Too Close to Holmes - 6/?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6 - Breaking
John sighed as he walked slowly down the stairs to the living room, listening carefully for any sign from his flatmate. It had been a week since Sherlock had received the email from the rapist, and John had found himself walking on eggshells ever since.
Every morning when he woke up, he would walk down the stairs to find Sherlock breaking in some new and disturbing way. Twice he had walked into the living room in the morning to find the detective sleeping on the couch, dried blood on his shirt-sleeve, new cuts decorating his arms. The previous morning he had been greeted by the smell of alcohol and the sight of Sherlock passed out on the sofa, his bandaged arm thrown over his eyes, blocking the light from the morning sun.
This morning, however, he found Sherlock sitting up on the sofa, peering closely at the veins in the crook of his elbow.
"What are you thinking of doing now?" John asked as he walked into the kitchen. "Those veins aren't a typical target area for cutting into, and you know I flushed the cocaine from under your bed after the last drugs bust."
"Not thinking of doing anything." Sherlock told him dully. "Just thinking."
"Of course." John replied, not convinced. "Tea? Breakfast?"
"Just tea for me." Sherlock responded, lighting a cigarette. "I had breakfast yesterday."
"Right." John muttered under his breath as he reached for the kettle. "Because that's exactly how the human body works."
"I might head down to Scotland Yard this morning." Sherlock announced. "Get an update from Lestrade."
"And how will this be any different from every other visit this week?" John enquired.
"I have to keep making an appearance." Said Sherlock. "He has to see that I've ignored his warning."
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Sherlock?" John asked, sitting down on the sofa next to the detective. "I know you want to catch him, and I know it's important, but this is destroying you."
"Of course it's a good idea!" Sherlock snapped, leaping to his feet. "Don't you understand? This is the best chance we've had of catching him in twenty-two years!"
"I understand that." John argued. "But do you really want to catch him at the expense of your sanity?"
Sherlock snarled. "Forget the tea." He barked, marching towards the door. "I'm going to see Lestrade."
"Sherlock!" John called, watching his flatmate walk out of the flat. Sherlock, though, was already gone, and certainly not listening.
John sighed, picking his phone up off the coffee table and scrolling through his contacts thoughtfully. Doubts flew through his mind, wondering whether or not he was doing the right thing. His eyes fell on the overflowing ashtray, and the bloody scalpel lying on the table next to it, though, and he dialled, his mind made up.
"Mycroft?" He said, when his call was answered. "I think you should come over."
When John let Mycroft into the living room an hour later, he still hadn't decided what exactly he should say to the older Holmes brother. There was so much he needed his help with, but he had know idea where to start.
"Why don't you just tell me exactly what the problem is." Mycroft suggested, sitting down in John's chair and looking up at him, and giving the doctor the eerie feeling of just having had his mind read.
"Well..." John started, taking Sherlock's usual spot on the sofa. "I'm worried about Sherlock."
"I see." Mycroft said with a twirl of his ever-present umbrella. "May I enquire as to why?"
John hesitated, wondering how much he should divulge to Mycroft about his brother's recent problems, and whether or not Sherlock would consider this a gross, unforgivable breach of privacy and confidentiality.
"I assure you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft stated, seeing John's hesitation. "I am well aware of the behaviours recent events are likely to bring about in Sherlock, having witnessed most of them first-hand during his adolescence. As such, I find it highly unlikely that anything you need to tell me will come as a great surprise. I do, however, consider it necessary that I be made aware of just how concerned I should be."
"He's been cutting himself." John blurted out, suddenly overwhelmed by a need to get his concerns and frustrations off his chest. "Daily, at least. He smokes like a chimney, and barely eats. When he does eat, more often than not he'll vomit it straight back up. He barely talks at all, and the other night he drank until he just passed out. I know I'm a doctor and should know how to handle things like this but... it's just... I can't..." He paused for a moment, staring at Mycroft. "It's Sherlock."
"It is often the case," Mycroft commented slowly, "that all the training and education in the world can mean next to nothing when it is somebody you care deeply about who is suffering."
John gaped, stunned by the other man's unexpected words of comfort.
"So." Mycroft continued. "He has reverted back to smoking and self-injury. I am unsurprised that he doesn't speak much. Sherlock didn't speak at all for over a year after he was raped as a boy. Now, I must ask. Has he been taking any drugs?"
"No." John assured him. "I don't think so. I'm pretty sure he hasn't. I think it's been on his mind, though. I found him staring at the veins in his arm, when I came down this morning. Like he was studying them."
Mycroft nodded, thinking for a moment before standing up.
"I must ask that you continue to monitor the situation." He said to John. "I must return to the office, where I can watch all CCTV near to areas where Sherlock is likely to go if he wishes to acquire drugs." John nodded, walking Mycroft to the door while he continued. "At the moment, it is only the return of the bulimic and anorexic tendencies which concern me. If possible, monitor his heart rate closely. After years of drug abuse and eating disorders, you can imagine the damage he has already inflicted on his heart. I will send a package of supplements to minimise damage caused by any electrolyte imbalance, and I must ask that you try to keep him hydrated."
"Sure." John said when they reached Mycroft's car. "I'll stock up on the mineral water and energy drinks he likes. And if the worst comes to the worst, I don't think he's physically capable of refusing tea when it's offered." He hesitated again, before speaking his next thought. "You helped him through all of this last time, didn't you?"
Mycroft looked at John, smiling slightly in approval. "When Sherlock was a teenager, I was the only one who knew about these problems." He said softly. "Mummy was always so concerned about Sherlock anyway. He was her little boy, beautiful and undeniably a genius, but marred by the stigma of Asperger's. When he was very small, Sherlock used to believe I could protect him from anything, and he rather resented it when I failed him. When I discovered his cutting and his eating disorders, I knew that to inform anybody else of what I had discovered would have constituted a final betrayal to Sherlock. I learned very quickly when to give Sherlock space to work through his own problems, and when to intervene, and he learned to come to me to dress his wounds and provide him with everything I could to prevent long-term damage to his body and mind. He never stopped resenting me, though, for that fatal failure in my duty to protect him." Mycroft sighed, nodding goodbye at John. "Maybe, one day, I will have done enough to earn my redemption, in his eyes."
John watched, stunned by the sadness and self-recrimination he had seen in Mycroft's eyes. The families were the unseen victims, he found himself thinking sadly. They never stopped blaming themselves for what had happened; never stopped wondering if they could have done something to stop it.
Turning with a sigh, John raised his eyes to look up at 221b Baker Street, before walking inside to wait for Sherlock.
Sherlock lit a cigarette as he stepped out of Scotland Yard, blowing the first breath of smoke angrily out before he had fully inhaled it. The lack of progress they were making on this case was frustrating, and the desire for it all to be over was clawing at his insides like an angry beast.
Despite his daily visits to Scotland Yard, there had been no further contact from the - his - rapist. It seemed like all they could do was wait for the next attack, and hope for new leads at the cost of yet another victim's innocence and childhood.
Snarling, Sherlock cut into an alley, intending to walk back to Baker Street while he attempted to clear his head and think over the facts of the case again. He barely had time to register the sound of footsteps behind him, however, before his mind suddenly exploded with the force of a vicious blow to the back of his head, and the world around him faded into blackness.
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