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Chapter Text

Mycroft exited his black car, umbrella hitting the ground first, nodding to Lestrade as he stood in the doorway. They shared a head shake and a solemn look before Lestrade waved Mycroft in.

Lestrade left with a few arrests and the rest of Scotland Yard. He was used to this by now.

The stench hit him first, almost a physical force to be dealt with in the house. The contrast between the trash that cluttered the floor and the flawless shoes that kicked it all out of the way was astounding. It took a staircase, a hallway, and several peeks into equally disheveled side rooms before he found his baby sister curled up and shivering on a filthy mattress tucked into a corner.

"Sherlock."

Her shivering stilled and her spine went rigid for just a moment, clearly recognizing the voice but choosing to ignore it. She balled up a little tighter and squeezed her eyes tight, presumably wishing it could've been anyone else who found her—but she knew it was going to be Mycroft. It was always Mycroft. She wanted it to be Mycroft.

Somewhere deep inside, she worried that one day he'd send one of his assistants to pick her up instead. That's when she'd know she'd gone too far. She was so afraid of losing him. She absolutely could not show it.

"Sherlock, get up. We're going home."

She had no intention of removing herself from the mattress 

Mycroft had to crouch down and physically unfold Sherlock to get her to pay attention. He didn't know if she was being impudent, or if she was just too out of it to know what was going on.

"Open your eyes." 

He turned her onto her side to face him and held her chin between his thumb and forefinger to get a good look at her pupils. She looked lucid and was blinking at him with something close to remorse.

"Sherlock please, let's get you home."

"Wh-where do you mean?" Her voice was a trembling rasp. She likely hadn't spoken in days, and her throat sounded dry enough to crack.

"I have some water for you in the car; get up Sherlock."

"I- My, I don't think I can..." She was so soft-spoken. She looked away.  She looked ashamed.

He sighed. "It's alright, little sister, I can help." I'll always help. I won't ever leave you, sweet girl.

Mycroft wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist before pulling her into a sitting position, and eventually all the way to her feet. Her arm was slung over his shoulders and she was leaning on him heavily. She was gasping and her legs were shaking, feet at odd angles. Mycroft was having trouble showing his disapproval when all he wanted to show was his concern.

"The stairs, Sherlock, can you make it or do I need to carry you?"

"I- I can do it myself..." Even Sherlock didn't believe Sherlock.

"Yes, alright." Mycroft swept Sherlock's legs out from under her and carried her down the steps bridal style. She didn't seem to have the energy to protest, though she did frown at him. She fisted a hand into his dress shirt and leaned her head in for comfort anyway.

Her eyes flickered closed.

"Thank you, Mycroft..."

"Don't thank me yet."

&

Tucked into the backseat of the infamous black car, Mycroft took Sherlock’s wrists in his hands and turned her forearms up to inspect the track marks in the creases of her elbows.

"Oh Sherlock, why do you do this to yourself?"

Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a grumble and a whimper. Mycroft understood.

"You're a mess, Sherlock."

"I know." Soft and sad.

"Don't say that as if it makes me love you any less."

"But don't you?"

"Love you?" He gives her a pointed look. "With all my heart, Sherlock. Nothing you do will sway me." He lifts a finger to stop her expected remark. "But don't push it."

&

Sherlock napped for the rest of the ride to Mycroft’s.

"Come on, Sher."

"Carry?" Her hands were buried in his suit as she asked, lips touched softly to his neck.

Mycroft nodded and hummed so Sherlock could feel, then he gathered her up into his arms.

Over the threshold and into the sitting room, Mycroft placed Sherlock in the tuck of a leather couch and signaled his intention to retrieve something from another room. Sherlock answered with a soggy nod before curling her legs up and tucking her chin between her knees.

Sherlock blinked and Mycroft was back with a soft navy blanket to toss over his sister’s shoulders. It swallowed her as she cocooned herself in it.

“Come on, Sher. Up.”

She whined and tightened her cocoon.

“Up now, Sherlock.”

She stuck her lip out and trailed behind her brother past the half-bath into the downstairs guest bathroom—there was a claw-foot tub, of course.

Mycroft sat her down on the porcelain toilet lid to wait.

"Shh, just sit here for a bit while I get the water ready, okay?"

Sherlock nodded numbly, eyes to the floor, her arms still clutched in the blanket wrapped around her body. She looked so small. He opened the faucet.

Mycroft removed his suit jacket before he kneeled down over the side of the tub to check the water temperature. Once satisfied, he dropped the plug and chain and let the tub fill about a third before he pulled the faucet stopper that directed the water to spray out of the showerhead. The ambient noise of the rushing water had Sherlock slipping back into her head. She blinked.

Mycroft’s hands tugged at her wrists.

"Alright sweet girl, come on, let's get you in the bath, shall we?"

She was carefully convinced across the room to the tub. She made a noise of protest when Mycroft plucked away the blanket and eased her under the water for warmth. 

"Can you get your clothes off for me, Sherlock?"

She nodded and pulled weakly at wet fabric, eventually dragging her shirt upside down over her head and peeling the long sleeves from her arms. She flung the shirt sopping to the back of the tub.

Her hair stuck to her face as she bent down to remove her sweats.

"No bra, Sher? So improper."

"Tell me why I'd need a bra in a drug den high as a kite?" She tripped getting one leg out of her pants and pulled her panties off right after. "If I cared about being proper I probably wouldn't be doing this."

"And why are you doing this, Sherlock?"

She said nothing.

"Why waste your gifts?"

"Gifts, hm? Thought I was the slow one." 

Mycroft sighed and pulled out a few plastic bottles.

"I hope you don't mind my shampoo. It's nothing like your usual citrus and wild berries."

"That's okay. Means I'll smell like you. You always smell so nice, My." She sighed, as if blurry from a dream she didn't want to wake from.

Something possessive stirred in Mycroft, and he squeezed her shoulder.

"That's right, sweet girl... you'll smell like me..."

She was bathed in scents of cedar, mint, and snow.

Mycroft was so gentle with her like this—it almost hurt her heart to keep misbehaving for it.

But she couldn't bear to give up big brother's attention.

If she wasn't in trouble, he had no reason to be around—and she really wanted him around.

More.

(And maybe even because he wanted to be?)

He threaded his fingers between her wet curls and pet her into complacency. He lathered and rinsed many more times than necessary—he knew how it soothed her.

Mycroft shut the water off and let Sherlock soak as he began to braid her hair.

His knees were aching, and his dress shirt was dripping, but for his sister, it was worth it.

The rhythm of the weave brought Mycroft back to his thoughts, upset with how Sherlock handled her distress.

“Why, Sherlock?”

She was quiet and still, arms readjusting around her knees.

He tugged at the strands a little harder than he had been, firm with his hands as he was with his words. His pulls felt like pinches by the time he’d reached her tips and gathered them with a baby scrunchie.

“Sherlock. Why?”

She relented with a murmur, mouth muffled into the hands she pressed against her knees.

“…You’d never come and see me otherwise…”

Mycroft stilled.

“Sherlock.” He’d never spoken her name with more feeling than in that moment.

“I love you, Mycroft…” She didn’t voice it, but she moved her lips—and even with her back to him, Mycroft heard. He brought his hands down on her shoulders and held her close to his chest. He rested his chin on the top of her head and sighed.

Chapter Text

&

She sat under her showerhead, curled up as icewater rained down upon her.

She was ever known for being dramatic.

Somehow she liked to think Mycroft really did know her every move; that he'd magically appear if she made bad choices or harmed herself—if she sat shivering in a bathtub filling with cold water.

If she tugged at her wet, tangled curls and pretended he was there for her.

If she sulked and wallowed and frowned, and didn't say a word.

She expected him to know—but as much as he'd like everyone to believe, he didn't always know.

But she blamed him for not knowing anyway.

She pushed it, liked to see how far she could go before he'd show up saying he cared.

But she usually had to go a little further now, since Mycroft was on to government manipulation and wasn't used to seeing Sherlock waking bleary in front of the coffeemaker midmorning anymore.

They weren't so together anymore.

She’d been getting worse about it lately—getting caught up in her own schemes and letting it all fall apart around her, see if he’d come running.

She didn't want to disappoint him. Not really.

But despite her watery confessions in her brother’s tub, she didn't see any more of him than before—and it was killing her.

She didn’t know how to ask him for attention without sounding pathetic—so every time she sobered up, she got high so he’d find her again.

He wouldn’t look for her otherwise.

He wouldn’t want to be with someone so behind him.

She couldn’t compare—not a goldfish, but a salmon, maybe?

Still nothing to a barracuda.

&

Honestly, she was still coming down off a 7-hour high.

She paced the curb outside of Whitehall, throwing her arms out and pretending like it was a balancing beam.

She counted about 34 repeats before Mycroft came outside, exasperated.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Experiment," she mumbled and kept watching her feet tap one in front of the other.

Mycroft sighed.

"Come now, we can get something to eat."

"Not hungry,"

"Don't be difficult."

"Where's your umbrella?"

Mycroft looked down to his hand and was surprised to not see an umbrella in it.

"Shouldn't you get it before we go?"

"Sherlock,"

"I can wait."

Sherlock turned away from him and stood still until Mycroft went back for his umbrella.

She walked to the rail above the water, looking down over it.

Mycroft walked up behind her in time.

"My?"

"Yes, sister mine?"

"Why don't you want me?"

"I- Sherlock- This isn’t-"

"Tell me? Can you just tell me? Please?"

Mycroft again tried and failed to speak.

"I- I need to know, My. I- what am I doing wrong? Why am I wrong? I'm, slow- I don't get it, I-"

"Sherlock—"

“Just tell me how I can be enough, and I’ll try- I-I’ll try so hard, My..”

"Hush now, Sher," Mycroft looked either way down the street past Sherlock's shoulders. "Come with me, would you?"

&

Mycroft ended up fully clothed under a showerhead spraying lukewarm water while petting Sherlock in his lap. She was dropping hard and nearly incoherent, but somehow managed to convince big brother into the water with her—It’ll feel so nice on our skin, My…

His hand was comforting and careful with her even as his mind ran fast: What was he supposed to do? Give in to her? Did he ever really want anything else?

Sherlock was in a fugue, and Mycroft wanted more than anything to pull her out, to make it better— (to be hers).

But could he, really? Or was his indulgence the problem? Was he the problem?

He braided her hair into two tight French ropes that slithered over her shoulders and dampened the pillowcases.

He held her, and they slept.

Chapter Text

&

Mycroft's been away on business, and when he returns to his hotel room it's clear someone has broken in. The shower is on.

His briefcase lands on the suitcase cot, and with a click and a hard push of the heavy bathroom door he peeks his head in and stares at where his face would be if the mirror wasn't steamed up.

"Sherlock?"

The water falls consistently, and through the frosted glass he can see the woman below the showerhead has stopped moving. Little variations in the sound of falling water return as she smooths her hair over her shoulder. Softly,

"Mycroft."

"Oh, Sherlock." He enters and the heavy bathroom door falls closed. He tugs at one end of the sliding shower glass and looks in to see her kneeling with her back to him, looking over her shoulder with the ends of her hair balled up into her fists close to her chest.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

She turns and tucks her head into her chest, squeezing herself a bit smaller, spine prominent. There are scrapes all down her back.

"Sherlock, what happened?"

She makes something of a distressed noise, then shakes her head.

"Finish up, then. I'll brew some tea."

There is no further movement from Sherlock until after the glass slides shut and the heavy door is opened and closed.

Mycroft fiddles with the complimentary teapods and the Keurig-that-is-not-quite-a-Keurig. He holds his judgement of the hotel quality for another time. He fills two white ceramic mugs with English Breakfast Tea. It is 11:47pm.

He waits for her in a sturdy damasked armchair.

When she emerges, she is in a fluffy white bathrobe with her hair all piled to the top of her head in a nest.

Sherlock quietly curls herself into the spaces Mycroft makes for her by moving his limbs. Somehow, they are both able to stay on the armchair in a clump without it tipping over.

Mycroft reaches over to the side table for one of the white mugs and hands it to Sherlock, who cups it wholly with both hands and sticks her face down in the lip to be warm.

Mycroft takes his own, sips, and places it back down on the table.

He begins stroking up and down Sherlock's arms, shoulders, neck— any of her body available to his hands in their tangle, anything to try and ground her with contact comfort. More of her skin has been exposed from her fidgeting; she hasn't tied the robe very tightly.

Sherlock blows down into her tea before swallowing half of the cup's contents in a quick series of gulps, then brings the mug down to her belly so she can curl further around and into it.

It's as if she wants to crawl in. She ducks her face down into a position that was clearly straining her neck and upper back so she can muffle her voice into her tea—

"The optimal velocity for gentle stroking is three to five centimeters per second."

"Yes, it is."

A brief silence, soft touches.

"Do you want me yet, My?"

Mycroft sighs.

"You've been doing better. What happened?"

"I didn't— I'm not high. Just missed you."

"My current location is supposed to be classified."

"Then your security team should be fired."

"It will come up on their quarterly performance reviews, you can be certain."

"Good."

"Good?"

Sherlock nods once.

"Need you to be safe." She stretches her neck up to touch cheeks with Mycroft before bending forward back over her mug. "I could protect you. 'M clever, yeah?  If anything, my heart'd be an easier target, yeah? I could be something of a distraction, for you to get away if need be—"

"Sherlock."

"Please? I was good? I- I'm sober, please, My, I promise—"

"Sherlock..."

Mycroft lets his chin fall to rest in Sherlock's curls. He wraps his hands around Sherlock's to take away the mug and set it aside, but he doesn't let go once the tea is gone. He threads his fingers between Sherlock's from the outside in, and moves her hands with his— tickling across her collarbones, up her cheeks, to his lips. He kisses every one of her fingertips with care before gently bringing her hands back into her lap.

She's unfolded a bit by then from his touches, and she rests a bit more of her weight against him. When his hands return hers to her lap, she is no longer hunched, but loosely gathered. Mycroft goes to unlace their fingers, but Sherlock takes them back with the softest tremble, dragging them up her bare belly where the robe has parted to her skin.

She leaves them featherlight at the bottom curve of her breasts before retracting her hands from Mycroft's as if burned, suddenly curling around them at her center as if she were a roly-poly with the eating habits of a venus flytrap. Mycroft is quick to hold her shoulders steady and still as he wraps himself around her and blows cold air in swirling patterns at the wispy hairs on the back of her neck.

He holds her, and she cries.

Chapter Text

Mycroft hadn't heard from his little sister in an alarming amount of time (for her), but with all the chaos striking England at once, it was difficult for him to be hands-on with her— he'd been leaving Lestrade in charge of the addiction-watch and entertaining-Sherlock duties.

He shouldn't have underestimated the need for it to be him taking care of her.

He didn't know why he felt it in him to need to keep finding excuses to be so distant (or he did, but was, uncharacteristically, in denial).

He must've known it would all fall back to the old patterns, him and her.

But then He had to get himself involved too— the vampire to Sherlock's virgin— Moriarty.

It wasn't until it was too late that Mycroft realized Sherlock hadn't been in her usual cycle of sulking and coping and crashing and coming back to find him for comfort, but had instead been being sucked dry by a force that cared nothing for the remains he would leave of pretty little Lockie when he was done with her— done using her— for his games, for his pleasure, for his entertainment.

And God, Sherlock was weak to it, and she knew, but she couldn't stop herself from standing outside in the storm and letting the rain soak her bones— the wind dragging her away into something she couldn't control— but she was sober. And she wasn't lonely.

Wouldn't Mycroft be at least a little proud?

If she didn't need to need him anymore... if she could cope without drugs or without him.. (no need to bother him anymore),, maybe he'd like having her around again. Maybe he'd choose it. Choose her.

And Moriarty— he had so many cases for her, so many things to do, so many games to play, so much attention to give— Sherlock could overlook the suspicion if it meant she could finally exist without weighing Mycroft down. If desperation and trouble weren't winning him over, maybe distance would?

She could always fix it, anyway. She could be a match for Moriarty, not always a step behind like with Mycroft. She could ignore his intentions for the camaraderie... right? It was... strategy. Heaven knows what MIs 5 and 6 must have done and must still do to keep the country running. She could play this off for that, for living— the ends, the means, the justifying.

At least Moriarty wasn’t her older brother.

She hadn't heard from— so, well, Mycroft must not have minded.

Probably'd be glad to be rid of her clinging.

She could go be entangled with someone else— at least this way, if she went down she'd be going down alone, and not taking her brother with her.

She had no doubt she was the darkest spot on his reputation— as if her current company was making her reputation any better.

No, no. She could make this work.

This was working.

This had to work.

Moriarty was nothing Sherlock couldn't handle.

Handle, or cope? Fix, or fumble?

Something she could take care of if need be—

or someone to take care of her...

taking care of, taken care of...

If anything anymore were really to be true— Moriarty would certainly take her out.

It was fine. She was keeping busy.

But busy turned to sleepless as the games and obsessions grew…

And then people started dying.

And she couldn't get him to say no.

Moriarty was always up for the downpour.

Downfall.

As if Sherlock hadn't already been spiraling.

She could really use an umbrella.

Chapter Text

Sherlock waited outside in the rain, hands shoved down into her pockets and her face ducked down into the collar of her coat. It was deliberate, the way she refused to stand under the overhang of the building.

The door pushed open behind her and she listened to the familiar sounds of Mycroft's footsteps on the stone and the smooth, efficient opening of his umbrella.

Sherlock did not turn around. Mycroft's arrival by her side was announced by the absence of new rainwater dripping down from her hair to her neck.

"Oh, sister mine, the mess you've gotten yourself into..."

Weakly; "I don't need another talking-to."

But I deserve one.

Sherlock couldn't keep it from her face that she knew exactly how badly she'd fucked up this time.

They stood in silence for a beat too long. There was something almost, resigned, in Mycroft’s approach. An air not of tension per say, but an atmosphere on the precipice of change.

“Did you fuck him?”

"Why ask when you already know the answer?"

"I want you to say it to my face."

"As part of my punishment?"

"To prove to you that I am not unaffected by your antics." Mycroft took Sherlock's wrist and pulled her closer, urging her to settle her hand on his wrist in such a way as to allow her to read his pulse.

"Now tell me what you did."

"We— It was self-medication. I didn't fuck him for drugs... but I might as well have."

It was clear from Mycroft's expression that her answer wasn't enough, and wasn't what he had asked.

"I did—" She cleared her throat. "I was intimate with him, yes."

Mycroft nodded.

"And how do I feel about that?"

"... I'm not—"

Mycroft shook the wrist he had given his sister to hold.

"Sherlock. Say it."

"...You're not... unaffected..."

"Go on."

"You wish I didn't..."

"And why is that? For my reputation?" He nearly spat the word.

"No, no... You... were worried, you didn't want... to lose me..."

"And do you really think anything has changed?"

Sherlock stared at her wrist wrapped around her brother's, then tip-toed her watery eyes up to meet his.

"No. I haven't changed. But you have."

Something flickered in his eyes and he drew his arm back. Rain scattered across the fabric of the umbrella with the movement.

"Sherlock, please, what must I do to convince you I care—"

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying has changed!" She reached back out to his wrist cautiously, petting lightly at his hand until he allowed her to hold it again.

"You've always taken care of me. I know that, I know; even when I tried to forget, or guilt you into giving up more..." She leaned closer and brought her free hand to join where the other clutched Mycroft's; she watched her fingers dance across the places where their skin touched.

"But you're here with me again, and something feels different... and My, I couldn't stand it if I were wrong, not now..."

She couldn't look at him. He considered her softly, watching her baby hairs shake and stick at the crown of her head.

"So you say I've changed, have I?"

He hovered close to her ear, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"You may be right, sister mine; maybe this pattern has grown old. Whether your intention was jealousy or self-destruction— I think you've managed to make me come around..."

Sherlock's eyes blinked open to meet Mycroft's shiny and honest. She was a small, small whisper.

"Really?"

He lifted his lips to kiss away a tear just starting to track down the side of her face, still damp from the rain.

"Really."