Like Wire (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

[sixteen]

"Mycroft please," John cried, "Sherlock has gone again and you know what is going on! I don't believe he has killed anyone - I trust him!"

"Well you shouldn't!" Mycroft screamed.

John stopped, scratching his eyes red raw, feeling them burn. Mycroft calmed, his breathing stilled and then he took a large breath and connected his eyes with Johns.

"I dont believe the rumours. Sherlock didn't kill anyone, but he looks guilty! He's run off, Mycroft. He has run off after being accused of murder," John explained, "he disappeared a couple of months ago and I know you know more than you will tell me,"

"He'll come back. Sherlock. He'll come back,"

John buried his face in the crook of his elbow, despair filled.

                                                                                             * * *

Finally Johns final lesson of the day was wrapped up and he swung his rucksack over his shoulders, lowering his head in a rush to get to his room. He'd obsessed his thoughts with Sherlock so much he found it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

He hovered outside Mycroft's classroom, having arranged to meet up with him after class to 'discuss things' in his own room. When Mycroft finally left his classroom he greeted John apathetically and didn't force himself into any unwanted conversation.
                                                                                               * * *

"Oh my God," John choked, on entering his room.

A thin and gangly figure was sprawled across the musty carpet, an unfortunately familiar tangle of black curled hair flopped over his face. He was unconscious.

John knelt beside Sherlock, unaware of any emotions in the haze of everything, he checked Sherlock's pulse, which was surprisingly quick and rapid, beating slightly too quickly against Johns tremoring fingers. He used his medical knowledge to his advantage, shuffling Sherlock onto his back and scraping off the curls which were stuck to his face.

He looked terrible. The skin around his eyes were red and puffy, like Sherlock had been endlessly crying, his eyes themselves looked hollow - pupils too big and they had lost the mischievous glow that made them Sherlocks eyes. His whole body let off strong and powerful fumes that made Johns eyes desperately water. His exposed arms were ghost like, they hadn't seen sunlight for weeks, just above his wrists on the inner sides were several scars: some of them were fading by the second - scars that had been there for years, but some of them looked painfully recent.

Dilated pupils. Abnormally fast pulse. Needle scars.

Sherlock had had so many signs of drug abuse, he'd become withdrawn - more than usual - his personality had totally sunk into a dark abyss of nothingness and his figure had become scarily skeletal.

Mycroft swayed, mostly unfazed by the scene playing before him.

"Mycroft – Mycroft, these are needle wounds. A-and he had abnormally dilated pupils and an oddly rapid pulse – Mycroft?" John stopped, realising Mycroft didn't seem surprised by this new information, "Oh – You knew? What the hell, you didn't think to help him!" John screamed, his hand unconsciously wrapped around Sherlocks wrist.

"I didn't know – I didn't think – I knew he had done stuff like this before," Mycroft basically sobbed, he looked appalled at himself, "I thought he just – oh god," He covered his mouth in guilt and disgust towards himself before shaking off his emotions and reigning his authority. "We need to get him onto the bed and search the place... for anything,"

"Mycroft! Don't you think we should get a teacher, like a nurse or something. Your brother is unconscious and completely high, we cant just –"

"Oh yes we can," Mycroft corrected sternly, "and oh yes we will,"

They scavenged through Sherlocks drawers and everywhere he was able to hide anything, yet they were unsuccessful at finding him in possession of anything that had got him into that state. His possessions cluttered the floor but neither Mycroft nor John had the intention of putting them back: they were drained.

John found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the marks on Sherlocks arm, they haunted him. Despite everything Sherlock was still perfect, underneath all that damaged skin, Sherlock was still there, still himself, just hidden. Each scar seemed to be a different shade of colour: the older ones almost silvery, only noticeable when the light slipped upon it. The most recent were still an alarming red - eye catching and unnerving the others were tinted pink. They all slithered up the inside of his translucent arm like small writhing snakes.

Sherlocks blank and almost lifeless eyes shuddered, a disturbance in his nerve wrenching and disapproving slumber. They both waited patiently, both strongly desiring Sherlock to stir but both unwilling to show this - Mycroft especially.

He shifted in the bed he had been spread across, John glanced at Mycroft as he mentally prepared for the upcoming events.

"Ah, So you are alive? For a minute we hoped otherwise," He said, speaking to Sherlock who had begun to cling onto reality.

"So did I," Sherlock muttered, squinting in the apparently blinding light of the room.

"This is what you call clean?" Mycroft asked, referring to an old conversation.

"Of coarse not," Sherlock chuckled, "that'd be stupid,"

"You are stupid Sherlock! Look at yourself!" Mycroft yelled.

"I know, don't I look great?" Sherlock retorted, sitting himself up on his bed dizzily.

"What are you doing?"

"I have stuff to do Mycroft! Busy busy busy!" Sherlock cried.

"What stuff? You can't even stand up properly Sherlock!"

Disappointed confusion