You spin me right round

Chapter one

[ NOTE: this is classed in mature but I prevent some insults/swear words will be in this chapter. You can't tell me I didn't say it ;) ]

                  

In a dark and empty alley of the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes was dying.

The man had known for now one year he was condemned. All of this fell on him, like that, when he was not expecting, and he took a long time to spot it. To say everything, he didn't notice it at all. It was his older brother, Mycroft, who suspected something. He never told their parents.

Sherlock was getting tired easier and faster than before -as it got worse, he wasn't able to walk downstairs without having to make breaks- , his body sometimes unable to follow his desires. After two months or three, a violent fever obliged him to stay locked in his flat, wrapped in a heap of thick blankets on his bed. He did nothing else than complaining and laying down, sometimes getting up to go in the bathroom and vomit, if he had the time to reach the toilets... Even if it was clearly evident he was ill, Sherlock still denied it. He hated the doctors, he hated hospitals. And he hated how he was going slowly down in disease.

He didn't know what he had and didn't want to know it. That was unimportant, and it would have meant he was admitting his sickness, thing he'd never do. Everyone was pissing off by all of this, how stubborn Sherlock was. His brother tried many times to bring him to the hospital, but Sherlock always closed the door in front of him, telling him that "Stop with that, I am fine!" But a little voice in his head was saying he wasn't, and days after days, he began to believe it, lying miserably on the cold and tiled floor of the kitchen, without anything in his stomach. He stopped to hope he could keep something in it more than an hour and that was why he stopped definitely to eat. After that, he didn't pick up at the phone. Now a lot of people thought he was already dead.

One day, Mycroft succeeded to force the door and enter in, finding his brother in a pathetic position. He was knelt on the ground, head in a bucket, and didn't raise his head even if he knew there was someone with him.

Mycroft stayed silent for a while, watching his poor brother emptying his stomach. It had never been the big love between these two, they never said "I love you" to each other, but the older had always been there for Sherlock, even when he repulsed him. Deeply in him, and maybe in both of them, it was hurting. But this, nobody was saying. They would never be able to acknowledge it.

After Sherlock stopped to make disgusting noises, Mycroft opened his mouth.

-Are you decided to live this any longer? He asked, crossing his arms on his chest, his dark umbrella he always carried with him was resting on his forearm as he stared at Sherlock with more insistence.

The young and curly man didn't answer right away, raising slowly his head from the bucket.

-I won't. I'm going to die anyway, he replied in a weak and trembling voice, his body shaking by rough spasms.

-Go to the hospital and it won't happen, his brother said, containing his anger and sadness.

-Leave me alone, he demanded softly.

-Sherlock...

-LEAVE ME ALONE!

And til this day, they never saw each other again. Mycroft went away, tried to come back to him but Sherlock was gone. He left his flat and everything behind him, deciding he would love to die in the streets rather than in this apartment he was tiring of. It was too full of old memories, more bad than good, and he didn't want to finish his life like this. So, for months and months, he stayed in the streets of London. Nobody seemed to see him. It was like he was inexistent. Retiring. Already dead.