Sup Guys! My name is Rhianon (also called 'Shezza') and I'm a Van Helsing Fangirl and a Sherlockian by heart
I am all about Van Helsing, as you have most likely learnt already and totally, awesomely into Sherlock!
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I live in the same place where Keith Urban was raised.
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Chapter 6: ‘Happy Birthday, Brother Mine’
Sherlock ran as fast as he could for as far as he could. The burning of his protesting lungs and legs hardly registered as the same three words echoed through Sherlock’s head.
Redbeard is dead… Redbeard is dead… Redbeard is dead…
Eventually, Sherlock stopped running and collapsed to the ground, panting heavily. Tears streamed down his face. Sherlock angrily brushed them away. He would not cry! He wouldn’t…
It was no good- the tears kept on coming.
Why had his family lied to him? Why?! Redbeard is his friend!
Was his friend.
Now he was dead. It was all Sherlock’s fault.
Needless to say, Mycroft Holmes had copped a mouthful from his parents when they found out that he had told Sherlock the truth about Redbeard.
“Redbeard was Sherlock’s only friend! You knew the truth would crush him so why did you go ahead and stir the pot?” Mother had yelled at him.
“He was going to find out anyway. If we kept the truth from him any longer the repercussions would have been much worse,” Mycroft had argued calmly.
“Repercussions?! Your brother is missing! Gone! Run off! All because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut!”
And now three days later, here Mycroft was, putting up posters that read ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY?’ all around London. The police had been informed and everyone was out searching. Though Mycroft would never admit it, a big part of him worried about his little brother. Sherlock knew London almost as well as Mycroft did but he had never been gone this long before.
Who knew what sort of mischief he would be getting up to?
Mycroft realized that the most practical event in this scenario would be Sherlock being found before something bad happened.
Clearly, no one else was cleverer enough to find him aside from Mycroft. Mycroft tried to get into Sherlock’s mindset, trying to think like his little brother. Though Mycroft often repressed his emotions, that didn’t mean he didn’t understand them.
Sherlock would have been very upset. He would have felt alone. He would have needed someone to talk to. But who? Mycroft thought. It occurred to him that the only person Sherlock would have gone to see would have been that dusty old Professor Xander. Sighing, Mycroft got into a cab and politely instructed the cabbie to take him to the boarding school.
When he got there, Mycroft wasted no time in going to the office.
“Mycroft? What are you doing back here?” a perky office lady whom Mycroft didn’t bother remembering her name said in surprise.
“I assure you I wouldn’t be back unless the situation was dire. Have you seen my brother, William Holmes?”
It took a few moments for the name to sink in.
“Oh! You mean Sherlock! Sorry, William let us know from day one never to call him that- always to call him ‘Holmes’ or ‘Sherlock’. Why, the first time a teacher called him ‘William’, he gave her a mouthful-“
“Yes, but have you seen Sherlock?” Mycroft cut in impatiently.
“No, not since last Friday. I heard about what happened. I hope he comes home soon,” the office lady said.
“Yes well, I suppose we all do. May I see Professor Xander?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. The Professor passed away on Saturday- he had been battling cancer for some time now.”
Mycroft paled. Oh no. Not the Professor too. No wonder poor Sherlock hadn’t come home.
“Thank you. You’ve been very… helpful.”
Mycroft walked slowly. First Redbeard… and now the Professor. This was bad. Very bad. Mycroft doubted his little brother could handle this.
Mycroft felt guilt and worry flood his systems, the emotions threatening to overwhelm his mind.
It was all Mycroft’s fault. Why the hell did he tell Sherlock about Redbeard? Mycroft imagined his little brother mad with grief. He had to find him!
But how? London was a big city, where would have Sherlock gone?
Mycroft tried to imagine what Sherlock had felt when he had come to the school and realized that the Professor was dead.
He would have felt numb. Grief would have over-powered everything else. He wouldn’t know where to go or what to do. So, he would have just kept walking until something happened.
Mycroft walked out of the school and tried to imagine his little brother walking aimlessly. Where do aimless people go?
Mycroft kept walking, much like his little brother would have done.
An hour later, and Mycroft was getting frustrated. He’d been walking as Sherlock would have done for an hour and still no results! Perhaps he wasn’t on to something… But he was Mycroft! He was as smart as they come!
So where was his little brother?
Well, clearly he wasn’t here, so Mycroft decided he wasn’t on to something. Sighing, he turned to leave when something caught his eye.
It was of London’s many rundown flats. But there was something different about this one. It was almost like it was a…
No, surely his little brother wasn’t that stupid.
Mycroft felt his heart creep up to his mouth as he started to walk towards the flat. He went right up to the door and hesitated.
Clutching his umbrella tightly in his hand in case he needed a weapon, Mycroft pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Inside the flat was dark, damp and it reeked. Mycroft took one shaky step after the other up the stairs, afraid of what he might find.
He reached the top of the stairs and winced. Someone had knocked most of the walls down and several people were lying on blankets or walking around dopily.
My deductions were correct. This is indeed a crack house.
Mycroft scanned the room, searching for the face he prayed he wouldn’t find.
There, in the corner of the living room. Mycroft nearly threw up but he made his way slowly to the corner, gripping his umbrella so tight that his knuckles turned white.
“Sh-Sherlock?” Mycroft whispered to the figure lying on blankets in the corner. The figure stirred and rolled over. Mycroft’s heart stopped beating.
Lying pathetically on the ground was his little brother, Sherlock Holmes.
“ What the hell do you think you are playing at?” Mycroft asked, suddenly furious.
“M…Mike?” Sherlock stammered.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, why?”
“I…I…wanted… to… forget… Redbeard… dead… Professor… dead… family…lied…” Sherlock yearned and appeared to almost pass out. Mycroft felt a deep sense of shame- he had driven his brother into this.
“Morphine or Cocaine?” Mycroft asked, feeling drained.
“Morphine or Cocaine? Which drug did you take, Sherlock?”
Mycroft nearly had a meltdown right there and then.
“Heroin?! Of all the drugs Sherlock! That’s the one most addictive and now you have a risk of contracting a disease because I bet you used a needle!”
“Sherlock!” Mycroft said sharply. Sherlock appeared to zone out.
What will mother and father think? Mycroft thought despairingly. This was going to change everything.
Mycroft sat down next to Sherlock.
What am I going to do?
“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered. “I am sorry- this is all my fault.”
A nagging thought popped up in Mycroft’s head- something so simple and childish that he almost laughed.
“Happy Birthday, Brother Mine- you are no longer a child… thirteen today.” Mycroft felt like he was about to cry.
“What a great start to teen hood.” He laughed dryly and despairingly. “What a great start indeed.”