Christmas in the Cotswolds
Chapter Five
I awoke with my face buried in Greg's chest.
"Good morning," he offered softly, as he felt me shifting.
"Hmm." Words weren't my forte during the first hour or so of the day. He smelled good, though - like cologne and sex. I kissed his chest in several spots, wrapping my arm around him, signaling that I had no intention of rising.
For a moment, the room was as still as the cold winter outside. That, however, was interrupted by a ringing. Greg slid out from beneath me, walking quickly to the sitting area.
"That'll be the kitchen," he explained. "I ordered breakfast.
"This is Inspector Lestrade," he said, picking up the hotel phone. "Yes, of course, thank you."
I could hear that his voice was a bit startled, so I stood from the bed, wrapping myself in a dressing gown and making my way to rest on the crushed velvet of one of the sitting room chairs.
"What is it, John?"
I shot Greg a glare. We had turned our mobiles off for a reason. Why did Dr. Watson even know where to reach us?
"Slow down. Now, what happened?" Greg's face grew white with panic. "When did you last see him?"
I took a moment to consider the situation and Greg's body language. It was Sherlock. He had disappeared again.
"No. It's okay. We'll figure something out. Just stay in touch. And don't leave in case he comes home, alright?" He hung up the phone and collapsed onto the chair opposite me.
"We're not leaving. We're not ending this holiday early because my little brother decided to throw some sort of tantrum," I insisted.
"No, Myc, it's not that. He's high and missing."
"That's unlikely. As long as he has Dr. Watson, he stays clean. There's no reason for him to be using," I argued.
"Well, John was just diagnosed with cancer," he said, with sorrow in his voice.
"My God. Alright. Well, I'll find him. I always do." I stood, heading to the suitcase to dress. "I'm not sure I understand why John didn't discuss this with me before telling Sherlock. He had to know how he'd react."
Greg grabbed my hand as I walked past him. "Mycroft, John didn't tell him."
"Of course he didn't." I suddenly realised my mistake. "He wouldn't have to, would he?"
Greg's thumb rubbed the flesh of my hand in an effort to offer comfort.
"Greg," I started, "I am so very sorry for this. I really am."
"Not another word," he argued. "Let's just find him before he kills himself."
***
It certainly wasn't the first time I'd gone searching for my brother knowing he was lying somewhere in a drug-induced stupor.
Upon arriving back in London, I'd left Greg at Baker Street to meet a drug squad and search Sherlock's rooms. That left me to drive around the city in an attempt to locate my crocked little brother. It was now dusk and I was determined to find him before the cold of night set in.
I'd already exhausted his most favored bolt-holes and two separate dosshouses where I'd found him in the past. As I ticked another box on the list in my mind, my mobile rang. "What have you found?" I asked.
"Fentanyl sewn into John's mattress and shrink-wrapped oxycodone in the toilet tank. Not much of either left, though, " Greg explained.
"No cocaine?"
"None. He must've used up whatever he could get his hands on."
"Call Miss Hooper, would you, please? This will need to be handled discreetly once I locate him."
"She's already waiting for my call," he confirmed.
Without further words, I disconnected the call and stopped the vehicle in an alleyway behind Bart's. If my memory was serving me correctly, that's where I believed Sherlock to have first met John. Perhaps he'd gone there. I walked through the alley in the snow, checking behind bins and in alcoves. Nothing. I, of course, had access to the surveillance cameras around the city that covered the roof of the hospital as well as the system inside the facility, and he'd not been seen anywhere.
Wherever he'd gone, it had to be a location that he felt provided him a connection to Dr. Watson. I got back into the car, trying to think through my anger and recall all of the cases they'd worked on together. I found my head buried in my gloved hands. "Where would I go if I were Sherlock Holmes?" I asked myself.
"Oh, God." It was so obvious. How had I missed it?
I drove as quickly as traffic would allow, bracing myself for what I was about to find. I was incredibly skilled at hiding any emotions with which I struggled. Sherlock, was, however, my Achilles heel. I'd spent most of my life watching over him.
I stopped the car and reached under the seat for my pocket torch. The temperature had dropped significantly in the short drive from Bart's. I lifted a blanket from the backseat before walking away from the car. Unfortunately, I'd learned to always have thermal blankets in any vehicle I used, specifically for this purpose.
The light of my torch illuminated each gravestone I passed as I walked. There was nowhere else he could possibly be. This had to be it.
I felt my heart rate increase as I approached the section where Mary Watson had been laid to rest. I saw a dark figure lying in front of the double headstone, which also bore John's name. He was curled up like a sleeping animal. Unfolding the blanket, I knelt beside him.
"Go away." His words were barely discernible.
"Sherlock, I need you to come with me now," I said, as gently as possible.
"I said, go away."
"You know that I won't. I'll carry you out of here if you leave me no other choice, Sherlock. Please come with me." I rested my hand on his back. "I'll help you stand."
Still not moving, he murmured, "Why do I never listen to you?"
"Honestly, I've no idea," I admitted. "What are you talking about?"
"Sentiment. Friendship. Love." He rolled over onto his back. "You told me once that caring is not an advantage. This is what caring does."
I stopped to consider what I'd said to him years ago. That conversation had happened just before Greg and I had started seeing one another. "Sherlock, I know you'll be surprised to hear me say this, but - I was wrong."
"What do you mean? No, you weren't. Lives end and those who remain are left behind to rot."
"I was wrong, Sherlock. I'll explain later. Right now, though, we need to get you out of the snow." As the words escaped my lips, my memory flashed to a time when I was still but a teenager, carrying my snow-covered little brother to safety after finding him curled up much like this behind a pub's bins.
"I'm fine here, Mycroft. Please leave."
"Where's the list?"
"Mycroft, go!" he yelled. His voice echoed in the emptiness of the cemetery.
"The list, Sherlock. Now!" I demanded.
He reached into his coat pocket and threw a balled-up strip of paper at my face.
Using the torchlight, I scanned the list. Fentanyl and oxycodone, just as Greg had said. Cocaine, as usual. Morphine. Heroin. "Good, God, Sherlock. It's a miracle you're still conscious."
"It's not a miracle. You don't even believe in miracles. It's chemistry," he contradicted.
"Where do you want to go? I'll take you anywhere you like. Baker Street? I'll take you home with me. Just please let me get you out of here," I pleaded.
He sat himself up slowly. "Call Mummy."
"I'm sorry?" I was shocked by his request.
"If I can go anywhere I like, that's where I want to go."
"Sherlock, are you sure? You'll be in for an ear full."
"As if I won't be getting one from you every day for the next month? That's where I want to go."
Our mother would be broken-hearted to see him like this. I'd made certain that she hadn't been witness to this since he'd become an adult. I'd just promised him, though. "Alright. I'll take you to Mummy, but I'm calling Dr. Watson to let him know."
"I don't care what you do, Mycroft," he groaned, putting his arm around my shoulder so that I could support him as he tried to stand.
***
I propped myself up against the wall of the foyer as I walked into my house. It was now nearly midnight. Sherlock was settled with my parents and I'd been certain to have a conversation with Dr. Watson. I'd called Greg upon arriving at my Mum's house several hours earlier, telling him to head home. My eyes drifted shut with exhaustion as I wondered what Greg had originally had planned for our last day away. It was now Christmas Adam and we'd be expected at Mummy's for dinner the following afternoon.
I forced myself to walk, despite my exhaustion. I heard voices as I approached the sitting room.
"It's a Christmas movie," Greg said as I walked into the room. He sat on the sofa, which he'd moved, staring up at the wall watching the film reel of It's A Wonderful Life.
"It is," I confirmed.
"It's a Christmas movie about friendship and love and the impact people have on each other's lives."
I stood silently, still not moving any nearer to him.
"What the hell happened, Mycroft?"
"What do you mean?"
"This is your favourite film? The man who despises Christmas? The man who avoids friendships at all costs? That same man had to have a music box to play a song from this movie when he was a kid?" He paused, looking back at the image dancing on the wall. "What broke you?"
"I don't have the energy for this. I'm going to bed." Without having actually looked directly at him, I made my way up the stairs in silence. He didn't follow.