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Christmas.
He hates Christmas.
It is the time, in which families, that don’t come together the whole year, pretend that they would be interested in each other. How are you? What have you been doing? How’s the job? Give me information which I will immediately forget afterwards anyway, because I still can only worry for my own life!
It is the time when people realize that they have to help others … Yes, it is the time in which they suddenly are aware that there actually are people who have something other than a boring, ordinary apartment, a boring, ordinary family or a boring, ordinary job. How terrible!
And it is the time in which he has to work harder than usual to escape the clutches of his brother. Everyone here could be one of his agents. Every pedestrian, every taxi driver, who stands and smokes in front of his car. Any woman who drags her shopping bags. Each homeless person, sitting slumped against a wall. Just three days ago, he could hardly escape, had to tear himself away as a pedestrian suddenly grabbed him by the sleeve and called something that went under in the noise of traffic.
No. His family would have to spend Christmas without him. They wouldn’t want to him around anyway. He only would spoil their mood. Like every other time. He would gain a disappointed look from his brother and a sad look from his parents. He doesn’t need that.
Lost in his thoughts he walks the deserted street when he suddenly sees a man disguised as Santa Clause before him, who cuddles a little girl. Her face is bright with excitement and happiness. She laughs loudly. Her parents stand by and smile.
Sherlock snorts dismissively and quickly turns around.
Christmas…
*
It hurts to see his mother again like this - standing at the window and staring out into the darkness. It might be not visible from the outside, but it breaks Mycroft Holmes’s heart to see her like this. Her face is full of worry but in her eyes sparkle a glimmer of hope. It is not the first time that Sherlock has disappeared, but he has never been gone so long.
No mother - he thinks in silence, - he will not come. Not today. And not tomorrow. Nor the day after tomorrow. He may never come back. And I’m probably to blame. How shall I explain? You know so little of us, I don’t want to burden you … Why did I yell at him? Why did I punch him? I was so angry about the money that I have completely forgotten myself … I am not much better, if not worse. I should have talked to him, as big brothers are supposed to …
Mycroft swallows. Surreptitiously, he looks at his mobile phone. No new message. No sign of life of Sherlock. For three days now. Jaques had seen him once on the street and managed to grab his arm, but Sherlock broke loose and plunged into the crowd.
“Where is the boy,” laments his mother softly. “It’s freezing out there.”
She turns to Mycroft. “You’ll find him, won’t you Myke? You’ll find him, alright?”
Mycroft swallows down the usual request to call him by his full name. It’s not the time for that. “Yes, Mummy. I’ll find him. I promise.”
And with these words, Mycroft takes his coat and leaves the house.
I’ll find him. Because nobody else can.
*
It is cold. It’s colder than it was ever before. Sherlock can barely feel his fingers and toes and it is clear that it was a bad idea to spend the night outdoors. His mind is completely clear, but something in him resists the idea to seek refuge at home.
Something in him appeals to his pride. You’re not going to run back after all that has happened, right? You of all people? They don’t want to have you back, anyway. Not after what you’ve done. Not after you stole Mummy’s money to buy drugs. Only scum steal from their own parents! You deserve to freeze. You deserve to be alone. You’re worthless.
And Sherlock listens to the voice and moves closer to the wall against which he leans.
It starts to snow.
*
“Have you seen this man?”
Meanwhile, Mycroft shows pedestrians an image of Sherlock in his desperation. But he has no luck with it. His brother can disappear very well when he wants to. He learned it from him. Like almost everything else. But Mycroft can be persistent. And in the end he finds someone who has seen Sherlock. Not even 24 hours have passed since then. He can hardly believe his luck. It’s a homeless person. Wrapped in rags and leaning against a wall.
“Yes, I’ve seen him. Went along the street here. In this direction.” He points down the street. “Went pretty slow. Looked not good,” he mumbles.
Mycroft sets a few bills in the coffee cup which stands in front of the man. The man thanks him in surprise, but Mycroft doesn’t hear him anymore. He runs down the street. He only wants to find his brother.
*
Sherlock knows that he has to move. But it’s so hard. It’s easier to lie down and close the eyes. Damn, he can’t feel a single part of his body anymore. He feels strangely weightless. The thought that it was not a good idea to inject more than the usual amount of cocaine comes to him. The drugs don’t make it easier for him to stay awake. But maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe it’s better this way. To sleep and not wake up sounds like a better option than fighting through each day.
As his eyes close, he seems to hear steps approaching him. But maybe it’s just a dream.
*
Mycroft hopes that Sherlock didn’t come too far since yesterday. He looks in every corner, every alley of the street. There are hardly any people on the street. Hardly anyone whom he may inquire about his brother. He hurries on. And then he turns into an alley and sees the pile of clothes and black hair leaning on the wall. His heart leaps. Could it be?
He runs to the shape and falls on his knees in front of it.
Sherlock. I’ve found him. Of course, I’m the one who found him. I’m sorry, Sherlock. Forgive me - the thoughts flash through his head as he takes his unconscious brother in his arms - much too light, too thin, too cold, on the ground lies an empty syringe - and pulls his mobile phone out his coat pocket.
*
It’s warm. For the first time in ages. Warm and soft. In a short puerile moment Sherlock asks himself whether this is Heaven. But the moment vanishes when he opens his eyes and stares at a white ceiling that has a few dirty spots on it. Too bright light blinds him. He closes his eyes again. Apparently someone hospitalized him again. Great.
“Good morning, brother”
Oh. He didn’t expect that voice. As Sherlock opens his eyes again, he looks exactly into Mycroft’s stony face. Sherlock smiles a mirthless grin. “This must be extremely satisfying for you. Who found me? One of your sniffer dogs, right? There is no question that …” The next moment, his breath is cut off as Mycroft hugs him tightly.
What the hell? Has Mycroft lost his mind?
When Mycroft lets go after a minute, he takes a closer look at his older brother. Circles under the eyes – no sleep. His hair disheveled. Wrinkles on his suit – no change in clothes. No shower.
Oh.
"You have found me,” Sherlock says quietly.
Mycroft doesn’t answer, but his expression says everything. His expression says: Never do this again. Don’t ever scare me like this again. I almost died with worry.
Sherlock swallows. He has no idea what to say now. But this decision is taken from him, as Mycroft clears his throat and sits on the chair next to his bed. "Mummy and father will be here soon. They have been worried. They, and me too. I want you to come back home and I want you to finally stop with the drugs. Why are you wasting your talent in this way? By destroying your mind and body with poison!? This has to end now.“
Sherlock stares at him and then lowers his head. "You have no idea what it’s like,” he says quietly. “You have no idea how that is. Everything flows from everywhere upon me. I cannot go through the town without everything jumping at me - the smells, the sounds, the images. It’s too much Mycroft! I need something that make it stop!” Sherlock holds his head in his hands. He is on the verge of bursting into tears. Mycroft looks at him seriously. Then he takes Sherlock chin, forcing him to look at him. “I know something that will help you. I can show you. But promise me that you stop this. Promise me that you stop running away and destroying yourself. You’re better than … than that. I don’t want to lose you.”
Sherlock looks up at him, doubt and surprise in his eyes. Mycroft almost can see the little boy Sherlock once was in front of him - the weeping clings to him, pleading with him not to go to this university, to stay with him. “You’ll show me something that will help?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will stop. I promise.”
Mycroft nods with satisfaction. Even if he knows that one should not believe a junkie, he clings to his brother’s promise. At this moment, the door to the hospital room opens and their parents burst in, with relieved and worried expressions on their faces. Mycroft gives them space and watches as Mummy takes Sherlock in her arm crying. Mycroft looks at his family and a warm feeling spreads in his chest. This is his personal little Christmas miracle