His Doctor~

Chapter 41

“Well then Sherlock, back on the sauce?” Mycroft asked, smirking and sitting on the bottom steps in the hallway. Jo-Ann closed the door behind her as Sherlock kept walking, until he was only a few feet away from his brother. The detective was seething in anger, and as much as Jo-Ann could tell, Mycroft was too.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock growled, hands in the pockets of his over-sized jacket.

“I phoned him.” Jo-Ann stated simply. The detective did a double take at his girlfriend. Obviously she would be hearing about his feeling of betrayal later.

“The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy, though in some ways, cross-dressing would have been a wiser path for you.” Mycroft smiled.

“You phoned him?” Sherlock asked, arms crossed now.

“’Course I bloody phoned him.”

“’Course she bloody did.” Mycroft repeated with anger replacing his once relatively calm demeanor. “Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?”

“We?” Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“Mr. Holmes?” A voice called from up the stairs. Jo-Ann recognized it from months of it telling her hardly believable survival theories from when Sherlock “died”

“For GOD’S SAKE!” The detective yelled and pushed past Mycroft to climb the stairs, skipping over steps at a time. The elder Holmes shrugged a bit to Jo-Ann as he stood and she let out the breath she was holding.

“Anderson?!” Sherlock asked in disbelief as the skinny, bearded man inspected the kitchen and stopped only for a moment to speak.

“Sorry Sherlock, It’s for your own good.” He reminded the detective.

“Ohhh, that’s him, isn’t it?” A woman beside Anderson, who was most likely the wife Sherlock never saw before, cooed. “He’s said to be taller.” She whispered. Mycroft and Jo-Ann entered shortly after, finding their little druggie had curled up on his leather chair, pulling up his hood and pouting.

“Some members of your fan club, to be polite.” Mycroft smiled as the doctor behind him nodded to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. “They’re entirely trust-worthy. Even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you two are pleased to call a flat.” Jo-Ann shot him an annoyed look before going into the living room. She really should clean up… or at least ask Mrs. Hudson to. “You’re a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can’t afford a drug habit.” Mycroft began scolding and Sherlock began groaning. Why were people so concerned? He had it under moderate control and it was all for a case.

“I do not have a drug habit.”

“What have you found so far? Clearly nothing.” Mycroft said, turning to the detective’s groupies.

“There’s nothing to find!”

 “Even if there is nothing in the flat, I’ll have to phone our father, of course, in Oklahoma.” His brother continued. “Won’t be the first time your substance abuse has wreaked havoc on his line dancing.”

“I suppose he wouldn’t have let Sherlock get away with this without a little embarrassment.” Jo-Ann thought, glancing over at Anderson, who had been silent the whole time. Sherlock got up from his chair, clearly containing his annoyance.

“This is not what you think. This is for a case.” He said. Really, when would people begin believing him?

“What case could possibly justify this?”

“Magnussen. Charles. Augustus. Magnussen.” Sherlock replied instantly, leaving the room silent for a moment. Jo-Ann watched Mycroft’s face go from smug anger to shock, then to the cold Politian he was. He turned around to the Andersons and stepped forward, speaking clearly, quickly, and quietly to an extent.