splix | FIC: Staircase Wit [3/6]

Title: Staircase Wit
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss. Simon Williamson property of Irvine Welsh.
Summary: L'esprit de l'escalier - Sherlock never suffers from it, which isn't to say he doesn't suffer for it. Five times he took a beating, and one time he got away.
Warnings: Violence, possible explicit sex to come.
Notes: This is my very first Sherlock fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.

Can also be read on AO3

*

3. Twenty-two

*

Not even the most smack-addled junkie wandering in off the street, desperate for a fix, could fail to notice that Simon was the smallest of small-time dealers. His flat (practically a bedsit, two grotty rooms and a toilet Sherlock wouldn’t have used if there was a gun to his head) was warmed by a three-bar electric heater, the lights were dreary fluorescents, the floor showed layer upon layer of cracked lino in assorted patterns like a vacillating snake shedding different-coloured layers of skin, and the whole was furnished with cheap, nasty-smelling charity-shop furniture covered with mysterious stains. Interestingly, Simon himself tended to favour intense and expensive personal grooming: expensive haircut, bleach, hot oil treatment to keep the ends smooth, weekly barber shave, occasional facial, and a manicure. Commes des Garcons suit, likely nicked but handsome nevertheless, shirt by same, tie courtesy of Paul Smith, shoes by Cerruti (also nicked – a half-size too large for Simon’s feet, so the shoes must have been lying in their box on the floor, rejected by a previous customer. Easy enough to switch out whilst the salesperson attended to someone else). Omega watch (fake, sweep second hand tended to skip a bit – sorry, Simon), Floris No. 89 cologne (nicked as well – tester bottle, still quite full, a bit aged owing to its current unfashionable status; Simon must have chosen it for sentimental reasons of some sort. Not to worry, Simon, it’ll come back soon enough). The only explanation for Simon’s careful attention to his grooming must have been purest vanity, as he clearly didn’t give a damn what his flat looked like, and unlike other dealers, didn’t have a flashy car, a badge of honour for most and certainly an extension of their vapid, moronic personalities. If Simon came to meet you, he came on the tube. That pleased Sherlock obscurely; maybe it was just knowing his overhead was a bit lower. A penny saved was a penny earned, after all.

“Sherlock.” Simon’s customary soft Scots burr had flattened a bit. “Been a while.”

“I didn’t realise you’d missed me. I’d have come much sooner.”

“You were meant to come sooner.” Simon opened the door wider to let Sherlock in. “Sunday night, remember? At any rate, you’re here now – thanks for showing up.” He nodded toward a thin ginger-haired young man sleeping (no, not asleep – unconscious, succumbed to the dark oblivion of heroin) on a filthy lilo. “My mate Mark.”

“Right.” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the flat. Nothing had changed; it was as disgusting as ever. “So. What have you got?”

Simon shrugged. “The lot. Acid, E, speed, mushies, smack, dope, nembies –“

“I’m not interested in any of that,” Sherlock snapped. He’d been itchy and irritable for days (seemed like weeks, seemed like aeons). He’d tried to stay away, but the more he’d tried the more the roar of stillness and ordinary tedium inside his head had become knives slicing into his brain and the line between potential and kinetic energy had blurred, leaving him a trembling, cramping wreck, and just lately his mind had turned in on itself, a frantic termite chewing its way through a poisoned sequoia, round and round in a self-created labyrinth with no exit, and he hadn’t slept in days and he needed a god-damned fix, he needed it now and he didn’t in the bloody least appreciate Simon’s ham-handed attempt at wit since Sherlock never varied in his choices and Simon knew it better than most.

“Ah. A little Bolivian marching powder, yeah?”

“Call it what you will.” Sherlock clenched his hands together tightly. “And I’d prefer it from your personal stash, not the stepped-on rubbish you sell to everyone else.”

“That’s the spirit, Sherlock. You always do appreciate quality. I like that about you, honestly I do. But we’ve got a wee matter of accounting to settle first.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Sherlock jammed his hands in his pockets. Some movement caught his peripheral vision – a rat? God, this place was foul. He’d almost feel ashamed of himself for coming here if the cravings weren’t so intense, if his sleep hadn’t been broken by nightmares of nameless horrors shambling after him as he tried to run and failed, falling again and again until they descended upon him and he’d wake up in a clinging film of sweat, a scream locked in his throat. “Look, I’d have come Sunday night as promised, but I went to my bank and my…my account was a bit short.”

Simon lowered himself to a sagging green sofa and crossed one knee elegantly over the other. He had a handsome face, a witty, tilted nose, and wide, limpid dark grey-green eyes that regarded Sherlock with weary patience. “A bit short, you say.”

“Yes,” Sherlock spat between clenched teeth. Simon was prolonging his discomfort deliberately, he knew it. “Look, not that it’s any of your business, but every quarter there’s a certain amount deposited into my account, and for some reason, it hasn’t been deposited yet. I went to the bank to ask them about it, but they’re a crew of complete and utter idiots, the lot of them, and they wouldn’t tell me a bloody thing. So you’re just going to have to wait for your money, Simon, but in the meantime I’d certainly appreciate it if you were to extend me just a little credit, considering I’ve been a most exemplary customer for quite some time now.” He glared down at Simon, aware that he’d raised his voice, but he didn’t care; his spine, his brain, his entire nervous system had been flooded with imperatives, his head pounded, and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth together, and all that mattered right now was the bright sting of the needle that delivered release from the tremors and chills, the sickening need that held him so firmly in its grip.

And he didn’t know why the money hadn’t been deposited. He’d tried to phone his mother, but the answering service had informed him that she’d gone to Majorca. She’d have told him if there were changes to the dispensation of his trust. Surely she’d have told him. He’d tried Mr. Garland, their solicitor, but Garland hadn’t returned his call. Not surprising. The man was approximately three hundred and fifty years old and had the brain capacity of an injured box turtle. Mycroft might know what had happened, but Sherlock would be damned if he’d expose even the smallest part of soft white underbelly to his brother’s tender mercies. Simon would simply have to whistle for the money until he got hold of it. What was so god-damned difficult to understand?

“That sort of thing happens,” Simon replied easily. “More often than you’d think. Things are tough all over.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

“Glad?” Simon smiled a bit, but the smile failed to reach his eyes. “Thing is, Sherlock, you owe me almost a grand, and I’ve got operating costs. Otherwise I might be willing to extend just a wee bit of credit. As it is….” He shook his head sadly. “I can’t afford to let you run a tab. You understand.”

“Oh, come off it. A thousand pounds is nothing, Simon, and you know it almost as well as I do.”

“If it’s nothing, then why haven’t I got it?” Simon held out his hand, palm turned upward.

“I just told you. I don’t know why, for God’s sake.”

Simon shook his head and went to the door of the rat-hole that served as his bedroom. “Well. We have a bit of a problem, then.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Sherlock groaned, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Simon, I can’t keep going round and round with you about this. You’ve never been unreasonable before.”

“You’ve never owed me a grand before, mate. And there’s interest now as you haven’t been bothered to pay for a few weeks, so I reckon the final bill comes to about thirteen hundred.” Simon rested his hand on the doorknob.

“Thirteen hundred!” Sherlock barked a disdainful laugh. “I don’t think so…mate.”

“Thought you might say that,” Simon replied in a sorrowful tone, and opened the door. Three men stepped out, hulking figures in motorbike leathers. “Lads, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, I see. This is some sort of intimidation technique, I suppose.” Sherlock began to back toward the door, but before he’d reached it, two of the men closed in on him, grabbing him by the arms and manhandling him toward Simon. He squirmed, trying to wrench himself free, but the bikers were strong and – a bit frightening, this – silent. “Let me go. Take your fucking hands off me!” Sherlock aimed an icy glare at Simon. “Tell them to let me go.”

“The money first,” Simon said with maddening patience.

“I haven’t bloody got any! Check my pockets, for Christ’s sake.”

Simon nodded, and the third man not holding Sherlock made a fist and swung. Sherlock let out an undignified whoop of air and doubled over as much as he could. Coughing and gasping, he struggled to breathe, and felt Simon’s hand patting his hair. “Come on now, Sherlock. I know you’ve got loads of money. It’s just a matter of getting it to us. Shall I have the lads accompany you to your flat?”

Still coughing, Sherlock shook his head. Apparently Simon’s overhead covered other expenses, hired thugs among them. “I haven’t got any at the flat. And I told you I haven’t got any in my account.”

A brief sigh escaped Simon’s lips. “Again.”

The fist drove into Sherlock’s belly again; again Sherlock bent over, winded and wheezing with pain.

“I’m tired of going round and round too,” Simon murmured. “Come on, Sherlock. Money.”

“I told you –“ The fist crashed into his chest this time. Sherlock’s feet went out from under him. He twisted and gasped in the bikers’ grip. He couldn’t break free, and he’d have shouted for help except that considering the screams he’d sometimes heard from this block of flats, one more desperate cry, even if he could have raised his voice above a moan, would have been as equally pointless as all the rest. “I’ve – I’ve got some good things, silver and crystal things….” Oh, God, to be reduced to bargaining with family possessions, but he didn’t see anything else for it.

“Sorry. Not a pawn shop, Sherlock.”

They weren’t going to let him go, and with the mindlessness of the automatons that they were, they’d just keep beating him until he produced the desired cash. Where the hell did they think he’d hidden it – up his arse?

Better not say that, some still-lucid and grimly amused portion of his mind advised. They might go looking for it. The fist – like iron, the biker was wearing rings that managed to approximate brass knuckles with a fair degree of accuracy – slammed into his midsection once more, and Sherlock cried out in pain.

“I hate to do this, Sherlock.” Simon sounded genuinely regretful. “You really are a good customer. But you understand. Can’t have my customers thinking that they can get a free ride.”

“Go to hell,” Sherlock croaked, and the fist hit him again. A blinding surge of pain flashed hot and bright in his chest, orange and red against the dull pale-yellow throb in his belly. He was afraid he was going to throw up. Back up, Simon, I’m about to ruin your nice shoes. He’d aim right for the damned things if he did vomit.

“You’re a trust fund baby,” Simon said. “Must be someone you can call.”

There was, but he wasn’t going to do it.

“Sherlock,” Simon said wearily, “if you don’t help me out, I’m going to have the lads here hold a cigarette lighter to the soles of your feet. It’s going to hurt like mad. Be reasonable now.”

“Fuck you.”

“Take his shoes off.”

“No –“ Despite the pain, Sherlock fought frantically to get free, but it did him no good at all. They pulled off his trainers and socks and wrestled him down to the ground. One of the bikers held his upper body and pinned his wrists together, another sat on his legs, half-crushing him, and the third took out a lighter emblazoned with an iron cross and flicked it open. “You wouldn’t dare,” he panted. “And if you do, I swear to God I’ll –“

“Shut it,” the biker holding his wrists said, and dug the hard, callused fingers of his free hand into Sherlock’s cheeks.

The lighter drew close to Sherlock’s naked foot. Mesmerised, he stopped struggling and watched the flickering orange-and-blue flame until the flame disappeared, held beneath bare, vulnerable flesh.

Once, when he was five, he’d dragged a chair to the Aga, turned it on, and held a piece of bread over the flame, waiting for it to toast. He’d got too close and burned his hand badly enough to require a visit to their doctor. He remembered screaming loudly and his mother and Mycroft running to him, clasping him close, running cold water over his hand, but he couldn’t remember the pain of the burn. Pain is transient, a coldly clinical slice of his brain reminded him, momentarily eclipsing his panic and the craving that still ate at his nerves. Useful to remember it for later. Given enough time, he could go into a sort of self-hypnosis, transcend the pain. He was smarter than all four men in the room combined – five, if you counted the still-unconscious ginger in the corner. There was a way out of this.

The flame touched his skin. There was heat, discomfort.

And then there was agony.

After what seemed hours (weeks, aeons) of hoarse, prolonged shrieks that rendered his throat to raw shreds, he told them, through choked sobs, whom to call.

*

“Very well. Expect me in one hour.”

Mycroft replaced the telephone in its receiver and stared at it for a moment. He massaged his temples with his fingertips, conscious of a headache that had blossomed during the brief conversation. If he were entirely honest with himself, he had been expecting this moment for some time; therefore, he was not altogether unprepared, though what he was about to do exceeded the boundaries of his demesne and almost certainly the approval of his higher-ups, shadowy and indistinct as they were. Still, there was a time to sit prudently by, and a time to take advantage of one’s authority, and what was this but one of those times? Family was important; surely his superiors would understand.

He was rather surprised to discover that he didn’t care if they did or not. There was a decided pleasure to be found in a gamble.

*

The car stopped in a section of London Mycroft had never visited before and hoped to never see again. It was no better than a slum: brick tenements slouching together, windows denuded of glass gaping like empty eye-sockets, gated and chained storefronts obscured beneath layers of graffiti, rubbish littering the street, furtive, hunched figures travelling in packs, prostitutes and drug vendors plying their distasteful trades to the foolish, the unwary. A smell of foreign cooking and the steady thump of some irritating music filtered through the closed window. Mycroft sighed.

The man in the front passenger seat, a young, square-jawed man in his mid-twenties, turned and addressed Mycroft respectfully. “We’re here, sir.”

“Yes, I gathered. All right, let’s go.”

The men in the front seat got out of the car, and the driver opened the door for Mycroft. They waited for the men who’d been in the car behind them to join, flanking him as the group moved toward the door. People had stopped to stare, though not for long; Mycroft’s men had a trick of putting menace into their faces, young as they were, and the hustlers and pimps backed away, perhaps sensing beneath the layers of pharmaceutically-induced and natural stupidity that trouble was afoot. Mycroft ignored them and waited for one of his companions to open the building door. There was no lock, no buzzer to override – a small favour, but appreciated.

They trudged up two flights of stairs – no elevator, naturally – and Mycroft pointed down the hall. “Two hundred fourteen,” he said softly. The men with him nodded, pulled their knitted caps down, revealing balaclavas, and drew their weapons. They moved toward the door, two in front of Mycroft, two behind, and knocked.

As the door opened, revealing a young man with bleached hair and a smarmy, falsely ingratiating smile, all four SAS men pointed their weapons at his face.

“Holy fuck –“ The young man tried to shut the door, but one of the SAS men kicked it open and collared him. The others spread out in the tiny flat, covering four leather-clad gentlemen who seemed very surprised indeed, and a young, exceedingly pale man curled up on a dirty lilo and blinking at them in confusion.

Mycroft looked around the sordid room, wincing in disgust, but didn’t see Sherlock. “Secure them, please,” he said, indicating the leather-clad gentlemen. The leather-clad men, prudent sorts evidently, held up their hands at once; two of the SAS hauled them into a corner and bound their hands and feet with cable ties. The other two glanced questioningly at the young man with bleached hair and the man on the lilo, but Mycroft shook his head. He walked over to the man, on his knees now and looking rather uncomfortable with the barrel of a Browning lodged against his temple, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you Simon?”

Amazingly, the young man managed a smile. “That’s me. Simon Williamson. You must be Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t tell me you’d be bringing a fucking army. He’s a clever one.”

Mycroft chose not to answer, instead lifting his head to survey the flat. There were two doors, both closed. “I presume Sherlock is behind one of those doors.”

“Aye, the loo.”

A deep sigh escaped Mycroft’s chest. “I detest guessing games, Mr. Williamson, so do please tell me which door that is, and do please make it quite quick, or your friends here will have to pick pieces of your tiny brain from the corners of this squalid little room.” He offered Williamson a ghostly, acid smile. “Although I doubt the additional decoration would do much to alter the look or smell of the place.”

Williamson lifted a finger that, Mycroft was pleased to note, trembled ever so slightly. “That one.”

“Is he alone in there, or is someone with him?”

“He’s alone.”

“I do hope you’re telling the truth.” Mycroft nodded toward the SAS men, and they drew their weapons and opened the door.

Williamson had told the truth, but Mycroft’s heart clenched nevertheless. Sherlock was lying on the filthy floor, curled up on his side. His hands were tied behind his back and a strip of gaffer tape covered his mouth. He looked dreadful: pale, unshaven, his hair tangled and far too long, his clothes rumpled and dirty. He lifted his head and stared at Mycroft, his eyes full of fury and accusation.

The barest gesture of Mycroft’s hand kept the SAS men rooted in place. He moved to Sherlock, knelt gingerly on the floor (his trousers would have to be fumigated, no doubt) and peeled the tape from Sherlock’s mouth as gently as he could.

“Took you bloody long enough,” Sherlock said in a sneering rasp, and licked his lips. Typical Sherlock; gratitude was simply not in his personal lexicon.

“I had to organise some assistance. You surely didn’t expect me to charge in here on my own.” Mycroft rolled Sherlock to his belly and untied his hands. “Are these your socks?”

“Yes. Why?”

“They’ve got holes in them.”

“Jesus Christ almighty. Can we perhaps save the editorial comments for a more convenient time?” Sherlock glared at Mycroft, then peered at the two SAS men in the doorway. “One that won’t eat up as many taxpayer pounds.”

“Yes, all right.” Mycroft got to his feet and held out a hand. “Come on, get up.”

Sherlock ignored the extended hand and got to his feet, bracing himself on the lip of the tub Mycroft wouldn’t have touched without a hazmat suit. He hissed, and his face went very white.

“What is it?”

“Burn on my foot. Third-degree, I think.”

Mycroft turned to one of the SAS men. “Help him to the car, please.”

Sherlock protested, his brow knotting and a hint of embarrassed pink touching his cheeks, but he finally consented to letting the SAS man grasp him about the waist and half-carry him out of the flat. Mycroft, Williamson, the young man on the lilo, and the leather-clad gentlemen all watched the departure in silence. When they were gone, Mycroft strolled back to Williamson, still kneeling on the floor, the gun still braced against his temple. He was glad to see that Williamson was sweating. “Mr. Williamson,” he said, “how much does my brother owe you? And please favour me with your honesty.”

Williamson licked dry lips. “Erm. Thirteen hundred pounds. That’s with interest – he’s been owing for more than a month now.”

“I see.” Mycroft reached into a pocket and withdrew a roll of crisp notes. He watched the avarice gleaming in Williamson’s eyes and offered him another razor-thin smile. Greed, amongst the greedy, transcended even fear for one’s own life. The human spectrum really was most colourful. He peeled off notes, folded them, and tucked them into Williamson’s breast pocket. “Thirteen hundred pounds, Mr. Williamson, and a piece of advice: in future, you would do well to cease your association with my younger brother. I have neither the time nor the patience to endure this tedious little exercise again, and if I should discover that my brother’s safety is compromised because of you, rest assured that I will do my utmost to make you a very unhappy young man. Is that clear?”

“Yeah,” the young man whispered. “Crystal.”

“Excellent. Good night, then.” Mycroft nodded and left the flat, followed closely by the SAS men. He saw that Sherlock had been bundled into one of the cars and turned to his assistants, who had removed their balaclavas. “I think I shall drive my brother home tonight. Henderson, did it appear that he was in dire need of medical help?”

Henderson, the square-jawed blond, shook his head. “It covers a fair area, sir, and it’s blistered, but it doesn’t look as if it’s gone down to tissue. Antibiotic ointment and a dressing ought to do the trick.”

“Very well. Thank you for your assistance tonight; you executed your duties superbly. I trust the bonuses will prove adequate.”

“Quite adequate, sir, and thank you. We’ll lead you out until we leave Hackney. It’s a bit on the rough side.” Henderson and the other men saluted, and waited for Mycroft to get into the car. Beside him, Sherlock, his bare, injured foot up propped up on the dashboard, glared at him, but said nothing.

Mycroft drove through the streets silently, following the dark sedan, and ignored his younger brother, although acutely conscious of his increasing tension, the unconscious grinding of teeth, the restless drumming motion of his fingers on his denim-clad thigh. He was not about to be drawn into yet another foolish round of bickering, not when he’d just rescued the ungrateful little prat from peril and possible death, and most decidedly not when Sherlock was apparently still craving cocaine. Mycroft smiled grimly to himself; if tawdry, nasty Mr. Williamson had been in the car, Mycroft would have thanked him for not extending Sherlock credit. Let him suffer. It built character.

“What? What, for God’s sake?”

Mycroft blinked. “I didn’t say a word.”

“Please. I can hear your thoughts, Mycroft. You’re scraping the blade of a lecture on that dull strop you call a brain, getting ready to chide me and take me to task, and if you start in on me I swear to God I will throw myself out of the car. So if you want to tell Mummy how I died, be my guest. Lecture away. Christ, it’s like watching a rat nibbling on a corpse for days, bite after bite until the damned thing waddles away, hugely fat and terribly pleased with itself.”

Mycroft glanced down at his belly. True, it swelled a bit (he’d had his waistcoats let out just a little) over his trousers, but then Sherlock had always been prone to bouts of extreme hyperbole. “It’s nice to see you’re not much the worse for wear after this little incident.”

“I am worse for wear, thanks. My foot is bloody killing me.”

“Second-degree burns, Henderson said. Nothing frightfully serious.”

“Well, I’d like to see you put up with it. You’d be in hospital for weeks, demanding chamomile compresses on your forehead and full anaesthesia for a dressing change.” Sherlock slumped into the seat, his arms folded tightly, and stared out the window without speaking. Mycroft glanced at him now and then from the corner of his eye, but said nothing. After a while, Sherlock spoke again. “Don’t tell Mummy.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft replied primly.

“Oh, don’t be so fucking sanctimonious. If there’d been trouble, real trouble, you wouldn’t have had the faintest scruples about having one of Her Majesty’s goons shooting Simon in the head, would you? Doubt it. You’d have one of them do it and you’d sleep like a baby. You don’t fool me in the slightest, Mycroft – you’re bloodthirsty, but God forbid you should do any of the wet work yourself.”

Mycroft kept his eyes on the road, but allowed himself a thin smile. Sherlock was brilliant, undoubtedly, but there were some facts Sherlock didn’t know, and would never know. It suited Mycroft to be thought of as utterly fastidious, as a center-puncher, an office grunt. But that wasn’t entirely true. He was twenty-nine years old, and in the seven years he’d worked in his particular branch of Her Majesty’s Government, he’d seen and done…things…that would have surprised even his cynical little brother, though he would never speak of them. Wet work, indeed. “I can drive you back there, if you like.”

“I might prefer that to your company. And if you think I’m going to stay in your dreary flat, think again. It’s not happening.”

“Where will you stay, then? On the street?”

Sherlock was silent. He stared at Mycroft, open-mouthed, then back out the window.

“I know your flatmates asked you to leave.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Because I stopped by yesterday and they’d told me you’d gone, and they were only too eager to share the reasons for your precipitous departure. It seems they were a little tired of you using their kitchen things and food for experiments and having your equipment scattered all over the flat, not to mention the fact that your drug habit was becoming more and more apparent and that you’ve failed to pay your share of the rent for two months. Incidentally, I had your things moved to a storage facility.”

“Idiots,” Sherlock muttered, and rubbed his eyes. “Look here, Mycroft, I wouldn’t have contacted you at all, but my trust wasn’t deposited this quarter.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, why didn’t you sort it out? What do you expect me to live on?”

“I’m the one who had it stopped.”

Sherlock froze. Slowly, he turned toward Mycroft, his face white. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I….” For the first time in Mycroft’s experience, his brother was without words. His hands twisted together in his lap, and he shook his head, his eyes wide. “How?”

“Mummy named me executor, and Mr. Garland and I re-worked some of the details of the trust. I persuaded her that it was for the best, that the only way to bestow any sense of responsibility upon you was to…ah…restrict access to your funds. It’s all quite above-board, but there exists now a clause that stipulates forfeiture of free use of previously allowed funds should you continue to use the trust money for illegal or immoral purposes. It’s all temporary, naturally. If you cease your cocaine usage, you’ll be permitted limited access to your funds once more.”

“You bloody bastard.” Sherlock clenched his fists; his voice shook helplessly. “You can’t do that.”

“I have done it. You’re breaking Mummy’s heart, you know.”

“Don’t drag her into this. God knows how you pulled the wool over her eyes, but you did, I know it. This is all you, Mycroft. You’re not content to meddle in the affairs of the country on a grand scale, you have to get right down into the –“

“You’re a parasite, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice, ice-cold and tight with anger, cut across Sherlock’s tirade. Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap. “Dear God in heaven, look at yourself. All that ferocious intelligence, all that extraordinary potential buried beneath the twitching skin of a drug addict. It’s disgusting and selfish and absurd, and what’s more, you know it better than I do. Oh, I know – you’re bored, is that it? Spare me. You’re a sulky, lazy, obstreperous child, Sherlock Holmes, and I am sick to death of your tantrums and your resentments. Grow up, for Christ’s sake, and be a man.”

For some time the only sound in the car was the humming of the Jaguar’s engine and the sound of tyres on wet pavement. The two brothers sat side by side, not speaking, hardly moving.

“I’m not a parasite,” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft didn’t deign to answer.

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Go into rehab?” Sherlock’s voice dripped scorn.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t insult your intelligence with one of those programmes.” Mycroft reached into a side pocket of the door and withdrew a thick bound file. “I understand that you may have a rough few days of it – you may already be experiencing some discomfort now, in addition to your foot. I’m not entirely unsympathetic to your distress, you know.” Sherlock snorted in disbelief; Mycroft chose to ignore the reaction. “I have arranged for a nurse to stay at the flat. I’ll be out of the country beginning Saturday.”

“What for?”

“Pakistan is testing medium-range – well, never mind exactly why. I’ll be out, and that’s all you need to know at present. The nurse will live in, but he’ll be an invisible presence until you need him. Please don’t try to leave the flat, Sherlock.”

“Why? Are you planning to keep me under house arrest?”

“I think it’s best for all concerned,” Mycroft replied. “According to my information, the worst of the withdrawal symptoms should be over within a few weeks. When you’re feeling a bit better, have a look at this.” He waved the file.

Sherlock frowned, but it was obvious that his interest was piqued. “What is it?”

“One of my operatives was murdered in rather gruesome fashion a week ago. For obvious reasons – well, obvious to us, at least – we cannot afford to involve the police. I’ve been given carte blanche to handle this in my own way, and there are some particular details that might interest you.” Sherlock reached for the file, but Mycroft held it away. “I would prefer that you examine this with a clear head. You’re certainly in no condition to look at it tonight.” He pulled the car up to the flat and cut the engine. “Think about it, at least.”

Sherlock was pale, and sweat gleamed on his brow. He still looked awful, but some change had come over his expression. He nodded. “All right. I’ll think about it. No promises.”

“Fair enough.” Mycroft exited the car, and went round to help Sherlock out. “Pick up your foot.” He slung Sherlock’s arm round his neck, put his own arm firmly around Sherlock’s waist, and half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs. Panting a little, he let them both into the flat, and helped Sherlock to the bathroom.

Silently, efficiently, he ran the bath while Sherlock undressed, and carefully helped him into the tub. He stripped off his coat, waistcoat, and tie, rolled up his sleeves, took a flannel, and with painstaking care, cleaned his little brother’s injured foot. He smoothed ointment on it, put a clean dressing on it, and then applied himself to getting Sherlock clean. He washed Sherlock’s face and his too-long hair, massaging shampoo into the scalp, shelving his hand across Sherlock’s forehead to keep soap from his eyes as he rinsed. He washed Sherlock’s back, scrubbed under his arms, and left him to soak while he found a dressing gown. Neither spoke.

When he re-entered the bathroom, Sherlock was asleep in the tub, the leg with the injured foot hooked over one side. Mycroft paused, a heap of brown paisley silk over one arm, and rubbed his eyes. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t move.

Mycroft sighed and let the water out of the tub. “Come on, Sherlock.” Grunting with effort, he manoeuvred a half-asleep Sherlock from the tub, dried him perfunctorily, got the dressing gown on him, and dragged him upstairs. He dropped Sherlock on the guest bed, worked the sheets and blankets down, and covered him. Sherlock pushed his face into the pillow and made a humming noise, and then, almost visibly, fell into a deep sleep.

Still panting, Mycroft sat on the bed and regarded his sleeping brother. Gently, tenderly, he reached out and brushed wet curls from Sherlock’s forehead, then rested his fingers on one thin white cheek.

“What am I going to do with you, Sherlock?”

There was no answer; perhaps there never would be. Sighing, Mycroft heaved himself up, turned out the light, and trudged downstairs for a cup of tea and a sandwich. There was the Pakistan problem to be dealt with still.

*