Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey Sherlock, happy birthday! I told everyone to come at 5, so expect it to be closer to around 6. Molly’s bringing her new boyfriend, oh, what’s his name? Greg? Craig? Jeffrey? I don’t know. Anyways, I’ll see you then,” the answering machine called out.

Birthday? Ah, yes it was the 6th of January wasn’t it? Only 12 days after Christmas, why have another celebration? So much money spent and social interactions involved with this day, it seems quite bothersome to Sherlock. All he wanted for his birthday this year, like most years, was to stop the constant hurricane of thoughts going through his head. He had lived another year and he felt that A, he didn’t deserve it, as he was a horrible person, and B, he can’t stand not being in control and persistently having to be aware of everything.

Last year he had the same problem. He had just come back from Serbia and presented himself to John, showing that he was, indeed, not dead. He had missed John tirelessly throughout his “death” and being tortured wasn’t even the majority of his pain. He may say he’s a sociopath, but honestly, does anyone believe that shit?

When he realized that John hadn’t taken his resurrection as well as he had hoped, his already low self esteem plummeted. He had lost weight since the last time he had seen John, as John always took care of him, and he had relapsed into his drug addiction that was never really gone. This really was just another reason that he wasn’t worth his life.

"Do you have a list?” Mycroft had asked when he had found him last year. So intoxicated in his own sadness before the drugs even gave him his high. Sherlock handed Mycroft a tiny scrap of paper clearly torn out of a notebook and had been crumpled in Sherlock’s pocket for quite some time.

1/6/15

Cocaine - you know how much I like - Intravenous as always

“Are you sure there’s nothing else you took? Sherlock, I’m not as thick as I seem. I know that you’re worse on your birthday. You always have been.”

He’s right, it always has been the worst day of the year. Starting in middle school when he had started being bullied by many of his classmates. He had known he was different for a long time now, but most of his class hated him. Middle school is now the best place to be different, and Sherlock gave them a flurry of characteristics and flaws to pick at. In elementary school, he had let Mummy arrange birthday parties even though he thought they were pointless. It’s just another day. When he got to middle school and his birthday rolled around, however, no one came to the planned event. Sherlock took this as a sign that he really was as abnormal and unwanted as he had feared. He wanted to be normal and for the thoughts to stop. No one else had so many thoughts and memories crammed into their brain space. That day he took just enough sleeping pills to be out like a light and to stop thinking, but not enough to hurt him.

Then there was the first time Sherlock ever did cocaine. This was the first time he had ever tried a hard drug, period. It was his first year of uni, and he felt underappreciated as ever. He had tried to have a girlfriend to fit in, but she broke up with him quite soon after that, as she felt he didn’t do well in social or emotional interactions, and all she wanted to do was party. His birthday was here, and he was all alone. He got a phonecall from Mummy, and talked to her awhile. He made it seem like uni was great. He didn’t even bother to answer Mycroft’s call. He knew he’d show up at some point to make sure Sherlock was safe and he sure as Hell would see through all of Sherlock’s lies.

Sherlock had managed to buy some cocaine off the streets for an “experiment” as he called it. He was going to test what would happen and how he would feel. Now, depressed and lonely, was a better time than any. He carefully measured out a 7% solution of it into the syringe and just went for it. He pressed down on the syringe forcing the drug throughout his veins and throughout his body. What the drug did, though, was better than he had ever imagined. Mycroft found him only about 20 minutes later and panic was shown through his normally very calm structure. He found that Sherlock hadn’t, in fact overdosed like he had feared, and went on to ask Sherlock, if he were to ever find him in this state again, to have a list. A list that contained what he took, and how much he took.

Mycroft had been finding him drugged up every birthday since and sometimes other days than that dreadful reminder of his existence.

Mycroft was right, he always was worse on his birthday. Sherlock took back the scratch paper and wrote another few words on it.

1/6/15

Cocaine - you know how much I like - Intravenous as always

Heroin - just a tiny bit - Intravenous

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m not mad, you know? I was always there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you. Now, let’s get you home, Brother, Dear.”

Mycroft carried him back out of the drug den, into his car, and drove him back home that day.

Fast forward a whole year later, and Sherlock is in almost the same place as he was then. He had taken the cocaine already, that was a given. It slowed down his thoughts so he could concentrate on one at a time and just analyze it until he wanted to stop. Next was the heroin. He hadn’t taken it yet. He was moving at rather steady pace but he was contemplating whether or not to administer his normal amount. He had enough in his possession to just end all of the thoughts, forever. This had been the thought he had been analyzing and scrutinizing for so long now. He could just OD and all would be done. It wouldn’t even look like it was on purpose. At least, not at first. He was a genius, but even a genius could be so intoxicated to accidentally get a little drug happy.

Mycroft would know. That thought alone is what is deterring Sherlock from actually pressing down on the syringe. Mycroft would know there is no way in Hell it was a bloody accident. He would know that Sherlock was in so much pain that he thought the only way out was through killing himself. Would Mycroft tell Mummy? That’s another question Sherlock had, but his mind and past experiences told him otherwise. Mycroft would take the suicide of his brother to his grave. Does that make Sherlock feel even worse than if it was out in the open that he committed suicide?

He’s thinking too hard. He hates his thoughts, he hates his brain, he hates himself. He opens his eyes and grabs a sheet of notebook paper. He writes, with his best handwriting imaginable:

1/6/16

Cocaine - the usual - IV

Heroin - a lot - IV

Sorry, Brother, Dear. I thought I’d never say this but: I love you. I don’t want you to know I meant to overdose without the last thing you hear being that. I appreciate your effort in trying to help me over the years, I really do, but you know I’m always worse on my birthday.

He sets the paper down on the floor beside him. He knows Mycroft will be the first person here. He’ll make sure to get here early in case this very situation unfolded, but it was too late for him to save Sherlock this time. Sherlock grabbed the syringe once again, and filled it to a point past his norm, to a point he knew would stop his heart soon. He injected it into his vein and felt the sweet poison flow throughout his body once again.

Soon his sweet high would finally come to him.

Chapter Text

January 6th: a day both my brother and I dread on its annual occurrence. It is my brother's birthday, and I don't get the reasoning behind celebrating birthdays, but I cannot comprehend why my brother reacts the way he does to the anniversary of his birth. Every year since he was just a young child, he has loathed the idea of his birthday. He has the tendency to pretend he doesn't exist and hide in his mind palace on a normal day, but on his birthday it's the worse, and ever since he was just a young child I've had to check up on him to make sure he didn't do something he'd regret later.

I haven't been so early or lucky the past few years and I've found my brother drugged up and passed out. These aren't the only instances where Sherlock has taken drugs, though. He experimented with different things throughout his teen years, but during Uni he decided to try some hard drugs such as cocaine from time to time. It became an event that wasn't so much recreational, but more a coping method. Every time he would get bad again, which seemed to happen often when he would become bored or it was around his birthday, he would take cocaine as a sort of release.

That first time I found him it was his his first experience with cocaine. I made him promise, that if I ever were to find him in that state of intoxication again, he was to make a list of every single drug he had taken. I was truly worried about him and scared that I would lose my little brother. This way I could know if I needed to get him real help, immediately.

While his drug of choice is, of course, cocaine, he eventually added heroin to his list, and that's when I grew a bit apprehensive. The first time he took it on his birthday, though, was last year. I asked him for the list that I expected from him each time he took anything, and it only consisted of cocaine. Now, I know Sherlock, and I definitely know when he is keeping things from me. We're brothers, after all. I could see in his eyes and sense in his mannerisms that he had definitely taken more than just his normal dosage of cocaine.

"Are you sure there's nothing else you took? Sherlock, I'm not as thick as I seem. I know that you're worse on your birthday. You always have been." I said anxiously, knowing that I was right, but not wanting to be for once.

He looked me in the eyes but seemed far away from me, deep in thought. A few seconds later, he gently reached out and took the list he had given me back. He scribbled a few more words down and I thought my heart was going to beat out my chest. What have you done, Brother, Dear?

1/6/15

Cocaine - you know how much I like - Intravenous as always

Heroin - just a tiny bit - Intravenous

I sighed. I believed him. That it was just a tiny bit, that he knew what he's doing. He's a user and a genius after all, he knows how to do this more safely than a random junkie on the street.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm not mad, you know? I was always there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you. Now, let's get you home, Brother, Dear."

I helped him up, yet he was too high to even walk straight, so I managed to carry him down the stairs, out of the drug den, and put him in my car. I hoped he never would do this again, but I knew he would. I wish he wasn't like this. I wish he were happy.

Today is his birthday yet again, and John set up a party for him. I plan on arriving a few hours early to make sure all is well, which it won't be, but I hope I can stop him from doing anything too serious. I don't trust him not to play games with his own life. He was about to let that bloody cabbie kill him out of his own free will, why would I trust him with his sadness, loneliness, a whole abundance of drug? I'm always afraid he will go too far and I will fail to notice that he was even worse than usual. He's always been so depressed and impulsive, and I'm terrified, honestly.

I get in my car and drive over to 221 Baker Street. I would never let Sherlock see it or know it, but my hands are trembling and my mind is racing as I open the door to his flat. Once accompanied by the quite caring and compassionate war doctor, Sherlock has now been alone with his own cold intelligence for some time now. There are no noises in the flat now. Now coffee or tea being made, no violin playing, and no experiments going on. Hopefully, he is just in his mind palace.

I don't see Sherlock immediately. He isn't in my view when I walk in the cluttered room. Sherlock doesn't usually clean up after his experiments, so this was to be expected.

Oh, Sherlock, I think as I round the couch and find him, unconscious, drugs obviously pulsing through his veins, destroying his body. There is a crumpled up note in his limp left hand. I don't think he's breathing.

I don't think he's breathing.

I check for his pulse and it's very very weak, yet it's still there. I take out my cell phone and call 999.

He wouldn't have overdosed on accident.

"My brother- I think my brother overdosed. He's only breathing faintly, and his pulse is scarily light."

"Alright, Sir, please do try to calm down a bit for me, okay?" the operator says in a bitter, but alert tone, "There is an ambulance on there way to you now. What drug or drugs did your brother take?"

I look down at the crumpled up note in Sherlock's hand and take it out of his light grasp, noting how cold his fingers seemed. I open it and shake my head, crying harder than I ever have before.

"He took cocaine and heroin. He was trying to kill himself."

"Sir, how do you know this was a suicide attempt?" She asked in a concerned, yet somehow annoyed tone.

"I found his note." I fall to my knees as the paramedics rush in and try to save Sherlock. I turn off the phone and look at the heart-felt note brother had written to me.

1/6/16

Cocaine - the usual - IV

Heroin - a lot - IV

Sorry, Brother, Dear. I thought I'd never say this but: I love you. I don't want you to know I meant to overdose without the last thing you hear being that. I appreciate your effort in trying to help me over the years, I really do, but you know I'm always worse on my birthday.

I get in the ambulance with the paramedics and my brother's poisoned body. They let me in the ambulance because they didn't think I was stable enough to drive myself to hospital. It was a good call, I notice. I am shaking and bawling like a little child. He's been thinking about this for a while, now, hasn't he? I hadn't noticed.

Please stay, Brother, Dear. I love you, too.

We arrive at the hospital, and as much as I want to, I'm not allowed to go back with Sherlock. His heart stopped on the way, but they were able to resuscitate him. His life seems grim at this point but I can't handle that.

I called the Watsons and Lestrade and tell them what has happened. They raced over and bring Molly Hooper along and sit with me in the waiting room of the bland, cold emergency care center. I play with my fingers as my thoughts race and John tells me everything is going to be okay. I have a really terrible premonition that it's not going to be okay. Nothing will be okay.

I knew Sherlock had problems and was terribly depressed and addicted to cocaine and nicotine, but I never thought he would try to kill himself. I should've been a better brother. I should have looked out for him more. I should have told him I loved him more often. I really hope I still get the chance to.

Around forty excruciating minutes later, Sherlock's doctor came back with a terrible look on his face that told me all that I needed to know. I started bawling harder than I ever imagined I could. He was really gone, wasn't he?

I could hear the doctor speaking to John and Greg, "I'm so sorry for your loss," is all I heard before I zoned out completely. How could my only brother, who was so dear to me, be gone? He took his own life. How could he have been so unhappy? How do I tell Mummy? So many questions ran through my brain and all I needed was Sherlock there to help me but he is gone.

John helped me up to my feet and once I calmed down enough that they knew I wasn't going to pass out from crying, they led me to their car and back to their house. I will stay here for a few days, as I'm honestly still not okay, and I probably never will be again.

Happy birthday Sherlock. I love you, Brother, Dear.