The art of losing isn't hard to master

[clueingforlooks]

Sherlock had known that things would change. He wasn't actually an idiot, despite his dear brother's insistence otherwise.

Things had already changed. It wasn't just he and John against the world anymore. It was he and John and Mary. And he and John and Mary's ever growing reminder that there would be a baby. And then Sherlock would lose him again, but this time would be so much worse, because the baby will do what all babies do. It will change John. It will tether him to their flat, keep him up all hours so that he's not available to come out and solve crimes with him, and worst of all, the baby is going to make John responsible. He isn't going to be game for weeks on end of risking his neck, because he's got a baby at home to take care of, a wife that he could leave a widow. John has something to lose now.

The baby, as it happened, had come early. It's some two weeks later, and all the congratulations have passed and left the new parents thrust into parenthood. Just as he'd predicted, John is always tired, always helping Mary, and not free to come pay attention to him. It isn't as though there's anything to do, really. There's no word on Moriarty yet, just this waiting game that's weighing heavily over them all.

Sherlock isn't coping well, which is to say he isn't coping at all. He's blitzed out of his mind, or just to this side of it. It's hard to tell anymore. It's been days that he's been here, holed up in his flat, the curtains drawn against the milky light of London. He'd had to travel outside of London to get these drugs. He's furious about that, but the anger has ebbed away for the moment. Now, he's floating. Heavy, warm, drifting within his own mind, stretched out on the sofa, pajama bottoms and unzipped hoodie the only things he's wearing. There's a mess around him, clothes he's worn in the past few days and shucked off. Drug paraphernalia on the table.

His phone is somewhere across the room. It's been buzzing intermittently. It's Mycroft. He doesn't need to look at it to know. Mycroft has been calling and answering the phone to talk to his dear brother is the very last thing he's going to be doing.

Comments

[diogenesclub]

It had been a trying time for them all.

The baby had come with due congratulations, despite the premature birth throwing everything for a loop. His normal failsafes, his usual eye on Sherlock had grown weak in the face of Moriarty's return, and while he had been all too happy to send his dearly beloved brother back home, turn the plane around -- it exhausted him, spending so much time calculating and mapping and following whatever little leads they could find. He had expected his brother to take the forefront, but Sherlock Holmes hadn't been reachable for days.

A visit to his flat (not physically, no, no need until he knew he was there) with the CCTV told him that he wasn't available. Not home. Danger signs that send warning bells off in his head, because he had left for a somewhat extended period of time. He put the alert on his brother higher, made sure to keep two men's eyes on him in order to tell him when the lanky young man would be arriving, put full security on Mary and John and the baby, and god help him Sherlock, if you allowed Moriarty to get to you now --

It wasn't a shock when Sherlock's dear little seven percent solution was out and about again. A kit with a needle and a vial and a syringe, and Sherlock's absence becomes all too clear. He attempts him by phone, first. Calling, not texting, because he refuses to do anything but speak to him in person, refuses to do anything until he hears his dear brother's voice. The landlady becomes the best ( and only ) option -- John needs to be with his family now, no time for these games with Sherlock, despite however he knew the man would be the best to keep him away from it.

Ms. Hudson shows him upstairs, and allows him in the room.

He's not surprised when he opens the door to see his darling dear baby brother (christ, he remembers when he only came up to his chest, remembers when he didn't think Sherlock knew what smack was, remembers when he wasn't addicted to morphine and heroine and vacillating between highs and lows) lying on the couch as though the world is in slow motion. To him, it likely is.

He stares.

"Sherlock." Clipped, formal. Attempting to be polite. He had been emotional with him in the past, but showing one's weakness to Sherlock Holmes is an invitation for disaster.