"You haven't answered your phone at all today." Mycroft picks the device up off the table, plucking it from the side corner next to Sherlock's chair. He knows fully well that Sherlock has been avoiding him, is continuing to avoid him even in person. He does such things.
Sherlock isn't the only one who memorizes small little things. He knows even without seeing the tools what Sherlock has been doing. He asks (politely) for Ms. Hudson to leave the room, a silent fury coming over him. At the very least, he had expected Sherlock to feel guilt for putting him through such a thing, again. It echoes sentiments of finding a seventeen year old, gangly teenager with dark long hair, finding him strung out of his mind on something or another, unable to even formulate coherent sentences. It echoes the times where he's had to rehabilitate Sherlock, where he's had to go through sock drawers and shoes and find hiding spots that the man keeps all over the house.
If Sherlock doesn't care to communicate, he allows himself to go through things the hard way. Taking a rubbish bin, throwing the bits of paraphernalia out on the table in the garbage, starting his way around the house. Mummy and Daddy never knew. Why would he want to break her heart?
No one's heart should have to break but his own. He starts in the usual places, cabinets in the kitchen, the utensil drawer, finding bags of white powder and syringes and bottles of solution. He knows Sherlock is bound to stop him, at least attempt any moment, for what he's hoping for. Until then, he'll have to rid the place of any and all evidence. "Scotland Yard stops by here to consult you on cases, Sherlock. You can hardly leave these things lying around."
Cleaning up after his brother's mess. It's childhood in a nutshell, all over again.
no subject
Sherlock isn't the only one who memorizes small little things. He knows even without seeing the tools what Sherlock has been doing. He asks (politely) for Ms. Hudson to leave the room, a silent fury coming over him. At the very least, he had expected Sherlock to feel guilt for putting him through such a thing, again. It echoes sentiments of finding a seventeen year old, gangly teenager with dark long hair, finding him strung out of his mind on something or another, unable to even formulate coherent sentences. It echoes the times where he's had to rehabilitate Sherlock, where he's had to go through sock drawers and shoes and find hiding spots that the man keeps all over the house.
If Sherlock doesn't care to communicate, he allows himself to go through things the hard way. Taking a rubbish bin, throwing the bits of paraphernalia out on the table in the garbage, starting his way around the house. Mummy and Daddy never knew. Why would he want to break her heart?
No one's heart should have to break but his own. He starts in the usual places, cabinets in the kitchen, the utensil drawer, finding bags of white powder and syringes and bottles of solution. He knows Sherlock is bound to stop him, at least attempt any moment, for what he's hoping for. Until then, he'll have to rid the place of any and all evidence. "Scotland Yard stops by here to consult you on cases, Sherlock. You can hardly leave these things lying around."
Cleaning up after his brother's mess. It's childhood in a nutshell, all over again.