Post by MYCROFT HOLMES on Mar 30, 2012 9:02:05 GMT -5
He wasn't hungry, so he didn't eat. He wasn't tired, so he didn't sleep. He was too busy to worry about impractical things such as eating and sleeping. He needed to get this case tied up and wrapped in a pretty little bow to be shipped off to where ever it was that old cases went to die. Maybe there was a cemetery that was made just for these things in Hell. Amusing as it is, the case was over and it was time to wrap it up.
Mycroft had an abusive streak in him. Not abusive in terms of other people. Himself. He was always on a path to self destruction. He didn't understand what made him do this. He had a good life. An ex-fiance girlfriend, but it wasn't that they ended on good bad terms. He had friends acquaintances. A younger brother who hated acknowledged him often enough. A mother back in London who would rather not speak with him was too busy for family. It wasn't a bad life. He certainly had things better than most.
He drank more than he ate. He probably had more hard drinks than he had hot meals in his life. And he was only thirty-five. Something should have clicked for him there. Right when he realized that. Downing a bottle every day would put him in his grave. Maybe that's what he wanted, when it really came down to the bare needs of a human body. He was always too busy to keep up and that would certainly catch him up.
When he had downtime, he still didn't do things quite right. He still didn't allow himself to eat. He still didn't allow himself to lay down and actually get a good sleep. He still kept a nice, expensive bottle of good, hard Scotch on his desk, and a clear glass sitting right beside that. He still didn't find it necessary to worry.
Mycroft's abusive streak managed to aid in his ill feeling. So much destruction of his body deteriorated his being and made him weak and sick. So sick, in fact, that he would crawl in to bed and wrap up tightly in his sheets to will the pounding and the aching to please, go away, go away and don't come back oh god, it hurts until he couldn't stand it. Too often, he passed out with an abnormally large fever. Always over 104 degrees. Never any less. The frequency of it made him expect the temperature, the pounding on his front door, the screaming, the pleading, the wheezing, the crying, the shoving and turning, the cold hand on his forehead, the familiar face, the darkness.
He would wake up days later. Wrapped in security. He would be in the hospital, dressed in those ghastly gowns that showed the world all he had to offer. Chester, old Chester, would be asleep in the spare bed beside him. His only friend Chester. And if he didn't pay him, his only friend would be gone and he'd be left to find a new driver. It was sad, really.
No one would know about it though. Not Sherlock or mum. It was slightly two-faced of him to do that, though, after everything he told his brother when he tried to kill himself. Say one thing and do another. Disgusting.
He would be held for days. Monitored. Made sure he slept and ate properly and got his nourishment back where it was. He would promise to make an effort to be better and to treat himself better. The doctor would smile and pat him on his shoulder and tell him to be careful and safe. Mycroft would smile and shake his hand and bid him a fond farewell. Chester would drive him home, and he would be back in his flat within the hour.
And the first thing he would do is go for the Scotch, the path to self-destruction hindered for only a week.
Mycroft had an abusive streak in him. Not abusive in terms of other people. Himself. He was always on a path to self destruction. He didn't understand what made him do this. He had a good life. An ex-
He drank more than he ate. He probably had more hard drinks than he had hot meals in his life. And he was only thirty-five. Something should have clicked for him there. Right when he realized that. Downing a bottle every day would put him in his grave. Maybe that's what he wanted, when it really came down to the bare needs of a human body. He was always too busy to keep up and that would certainly catch him up.
When he had downtime, he still didn't do things quite right. He still didn't allow himself to eat. He still didn't allow himself to lay down and actually get a good sleep. He still kept a nice, expensive bottle of good, hard Scotch on his desk, and a clear glass sitting right beside that. He still didn't find it necessary to worry.
Mycroft's abusive streak managed to aid in his ill feeling. So much destruction of his body deteriorated his being and made him weak and sick. So sick, in fact, that he would crawl in to bed and wrap up tightly in his sheets to will the pounding and the aching to please, go away, go away and don't come back oh god, it hurts until he couldn't stand it. Too often, he passed out with an abnormally large fever. Always over 104 degrees. Never any less. The frequency of it made him expect the temperature, the pounding on his front door, the screaming, the pleading, the wheezing, the crying, the shoving and turning, the cold hand on his forehead, the familiar face, the darkness.
He would wake up days later. Wrapped in security. He would be in the hospital, dressed in those ghastly gowns that showed the world all he had to offer. Chester, old Chester, would be asleep in the spare bed beside him. His only friend Chester. And if he didn't pay him, his only friend would be gone and he'd be left to find a new driver. It was sad, really.
No one would know about it though. Not Sherlock or mum. It was slightly two-faced of him to do that, though, after everything he told his brother when he tried to kill himself. Say one thing and do another. Disgusting.
He would be held for days. Monitored. Made sure he slept and ate properly and got his nourishment back where it was. He would promise to make an effort to be better and to treat himself better. The doctor would smile and pat him on his shoulder and tell him to be careful and safe. Mycroft would smile and shake his hand and bid him a fond farewell. Chester would drive him home, and he would be back in his flat within the hour.
And the first thing he would do is go for the Scotch, the path to self-destruction hindered for only a week.
