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Mycroft knows he shouldn't have left Sherlock home alone. His parents had convinced him that Sherlock would be fine for the weekend while they were out. It was only two days and he was mature enough to be on his own, but Mycroft knows better than that. He knows more about his little brother than anyone else in the world, especially his parents.
He is an irresponsible child, Mycrft seethes internally when he steps in front of the door to their home and knows that something is not right. There's too much silence within the house. Even though Sherlock wasn't a normal teenager who'd throw a party the moment he was left alone, he's normal enough in the fact that he does whatever the hell he pleases. This usually means completing radical experiments that Mummy would more than frown upon. There's nothing but silence at this moment and Mycroft is worried.
It's a subtle worry. His pupils are dilated and his pulse has quickened ever so slightly as he pushes the door open and calls out Sherlock's name. Mycroft wants to not care. He wants that so badly, words cannot even begin to describe how he wishes he could just cast his brother aside, but he can't. So he calls him again, already knowing he won't respond. "Sherlock, you selfish idiot! When I find you-"
He doesn't need to finish the threat because it's useless. He finds Sherlock crumpled on the floor, paler than normal skin is slicked over with sweat, and his curls have clung onto his face. His eyes flutter, not sure if they want to stay open or not. The latter seems to be winning. There's an acrid tang of vomit in the air and Mycroft can't remember if vomit is a good sign or bad sing in cases like these. Overdoses. There's a voice in the back of his head that tells him to go to his little brother; his little stupid brother who would spend days in a box wearing a pirate’s hat pretending he was at sea.
Mycroft is twenty-four years old, could be considered a full-grown man, but he has never been more scared in his life. He is stuck, feet glued to this singular spot on the burgundy coloured carpeting, paralyzed with fear and guilt. He thought he'd cleared the house of all of Sherlock's poisons. He thought he had handled the situation, but clearly he had not, and he wasn't handling it now.
It's a small squeak from Sherlock that brings Mycroft back to the present. His head has fallen back now and his eyes are wide with fright and he groans out something that could be similar to Mycroft's name, but he tries not to think about it. Instead he rushes to his little brother and scoops him up from the ground.
He is lighter than Mycroft had anticipated weighing no more than a young child. Heat is radiating off of him in waves and Mycroft can feel Sherlock's heart wracking itself against his rib cage. Sherlock's head lolls to the side right against Mycroft's chest. He can visualize the sweat smearing against his jacket and winces at how much it'll take to remove the marks. But he dismissed the thought just as he had wanted to dismiss his brother minutes ago.
Mycroft places Sherlock on his own bed not sure of what he's thinking. He calls the paramedics and does what they tell him to do until they can get there. All the while he's mumbling nonsense things about how foolish and selfish Sherlock is. His thoughts move rapidly, All he wants is something to cure the boredom. Doesn't he think I get bored, too dealing with all of the silly little people in the world? Mycroft realizes the anger that is welling up inside of him and takes a moment to relish in these feelings; explore them and figure them out, but it doesn't matter.
When they paramedics take him away Mycroft sits in the back of the ambulance and watches over his little brother. They go through normal procedures on the way there, and once they get to the hospital they get Sherlock settled in a room where they can keep him hooked to fluids and monitor his vitals. His doctor insists they let their parents know about the situation, but Mycroft uses his highest tone of superiority and demands that they leave it alone. Mycroft is family and more than old enough, so there's no need to contact their parents. He's right, he knows he is, and they realize this, too. So the medical staff lets it go this once and allows Mycroft to stay in the room overnight.
Of course Mycroft can’t sleep. He needs to watch over the monitors and the nurses, needs to make sure they’re all doing their jobs properly. Everyone seems to be doing their jobs well, so Mycroft is left sitting in an uncomfortably firm chair observing Sherlock like a hawk; a very tired and troubled hawk.
He thinks of their parents for a brief moment. At this moment they were probably at a party chatting up some other important couple. They didn’t care about things, not enough, at least. If they did, if they really cared, things like this wouldn’t happen. Sherlock wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed with IVs hooked up to his hands and forearms looking like a tiny child.
Mycroft doesn’t allow himself to think of what could’ve happened, not too long at least. The logical part of his mind had already touched on that, but he didn’t wish to really visit that. No matter how many times he and Sherlock squabbled, they were still family. That’s the last thing he thinks about before drifting into a dreamless sleep that can’t have lasted more than a few hours. When he wakes there’s a doctor in the room checking Sherlock over.
“He seems to be doing well this morning.” The doctor is a short man with a nasally voice and glasses. He looks down at Sherlock. “You were very lucky young man.”
Mycroft notices the slight movement in Sherlock’s jaw that means he really had wanted to make a retort, but he refrained. The doctor, of course, did not notice this and continued on.
“If you had been left any longer in the state you were in, there could’ve been more severe damage to your brain. Any longer and there might’ve been a coma, but you were caught just in time. Your brother tells me this is the first time you’ve used, so it’ll be written off as a very extreme warning. Do you understand?”
Sherlock doesn’t even bother looking at the doctor. He looks, instead for a slight moment at Mycroft before ducking his eyes down. He most certainly knows this is not the first time he has used, but Mycroft doesn’t want to deal with anything else.
The doctor gives Sherlock a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before leaving the room to sign his release forms.
The two Holmes brothers are left in the room together. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but the words come up hoarse and garbled. He winces as he tries once more, and Mycroft stops him.
“They had two feet of plastic tubing down your throat for a good couple of hours, plus you’d been vomiting, Sherlock, of course you shouldn’t be speaking.” His voice is sharper than he anticipated, but he means what the tone evokes. He’s mad at Sherlock right now. He’s mad because he knows that Sherlock doesn’t understand how completely idiotic all of this was.
Sherlock’s cheeks flush in anger and annoyance. For the rest of the day he refuses to look at Mycroft, and never once speaks to him even when his voice does return to normal.
When their parents get back the next day they are surprised to see Mycroft there. “What are you doing home, darling?” his mother asks as she exits the car. Mycroft waits patiently to help carry the luggage up. He can sense Sherlock lurking in the window of his room.
“Nothing, Mummy. I had been around and figured I’d stop in. Check up on things.”
“Oh, well that was kind of you, dear,” her voice is far away now, distracted by something. Sherlock has finally skulked down the steps and leans against the rail not wanting to engage unless he has to. Their parents don’t notice him not with the way he manages to blend into the wall.
When Mycroft is sure their parents are busied enough in the kitchen, he pulls Sherlock aside. “I won’t say anything. This one single time, I will keep it from them, but Sherlock. So help me, if you do this again—” Their eyes meet for just one moment and Mycroft thinks that Sherlock comprehends the importance of last night’s events. Sherlock’s eyes drop to the ground then and when they look up again they are filled with annoyance.
“Right then,” Mycroft huffs and lets go of Sherlock’s arm. He turns towards the door calling out a ‘goodbye’ to his parents who are far to occupied to hear him, and heads out to his car. When he looks back at the grand house, Sherlock is standing in the doorway with the saddest expression on his face. And Mycroft wishes he didn’t care as he backs out of the drive and onto the main road.