The Puppeteers (Mycroft Holmes)

Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Bad Days

"I am aware of the situation. I was rather hoping you had something good for me." Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. "I see." He shrugged into his jacket and grabbed the stainless steel thermos Savannah handed him. "Yes, do." He hung up and sighed loudly. "There's a situation. I'm afraid I won't be able to do lunch."

"Dinner?" She asked hopefully, taking her breakfast from the microwave.

He made a face. "Probably not." Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her against his chest and kissed her cheek. "I'll probably be home late, don't wait up."

"When do I ever wait up for you? I love my sleep too much."

He smiled against her cheek and glanced out the window. "There's Thomas. Give me a kiss and I'll see you tomorrow."

She pouted but turned to kiss him. "Go save an ambassador from ruining his life or something."

"As usual." He chimed, closing the door behind him. He slid into the waiting Jaguar and glanced at Anthea. "Where are we?"

"Stage three is well underway and Hans is cooperating."

His eyes glinted with approval. "I should have put you on the project in the first place."

She didn't reply but her lip curled in smug satisfaction. She looked up. "While I continue to work on him, you have two meetings and by then I should have news as well as an update on Sherlock."

"Thank you." He had been more worried about his brother than any of the more pressing matters on his desk recently. Having gone missing - again - Sherlock seemed to have turned up in a tiny drug den in East Devon.

When Mycroft left his second meeting with the president of a lobbyist group seeking to force reform, he was given the address of Sherlock's friend. The "drug den" was really someone's damp and moldy cellar, filled with the stench of urine and vomit and heavy with the sense of failure.

Mycroft picked through the slumped bodies, searching for a head of matted and greasy black hair. This was one of the few times he submitted to entering the field. Sherlock never really knew how far he would go... He sighed and searched through the dim and smoky air. Stopping in frustration, he looked around again. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Bleary eyes watched him, slack-jawed. He asked again. A body shifted. "Couldn't send a lackey this time?" Someone slurred. Barely restraining a sigh of relief, Mycroft stepped through the bodies. He slid his arms under Sherlock's and hauled him to his feet.

"I have more important things to do than rescue you from destroying your mind, you know." He dragged him out into the somewhat fresher air and white light that filtered through the clouds.

"Then why come?" Sherlock's eyes would have been challenging had they not been bloodshot and squinted in the daylight.

"Sentiment."

Sherlock snorted and allowed himself to be tumbled into the car. Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the stench that rose off him and wondered how much of it had sunk into his own clothes. He glanced at his brother. Sherlock was curled up against the door with his head pressed against the window. He sniffled occasionally and wiped his nose.

"I could always put you in rehab." Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock cut his eyes at him. "I could always pay Savannah a visit."

Mycroft bristled. He had tried his best to keep Savannah out of the loop when it came to Sherlock's habits. She would take it upon herself to try and help him and end up hurt and disappointed. Sherlock was forbidden to see her until he was clean - which suited him just fine as he wasn't fond of her.