No Shit, Sherlock

I've Got You

"Why would you be alone? Couldn't you go be with Timothée?"

"Timothée's at a meeting out of town."

I make my way to the door, "I should go, I'm sorry for bothering you."

I pull the door open but he slams it shut. My body slowly turns around to see him leaning over me, his hand still on the door. Goosebumps trail down my skin and my heart races.

"You can leave after you've sobered up."

"I don't want to sober up."

His bottle of whiskey is on the counter by the stove. My mind is already starting to clear up, probably from the rush of adrenaline I had on the way here. Just a little more whiskey couldn't hurt.

He steps away from me, I hate myself for missing his closeness. A knock on the door behind me echoes loudly. I step away from the door, Sherlock opens it and greets whoever it is.

"Good evening, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, my brother. How have you been?"

Sherlock looks at me before turning back to his brother. "Let's talk outside."

He shuts the door behind him, my eyes immediately go to the whiskey bottle. And before I even realize it, I'm already drinking the little bit that's left.

After a few minutes my thoughts begin to slow down, and my vision becomes hazy. The comforting feeling of numbness takes over and I let out a sigh. I slide down to the floor, holding the empty bottle, and rest my head against the wall behind me.

"I don't understand why he insists on bothering me."

I open my eyes to see Sherlock standing in front of me, although my vision is blurry I can still see the angry look on his face.

"What have you done?"

I set the bottle down, "Relax, I'll buy you another bottle."

He pulls me to my feet, I lean back on the counter. My legs shaking underneath me.

"It's not the alcohol I'm worried about," he snaps.

I push myself off the counter, my stride is wobbly, but I stay upright.

"It's too hot," I slur, pulling my coat off.

I drop the coat in the floor and collapse on to the couch. I watch as Sherlock picks my coat up, muttering under his breath. As he picks the coat up an envelope falls out of the pocket. He stares at it for a moment before picking it up.

"Don't touch that."

He eyes me curiously, "Is this what you're so upset about?"

I don't respond, and he gives me an intense stare. My eyes follow him as he hangs my coat on the rack by the door. The envelope is still in his hand, I pray that he doesn't open it. I'd rather him think I was an irresponsible alcoholic.

My eyes close, but quickly reopen at the sound of crinkly paper. I jump to my feet, falling down to the floor in the process. But it's already too late. He's opened the letter and is reading it.

I stay on the floor, watching him. Waiting for a reaction. He reads the letter for what feels like forever. Tears build up in my eyes, causing them to burn worse than normal.

"Who sent this to you?"

I shake my head, "I told you not to touch it."

"Answer my question."

"It's none of your business."

He reads the front of the envelope, "The return address is from Texas."