Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Claymore

Big Brother

Sherlock sighed in relief as he laid back on the mildewed floor for as the drug coursed through his system Sherlock forgot what it was like to be him, forgot what it was like to be a genius, forgot what it was like to have a mind that moved at the speed of light 24 hours a day, and most of all he forgot the look on John’s face every time Sherlock hurt him with a careless word or gesture. The room felt hot and stuffy, so Sherlock slipped his shirt off, rolled it underneath his head, curled up and let sleep take him, for as long as he was high Sherlock didn’t have to dread the crazy, circus dreams that plagued his mind every night.

When Sherlock didn’t come down after a prolonged time, Mycroft hurried down the hall to Sherlock’s room, the bed was empty, the bathroom was empty, Mycroft went into Sherlock’s room once more, looked in the closet and for just a moment his mind traveled back to a time when he and Sherlock were children where games of hide and seek were the activity of the day, Sherlock laughing as he ran down the hall with Redbeard, his hair flowing behind him in a mass of unruly curls. Mycroft blinked and the ghosts faded leaving him with the grim task of getting the key to the room from Mrs. Hudson.

After he obtained the key Mycroft approached the door with dread, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the curling paint that hung from the door in unruly curls, Mycroft reached out and peeled a curl of paint from the door, letting it flutter to the floor while he summoned up the courage to open the door. “Take a deep breath, Mycroft and open the door,” Mycroft whispered to himself. As the door creaked open, Mycroft coughed at the musty smell coming from within, streams of light filtered in through the boarded up windows illuminating Sherlock as he lay curled up on the floor like a woodland animal. Mycroft coughed again as he made his way across the room and  bent down to Sherlock’s side. “Sherlock?” Mycroft whispered as he turned Sherlock over on his back. Sherlock’s skin was cold and for a moment Mycroft thought he was dead. However, as Mycroft took Sherlock’s limp wrist in his own, he felt a slight pulse. Mycroft then slipped his arms underneath Sherlock, carried him to his room, and tucked him in. For a moment he stared at Sherlock as he slept, his high chiseled cheekbones and white translucent skin reminded Mycroft of an alabaster sculpture-a cold statue, a work of art, with features frozen in stone, never to love, never to smile, never to laugh. “Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered, as he hesitantly brushed a sweaty curl from Sherlock’s forehead. He then turned around, pausing only once at the door to make sure Sherlock’s chest rose and fell, as it should, as it did for all living things.

Sherlock awoke his mouth was dry, and he felt like he was going to be sick. Quickly, Sherlock ran down the hall to the bathroom where he promptly threw up, he then sat of the floor for a few moments while he got his breath back and then turned on the facet of the tub. “A nice bath, that’s what I need,” Sherlock thought as he purposefully kept his thoughts from the events of the last few days.

Once Sherlock, was bathed, he felt like a new person, ready to face anything. “Something was wrong, why was the house so quiet?” He thought as he walked by John’s room, fully expecting to see it empty and was surprised when he saw a prone figure in the bed; Molly was also in the room as she bent over to take the person’s temperature.  “How dare someone take John’s bed,” Sherlock thought angrily. Storming into the room Sherlock was about to burst into a drug induced tirade, but stopped short when he saw who was lying in the bed. “Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in puzzlement.

Molly stood up her brown eyes full of sadness. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, he’s contracted…he’s contracted…”

Sherlock cut her off, “No, don’t say it and how would you know you only deal with dead bodies. You’re not a real Doctor.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called weakly from the bed.

Sherlock started to edge forward, but Mycroft held up his hand. “Sherlock, don’t come any closer. Although, you’ve already been exposed, it would ease my mind to have you at arm’s length. Sherlock, I most likely will not make it through this.”

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest like a child, “No, you’re fine, Molly’s wrong.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said gently, “You have to grow up now, you have to be the strong one, and you have to be the leader. Your friends need you…I need you. You have to be the big brother now.” Mycroft whispered and then closed his eyes as he lay back on the pillow.