Pick Your Poison {Mystrade}

The Beginning Of It All

Faggot.

Queer.

Homo.

Mycroft recalled the day's events in his head, torturing himself. He replayed the exact words Lestrade had said to him.

"You fucking faggot, I'm not a homo. You queers are absolutely revolting, why are you even standing here? Get the fuck away from me."

Mycroft sat on his bed, his face in his hands. His violent sobs caused tears to run from his eyes, soaking his palms with the saltine sadness that the person he loved had caused. He was grateful that the rest of his family was away so no one would hear him crying. Lord knows Sherlock would've teased him to no end, and Mycroft didn't want to deal with that.

He tugged at his hair, messing it up and making it stand in all directions at the front. It was late at night, almost midnight, on a Friday. Mycroft couldn't recall the exact date, but it was sometime in June. The moon shone in through his open bedroom window, the night breeze blowing the curtains ever so slightly.

Lestrade's hateful words repeated themselves over and over in Mycroft's head. He needed to forget. He needed to feel nothing.

Slowly, he stood up off of his bed and walked into the hallway. He stood at the top of the stairs and held his hands against the wall to steady himself. The crying had made him tired and weary.

He slowly walked down the stairs, clinging to the railing in case he fell. He stepped both feet on each stair to balance himself.

When he had successfully made it down the stairs, in the dark as he hadn't felt like turning on the lights, he trudged into the kitchen and felt around for the junk drawer.

Once he found it, he rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for: a key. He took the small, cold, metal object in his hand and kneeled at a cabinet in the corner. He slid the key in the lock, it fit perfectly. Mycroft smiled knowing he'd found the right key.

The turned the key to the right until he heard the special click and the cabinet door flung open. In the cabinet were dozens of bottles of all shapes and colours.

He scanned the bottles until he found the one he believed he needed. He pulled out the square bottle and placed it on the counter above his head. He stood up again and looked at the label of the bottle in the moonlight to see if he had, in fact, grabbed the correct bottle.

He turned the bottle so the light hit it. Mycroft looked for one specific word: whiskey. He found it and grinned. He would finally be numb. He took the bottle back up to his room and sat on his bed.

He unscrewed the top and took a long swig. He coughed, the harsh, amber liquid burning his throat. He thought about stopping, but he was already beginning to feel numb so he kept going.

Eventually, he'd downed half the bottle. His eyesight was blurry and he couldn't think straight. Mycroft wanted to forget, and forget he did. He forgot what Lestrade had said to him before, so he pulled out his mobile phone and opened the texting app.

He clicked on the conversation he had started with Lestrade.

M: Heeyyyyy bb
L: Mycroft, stop talking to me
M: Aww, yuo don t meen tht
L: Are you drunk?
M: mAayyy b eeeee
L: Goodbye.

When Lestrade stopped replying, Mycroft got angry and threw his phone at the wall. He took a long sip of whiskey, spilling some on his white tee shirt.

"Shit." He mumbled, pulling his shirt off. He threw it in the corner, telling himself he'd pick it up later. Mycroft now sat in only blue jeans. He was glad he'd spilled whiskey on his shirt, it was beginning to get hot.

Suddenly, Mycroft remembered that, in the liquor cabinet, they had cake flavoured vodka. He drunkenly stumbled out of his room and down the stairs to the kitchen, whiskey in hand.

He'd left the cabinet open, so he reached in and opened the tall, bubblegum pink vodka bottle. He took a sip of it. It was sweet, like icing. He loved it. He knew it was his mother's favourite so if they ran out, she'd just buy more.

Mycroft walked into the living room and jumped onto the couch. He turned on the television to a mobster movie. He was entertained by all the violence, the blood, the gore and cursing.

Every time a gun went off, Mycroft cheered and took a long swig of whiskey and then another of the cake flavoured vodka.

At about 3 in the morning, Mycroft's vision got even blurrier than before. His eyelids were heavy, and his mind muddled.

Soon, Mycroft had passed out on the couch, the whiskey bottle in one hand, the vodka on the end table next to him, and the mobster movie still playing.

~~

He woke up the next morning, his head pounding as if someone were hitting it with a hammer. He felt sick to his stomach and the sunlight coming in through the window above the television hurt his eyes.

He scowled and trudged back up the stairs to his room. He sat on his bed and held his head in his hands, wishing the throbbing would stop.

Maybe if I go on a walk. Fresh air and things, He thought.

He put on his grey, pullover sweatshirt, his dingy black converse, and his sunglasses and walked back downstairs. He grabbed a paper bag from a drawer and grabbed the whiskey bottle. He put the bottle inside the bag and headed outside.

Even with the sunglasses, the bright, natural light hurt his eyes and made his head throb even more.

"Too late to go back in now." He thought. He was already half way to the park.

Once he arrived at the park, he found a bench under a large, shady oak tree and sat on it. He glared at all the happy couples walking around and took small sips of his whiskey as he did.

As he was looking around, Mycroft saw one person he did not expect to see walking towards him.