After the Fact [Sherlock]

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

James called him after he called the ambulance. Told him that Sherlock attempted suicide. For the first time in his life, Mycroft had no idea how to react. Just the plain fact that Sherlock even thought that way hit him pretty hard.

As brothers, they weren't the closest. Their relationship wasn't strong. They managed to see each other often enough, send the proper cards for the proper occasions ("Happy Birthday", "Merry Christmas", "You owe me"), exchanged a few texts through the year. Sometimes, Mycroft didn't like the way their relationship stood. But it seemed to be working for the two of them, with their lines of work.

Something clicked inside of Mycroft when he got the call from James. His stomach flipped and his skin went cold. He was scared for the first time in his life.

He was at the hospital in ten minutes. James was there, though he would never admit it. Kept Mycroft company while Sherlock was being stabilized. Told him that this wasn't the first time Sherlock pulled a stunt like this. It was actually the sixth time.

Mycroft went through a half of a pack of cigarettes in thirty minutes.

When Sherlock was stable, Mycroft sat in his room in one of the uncomfortable, plastic chairs that hospitals had. He just watched Sherlock with his hands folded in his lap, leaning forward ever-so-slightly. Waited with infinite patience. But when the younger did wake up, neither of them spoke. Their eyes met, but that was the extent of their conversation.

There were so many questions.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" "How could you be so stupid?" "Why didn't I know about the others?" "What would Mum think?"

But he couldn't say any of those questions. Didn't want to. It wasn't the time.

All he could get out was one word.

"Why?"

It was the only question he could ask logically. The only question that made sense to ask.

Aside from the one that was reeling inside of his head, of course. One for himself. One that he would never admit to asking himself.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock had put much effort into making sure that Mycroft hadn't found out about the other times.
In all honesty, he wasn't too bothered about what his elder brother may think if he did happen to do so, but rather preferred it if the man didn't feel any sort of need to meddle in the detective's private business. And, of course, it was rather humiliating to have failed five times.
Six, now, he absently reminded himself.

After waking up, he hadn't done very much anything but shuffle slightly, and fix the dark-eyed stare of the man in the chair with his own. Holmes didn't want him to be there, in fact the detective certainly didn't want to be there himself. The hospital room was simply just a reminder that, if it were not for his own ridiculous moment of stupidity (and James Moriarty's unfortunate intervention) he would be very much not living at that moment.
And that was a thought that happened to be both curious and infuriating at the same time.

The two brothers did nothing but stare for a space of time that the younger was unable to recognise. It could have been hours, or seconds - he honestly didn't have the slightest idea. But what he was sure of, as usual, was a particular deduction. One that Sherlock found himself genuinely baffled and suprised at.
Mycroft cared.

This theory, however was promptly assisted with an external frown and the supposition that he still wasn't entirely in his right mind.

The older Holmes was the first to break the silence.
"Why?"

The younger Holmes was the first to break eye contact.

He shrugged lightly, now fixing a wide-eyed glare at the one wall unfortunate enough to be in his direct line of sight, as he faced straight ahead. It was probably a far too obvious attempt to brush off the question - but really, Sherlock didn't feel that it needed answering. The detective reasoned that, if he really wanted to know, he could find out some way or another.
Apart from that, it was really none of his buisness, brother or not.

"What are you doing here?" he spoke the words with thickly layered distaste, not even realizing that his voice was almost painfully hoarse. Of course, the man knew that James had been the one to inform his brother - much to his loathing - but that hadn't been what he was asking.
"If you're just going to sit there and silently judge, I would definitely prefer you did so nowhere near me."

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Sherlock was surprised. Surprised and pissed off. It wasn't every day that Sherlock found himself surprised. It also wasn't every day that Mycroft managed to appear caring. After all these years, they could still manage to catch each other off guard. If it were any other circumstance than this, Mycroft would have smiled.

But it wasn't.

"What are you doing here? If you're just going to sit there and silently judge, I would definitely prefer you did so nowhere near me," Sherlock hoarsely responded, dragging his attention to the wall across from him.

Mycroft frowned and straightened up in his seat. He looked Sherlock over for a moment. They weren't going to play this game. The game where they retaliated a question with another question, seeing who would break first and finally answer. It wasn't about why he was there. It was about why Sherlock was there.

"No." Mycroft crossed his arms. "We aren't doing that. I just want an answer, Sherly."

He wasn't planning on attempting to make some big change in their lives because of this. He wasn't going to panic and show up at his house every day, meddle in his daily life every day, make sure that he wasn't going to pull yet another stunt like this. Mycroft was going to let it go. He was going to let Sherlock do what it was he wanted to do, and not interfere.

If Sherlock was going to be difficult, though, that wouldn't be so easy.

"If you don't give me an answer, I'll do the one thing you hate." Mycroft paused for emphasis. "Deduce what's wrong. I'll tell you exactly what I think your reasoning behind this entire situation is. And believe me, you won't like what I have to say."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

A question for a question. That was how they did it. Or, at least, that was how they tended to do it when one felt the completely rational need to either distract or infuriate the other.
As brothers, Sherlock and Mycroft really did have a curious relationship.

But today, it seemed, the older man wasn't going to put up with the younger's attempt at both.
"No. We aren't doing that. I just want an answer, Sherly."
Visibly flinching rather violently at the use of the ridiculous nickname (one that Sherlock had always hated, and never tolerated from anybody but his sibling), Holmes turned his eyes, once again, to Mycroft. The word itself had never caused such a reaction - it was usually swept aside by a scowl and venemous words - so it could be a slight wonder as to why it did now. The closest theory to the truth, however, would be that the contradicting combination of the situation and the familiarity of the name struck a nerve somewhere. Even so, it had been the five word prior to the last that had truly caught the man's attention.

"If you don't give me an answer, I'll do the one thing you hate. Deduce what's wrong. I'll tell you exactly what I think your reasoning behind this entire situation is. And believe me, you won't like what I have to say."
As the words were already formulated in his mind as a response to his brother's previous three sentences (well, two and a word), the detective began talking immediately after the other had finished.

"The answer to your question is my business alone, so I would much appreciate it if you stop asking." the words were, as always, spoken in a fluent stream - broken only slightly by his gravelly tone. After realizing that Mycroft was going to most likely follow through with the promise of working out an answer (both of the brothers seemed not to go without their questions responded to - perhaps it was a family trait), Sherlock decided to add on his opinion of the matter.
"I have to say, dearest brother," this word he almost spat, left eyebrow arching delicately, "That I am quite intrigued to hear what you think. And, as your decuctions will most likely not be the truth, it doesn't matter to me whether I will like what you have to say or not."

The detective fidgeted slightly, until he was almost facing the other man - as much as one was able to do in a hopital bed, anyway. His slight ramble had seemed to gain him some form of confidence. Perhaps it had made him realize that, whatever happened - whatever he said, whatever he did - in some way or another, the younger Holmes could always take joy in knowing that his big brother didn't know the reasons why. And, as he stared at Mycroft, silently urging him to go on - prove it - a thought flashed across his mind. A thought that he knew ought to be a ridiculous one, shunned and ruled out immediately. ut, somehow, it managed to stay. It was a determined thought, after all.
Perhaps it is better that he doesn't know.
Never being one to bother excessively about the wellbeing of others, the man was (fortunately) able to not dwell on the thing for very long. Though it still remained present in his mind, much to his annoyance.

"Go on, then. Why did I do it?"

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Visible flinching at the nickname. More violent than usual. Sherlock looked back at him, though, which was good. Mycroft sat up straighter, unbuttoning his jacket to allow himself to become more comfortable, and crossed one leg over the other. He folded his hands in his lap and matched his brother's stare.

"The answer to your question is my business alone, so I would much appreciate it if you stop asking."

Mycroft snorted and hid his smile the best he could. When Sherlock was threatened by anything, he put up a barrier of any form. Silence was this one. Refusing to divulge any information. Though it was very unlike him, it was exactly like him to do. To put up a wall and ride out the situation in his own personal solitude that was his head.

"I have to say, dearest brother, that I am quite intrigued to hear what you think. And, as your deductions will most likely not be the truth, it doesn't matter to me whether I will like what you have to say or not."

Sherlock shuffled until he was almost facing Mycroft directly. He wasn't afraid. This was the Sherlock he knew. The one that was unafraid of everything. The wall was still up, but he wasn't afraid.

As if to prove this, he said, "Go on, then. Why did I do it?"

Mycroft smiled, switching which leg was crossed over which and lacing his hands together.

"From the information I gathered today, this is your sixth time attempting this stunt. So that means this is the sixth time you've failed. Though I do not know the exact details behind the previous five, I know the ones about today's." He blinked, then licked his lips. "Cocaine. Injected in to the blood stream. Your usual form of becoming high and getting your mind off of whatever it was you needed. Enough to over-dose, but not enough to kill. Even if James had not paid you a visit, Dr. Watson or Mrs. Hudson would have and the same ending would have resulted, albeit without me sitting in this chair right now since I do not believe that either of them have any form of contact for me.

"Considering that you had the resources to perform the suicide and did not perform the correct dosage, you do not want to die. This suicide stunt is most likely either a result of your boredom, a starvation for attention, or you are trying to extract revenge on someone close to you. A relative or a friend. The most likely of the three, considering your past, is that you want some form of attention. Of course, I could be over-estimating you since we have not spoken truly in quite some time." He waved his hand to dismiss the thought.

"If you seriously wanted to kill yourself, you would have loaded your gun, placed the barrel against some part of your anatomy, and pulled the trigger. You will never do that, though, because that is not in your nature. You would not have hung yourself; it is not in your nature either. Cocaine is the most logical, but we both understand now that you cannot do that. In conclusion, you do not want to die. If you wanted to die, you would have done so correctly and not just toyed around with the idea because that is all you have been doing. Toying."

Mycroft paused, staring very intently at his brother's face for any sort of change in his expression.

"Mind you that I do not have all the facts. I agree with you that I may be wrong in my deductions. Since I know hardly anything about the previous occasions, and I am going off of what I know, which is quite limited, this is what I have gotten."

He leaned forward slightly, fixing his glare full on Sherlock's face.

"So tell me now if I am wrong and correct me. Like yourself, I am quite interested in knowing, Sherly."

--

OOC: Apologies for the super long post. Angry Mycroft has reared his ugly head.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

His sentences had gained some sort of reaction - which came as a small bit of surprise for the younger Holmes. Of course, it was now evident that he was making barriers (not exactly a very good idea for someone in his situation, as it would most likely provoke the theory held by the Doctors that the detective needed a form of help) to stop anything from reaching in. From hurting him. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to shut himself out.
So the only thing that remained as a potential threat to the man's life and wellbeing, was himself.
And that was the most dangerous person of all, for such a thing.

Sherlock sat patiently, and watched his brother. He did his extreme best to ignore the light goosebumps raising along his arms due to the curious chill of the room, letting them rest on either side of his legs, long fingers curling ever-so-slightly-tighter with every word.
It was, really, just one of the very few clues to suggest that Holmes was even listening.

It was self-destruction, really. Intentional, obviously. And it had been around for almost as far as the man could remember. Acting first at sixteen had been a mistake, Sherlock later decided. He hadn't been quite ready, and was under the influence of some sort of street drug when he tried it - which was presumably the cause for failure.
But once he'd done it, there hadn't been any turning back.

The second he was almost shameful of. It was a few years after his first, and the young Holmes had been patiently and silently waiting in the dark until opportunity rose again. The only 'chink in the armour' of that plan, however, had been that no opportunity arose. After knowing that he had failed the first time, he had just given up. On everything. Sherlock didn't move, didn't eat, didn't sleep - even held his breath a few times, just to see whether it was possible to overcome the survival instinct of breathing whilst still conscious - for longer than he was aware of. It wouldn't have taken much longer before it was all over, if there hadn't been someone to find him.

The third was a change of course. Holmes began to grow restless in the monotony of life, and the want for everything to just stop increased, until it became a pounding demand behind his eyes. The rest continued like this, and the detective became powered by the determination not to fail. Not again.

Mycroft was wrong, in so many ways.

He almost felt pity for his older brother.
The other Holmes seemed to believe that Sherlock didn't really want to die. That it was some sort of psychotic issue, perhaps, triggered by the want for attention, lack of anything interesting to do, or some twisted idea of revenge.
"...considering your past, is that you want some form of attention..."
That was a fair assumption. Being bored wasn't really enough to provoke something like this, as boredom had taken it's toll far too frequently to the man, and had become little more than an irritating nuisance. And he was too selfish to kill himself just to make a point to others.
But attention? Did Mycroft really think so little of his brother?

He went on to explain (again correct in the assumptions of the detective's opinions on the different methods of suicide - being 'not in his nature') his deductions, before leaning forward and capturing Sherlock's attention with a glare, and the last words he spoke.
"So tell me now if I am wrong and correct me. Like yourself, I am quite interested in knowing, Sherly."

He fidgeted a little, obviously growing restless with staying still, before allowing somewhat of a manic grin to spread over his previously blank face.
"You're wrong." the words were gleeful, despite the man already knowing that he hadn't been correct.
"I do want to kill myself, Mycroft."

His cheery tone remained, which was possibly quite an alarming thing when considering what the detective was saying.
"You don't have to believe me when I say that the other five times were only unsuccessful due to unfortunate coincidence, but it's the truth. And you don't have to believe me when I say that it isn't some ridiculous want for attention. Honestly, if it was, do you think I'd try so hard to keep it from my own brother?" at the words he feigned a look of shock. Despite being ordinarily a very good actor, Sherlock wasn't able to keep a straight face for long. Soon he burst into genuine laughter.

"The reason really doesn't matter, brother. So stop pressing for it. Besides, why should I tell you? If I did then I couldn't be sure that you'd believe me, anyway. And it's unimportant, really. If I want to... smoke, I'll light a cigarette. If I want to die, I'll try to kill myself. The reason for suicide isn't any different for the reason for smoking." It really was a bad example, but the only thing he could honestly come up with.

His eyes widened slightly at his next words, though, and the grey orbs stared directly and intently into his brother's as he cocked his head to the side. A look of innocence, really. Or at least as far as was able to this man.

"Mycroft, I've failed six times already. And whatever they do, I'm going to pass one day."
So get used to the idea.

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Mycroft's expression softened. He licked his lips and relaxed his shoulders, sitting back up straight. Pity. He felt pity for his brother. The man didn't understand how important he was, how god damn special he was. Everyone knew him, everyone went to him when they needed help, and he got the job done and changed people's lives. He saved countless people and many of them owe him. And yet he didn't find any of that worthy of living. He still wanted to die. Mycroft frowned softly at him, standing and walking to his brother's bed. He sat on the edge, making sure not to touch Sherlock, and just looked at him.

"We think so little of each other, don't we?" Mycroft said after a moment. "I think you want attention and you think I don't care." He sighed almost sadly, putting his hand on the bed. "I do care. I worry about you constantly, probably enough for the both of us."

Everyday, he tried to check in on his brother, get Chester to drive by his house, just something to let him know that Sherlock was alright. But even then, he still managed not to see that Sherlock was not fine. It made him sick.

"I'm a bad brother, that's fine, I already know that. But I don't understand where you got the idea that I don't care or I don't believe you. Anything you tell me, I'll believe you unless proven otherwise. That probably means nothing to you, but it's nice to know."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

He didn't say anything when his brother approached. And, though he would later tell himself that it was only a result of the past hours, the voices in his head screaming that there was somebody in his personal space didn't seem so loud. Which certainly was unusual, considering that they tended to set off any and every warning signal known to existence when somebody had stepped within the borders of his own little bubble. And it couldn't simply be that it was Mycroft, as the warnings sometimes even grew louder when Sherlock's brother was involved.

What unnerved the detective the most, however, was the sheer fact that the elder Holmes was just looking at him. And doing so in such a way that both brothers used so often - completely obvious yet unreadable to the other.
Sherlock stared back, his guarded expression faltering only slightly as his big brother admitted to worrying about him. To anybody else, it might not seem to be such a strange event as they did - but then again, it was likely that anybody else to witness the quiet conversation of the Holmes brothers was likely to not know their odd relationship as siblings at all.

"I'm a bad brother, that's fine, I already know that. But I don't understand where you got the idea that I don't care or I don't believe you. Anything you tell me, I'll believe you unless proven otherwise. That probably means nothing to you, but it's nice to know."
It had been possibly a fairly long time since the youngest of the brothers took anything the other said into consideration. Slightly less longer since he had listened to anybody's words with as much intensity as he did then. And for once, he wasn't just listening so that the other man would go away, and leave him alone. He was listening because Sherlock felt these were things that needed listening to.

The words were on the tip of his tongue. The sentence that would end possibly any further rivalry between the two was flitting about somewhere in the regions of his mind. And yet, as he contemplated whether or not he would be able to refrain from spilling the reasons when he found how to phrase them, they seemed to only blend further into the chaos of his internal monologue.

"I can't explain," he muttered truthfully, after a moments pause. But no, it wasn't just that. His reasons were there, unstable yet definitely present in Sherlock's little universe of a head. Only it wasn't just that he couldn't find the right word to phrase it, but also that he himself found he was unable to make sense of the parts that mattered the most.
"I don't really understand, to be honest."
And then he winced violently at his own words.

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Mycroft nodded when Sherlock explained that he didn't understand it. It happened often. It has happened to Mycroft before. Not knowing why you did something. Sometimes it was scary, not being in control of the cards you were handed and not understanding why the impulse was there. In the end, they were both self destructive in their own ways.

Sherlock winced violently, making Mycroft sigh and chance patting his brother's knee. He gave it a quick two pats, retracting his hand quickly and standing back up to create distance. Sherlock didn't like any sort of human contact from his brother. He knew it, but he wanted to give a small gesture of affection, however little it may be.

"When you figure it out, let me know. Please."

He put his hands in his pockets, watching Sherlock for a moment longer before sighing and stepping back away.

"You're fine now. For now. I'll be off then, unless you would like me to stay."

Something in the back of his mind yelled at him not to leave. But Sherlock wasn't going to open up to him anytime soon, and staying in that hospital room, talking to a brick wall, was doing nothing but eating up time. It was Sherlock's choice, though, whether or not he would leave.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Politely (really, he could have reacted far worse) ignoring the two pats to his knee, Sherlock found himself letting out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding as the threat to his personal space that Mycroft had created was quickly solved with the brother's immediate distance. If it wasn't for the fact that Holmes was rather unaware of whether or not he could fully function at that time, he would have fled halfway across the room as soon as the elder man even drew close.
So, naturally, he was rather thankful for the space.

Though it still didn't help clear the twisting and twirling mass of silvery-coloured tangled spider webs clouding his mental vision with their complicated clutter.
What had made them be even more confusing was the fact that there were now intertwining with the delicate rambles of his internal monlogue - which really, really wasn't pleasant.
If he were to think intently on the matter, the consulting detective woudl realise that they almost seemed to be trying to anchor themselves in place.

"When you figure it out, let me know. Please."
Was he going to do that freely? Probably not. But perhaps saying that he would would assure the older Holmes that, really, he wasn't that much of a 'bad big brother'.
So, in response, Sherlock didn't say that he wouldn't.
It didn't mean he would.

"You're fine now. For now. I'll be off then, unless you would like me to stay."
Rolling his shoulders back, the younger man stared noncommittally at the opposing wall once again. In all honesty, he wasn't that bothered whether his brother left or not. But naturally, he probably had business to attend to.
Which was one reason to demand his continued presence.

The consulting detective shrugged, before simply stating:
"I don't care."