Archive of Our Own ^beta

The June sun, already high and warm, casts long, lazy shadows across Tarrant Square in Arundel. The air, thick with the scent of blooming roses and freshly mown grass, feels heavy with the languid pace of a slow Sunday. It has been a week since the dual triumph of the Holmes brothers’ graduation day: fourteen-year-old Sherlock , a prodigy, having graduated early from Eton Academy, and Mycroft , twenty, having completed his demanding studies in business and aeronautical engineering at Northbrook College.

A week of muted celebrations, of strained politeness, a subtle undercurrent of unease that only Sherlock, with his heightened senses, fully perceives. Unknown to him, Mycroft and Sebastian have been slowly, almost imperceptibly, drifting apart , their once vibrant connection fraying at the edges. Sherlock, oblivious to the deeper currents of the older boys' relationship, has taken it upon himself to rekindle the festive spirit. He has invited Sebastian to join them for ice cream at The Parlour Arundel , a cherished tradition from happier times. The familiar black-and-white checkered floor and the cheerful clatter of spoons offer a stark contrast to the quiet tension that now permeates their small group.

Mycroft sits across from Sebastian, an almost imperceptible distance between them, a chasm of unspoken words. His hand, usually finding Sebastian's, now rests idly on the cool marble tabletop. Sebastian, eighteen, catches Mycroft’s gaze, a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps sadness, perhaps resignation—in his eyes before he quickly looks away.

The conversation is stilted, punctuated by polite inquiries about their respective academic achievements, but it lacks the usual easy banter, the shared intellectual spark that once defined their interactions. Sherlock, keenly aware of every nuance, every averted glance, every strained silence, finds his enjoyment of the moment dissolving into a familiar, uncomfortable prickle of unease. He pokes at his Rose Geranium Blossom ice cream , the delicate pink swirling into a muddy, unappetizing swirl. He had loved this flavor once, a symbol of shared, simple joy with Mycroft.

Now, even this feels tainted. He pouts into his ice cream, a childish reaction that, for once, he doesn't attempt to mask.

The awkwardness stretches, a palpable third presence at their small table. Sebastian, perhaps unable to bear it any longer, finally breaks the silence, his voice low, almost melancholic.

"Mycroft," he says, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes but staring at the melting ice cream in his own cone. We just… we just aren't the same anymore, are we?"

Mycroft flinches, a barely perceptible tremor. His head shakes slowly, a silent, desperate plea for Sebastian not to voice the painful truth aloud.

But Sebastian either misses the gesture or chooses to ignore it, his gaze now distant, lost in memory. "It's been a long time coming, I suppose. Things started to change... I'd say two years ago ."

The words hang in the air, a devastating pronouncement. Mycroft's head continues to shake, a frantic, silent "no," but the sound is lost in the hum of the parlour. Sherlock hears this. The words pierce through the fog of his quiet distress with the force of a physical blow.

Two years ago. The date echoes in his mind, a cold, undeniable truth. Two years ago, Elizabeth died. Two years ago, he nearly died. Two years ago, his world fractured, and he reached for oblivion. He knows, with a sickening certainty, that this is the fracture point Sebastian refers to, the moment the world irrevocably shifted for them all. The thought that his actions, his profound grief, his desperate self-destruction, could have ripple effects so devastating as to sever the deep connection between Mycroft and Sebastian is almost too much to bear. A fresh wave of guilt, sharp and suffocating, washes over him.

He cannot stay. He cannot witness the quiet disintegration, cannot bear the weight of his perceived responsibility. With a sudden, abrupt movement, he ditches his ice cream , the half-eaten cone clattering against the ceramic plate. He shoves back his chair, the scraping sound harsh and grating, and without a word, he runs off . He bursts out of The Parlour, leaving a trail of startled glances and whispered conjectures in his wake.

He vaguely hears Mycroft’s frantic call, "Sherlock! Wait!" followed by the rising, agitated tones of a burgeoning argument between Mycroft and Sebastian.

He doesn't stop, doesn't look back. His legs pump, his lungs burn, as he races down the street, blindly pushing through the leisurely Sunday crowd. He detours abruptly from the familiar sidewalk that leads home, veering instead into the dense, overgrown tree line bordering a quiet residential park. He crashes through the foliage, his body scraped and bruised, but the physical pain is a welcome distraction from the searing ache in his chest. He burrows deep into the shadows, the tangled branches and rustling leaves offering a temporary, desperate sanctuary.

He hears the older boys’ voices, muffled and indistinct, as they walk past his hiding place, their argument still unresolved. He waits until their footsteps fade, until the last whisper of their presence is gone. Then, his hands trembling, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket—a forbidden habit, a desperate comfort he has not allowed himself for fourteen days.

The flame of his lighter flickers, illuminating his face, now streaked with dirt and a fresh torrent of tears . He takes a long, shuddering drag, the acrid smoke filling his lungs, burning, stinging, but offering a fleeting moment of numb escape. He cries , not silently, but with heaving, desolate sobs, the grief for Elizabeth, the guilt for Mycroft, the raw pain of a world that keeps breaking, pouring out of him. The cigarette burns down to its filter, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The tears eventually subside, leaving him hollowed out, but with a terrifying clarity.

The itch, the profound craving for oblivion, is back, stronger, more insistent than ever. He doesn't necessarily want to die; the thought of causing Mycroft more pain is a new, unbearable burden. But he wants to come close. He wants to feel the edge, to flirt with the precipice, to silence the clamor in his mind, just for a moment.

He rises, his movements stiff, his mind now coldly, meticulously calculating. He needs supplies. Not traceable ones, not easily linked back to him. He begins to run around the city , his feet pounding the pavement, his eyes scanning every alleyway, every discarded box, every obscure chemist shop. He seeks the chemical precursors, the makeshift apparatus. He knows the components, the precise reactions.

A heroin lab, makeshift and crude, but effective. He can build it. He can use his extensive knowledge of chemistry, a talent usually reserved for intellectual pursuits, for a darker purpose. He plans to hide it in the garage , in the old wooden chest where his complex science lab already sits, a place of secrets and dangerous experiments. A place Mycroft rarely bothers to inspect, trusting Sherlock's scientific integrity. He can hide it, ensure no one traces it back to him, and protect Mycroft from the inevitable shame and horror.

Hours later, long after the sun has set, painting the sky in a bruised purple, Sherlock finally returns to Musgrave Hall. He feels utterly drained, physically and emotionally. His clothes are torn, and his hands are dirty from his clandestine scavenging. He doesn't use the front door. Instead, he scales the familiar trellis that winds its way up the side of the house, his practiced agility allowing him to ascend silently to the second story. He slips through the open window of the restroom next to his bedroom , a silent phantom in his own home.

The shower spray is a shock. Cold water first, then mercifully warm, washing away the grime, sweat, and lingering scent of despair. He stands under the cascading water, his mind numb, the edges of his desperate plan still sharp and cold in his thoughts.

The click of the lock. He hears it, a subtle sound, but too late. The door swings open.

Mycroft stands there, his face pale, his eyes wide and haunted. He has searched for hours, his terror mounting with every passing minute, his brother's disappearance a chilling echo of that last terrible night. He sees Sherlock, naked and vulnerable, the fresh water sluicing over his pale skin, and the faint, residual scent of the street clinging to him. The sight, the absolute certainty that Sherlock is alive, overwhelms him.

Unconcerned with his brother's nudity, uncaring of the social conventions, Mycroft crosses the threshold in two long strides. He wraps his arms around Sherlock, pulling him into a fierce, desperate hug . His grip is tight, almost painful, his body trembling with the raw force of his relief, fear, and love. He buries his face in Sherlock's wet hair, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft whispers, his voice thick with unshed tears, "Thank God. Thank God you're not dead."

Sherlock stiffens initially, surprised by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But as Mycroft’s words sink in, as he feels the fierce, desperate gratitude emanating from his brother, a powerful rush of guilt washes over him. He had thought only of his pain, his escape. He had forgotten Mycroft, forgotten the depths of his brother's love, the strength of their bond. He had forgotten the pain he had caused before, and the pain he was about to inflict again. The guilt is a sharp, agonizing stab, but it is also a grounding force, a sudden, undeniable connection to a reality he had tried so hard to flee.

He wraps his arms around Mycroft’s waist, holding on with a desperate, reciprocal strength. He hugs back , not in comfort, but in a silent, unspoken apology, a desperate plea for forgiveness, a renewed, painful understanding of the profound weight of his existence, and the unbreakable bond that tethers him to his brother.