when it had asked for John’s help…how much hurt Sherlock must cause his older brother even though Mycroft didn’t want to admit it to John.
John got that; a great deal of his time was spent pretending he didn’t see, know or care about Harry’s drinking. Hardly anyone knew about it, a lot of people didn’t even know he had a sister. It was easier, so much easier, because people never knew what to say. What to do. Not talking about it, not thinking about it, pretending not to care about it, made everyday life easier. He understood that part of Mycroft’s mind perfectly.
Still…Harry’s drinking was nothing compared to Sherlock’s drug addiction; alcoholism was almost a social accepted addiction. Cocaine (or whatever drug-of-choice Sherlock had at the moment, John didn’t know) was not. Cocaine was illegal, dangerous, highly addictive and deadly. Alcohol was legal, fun, adult and to be bought everywhere.
Stigmatised as it was, there was still a sense of “it can happen to anyone” about alcoholism. It was classified as a disease; there were medications and support groups. There was no such thing when it came to cocaine. It was almost exclusively associated with criminals and had an aura of blame and guilt around it. Because no one accidently got addicted to cocaine, no one happen to inject something in a vein or snort one to many lines.
Everyone could have one too many drinks, there were books dedicated to excuses why a person got to drunk. Alcoholism was an addiction so easily swept under the rug. John knew, he was an expert at doing exactly that. He had used every single one of the excuses to cover up his sister’s addiction; she was tired, she hadn’t eaten today, she had cause to celebrate, she doesn’t have more problems than anyone else, Harry’s just Harry….
Mycroft wouldn’t have to worry about someone serving cocaine at a birthday or Christmas party like John did; Mycroft wouldn’t have to watch his brother to make sure he didn’t get his hands on some cocaine and embarrassed himself in front of everyone. Sure, Sherlock would never attend such an event and Mycroft always watched everyone anyway, but still. No one accidently handed Sherlock cocaine the same way people who (because of excuses like John’s) didn’t know better offered Harry wine.
Was he really comparing addictions? So stupid. Every addict had their own troubles and demons and every friend or family member to an addict had their own personal hell in their co-addiction.
John shared his co-addiction towards Harry with one person: her ex-wife Clara. It was a strange relief to not be alone in it even though John and Clara only met during the worst possible circumstances these days. John had a strong feeling Mycroft was all alone in his co-addiction after John left. He knew Mycroft didn’t blame him for walking away, just like John wouldn’t blame Clara if she did, but he felt stupid suggesting that Mycroft should do the same.
He felt like an arse for not thinking about these things before.
When he realised the decision was made he sighed and regretted it right away, but it was impossible to change. He was going to do this again; he was going to try to help Sherlock get clean. Not for Sherlock’s sake, not to occupy his mind to not think of Mary, but for Mycroft’s sake. It was a really weird thought, an even weirder feeling. Never in his wildest dreams had he even considered doing something this huge for Mycroft.
But he felt he had to, as one brother of an addict helping another.
(continuing in Another thing to juggle)
Summary: After a meeting with Mycroft John wonders if he has the conscience to walk away again or strength to re-enter a co-addiction
***
I’m sorry.
SH
John threw his phone across the room. Not very productive he had to admit, and he had never been an advocate for unnecessary violence. The phone wasn’t to blame for the message it received, a typical case of don’t-kill-the-messenger and John had failed. At least this one couldn’t break into a million different peaces as the old phones.
Disappointed beyond words John got up to fetch the phone, trying to convince himself that he should really have known better. This wasn’t the first time he had sent addicts to rehab. It wasn’t even the first time he had sent this particular addict to rehab. He thought too highly of people, Mary had always told him that.
Mary….
Last Monday it had been three month since she died. He didn’t cry anymore, at least not so often, but from time to time he could still be paralysed by grief. Working was close to impossible, but he did it, if only to be able to pay the bills and not go nuts alone in the flat. The appearance of Sherlock about two month go had brought him some hope, stupid, groundless hope. A naive dream about resuming his since-long-abandoned bachelor life and restoring a friendship he had always blamed himself for ending, even though most people had told him it was the drugs that had ended it.
Stupid hope, stupid dream. Stupid Sherlock!
He threw his phone again. This time hard into the ground, but it still wouldn’t break.
Stupid phone.
Just two days later John shut the door right in front of one of (what he can only assume to be) Mycroft’s little helpers. If one of the Holmes brothers disappointed him he wasn’t going to give the other one a chance to do it too. Not that he thought Mycroft could do anything to disappoint him really, since there was nothing he actually counted on him for, but at the moment it had felt like a sane argument.
Three more door-slammings (and one pretty nasty scolding) later John gave up. He always did, he had never been as stubborn as either of the Holmes brothers. Frustratingly enough, they both knew it and used it to there best ability. So the fifth time one of Mycroft’s men (who happened to be a woman) knocked on the door, he followed, wondering why he hadn’t given up sooner when he had known it would end like this.
That was also the first question Mycroft asked him when they met.
“It’s more fun this way?” John suggested, but neither he nor Mycroft seemed amused.
John had been brought to what he thought was Mycroft’s actual office. He had been here two, three times during the intervention-years and had come to the conclusion that this was Mycroft’s main office due to the picture of a young Mycroft and an even younger Sherlock standing in the bookshelf. It just didn’t feel like something Mycroft would put up anywhere and John had often wondered if Sherlock had a similar photo somewhere.
“I hope you didn’t mind me telling Sherlock about your wife,” Mycroft started and John shook his head without a word. He hadn’t minded at all, actually he had felt a bit comforted by the otherwise so disturbing interference of Mycroft Holmes. It did something nice to a person’s ego to know that one of the most powerful people in the country (maybe even the world) cared about you; even if the way of showing it was to send a drug addicted brother to your doorstep.
“Good,” Mycroft nodded slightly, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” John answered mechanically. It was what you were supposed to say, even if you didn’t believe it and even though it certainly didn’t make any difference in his life. For a brief moment he wanted to ask Sherlock’s brother if he actually was sorry about what happened to Mary. Only reason he didn’t was that he already knew the answer, even if he didn’t have the Holmes brothers’ deductive skills. All he knew about Mycroft was the things Mycroft wanted him to know and what Sherlock had told him (which very well could be the same thing) but that seemed to be enough of information to make a reasonable conclusion in this case.
Today the older Holmes looked tired and even a bit ill though. Actually, he looked a bit like Sherlock when he hadn’t slept for days during cases.
“I am informed that you know about Sherlock’s latest failure?” Mycroft continued and John nodded since the statement sounded like a question. He suspected it was mostly a polite way to use intonation that Mycroft had picked up, letting people confirm what he already knew made the invasion of privacy feel less obvious.
“He texted me,” John admitted in addition to the nod.
“Ah yes,” Mycroft sounded as if he had forgotten that detail, but his eyes just seemed fairly uninterested in the means Sherlock had used, “I must say I was surprised when I got his text two month ago.”
“But you’re not surprised about the result,” John noted, realising that he wasn’t that surprised either when the disappointment had faded. Wonder if Mycroft had been disappointed too?
“No, I’m actually more surprised that he’s still alive” Mycroft mumbled in a unusual moment of weakness before he cleared his throat and became more businesslike again “I’m sorry I got you involved in this again, it was not my intention at all.”
“Apparently it’s your intention now though; otherwise you’d just left me alone,” John had a rising suspicion that he would have been better off if he’d just had kept shoving doors in the faces of Mycroft’s bond servants for the rest of his life.
“Yes, I wish you would,” Mycroft said without blinking. Honesty did suit him well, but so did lies and deceit, whatever the situation needed of him.
“I can’t reward his behaviour with my company,” John said, using another mechanical answer; he had used that argument on himself so many times that he almost believed it. It was a textbook advice for friends and family to addicts of any kind, they needed to show that there was something to loose by using. Their company was often the only leverage they had. “Maybe you should think about that too.”
“You know perfectly well that I cannot do that,” Mycroft said calmly.
“No, I don’t know that,” John claimed, secretly being thankful for Mycroft taking care of Sherlock. He wondered how much actual contact the brothers had and how much of their relationship was just Mycroft keeping an eye on his brother.
“Yes you do,” Mycroft persisted in the same, calm voice, “As one brother of an addict to another, how many last chances have you given Harriet?”
“Seven.”
John’s heart sank and he answered without even needing to think about it. So far he had given his sister seven last chances, four of which she was actually informed about. He couldn’t help it; he always reached out a helping hand when she really needed it, because once or twice every blue moon she reminded him of the sister she once had been. The sister who had built sand castles whit him at there summer house; The sister who had complained every time she had been forced to watch one of his rugby games but who had cheered the most, and the loudest, once there; the sister who had shared his whole childhood. Just the memory of the person she had been before the alcohol earned her chance after chance after chance. That person, that version of Harry, had been amazing. He missed that person so much.
Wonder what memories made it impossible for Mycroft to remove his hand from Sherlock?
There was a long silence, far too long, and John got the distinct feeling that Mycroft Holmes was trying to read his thoughts. John was fairly certain they were painted all over his face, making it easy for Mycroft to see that he had really hit the mark this time. Many years ago, John had stopped trying to hide his emotions and feelings for Sherlock, it was just no use. Frankly it had been easier, sometimes it was wonderful to be read like a book instead of needing to explain things. The same seemed to go for Mycroft and John was relived.
“My wife just died,” he finally said when he realised Mycroft wasn’t going to say anything. In John’s world that translated to a graceful way of declining getting involved in Sherlock’s drug habits as a co-addict again. He knew Mycroft heard that subtitle so he could just pray he would accept it too.
“I am perfectly aware of that.”
“I know you are.”
That sounded better in his head.
Oh God how much he hated Mycroft Holmes. John had no idea how it had happened, but he knew he had already decided to try to help Sherlock again. When had it happened? How had Mycroft done it? How could the man’s silence be so much more persuasive than his words? Was it because you just can’t argue with silence, no matter how hard you try?
“Was he at least close this time?” John asked – the question feeling like an acceptance.
“Yes,” Mycroft tilted his head, “He said it was the only way to help you, though he didn’t really seem to understand how. I have never seen him so motivated before, quite frankly, I have never seen him motivated at all when it comes to this. So please John…talk to him again for me.”
This was a first. During all their interactions John couldn’t recall Mycroft ever asking something from him before. Not like this. Pleading, almost begging, to do something for him, not for Sherlock. It felt very unlike him and for a moment John was cynical enough to wonder if this was just a rhetorical tactic. Like the silence before.
“I…” John shook his head; he just couldn’t bring himself to say yes even though he knew he would never be able to leave this chair if he didn’t. Not just because he was less stubborn than the man behind the desk, but also because he wanted Sherlock to get clean almost as much as Mycroft did.
“Do you know where he is?” John said, straighten his back some. The decision was made but he needed to convince himself that it was the right one over and over again. Starting right now.
“Yes,” Mycroft nodded the slightest and John was thankful Mycroft didn’t look victorious or even pleased with himself for convincing John to help again.
“If you can get Lestrade to take him in and call me, then I’ll take to him,” John promised, not sure why this premise popped into his head. Maybe he didn’t think Lestrade would ever be able to catch Sherlock and therefore he would be free from his obligations.
Mycroft nodded again as if he thought it sounded fair. To John, it really didn’t sound fair at all.
So? That was it?
There was a long silence again while John wondered if he was supposed to get up or if Mycroft had anything else unpleasant John should oblige to.
“Thank you,” Mycroft’s words took John by surprise and now it was his turn to just nod slightly, “If there is anything I can do, please tell me.”
Some insane ideas about request a small country, or at least a bedroom at Buckingham palace, crossed his mind (and while he was cleaning up after dinner tonight, that thought would create his first true smile in months), but he honestly didn’t see anything Mycroft could do for him right now. Maybe leave him alone altogether, but no, he was pretty sure that it would be a wish wasted.
“I can’t think of anything,” John got to his feet, “but thank you.”
“Come to me when Harriet needs a new liver,” Mycroft said as casual as if he was talking about lending John some money for coffee.
“Let’s hope it’ll never every come to that,” John said with passion, he didn’t even want to think about a situation where he went to Mycroft for organs, with or without Harry getting cirrhosis.
“Let’s,” Mycroft produced one of his neutral smiles, “A car will take you home and I’ll make sure the detective inspector calls you.”
“You do that,” John confirmed, hesitating at the door, wondering if he should tell Mycroft that he also hoped it would work this time. He decided not to, convinced that Mycroft already knew.
Sitting in the backseat of the same car that had picked him up he stared at his phone, wishing desperately that Lestrade wouldn’t call.
Every time John’s phone rang during the next days John almost jumped out of his skin. Thankfully not that many people called him; otherwise his nerves would have collapsed. Maybe he wouldn’t have thought that every call was Lestrade or Mycroft if other people called him more often though.
He waited in a mixture of excitement and fear. At times it felt like there was no way in hell Sherlock would let Lestrade catch him and those times he was convinced that it would be best like that. Other times he was just as sure that Mycroft was going to assist just enough to enable a caption of the younger Holmes…and those times he thought that outcome would be the absolute best thing.
The waiting was the worse. The not knowing.
Eleven days after his meeting with Mycroft John got a text:
Fuck both of you!
SH
Before he had even figured out the meaning of it he got a second one:
Correction: Fuck all three of you!
SH
Lestrade must have failed.
A smile teased around John’s lips, but didn’t really break through. It wasn’t funny, or happy, or…or anything but sad. All of it was just sad and tragic and stupid and he had absolutely nothing to smile about. Still there was something, something in Sherlock’s need to correct his statement – his need to include Lestrade (at least John assumed that the first two were he and Mycroft and the third person the D.I.) – that made John want to smile. What kind of smile it would have been, if allowed to happen, was hard to say.
The same feeling that tried to make him smile also wanted him to text back. Just something small, a Fuck you too! or something equally mature and suitable for a doctor. What good would that do? Would it create the same will to smile in Sherlock? Would he see how sad and tragic and stupid everything was and come around?
No. Most likely not.
John put away his phone; this meant no call from Lestrade in the near future then. No, a new visit to Mycroft’s office would be more likely, but he wouldn’t be the one initiating it.
With or without Mycroft he needed to decide on a new course of action. During the last years he had (more or less) successfully manage to shut Sherlock out of his life; he had had so many other things to fill it with. Well, not so many things really, just Mary, but it had been enough. Just enough. Now he didn’t have that and his life had turned into some kind of perverted re-run of when he first came back from Afghanistan; he was alone, had not much to fill his days with and, all of a sudden, Sherlock showed up from nowhere, offering to fill the emptiness and ruin the routine.
Last time it had been exiting and welcomed, this time it was (again) sad, tragic and stupid. There was no way he could allow Sherlock to take over his life again, but was he strong enough not to let it happen? Cutting the contact with Sherlock had been the hardest thing he willingly put himself through; the idea of doing it again, without the support from Mary, felt close-to hopeless. Even if walking away was the healthiest, most sane thing to do, he wasn’t sure his conscience would ever forgive him for it.
The further into his thought he got, the more he began to think not only about Sherlock, but also about Mycroft; how tired the man had looked, how pleading the voice had been when it had asked for John’s help…how much hurt Sherlock must cause his older brother even though Mycroft didn’t want to admit it to John.
John got that; a great deal of his time was spent pretending he didn’t see, know or care about Harry’s drinking. Hardly anyone knew about it, a lot of people didn’t even know he had a sister. It was easier, so much easier, because people never knew what to say. What to do. Not talking about it, not thinking about it, pretending not to care about it, made everyday life easier. He understood that part of Mycroft’s mind perfectly.
Still…Harry’s drinking was nothing compared to Sherlock’s drug addiction; alcoholism was almost a social accepted addiction. Cocaine (or whatever drug-of-choice Sherlock had at the moment, John didn’t know) was not. Cocaine was illegal, dangerous, highly addictive and deadly. Alcohol was legal, fun, adult and to be bought everywhere.
Stigmatised as it was, there was still a sense of “it can happen to anyone” about alcoholism. It was classified as a disease; there were medications and support groups. There was no such thing when it came to cocaine. It was almost exclusively associated with criminals and had an aura of blame and guilt around it. Because no one accidently got addicted to cocaine, no one happen to inject something in a vein or snort one to many lines.
Everyone could have one too many drinks, there were books dedicated to excuses why a person got to drunk. Alcoholism was an addiction so easily swept under the rug. John knew, he was an expert at doing exactly that. He had used every single one of the excuses to cover up his sister’s addiction; she was tired, she hadn’t eaten today, she had cause to celebrate, she doesn’t have more problems than anyone else, Harry’s just Harry….
Mycroft wouldn’t have to worry about someone serving cocaine at a birthday or Christmas party like John did; Mycroft wouldn’t have to watch his brother to make sure he didn’t get his hands on some cocaine and embarrassed himself in front of everyone. Sure, Sherlock would never attend such an event and Mycroft always watched everyone anyway, but still. No one accidently handed Sherlock cocaine the same way people who (because of excuses like John’s) didn’t know better offered Harry wine.
Was he really comparing addictions? So stupid. Every addict had their own troubles and demons and every friend or family member to an addict had their own personal hell in their co-addiction.
John shared his co-addiction towards Harry with one person: her ex-wife Clara. It was a strange relief to not be alone in it even though John and Clara only met during the worst possible circumstances these days. John had a strong feeling Mycroft was all alone in his co-addiction after John left. He knew Mycroft didn’t blame him for walking away, just like John wouldn’t blame Clara if she did, but he felt stupid suggesting that Mycroft should do the same.
He felt like an arse for not thinking about these things before.
When he realised the decision was made he sighed and regretted it right away, but it was impossible to change. He was going to do this again; he was going to try to help Sherlock get clean. Not for Sherlock’s sake, not to occupy his mind to not think of Mary, but for Mycroft’s sake. It was a really weird thought, an even weirder feeling. Never in his wildest dreams had he even considered doing something this huge for Mycroft.
But he felt he had to, as one brother of an addict helping another.
(continuing in Another thing to juggle)
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Date: 2011-06-16 07:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:35 pm (UTC)Glad you liked the ouch ;)
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Date: 2011-06-16 07:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 01:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 04:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 08:08 am (UTC)I'm so glad you still liked it though (and a small piece of me is thrilled that it moved you to tears, because it did the same to me when I wrote it).
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Date: 2011-06-17 08:41 am (UTC)Sometimes love is not enough.
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Date: 2011-06-17 11:55 am (UTC)I'm really sorry for your loss and hope you don't have to go through anything like that again.
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Date: 2011-07-07 09:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-07 05:46 pm (UTC)