SHERLOCK

ADDICTED II

In his younger years, Mycroft Holmes was an addict. Twenty years later he's found high in his flat. This is the Mycroft side of my story, 'Sherlock: Addicted'. The same plot but it focuses on Mycroft and his past. Rated M for m/m sex, drug use, swearing.

Author's Note:

Pairing(s): Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock/John

About: There's not need to read 'Sherlock: Addicted' to understand this story but it can't hurt. This is basically the same story (it has the same ending) but it focuses on Mycroft's early years and how he felt about everything.

Ownership: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.

Chapter One: Brilliant

Mycroft Holmes refused to think about why he was mixing cocaine into a 7% solution. He also refused to think about the fact that he and Sherlock took cocaine the same way. He absolutely refused to admit that he was feeling scared and vulnerable and so many other things that he felt like there a giant fucking hole in his heart.

And he would not, could not, think about how fucking brilliant it would be to shut his brain up.

It wasn't that Mycroft wasn't used to feeling angry and annoyed and scared and... vulnerable. Mycroft would always admit, if only to himself, that most nights he felt completely vulnerable. When he was stuck in his big flat alone, staring at the walls and downing expensive scotch, he admitted that he felt very, very vulnerable.

But mostly he refused to think about the why. Why he felt these things was so much darker and more dangerous than getting drunk and not eating. Why he felt so angry and scared was so much more hurtful then injecting his veins with cocaine.

The reason made Mycroft want to scream and thump his head against the wall. His brain... his brain never shutting up, never slowing down to let Mycroft just be. It always brought back memories, memories of loving arms and soft lips and–

Oh God, it was brilliant when his mind just shut up.

Mycroft dropped the bottle of solution and it rolled across his expensive coffee table. His hands were shaking, fingers twitching from the emotions running through his veins. Mycroft stared at the bottle, at the table and the syringe and...

He was reminded of another coffee table, an old wooden one with cracks and stains. A coffee table that had always been covered in magazines and VHS's and drugs...

A coffee table associated with nights curled up against a warm body, a loving body–

SHUT UP!

The politician swallowed and leaned back. He'd been clean two years. Two whole years and he hadn't injected once. He still had scars; track marks that had failed to completely fade away over the years. But his pale skin was clean...

Mycroft shuddered as he closed his eyes, emotions assaulting him. He didn't want to think about why he was doing this... he didn't want to think about why he was alone, in his flat, with a bag of drugs, an aching heart, and memories of much happier times.

The drugs... the drugs...

The drugs were much easier to think about then him.

Mycroft Holmes didn't want to be brilliant. He didn't want to be able to tell a person's life story from a three-second glance. He didn't want to be able to master five languages before his twelfth birthday. He didn't want to be able to outsmart his father by the time he was fifteen. He did not want to be spoken about by his parents at every goddamn function.

Mycroft just wanted to be... Mycroft. He wanted to be himself. He wanted to be able to sit in his room and read. He wanted to date who he wanted, to do what he wanted with his life. Father wanted him to go into politics and Mummy wanted him to keep Father proud. Sherlock... Sherlock didn't give a damn what Mycroft did.

The elder Holmes hadn't always felt like that; he hadn't always felt... different. At home his abilities weren't pointed out and mocked. Yes, he had to put up with Mummy's gushing about how brilliant he was. And yes, he had to put up with Father dragging him into the study and laying out complicated plans. And then there was Sherlock, who tried to out-deduce his brother every ten goddamn minutes and screamed when he failed.

But at home Mycroft wasn't ridiculed, or laughed at, or... or smacked. At school, and later university, Mycroft was sneered at. The other kids knew he was different; knew he was dangerously brilliant. They didn't like it.

They expressed this with sharp words and sneers. They glared at him and muttered when he passed. Some... some pushed him into lockers and broke his ribs. Some scuffed up his face and stole his things. Even at university Mycroft was taunted, abused, completely ostracised because of what he could do.

Mycroft was slowly falling apart in his final year. Slowly the cracks were beginning to deepen and the cool, calm facade he put up was crumbling away. He couldn't take it anymore; the demands, the abuse, Sherlock and his goddamn problems. Mycroft just couldn't handle the stress...

... and then there was that party when he was eighteen...

-oOo-

It was a party his parents had thrown for the university. Well, it was a charity party that his parents were hosting. All his university classmates were there and all sneered every time Mycroft Holmes walked past.

He tried to ignore them but by nine he was coming undone. He loosened his tie as he escaped outside into the cool, dark night. He sighed in relief and rounded the house, hands stuffed into his trousers pockets. Oh, what Mummy would say about his poor posture.

Mycroft reached the gazebo, his favourite spot at Holmes manor. He could just sit there and try to ignore his brain; he could forget about Mummy's incessant nag that he get a lovely young girlfriend. He could hide from Father and one of the man's never ending plans. And Sherlock? Sherlock hated the gazebo, Mycroft could always avoid his brother by sitting in it.

Tonight, however, Mycroft found that the gazebo was already occupied. The boy was no older than Mycroft and stunningly beautiful; golden curls, bright blue eyes, muscular body and tanned skin. He was everything Mycroft wasn't; he was everything Mycroft wanted to be.

The boy turned and saw Mycroft, the older Holmes resigning himself to another, 'Oh, it's you.' Instead the boy grinned and said, 'Hello.'

Mycroft paused, unsure he'd heard him correctly. Surely the boy wasn't talking to him.

'What's the matter?' the boy asked.

'Erm...' Mycroft Holmes did not say erm. Which just proved how completely out of his depth he was talking to anybody who was even mildly polite to him.

'What's the matter?' the boy repeated.

'N-nothing,' Mycroft mumbled. Really he wanted to turn around and walk away but it was his gazebo. The boy had no right to be there. So, steeling himself, Mycroft climbed the steps and approached the boy carefully.

The blonde just smiled and turned back to lean against the railing, sniffing and looking up at the sky. 'Nice night,' he commented to which Mycroft had no reply. 'Better than that party.'

Mycroft glanced at him. 'You don't like parties?'

The blonde boy shrugged. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'honestly I just like hanging out in a quiet room with a book, maybe a few mates; nothing too theatrical.'

Mycroft nodded. 'Yes, my parents do like to be dramatic.' He bit his tongue when the boy looked at him. Mycroft had been thinking that perhaps the other boy didn't know who he was; maybe he didn't know that he was Mycroft Holmes; loser, geek, faggot... Mycroft had long ago stopped caring what other people called him.

'Oh, so you're the Holmes kid?'

'Yes,' Mycroft said.

'Cool,' the boy said and ran a finger under his nose. 'I heard you were a genius.'

Mycroft blinked. 'What?'

The boy smiled. 'I'm Rupert.'

'Mycroft,' the elder Holmes replied automatically.

'Duh,' Rupert rolled his eyes, 'I know.'

'Yes... of course.'

They fell into silence once more, each boy staring up at the sky. A cool wind had picked up and Mycroft sighed in content as his hair blew across his forehead, ruining the perfect hairstyle Mummy had forced upon his ginger-brown waves.

'Did you find the party boring too?' Rupert sniffed.

'Yes,' Mycroft said honestly. 'I really don't enjoy them. Too...'

'Stuffy?' Rupert supplied and Mycroft nodded.

'Yes. And I don't exactly get along with my classmates.' He paused to look at Rupert carefully. 'Do we go to school together?'

'Yeah; English Lit and Shakespeare,' Rupert said, again running a long index finger under his long nose. 'I've seen you 'round but you mostly sit up the back.'

'Well, the back is the easiest way to avoid detection.'

Rupert smiled. 'Cool.'

Nobody had ever used the word cool in reply to anything Mycroft said. He paused again, running his eyes up and down Rupert carefully. The boy was very fascinating; obviously good-looking so probably popular, went to the same university as Mycroft... so why was he standing outside, in a gazebo, talking to Mycroft Holmes?

Rupert sniffed again and Mycroft looked at his face. In the soft glow of the lights from the gazebo, Mycroft could see that Rupert's pupils were dilated. His cheeks were flushed, his hands twitching, and his nose running.

'You're high,' Mycroft stated suddenly.

Rupert turned to give him a lopsided grin. 'Wow, you really are a genius, huh?'

Mycroft flushed. 'Well, it's a simple process, really. You just look at the small details, add them altogether, and come to a conclusion. Honestly, I don't know why everybody makes such a fuss.'

Rupert just flashed Mycroft a white-toothed smile. 'Cool.'

'Erm...' Okay, two erms in less than ten minutes. Mycroft really didn't know what was wrong with him.

'It's coke,' Rupert said, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a tin. 'Makes life fun, ya know?'

'No,' Mycroft said honestly. Life was not fun. Life was a chore; it was a boring series of events that Mycroft was pulled through.

'You never have fun?'

'When I am allowed to read or be alone, yes, I have fun.'

Rupert smiled. 'Coke makes everything better,' he said. 'Shuts your brain up.'

Now that made Mycroft pause. He processed Rupert's words quickly before saying, 'It does?'

'Yeah,' Rupert nodded. 'Like, you know how sometimes your brain just gets all annoying and won't shut up? About school and family and relationships and all that shit?' Mycroft nodded. 'Well coke shuts that all up. It just let's ya... enjoy the now, ya know?'

Mycroft really didn't know but he was getting awfully curious.

'I take it you've never tried coke,' Rupert said.

'No, of course not.'

'Why 'of course not'?' Rupert asked, turning to face Mycroft completely.

'I do not do drugs,' Mycroft said firmly.

'Don't knock 'em till ya try 'em,' Rupert said. Mycroft's eyes slid to the tin as Rupert popped it open. Inside was a dusting of white powder along with a well-used straw. Rupert picked the straw up and stuffed it into his nose to snort the powder.

Mycroft watched in wide-eyed fascination as Rupert snorted back, tipping his head and staring at the sky.

'Brilliant!' he shouted, words filled with joy and happiness. He looked back at Mycroft, his grin now ten-times more brilliant than before. 'Wanna try?'

'Erm... n-no, I don't think so,' Mycroft said.

'It's good,' Rupert said. 'I won't force ya or nothing but trust me; shuts ya fucking head up.'

Mycroft giggled; he never swore himself and found it funny when others his age did.

Rupert seemed all smiles that night as he stepped forward, his body heat assaulting Mycroft. The elder Holmes swallowed and looked down.

'It's good,' Rupert repeated. 'Believe me.'

Mycroft did. He knew, of course, why drugs made the world seem better, why people took them and got addicted. He had never believed that he'd ever be faced with the possibility of trying any type of illegal drug. It wasn't as though he were invited to late-night parties back on campus.

But right then and there, standing in that gazebo, Mycroft was suddenly faced with the choice.

'Well?' Rupert asked.

My brain would shut up, Mycroft thought. No more worrying about Sherlock or Mummy or anything. I could just... be.

Really, that was all it took for Mycroft Holmes, genius, perfect son, and straight A student, to stick a straw up his nose and snort strange and possibly poisonous drugs. He just wanted a rest; he wanted to go five minutes without having to think. Five minutes would be a blessing.

Rupert chuckled as Mycroft snorted, groaning as powder got stuck in his nose. Honestly, how did people do this all the time? Already he felt his nose dripping and sniffed again.

Oh. Ooooh.

Mycroft's brain was suddenly strangely and exhilaratingly quiet. He could focus on one thing and one thing only; how good it felt to not be thinking.

It was the very best high Mycroft had ever felt. All his thoughts melded into one unifying line, easily handled once Mycroft focused on his nails, or a star, or the way Rupert's curls stuck to his forehead. Everything was so calm and beautiful and... oh, yes.

'Good?' Rupert asked.

Mycroft nodded, snorting again, brain keeping its goddamn thoughts silent for once in his short life.

'Yes,' he said and grinned for what felt like the first time in history. 'Yes. It's... it's brilliant!'

Author's Note: Okay, so this is my first attempt at the Mycroft side of Addicted and it most likely completely and utterly sucks. I do apologise if I let anyone down but Mycroft is harder to write for than Greg.

And yes, I named the boy who introduced Mycroft to drugs Rupert because I am currently in love with Rupert Graves :)

So yes, I expect many scathing reviews and I deserve them.

{IBegToDreamAndDiffer}