“How do you know that?” the man holding him asked.
“Simple observation,” he said.
“What’s your name, then?”
“For when you call me in to figure out if I’m the one that did this all, Sherlock Holmes,” he said. Odd how closing his eyes tight helped stave off the pain. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. He was dizzy. “And you are?”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the man said, somewhat faintly.
They brought him out on a stretcher, hands cuffed together despite the obvious fact he was far too weak to even stand, and it was cold outside, night time, of course, but colder than he’d expected. He glanced back at the building, its windows glinting with the carnival flashes of police lights, and there, in the first story, he saw his brother, pale and grim and dark like a mourner.
He laughed.
+
Mycroft did not teleport into Sherlock’s cell of a hospital room, but he was wearing a glamour – the thin sort, the sort Mycroft had always worn, even before he could magic one on, the sort that kept anyone from looking at him for too long.
Sherlock was saddened that there wasn’t something within arm’s reach he could throw.
“I’m curious to hear how you’ll explain this,” Mycroft said.
“You’ve got a new tailor. Better, pricier, too. Pity he can’t cover up the weight you’ve gained; Mycroft, have you been stress eating over me? I’m flattered, really.”
“I take it there was no reasoning behind your actions whatsoever.”
“Actually, my drug addiction is merely one facet of an elaborate scheme by which I will ascend to power, just like my older brother. Touching, isn’t it?”
“I failed you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.
Damn. He wasn’t going to play today. Sherlock leaned back in bed and stared at the ceiling. It had more personality. How long until withdrawal started?
“And I have the feeling I’m going to keep failing you. I wish I knew what to do about it.”
“Fuck off,” said Sherlock.
+
This time, Mycroft did teleport .
“The DI seems to have taken a liking to you,” he said acidly. “Try not to mess this one up, would you?”
“Not going to comment on my new housing, then?” Sherlock asked, leaning against the wall of his cell.
FILL: scenes from a book no one wrote -- 4/?
“Simple observation,” he said.
“What’s your name, then?”
“For when you call me in to figure out if I’m the one that did this all, Sherlock Holmes,” he said. Odd how closing his eyes tight helped stave off the pain. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. He was dizzy. “And you are?”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the man said, somewhat faintly.
They brought him out on a stretcher, hands cuffed together despite the obvious fact he was far too weak to even stand, and it was cold outside, night time, of course, but colder than he’d expected. He glanced back at the building, its windows glinting with the carnival flashes of police lights, and there, in the first story, he saw his brother, pale and grim and dark like a mourner.
He laughed.
+
Mycroft did not teleport into Sherlock’s cell of a hospital room, but he was wearing a glamour – the thin sort, the sort Mycroft had always worn, even before he could magic one on, the sort that kept anyone from looking at him for too long.
Sherlock was saddened that there wasn’t something within arm’s reach he could throw.
“I’m curious to hear how you’ll explain this,” Mycroft said.
“You’ve got a new tailor. Better, pricier, too. Pity he can’t cover up the weight you’ve gained; Mycroft, have you been stress eating over me? I’m flattered, really.”
“I take it there was no reasoning behind your actions whatsoever.”
“Actually, my drug addiction is merely one facet of an elaborate scheme by which I will ascend to power, just like my older brother. Touching, isn’t it?”
“I failed you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.
Damn. He wasn’t going to play today. Sherlock leaned back in bed and stared at the ceiling. It had more personality. How long until withdrawal started?
“And I have the feeling I’m going to keep failing you. I wish I knew what to do about it.”
“Fuck off,” said Sherlock.
+
This time, Mycroft did teleport .
“The DI seems to have taken a liking to you,” he said acidly. “Try not to mess this one up, would you?”
“Not going to comment on my new housing, then?” Sherlock asked, leaning against the wall of his cell.
Mycroft glared and disappeared.