Dwindle

Chapter Six

The next morning, when Sherlock woke up, he was momentarily distraught. Where was he? Why did his body ache? What was that pounding in his head?

The events of the evening before came rushing back to him and he bit back a groan as a new wave of pain overcame him.

He looked over and saw John sitting comfortably and silently in his chair reading a book. Sherlock could immediately tell that the man had been sitting there all night. He still wore the shirt from the night before, his hair in the same style yet sticking up in odd directions, dark bags hung under his eyes.

For a moment, he was touched that John had bothered to keep him company, but that feeling was soon replaced by annoyance.

John must have sensed the attention, because he suddenly looked up and made eye contact with the younger man, "Good morning!" He said cheerily, "I'll go and put the kettle on." He got up and went to the kitchen.

When he came back, he sat back down and looked at Sherlock, his gaze curious, "How are you feeling this morning?" He asked

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Like crap."

John chuckled quietly, "I'd imagine so. You look it, too." Sherlock stared daggers at the man, and John quickly sobered, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's closed his eyes and tilted his head back against one of the pillows, "Hmmm?"

"What happened?"

There was a beat of silence as John waited in anticipation and Sherlock weighed his words carefully.

"Nothing." Sherlock finally said.

"No, Sherlock." John said, his voice stern, "What happened?"

"I said nothing." He said again, his voice insistent.

"What happened?" He asked again quietly despite Sherlock's clear annoyance.

"I said," Sherlock retorted, "nothing." He heard John sigh, "What?" He asked angrily, "I didn't ask you to help me. I didn't want you to help me. I don't need you! I don't need anybody! Go and tell Mycroft if you want, I don't bloody care what you do! Just leave me alone!"

He turned his back on John and stayed there until he heard retreating footsteps down the hall. He was finally alone.

Just what he wanted.

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The next time Sherlock woke up, Mycroft was staring down at him.

"Hello brother." The redhead greeted.

"Hello fatty." Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Really? Name calling? Excessively puerile, don't you think?"

Sherlock pretended to think about it, "Uhhhh.....no. Not really." His eyes narrowed, "Why are you here?" 

"Why, to see how my baby brother is faring, of course." He pulled up a kitchen chair and sat down by Sherlock, "I can't say I'm overly pleased with your state." He studied his brother's discolored face and worry filled his eyes for a very brief moment. It went as soon as it came, "Now." He folded his hands in his lap, "Dr. Watson tells me that you refuse to explain the circumstances behind your current....predicament."

Sherlock shrugged, closing his eyes again.

"Well?" Mycroft asked, expectantly.

"Well what?" 

"Well I'm waiting." 

Sherlock suddenly sat up, tilting slightly and holding his head for a second. "Whoa." He groaned as he stood and dizzily stumbled a few steps to the left. He steadied himself and stood up straight, looking down at his brother, "A got pummeled." He stated dryly, "Happy?" He took a few steps towards the kitchen, but wavered and had to stop.

Mycroft stood up behind him, "No." His voice was sharp, "I am not happy." He moved foward so that Sherlock was facing him, "Of course I'm not happy! You look like a bloody massacre! I'm supposed to be taking care of you and you go and get yourself beat up two weeks into the school year! Now tell me, once and for all, what the bloody hell happened?"

Sherlock stood up straighter, indignant "Some other students thought it would be jolly good fun to beat up the freak."  He made his way back to the couch and sat down unsteadily, "I was outnumbered. Oh don't give me that look." He growled as Mycroft made a sympathetic face.

Mycroft sighed, "Although I am sorry, I can't say that I am overly surprised, Sherlock. You do have the habit of....." He guarded his words, "Making bad first impressions. However," He chuckled lightly, "Greg Lestrade seems to like you. He told me about your little 'conversation'."

Sherlock made a face, "I'd rather not talk about him. I don't know what you see in such a dimwitted man." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"He's hardly dim, brother dear. I think he's quite lovely actually...." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust and Mycroft sighed, "Oh do grow up."

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.

"What?" Mycroft asked, annoyed, "What was that?"

"I said," stated Sherlock, "that at least I don't let my emotions run my life." 

"This again?" Mycroft groaned.

"You will end up heartbroken."

"And you will end up alone." 

"The better of the two, don't you think?" Sherlock tried standing again, "As much as I enjoy this little chat, don't you have somewhere else to be?" 

Mycroft sighed and nodded, "Yes. I have a meeting in twenty minutes."

"Well. Have fun." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"I will." his brother walked towards the front door and opened it, "Oh." He said over his shoulder, "And call Mummy, would you? She's getting worried."

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Sherlock never did call his mother. Or anyone else for that matter. He just stayed in the living room, thinking.

He was on his back, laying on the couch, with his hands folded under his chin as if he were praying. His long legs were perched on top of the arm of the couch and his head rested on the opposite arm.

He was bored. Unbearably so.

If he wasn't in pain during every movement, he would have left the small house.

But for now he sat still.

Wallowing in stubbornness and self pity, he stayed there for hours.

It wasn't until John came home that he silently slipped into his room, avoiding confrontation.