Chapter Text
Sherlock asserts strongly that Moriarty is definitely dead. But he also says he knows what Moriarty is going to do next. Make of that what you will. -- JW
Mycroft drew a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, to try and still the sudden tremor in his hands. What he made of it was that his brother's sanity -- never very secure -- was presently hanging by a thread. Of course, he was still under the influence. Possibly, when he came down, he'd be able to explain himself. But Mycroft had to entertain the more likely possibility that there was no explanation beyond the sizzling of synapses frying in a drug-induced frenzy. Given the contents of the list -- oh, that list!-- it was entirely possible not all of Sherlock would come back.
What to do? He could trust Dr. Watson with Sherlock's physical care, but his little brother's future was still very precarious. Very powerful people were expecting him to bring the detective with him to MI6 so they could immediately start work on the Moriarty broadcast. Finding out they would have to wait while the genius they were depending on was nursed through a drug overdose would hardly dispose them kindly toward him.
With a sigh, the elder Holmes brother entered his mind palace, efficiently sorting through data on the five people he would have to appease. Lady Smallwood he could count on as a staunch ally: she counted Magnussen's murder as the extermination of noxious vermin, and would rather reward Sherlock than punish him. Of the four men, one would be openly hostile: one too many deductions had slipped past Sherlock's lips on one occasion. The remaining three were your quintessential English lords: noble and fair-minded -- or rather, Mycroft understood that this was their image of themselves. Appealing to their sense of largesse might be the best strategy.
Four hours later saw a very tired Mycroft Holmes on the doorstep of 221B clutching a small bag. John's eyebrows rose as he opened the door.
"Wasn't expecting you," he remarked.
"And I wasn't expecting to be here," the elder brother rejoined as he stepped into the flat. He could make out Sherlock curled up on the sofa, a sheet tucked around him, dead to the world. "A number of powerful people are very upset right now that Sherlock is in the wind as far as they know. So, to appease them..." and Mycroft drew out of the bag an anklet tracking device.
"Huh." John eyed the bit of hardware curiously. "Can he get that wet?"
"Oh, yes, quite waterproof. And I've added some tweaks to make it Sherlock-proof as well." He crossed to the sofa and lifted the sheet off his brother's feet.
Sherlock stirred sleepily. "Whassit?" he slurred.
"Hush, baby brother, just me. I brought you some jewelry."
"Not Uncle Rudy's?" Sherlock mumbled.
"No, not Uncle Rudy's," Mycroft assured, fastening the anklet. "As if he would part with any of that mountain of faux pearls."
"Hum," Sherlock agreed. His eyes blinked open, but his gaze was dreamy and unfocused. "Wonder how many oysters they had to go through to find so many pearls?"
"None whatsoever. Faux, remember?"
"Too many oysters," Sherlock frowned suddenly. "Cover England knee-deep in oysters."
Mycroft covered his feet back up and went to stand by his head, frowning down on him from his full height. "You're not making sense," he said sternly. "Go back to sleep."
"M'kay." His eyes drifted closed and he snuggled into his pillow. Within seconds, sleep had reclaimed him.
Mycroft stayed there, the stern expression morphing into one of deep concern as John joined him. "How is he, John? I see his temperature spiked."
The doctor blinked. "How do you see that?"
"The back of his head is damp. I assume you threw him in a cool bath."
"Right. Not your first time on this ride."
The elder brother snorted, "Hardly." He turned away and folded himself into Sherlock's chair, weary to the bone. "Although I had let myself hope the last time would be the last time. He was doing so well."
John felt a stab of sympathy. "I know that feeling. My sibling, too -- but you know that." He drew a breath. "Well. Immediately after we got here, we went through a little over an hour of manic energy, which he spent flogging his laptop, insisting he had to get down his 'case notes.' He kept that up until the detox kicked in in earnest, at which point we went through the delightful stage where fluids pour out of every orifice and he threw up everything he's ever eaten. Then, as you know, his temperature spiked. We literally did throw him in that bath; he was off his head by then and raving in what sounded like six different languages at once. The cold water worked wonders, though: his temp came right down and he regained lucidity. As soon as we got him out, he got very sleepy, as you see. I'm going to let him rest for another half hour, then see if he can keep any fluids down. If not, I'll start an I.V."
"You have everything you need here?"
John nodded. "Sent Mary out on a supply run first thing. She's upstairs, by the way, having a kip while things are quiet."
"Naloxone?" Mycroft asked.
The doctor shook his head. "Had it on hand, but managed to avoid using it. It stresses the heart, and I don't like what I hear when I listen to your brother's heart." Mycroft raised his eyebrows, wordlessly commanding John to elaborate. "It's beating fast, but not strong. I'm not saying a heart attack is imminent, but that's a clear sign of a heart under stress. If you think about it: cocaine use all by itself, let alone an overdose. Cigarette smoking. Poor eating and sleeping habits. Extreme mental and emotional stress. Recent traumatic injury. On a checklist of cardiac stressors, that's almost every item checked except for obesity." He went to his patient, took his temperature with a thermometer in the ear, and tutted at the result. "Back up just a tetch; no cause for concern yet."
Mycroft retrieved Sherlock's laptop and flipped it open. John said, "The password is..."
"I'm in." Mycroft rapidly scanned the last document Sherlock had worked on, a frown line deepening between his brows. "Did you read this?"
"Been a little busy," the doctor replied, taking Sherlock's pulse. "Find anything useful?"
"It's gibberish," Mycroft growled. "A pastiche of the Ricoletti case and Moriarty, sprinkled liberally with non sequiters: 'Remarkably, Watson looks rather good with a handlebar moustache.' "
"What?"
Mycroft scrolled down. "Plum pudding," he mumbled with disgust. Further on: "Dead is the new sexy."
John blanched. "That's disturbing."
"A lot of this is disturbing." He tapped at the keys. "I'm emailing this to myself to peruse at my leisure. I do speak fluent Sherlockian; I may be able to pull a gem out of the dross." He started to get up, but was stayed by John.
"Mycroft. Like I said, my sister -- ah. I know the face of addiction, and that little speech Sherlock gave on the plane about 'controlled usage'..."
Mycroft nodded grimly. "I know, John. I've heard that speech before, too. It's generally the precursor to a truly spectacular binge."
"Which I will not let happen," John replied, steel in his voice. "But those cravings are going to hit hard. The Moriarty problem might be sufficient distraction to see him through, but if he's regressed to the point of denying his condition..."
"Yes, I know." The elder brother rubbed his forehead, trying to stave off a headache. "The timing..." His head snapped up suddenly, eyes brightening. The look was reminiscent of Sherlock on a scent. "The timing," he repeated slowly, "could not be better." He stood up, almost jauntily, and retrieved his umbrella. "Well. I'm off to be a proper big brother." And with that, he was gone, leaving a perplexed John Watson behind him.