---
title: "Lion's Teeth"
author: "Basser"
lang: en
id: "CRV-07"
series: "Can't Rewind Verse"
series_part: 7
fandom: "Sherlock (TV)"
rating: "Teen And Up Audiences"
warnings: ["No Archive Warnings Apply"]
words: 9154
chapters: 3
date: 2013-12-28
status: "complete"
written_by: human
summary: "A fourteen year old Sherlock tries to nick money from his father to buy cigarettes."
---

# Lion's Teeth

## Chapter 1: We Hold On

**««**

"Keep still, child, for god's sake."

Siger touched his son's shoulder, pressed downwards in a gentle warning to stop fidgeting. The man's expression was doing a fair job of conveying a sense of harried concern. Sherlock reluctantly halted the slight swaying motion he'd habitually fallen into. Forced himself to sit still even though doing so made it feel like ants had taken up residence under his skin. Better to suffer a bit of discomfort now than face reprisal later.

"Well, it looks like the lad took quite the tumble, Mr Holmes," Dr Morris, a personal physician called out to the manor on emergency basis, said as he examined a copy of Sherlock's x-ray from yesterday's hospital trip. "The splint will need to stay for a day or two. After that I'm afraid I'll have to recommend a hard cast."

Sherlock scowled to himself and ducked his head, picking angrily at the gauze-and-bandage wrapping encasing his left wrist. That would put him out of symphony for a few months at least. Wouldn't be able to practise, either, which would lose him his position as concertmaster next year... probably for good, if he were being honest about it. What were the odds he'd be able to pass auditions after a prolonged lack of playing, after all? Let alone make first chair? Fat chance.

Not like he gave a toss, though... one less bloody activity to keep up with. Meant he could focus more on studying. Get into uni early, maybe. Music wasn't important, didn't matter. Nothing did, really.

... he didn't care he didn't care *he didn't care*.

Above him Siger had set his mouth in a decent approximation of a worried frown. He was definitely getting on well with this whole 'responsible parent' act, wasn't he? Sherlock wondered if he'd just stop bothering once he felt he'd mastered the role.

"And his chances of long-term impairment?" Siger's tone carried a near-perfect mixture of concern and disapproval. He glanced down at his son with a look of mild exasperation, as if to ask 'how do you keep managing to find trouble like this?' As if he didn't bloody well know *exactly* how Sherlock's wrist had ended up broken. As if yesterday afternoon had simply never happened.

Or perhaps he'd honestly forgotten? Rewritten history to suit him? Could he *do* that? Sherlock wouldn't put it past the bastard.

Still, though, *Sherlock* remembered. All too clearly. He met his father's gaze with a faint glare and was relieved to see the man's expression harden into frigid annoyance for a fleeting instant. Still just an act, then. Good.

"Well the lad's still young." Dr Morris leant back in his chair and slipped the x-ray safely into the envelope he'd brought it in. "I'd say with a bit of physical therapy he'll be right as rain." The man punctuated his statement with a friendly wink towards Sherlock, who responded with nothing but a blank stare. Smile and a wink for a broken wrist? Thanks, sir, very helpful. Let's just forget all about the bruised ribs, the faded black eye, the utter silence and stone-faced dispassion from a fourteen year old.

Probably not normal, that. Perhaps something wrong, something worth looking in to. But then he wouldn't, would he, because who cared? Wasn't this man's problem. Wasn't anyone's problem. Sherlock dealt with it all on his own. Always had and always would.

Dr Morris' smile dropped a few notches, confused by Sherlock's lack of response. Beside them Siger huffed out a nigh-imperceptible breath of annoyance and reached out to lightly tap his son on the shoulder. Sherlock startled badly at the contact. A quick glance sidelong revealed the warning on his father's face - *keep up the act,* glass-sharp eyes said wordlessly, *or else*.

Reluctantly Sherlock looked back to Dr Morris. What was the appropriate reaction, then...? Smile, he supposed. The forced upturn of his mouth felt painfully fake and hollow but the doctor seemed to accept it regardless, beaming back with a friendly tilt of his head.

After a short pause the man stood up, tucked his manilla envelope into a briefcase, and held out a hand towards the Holmes patriarch.

"Suppose that'll be all, then," he said genially. "Give us a ring if anything seems to be going wrong."

"Much obliged for your prompt assistance," Siger offered politely. He moved away from his son to escort Dr Morris to the hall. The instant the adults' backs were turned on him Sherlock let the false smile drop from his face. Ducked his head and went back to picking at his splint instead, thin body hunched low on his stool. Hated his life. Hated the world. Hated his dad. Hate hate *hate*. Impotent and useless, this silent storm of loathing, nothing but a buzz of static chasing vengeful little circles round his skull. It wasn't as if he could realistically *do* anything about the sorry state of his existence, after all. But anger felt better than emptiness so he kept on fuelling the flames til his whole chest grew tight and hot with rage. He was a collapsing star of pointless fury. One day he'd go super-nova and take the whole planet out with him.

Across the room Siger had shut the door on their guest. He stood silent for a brief moment before turning back around, his face now smoothed back into its usual glacial mask. Sherlock eyed him warily. Couldn't recall having done anything egregiously *wrong* in the last few hours - nothing that would beget severe punishment in any case - but then one could never be sure. Rules often changed without warning; new codes of conduct could spring up overnight, taking him unawares. Only safe course was to always assume he'd cocked up somehow. That way the inevitable failures could never blindside him.

"Well then," Siger remarked casually. Bland, very near sarcastic... clearly didn't intend to elaborate any further. Sherlock sat frozen in the subsequent silence. Sodding hell, what did that mean? *'Well then, you're in a shitload of trouble...? Well then, I'd best just kill you now? Well then, I suppose I'll go have a bath?'* No, had to be something awful. Some mistake Sherlock had missed. He clutched his injured wrist tightly enough to be painful and braced himself for imminent disaster.

Distressingly, though, Siger didn't look the least bit annoyed. Instead of speaking again he wandered over to the window, glanced out over the grounds with a slight roll of his shoulder, then looked back to Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. Completely meaningless expression; not the slightest fit to context. Sherlock tried not to respond with a look of confusion but of course his facial muscles shifted of their own accord.

"No?" Siger asked. Mercifully he dropped back into his usual impassive mask. "Still getting the hang of that one, then."

Should just keep quiet, Sherlock determined. Less likely to get himself in trouble. *Don't say a word don't say a word don't say-*

"What were you trying for?" He grit his teeth against his own traitorous tongue. *Goddamn it.* Forced the look of frustration off his face - the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn't he ever seem to control what his stupid body did? Bloody christ it was like he was *hardwired* to subvert himself at every turn.

Well, at least Father didn't look angry. Not that that necessarily meant much. Siger often hid savage fury behind a placid mask.

The man shrugged and waved a hand. "Bland exasperation, I suppose."

"Oh." Sherlock glanced away, then remembered he was supposed to *look* at people when he spoke to them and dragged his gaze back upwards. Hated meeting anyone directly eye-to-eye - made his stomach flip and his shoulders hunch like a curling hedgehog - so he focused on his father's nose instead. Easier to deal with, less likely to short-circuit his thought processes. "I think you need to move your mouth as well. Erm... sir."

Was this a proper-manners conversation or a get-away-with-being-informal-for-no-discernible-reason conversation? Sherlock had no idea. Better safe than sorry. Siger looked vaguely amused rather than annoyed by the lapse in respect, however, so... informal, then. Apparently.

"So tell me, child." Siger tilted his head a bit and flashed one of his utterly soulless smiles. "Was it worth the price?"

Sherlock knew exactly what the man was referring to (obvious, had to be yesterday's debacle) but for some inscrutable reason his stupid mouth decided to make him look like an idiot instead.

"Was what worth the price?"

Siger snorted very slightly to himself. With deliberate, unhurried ease he reached into the left pocket of his crisp black slacks and drew out a ten pound note. A tangled bolt of raw stabbing emotion shot through Sherlock's chest at the sight - guilt and embarrassment and fright and a creeping sense of self-loathing.

For all Siger's subtle ineptitude when it came to mimicking appropriate reactions he was nevertheless something of a master at reading them on the faces of others, and so caught Sherlock's inner conflict easily. The man's mouth edged upwards in a very slight smirk as he glanced down to study the money in his hand.

"Enough for, what, a single pack?" he asked in a casual voice. Sherlock froze in a flash of terror - oh no oh christ how did he know about the-!? Siger looked back up and met his son's eyes with a *(meaningful, this time)* lift of one eyebrow. "Really now, child. It's been nearly six months since you picked up your little smoking habit. You can't have honestly thought I wouldn't notice."

Sherlock, mercifully, said nothing. His brain had sputtered out in a mantra of *ohshitohshitohshit*, leaving him with little room for anything resembling cognition, let alone the concept of speech. Siger raised his other hand to fold the banknote neatly in half and strode calmly over to his rather obviously panicking son. A pause while they stared each other down - cornered anxiety to hollow emptiness - and with absolutely no pomp whatsoever Siger dropped the ten pound note into Sherlock's lap.

"Your mistake was making the decision to steal from me," Siger explained in a bored monotone. "As for the cigarettes themselves, I couldn't care less. Your personal health is your own to destroy as you see fit. However, now that you've proven yourself incapable of exercising self-restraint in regards to your chosen vice, I will be enacting severe reprisal if I find you've resumed the habit within these walls."

Sherlock's heart was thumping faster than a cornered rabbit's - had to be verging on a damned fibrillation by now - but he managed to keep his expression mostly stoic *(belied by the ashen pallor of his face, of course, but there was nothing to be done about that)*. Siger began to hum a sonorous, dirgelike tune to himself and resumed his leisurely stroll toward the room's exit.

"Oh! Yes." Siger stopped as if struck with an afterthought, pausing with his hand on the doorframe. "Your brother's been in touch, I suppose you might care to know. Seems he won't be making it back for the holidays. Just the three of us this year, then, hm? Assuming Violet's in any mood to grace us with her presence."

A disturbing imitation of a smile *(to which Sherlock responded by staring wide-eyed like a spooked deer)* and then with a flippant parting wave Siger was gone. Headed for his study, by the sound of his footsteps. Still, just to be safe Sherlock remained frozen in place for at least a minute more. Never quite sure if he'd been dismissed to do as he liked or just left to suffocate on his own adrenaline until Siger showed up again to tell him off for having dared to move.

Seconds ticked by, however, and it soon became apparent Sherlock had been granted implicit permission to leave. A maid had glanced into the room, spotted him, and bustled away again. Cleaning staff wouldn't be passing through if Siger had indicated plans to return to this wing any time soon. Shakily Sherlock slid off the stool he'd been perched on and made his way upstairs, ears straining for any sign of his Father. His heart refused to slow down so much as a tick until he'd safely sequestered himself behind the antique skeleton lock of his bedroom door, folded his gangly legs to sit in a curled-up ball in a chair by the desk.

His computer was still on - bulky monitor balanced precariously beside the permanently-open PC tower he'd taken to tinkering around inside whenever he got bored enough to wonder how exactly the thing worked. Mycroft had been the one to get it for him; a birthday present last year, ostensibly for the facilitation of schoolwork. Sherlock had pretended not to care. Then he'd secretly spent a solid week figuring out how to research facts on the internet without alerting his parents to his overuse of the manor's sole cable connection, finally got the whole system working perfectly, and passed every subsequent spare second engrossed with his newfound wealth of knowledge. The entire concept of *hacking* had proven particularly interesting. Enough so, in fact, that the eventual implications of having an entire worldwide network of secrets to unravel had led him to briefly consider actually *thanking* Mycroft for his gift like a giddy child with a new toy.

Discarded the notion immediately, of course. Absurd, sentimental, useless. Mycroft would only scoff and tell him to stop being dramatic, like the man always did when Sherlock made the mistake of expressing anything resembling emotion towards him, so what would be the point?

As if reacting to the content of his thoughts the e-mail client on his browser made a sudden, obnoxious bell-chiming noise, a notice popping up in the corner alerting him to a new message from his brother. He frowned into his knees and reluctantly extricated his good arm from the tight ball he'd curled into to click the link to his inbox.

His frown only deepened as he skimmed over the glowing words. *Sherlock, terribly sorry, won't be able to make the trip back home this year, Cambridge, government, piles of work, natter natter blah blah blah, excuses upon excuses.* Sherlock drew his arm back to his chest and for several long seconds simply sat there glaring venomously at the screen.

A thousand possible replies composed themselves in his brain. Each one rang just as stupid and hollow and useless as the one before it. There was no acceptable way to convey exactly *why* he needed Mycroft home for the holidays - couldn't bring himself to admit that the protection afforded by his brother's presence was the only thing that could make family gatherings feel halfway safe, didn't want to invite the possibility of Mycroft telling him off for being melodramatic should he attempt to blame Father for the broken wrist, *definitely* had no intention of mentioning the whole smoking issue nor of getting caught stealing money to sustain the habit...

No, it would be best to just say nothing. Ignore the message. Use the mental space to figure out how best to go about his holidays with as little interaction with his parents as possible whilst resigning himself to another two weeks of borderline-panic whenever he came within ten metres of Father. Wouldn't last forever, he reminded himself - just a fortnight. He'd survive. Then of course he'd be packed off back to school, where he could trade in fear of his father for fear of his classmates instead, which wasn't *ideal* but also not nearly so bad as home. Because, yes, granted there were loads more arseholes to run from at Eton but at least he was smarter than everyone there, could usually duck out of danger well before getting ganged up on. Nothing like the futile exercise of trying to outwit Siger Holmes in the man's own house.

Didn't matter. Whatever happened in the coming weeks... Sherlock would bloody well handle it. Just had to rely on his wits to keep out of danger like he'd always done. Complaining about his brother's absence wouldn't do anything but make him seem a whingeing, over-dramatic brat, so he simply wouldn't deign to bring the topic up. Clear a plan as any.

He huffed a flat sigh to himself. So it was down to the silent treatment, then. Ignore the message, refuse to acknowledge his brother's existence. Fine. Mycroft deserved it. Sherlock scowled into his knees, then slouched down to press his forehead against them instead in an angry, miserable sulk.

Two seconds hadn't passed before a sudden, savage bolt of fury shot through him, and without really meaning to he'd extracted his good arm again, found the keyboard, hit the 'reply' button on the e-mail client in a mad flurry of indignant clicking. One-handed he laboriously typed out a long, rambling run-on collection of all the worst expletives, swear words, lewd remarks and insults a decade of reading through every single book in the manor's library could possibly dredge up. French, German, Latin... on and on until he'd quite run out of languages to properly express the knot of vicious fire in his chest.

The message stretched out to fill nearly half a page, packed full of random profanity in nearly a dozen different tongues. He hit 'send' in a savage click of the mouse then flopped back into his chair with a furious snarling huff of a noise.

*Fuck* Mycroft. Him and his sodding work. All this important government *bullshit.* Sherlock hoped the git got sacked his first day for being too much of a fat whale to squeeze through the office doors. Bastard.

In a fit of pointless rage his gaze dropped to the splint against his stomach; he tried for some asinine reason to clench the fingers of his broken arm into a fist. A shock of white-hot pain raced up the bone like lightning and he immediately gave up on the action. *Shit*, okay, no... not a good idea. *(Why had he even-? Bloody idiot.)* The throbbing ache he'd been successfully managing to ignore up til now seemed to worm its way deep into his brain; splintering knives up the entirety of his arm, radiating out to the surrounding muscles and *good christ make it stop*.

With a grimacing wince he went instinctively for his trouser pocket in search of the thin cardboard box he'd so quickly learnt to rely on. Of course it wasn't there. Sherlock may have been the absolute *king* of moronic, impulsive, monumentally poor decisions but even he wasn't stupid enough to carry a pack of fags around in the house whilst *Father* was home. One would have to be actively suicidal to even contemplate such a thing.

Though, really... in terms of self-preservation Sherlock supposed he couldn't very well count himself an exemplar of the concept. Maybe he *was* suicidal. Or self-destructive at the very least. Nicking ten pounds off Siger had been a pretty sound guarantee of violent retribution, after all, and yet he'd still given it a go. Ended up with the money in the end, too, somehow. So... honestly it hadn't been all bad, had it? Ten quid richer if one arm short. Decent enough odds. Gave him options.

He glanced down as he tugged the tenner out of the trouser pocket he'd stuffed it into, stared at the visage of the Queen smiling serenely up at him. Could go buy a new pack. Just had to sneak out of the house, walk the mile or so to the nearby town, fool the shop boy into selling to him underage like he'd done during summer hols. Idiotically reckless to break more rules so soon after being reprimanded... but, hell, he was in for the long-haul anyways, wasn't he? Better to be murdered with a brain comfortably benumbed by nicotine than try to force himself through both tobacco withdrawal *and* a bout of extended co-habitation with Siger all in one horrific go. There was really no other plausible way to survive the holiday. Not without Mycroft's company, at least. Not alone.

Twenty minutes *(and several harrowingly close calls with creaking stairs)* later Sherlock was ducking out the back garden in the safe embrace of mid-afternoon shadows, broken wrist tucked carefully against his abdomen. Keeping to the cover of trees and buildings he jogged quickly for the short stretch of woods which separated his family's grounds from their far-off neighbours. A stolen ten-pound note sat heavy in his pocket, the fake ID he'd forged ages ago tucked up beside it.

Miles away, the inbox of one M. Holmes received an e-mail.

*Get fucked*, was the entirety of the opening greeting, followed by an impressive litany of insults.

With an exasperated sigh Mycroft deleted the message.

**««**

## Chapter 2: For Dear Life

**««**

He'd never thought of himself as suicidal.

It was odd, though, he supposed, that he wasn't more preoccupied with the idea of death. An escape, wasn't it? Always touted in his books as the last resort of the downtrodden and oppressed. An ascension to some higher plane where suffering faded and hardships begot reward. Martyrs, all of them, death giving meaning to their horrid lives.

Sherlock had always thought the concept of an afterlife ridiculous, so he'd never had much cause to give the idea of death more than a passing acknowledgement. Religion, entangled as they were, followed in a similar vein. The notion of gods who cared for the piddling nonsense of humanity's anthill just seemed so absurdly self-aggrandizing. And why pray to some supreme being, anyway? Begging for help from a creature who, despite being ostensibly all-knowing, hadn't yet bothered to save you... pointless.

Still, though... Sherlock had tried praying. Once. When he was very young.

Years ago Mummy had taken her sons to church for Easter services in some sort of half-hearted attempt to observe a family tradition. As they sat in the hard pews surrounded by murmuring, lavishly-clothed aristocrats Mycroft had leant over and quietly explained to his baby brother how the stories were nothing but fables, an ancient way to keep the weak-minded masses docile. Sherlock, six years old, had asked why listening to an old man tell lies required them to dress up in suits. He'd spoken too loudly, as he often did at that age, and Mummy had overheard. Her furious expression as she snapped at Mycroft to keep his father's views to himself had stuck in Sherlock's mind for years.

A few months later Mycroft went away to France. Remembering Mummy's insistence that the Lord would provide for anything so long as one was faithful, Sherlock had trawled through the library looking for books that explained how one went about praying. That night he'd knelt down by the edge of his bed, hands clasped, and felt very foolish. But he kept at it anyway, asked for Mycroft to come back, because if it worked he wouldn't be alone. And that was all that mattered, wasn't it? Getting his brother back. Well worth looking like an idiot.

Every night for two weeks he repeated the same silly motions, requested the same favour of the same faceless deity. Nothing changed. Mycroft wrote letters of how lovely France was. Sherlock spent each day wandering the grounds by himself.

Then something new happened. Sherlock had been forced into attending one of his parents' dinner parties - said something incredibly rude to a woman he barely knew. Moments after speaking he'd already dismissed the look of indignation on her face as boring, unimportant, forgettable.

Later, though, he'd remember all too clearly. Siger made certain of it.

He'd given up on praying that night.

From time to time he'd wondered if dismissing the notion of religion so thoroughly at such a young age had perhaps brought some sort of vengeful retribution down upon his person. Were the heavens angry with him? Was that why his life had descended to such turmoil? But, no... because Mycroft had exactly the same views concerning church, didn't he? And everything went perfectly well for *him*. Mycroft never got hit or yelled at, not even lectured*.* His life was *lovely*.

No... the universal hatred humanity seemed to hold for Sherlock had to be down to some other reason. Probably due to him being insufferable. Wasn't that what the nannies always said? And the tutors? What an *awful* child, always causing trouble, completely uncontrollable. Who could ever put up with that little hellion?

Sherlock huffed a sigh to himself and flopped over to lie on his back, spread-eagle over the fluffed duvet. Dropping his head to the side he stared at the bottle of oxycodone on his bedside table. Orange plastic stood tall and imposing like a silent, judging sentinel. Hadn't taken any in a few hours now - didn't like the way it made his brain go all fuzzy, set his skin itching. Beside the pills sat a mostly-full bottle of brandy, which he'd nicked off Mummy in the hopes that alcohol would be a slightly less unpleasant way to dull the sharp ache from his wrist. It hadn't been. But returning it to the liquor cabinet would have to wait until his parents went to bed, so he was left with the stuff stinking up his room for a few hours yet.

He knew exactly what the combination of pain medication and a bottle of alcohol implied - the clichéd imagery had been what set him thinking about his own puzzling lack of suicidal ideation in the first place. Because he honestly *hadn't* been planning anything dramatic when he'd stolen the brandy, just wanted more options to experiment with. It'd been an entirely innocent scientific endeavour.

But... now that he had both... perhaps he should...

Abruptly he shook his head. No, what th-? *God*, no, ridiculous. Why in hell was he even thinking about this? Suicide? Utterly pathetic. Dying wouldn't solve anything, you idiot.

Except it *would*, wouldn't it? That was the entire *point* of death. Nothing more to fret over. Only the living had to bother with worry, pain, fear or stress. If he were dead he wouldn't need to plan for his eventual return to school, face the looming prospect of defending himself against bullies one-handed. Wouldn't have to worry about keeping track of Siger's location in the house every second of the day. Wouldn't care if Mummy called him by his brother's name for the fifth time in a week because no one had been able to convince her Mycroft hadn't come home this year. None of that would matter in the slightest.

Of course it wouldn't, because he'd be *dead*. No coming back from that. Not a sodding solution, bloody moron.

But then why *not*? What else did he have to look forward to? A week more of the manor's never-ending roulette of terror and boredom and loneliness, then back to Eton to get shoved into broom cupboards and punched in the face by idiots. Brilliant. And, oh, right, just a few more years until he could graduate and move out. *Years.* Probably damned near half a decade, if he were honest about it, because what were the chances he'd be able to keep his stupid brain on-track enough to enroll in a decent university at sixteen? Low to non-existent.

No, he'd be trapped in this hell for sodding ages. An eternity of torture.

But still... *after* that eternity... there was bound to be something else. A life, a career, a... what was it normal people hoped for? A family? A wife?

He wrinkled his nose. Ugh, girls. Not interested. Not even in a reproductive sense, apparently, as his infrequent musings on the subject tended to revolve more around... well. With a quick shake of his head he shoved himself to a sitting position on his bed. *Stupid*, god. Quit thinking about pointless rubbish.

His wrist really was starting to hurt like hell. Alcohol had tasted horrific, also hadn't numbed much of anything, so he supposed it was back to the oxy.

Meant to take two pills, but he'd only followed that instruction once before deciding the dull ache of a half-medicated injury was far preferable to being left without the ability to think. On a full dose his brain felt boxed in by fog, leaving him anxious and terrified, jumping at the slightest sound. Intelligence was the only thing he had going for him in this awful world - he relied almost entirely on his wits to keep himself safe, his quick thinking letting him piece together the movements of the house through tiny clues and footsteps so he could disappear when he needed to, allowing enough foresight to duck out of bad situations before they blew up in his face. Having that ability, his lone safety net, dismantled by creeping tendrils of medication had been nothing short of horrifying.

So, frowning in trepidation for the haze which would soon descend over his thoughts, he grabbed the bottle of pills off his table. Just the one. Wouldn't make his wrist stop hurting entirely, but also not as likely to leave him a neurotic mess... acceptable trade-off. He'd be fine.

Ten minutes' staring at the ceiling, however, and he was starting to feel that familiar gnawing terror of not being able to think properly. He screwed up his face and threw his arm over his eyes, trying to block out the sensation. Of course it just kept growing. Some vague amorphous dread, hollowly painful and suffocating, impossible to stop.

All the arguments he'd been having with himself over the last hour quite suddenly seemed moronic. *Don't die, not a solution, not worth giving up*... fuck that, why the hell *shouldn't* he? What was he fighting for? Even if he somehow lived through his teen years he'd still have nothing to look forward to but more people hating him, because he wasn't likeable in the slightest, because he screwed up more often than he succeeded at anything and who could be expected to put up with that? More bullies, then, more people attacking him over incomprehensible social rules, his inevitable failure to conform. And, what, he'd been thinking things were likely to improve once he'd escaped *Father*...? Fucking idiot. *Nothing* ever got better. Should know that by now.

And above all this *stupid* cloud of dread caused by this *stupid* medicine that he only fucking had to take because he'd been enough of an idiot to steal money from Siger *bloody* Holmes. Didn't matter how much the broken wrist hurt, either, because the punishment wouldn't stick. He knew he'd do something equally moronic soon enough and get beaten to hell again, he always did. It was just going to be the same cycle over and over again until someone finally got fed up enough with his nonsense to put him down for good.

Glaring *(and, perhaps, blinking through a watery sheen... but he wasn't about to acknowledge the possibility of tears, so, no, nothing but eye irritation)* he threw out his good arm and grabbed the pill bottle again. Dragged himself to a sitting position and scowled down at the label.

Brandy was disgusting but it was all he really had to wet his mouth enough to swallow another pill. And another. More and more until the entire supply was gone. He dropped the empty bottle to his bed and took another swig of liquor, grimacing at the awful taste, glaring at the glass bottom. Wasn't even entirely sure what he was doing anymore but *damned* if it didn't feel like taking control. Master of his own destiny for once in his bloody life. Even if that destiny was a massive fucking overdose of pain-killers.

And with that thought he abruptly realised what, exactly, he'd just done to himself.

A burst of sheer terror shot through his gut as he stared down at the empty pill bottle.

Fuck.

*Oh, fuck.*

Hyperventilating... but then, no, he wasn't, because he couldn't seem to breathe correctly. Lungs weren't listening to him. With the last of his waning composure he set the near-empty bottle of brandy back on his bedside table, then blindly scrabbled around for a wastepaper bin. Knocked it over at first, scattering crumpled papers, but finally he managed to grasp the edge and brought it up to his face just in time to retch violently.

His body seemed to rapidly lose all muscle function then, and he slumped helplessly into a boneless heap over the edge of his bed. Everything was spinning. Desperately he fought the urge to fall asleep, knew he had to keep breathing, don't close your eyes, don't no stop stop stop *stop.*..

But, then... christ. He was so tired. Just... just fucking sleep. Too late to fight it now, wasn't it? He'd made his choice. Not entirely on *purpose*, but he'd still gone and made it. And nobody would care in the end, so what was the point of struggling? Nobody would... Mycroft would be... happy, even... wouldn't have to... deal with all the bloody... e-mails... full of swear words... hadn't made much sense... that last one... have to look up... serbian... or something... else...

Sherlock's eyes slipped shut, arm still hanging limp over the side of the bed. Breaths slowed to the barest whisper of air as consciousness trickled away like so much water.

A shaft of bright, stabbing light hit him in the face.

For a single absurd moment he wondered if he might be in heaven *(and fuck's sake why in blazes was heaven so sodding bright, christ, wasn't this place supposed to be a fucking paradise)* but upon cracking his eyes open he quickly realised the source of the discomfort wasn't a divine ray of wisdom. No... it was the sun shining through his bedroom window. Must've left the curtains open. Morning light stretched in a long band across the room, illuminating his motionless form on the bed. Birds chirped in the rustling winter trees outside, a steady patter of light rain on the roof. All around him the stillness of early morning hung thick like a swaddling blanket.

Sunlight. Birdsong. Dawn. Fucking hell... he'd actually *lived*.

Sherlock wasn't sure whether he was pleased by that fact or very, very upset.

He grit his teeth against a pounding headache and decided that, for the moment, he'd settle on upset. Mostly because literally *everything* hurt - his wrist was on fire, lungs felt water-logged and his mouth might as well have been full of cotton for all he could tell. He coughed weakly and tried to get an arm under himself to roll over. Couldn't manage it. The broken one was too painful to move and the other had gone completely numb from lack of blood flow, pressed up against the mattress as it was.

With a groan he shifted his head to his shoulder so at least his neck wasn't being compressed, then simply lay there in misery.

Alive. Breathing... god, *why.*

An interminable length of time crept arduously past as he lay waiting for the heaviness to ebb from his limbs. Respiration was difficult, enough so that the struggle to keep on inflating his lungs occupied most of his mental space. How the hell he'd managed to avoid suffocating overnight he had no idea... stupid body's iron will to live, he supposed. Christ. Should have just died and avoided all this nonsense. Couldn't stop breathing now, though. Too scared. Horribly aware of the closeness of death. Another laborious inhale. Maybe he'd just pass out again? No, christ no, *don't*.

A sudden knock at his door startled him; he choked on a panicked half-gasp and darted a glance up toward the other end of the room. Father finding him like this... oh god, no. No no no no.

"Master Holmes?" a quiet voice called - and oh thank hell, not Father. Just a housekeeper.

"M'awake," Sherlock mumbled weakly. With the help of a waning burst of adrenaline he managed to shove himself up on useless limbs, grimacing in pain from the broken wrist. Free of the weight of his ribcage his lungs seemed to properly expand for the first time in hours. "I'm... m'fine," he croaked again, more loudly this time, interrupted by a cough. "*Up*, I mean... I'm... up."

"Oh, erm. Well, your parents will be expecting you for breakfast soon, sir. It's nearly eight."

"Yes, f'course... thank you." Sherlock coughed again and winced for the burn of his too-dry throat, then leant his head on his good arm and grit his teeth. Outside in the hall he could hear the maid walking away. Good of her to wake him, he'd have to figure out which one it was and... and do... something. Oh christ now his brain was fogging out again. What in *hell* had he been thinking, downing a whole bloody bottle of pain pills? And the liquor, god.

Attempted suicide...? Pathetic. And of *course* he'd mucked it up. Couldn't do a single damned thing right, not even... ugh. No, no, forget it. Stop. Not going down *that* path again, good god.

Dismissing all thoughts as best he could Sherlock huffed an exhausted sigh and dropped his eyes to stare blankly down at the duvet. Sunlight rippled in strange patterns of light and shadow, playing along the folds like shimmering water. Birdsong continued unabated in the trees, rain still danced on the roof.

Alive, then, truly. Against all odds.

He screwed his eyes shut again and grimaced. Ugh, headache. Parents were waiting... they only ever insisted on family meals for major holidays. Had to mean it was Christmas. Fuck. Of all the days to do something this *stupid*.

Another unsteady breath to steel his resolve, then finally, and with an almighty effort, he managed to shove himself upright. The room spun in giddy circles round his head but he grit his teeth against the sickening lurch, stumbled for the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Just had to shower, get dressed, act normal... play the part. No other choice. Attempting escape had ended in failure, this must be his punishment.

Sherlock made it about three steps before his legs gave out. He fell hard on his rump and then just sat there, breathing, elbow to one knee and forehead heavy in his uninjured hand. Outside the door he could hear a maid's footsteps walking down the hall. Probably to hurry him along. Parents were waiting, after all.

A hitch caught his breath. He buried his face against still-weak knees.

Life, whether he liked it or not, continued on.

**««**

## Chapter 3: Epilogue

**««**

John frowned at the pill in his hand. Standard pain medication, nothing at all to worry about. He'd have foregone the stuff entirely if it were possible, but he'd managed to crack a rib on that last fiasco of a case and the sharp ache from his side wasn't going to let up without a bit of chemical intervention. That didn't mean he had to be happy about the situation, of course.

"Oh just swallow it, John, it won't kill you," Sherlock droned, catching sight of John's hesitation. Or sensing it *somehow*, at any rate, because as he looked up John realised Sherlock was actually standing by the window staring out into the street, with no direct line of sight to his actions. How…? No, nevermind. Didn't matter. John scowled back down to the white tablet on his palm.

"It's a heavily restricted chemical for a reason, Sherlock," he countered. "I've seen more than enough fatal reactions for anyone's comfort. So give me a sodding moment, will you?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. I swallowed an entire *bottle* of the stuff once, you'll just vomit it back up. No harm done."

John suddenly stopped, hand halfway to his mouth with the pill he'd been just about to take.

"Why the *hell* would you swallow an entire bottle of oxycodone?" he asked, blankly horrified. Over by the window Sherlock stilled - his body language abruptly went taut, as it often did when he seemed to realise he'd said something he hadn't meant to.

"Hm? Oh." He cleared his throat, then turned around. Tried for a casual shrug, missed the mark rather badly and ended up with something more like an uncomfortable fidget. "An… experiment."

"An *experiment?*" John repeated, flabbergasted. "What, to see if you'd die?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit at that, but he quickly masked the expression with a look of disinterest. He turned his gaze away and pointedly occupied himself with the business of shuffling papers.

**««**

It was days later and John now glanced sidelong towards Sherlock, raising a single eyebrow for the look of ridiculous impatience on his friend's face. The both of them were stood with their hands tucked idly behind their backs, cordoned off at the very edge of a buzzing crime scene investigation. Sherlock hadn't yet been granted access - something about securing forensic evidence and preserving the integrity of what was evidently quite a literal bloodbath inside the house. And, as usual in these sorts of situations, the man was *supremely* displeased about it.

Seeing nothing he could immediately do to stem the inevitable tide of bored-genius-whingeing, John turned his gaze back forwards. His rib twinged with the movement, and suddenly a thought hit him. A vague kernel of curiosity. Something which, to be honest, had been niggling at his mind all day - ever since he'd taken his dose of painkillers this morning to soothe the discomfort of a slowly-mending rib. Oxycodone overdose. Sherlock admitting to it. Interesting.

Granted, it wasn't *too* rare an event for Sherlock to casually mention having done something incredibly reckless or stupid to himself in the past. He had an admitted history of drug abuse, after all, and enthusiastically led a life full to bursting with random danger. But in this particular instance the act seemed... rather more deliberate than usual. It would take someone a proper bloody effort to down an *entire* bottle of pills, wouldn't it? Not something you did on a whim. Had he been after some sort of high? Surely he'd been aware of the danger, right? No one could possibly be *that* self-destructive.

Lestrade had disappeared a few moments ago, off to coordinate some portion of his team, and now popped back into view again. A solemn shake of his head and a harried expression in response to Sherlock's questioning glare gave clear indication it'd be awhile yet before they were allowed free reign. Sherlock scowled deeply, huffed a world-weary sigh to himself and briefly allowed his posture to sag in a petulant slouch. Oh, yes, rotten state of the world, this. Not allowing him in to traipse about in a pool of gory entrails. John's stance, of course, remained level as ever, despite his giving in to the urge to roll his eyes. Soldier's training. Indispensable.

For a few moments a stretch of companionable silence hung between them. Lestrade ducked away once more, and this time didn't reappear. Off to his duties, then. Leaving them to their own devices.

Eventually, seeing absolutely nothing better to do with their time and frankly getting a tad sick of standing around like a pair of mismatched statues, John cleared his throat to speak.

"So... how old were you?"

Beside him Sherlock blinked, straightened his spine out somewhat from the ridiculous slouch he'd still been stood in and shot his companion a quizzical look. "What?"

"When you took a whole bottle of oxycodone at once," John clarified. He kept his eyes straight ahead, calmly observing a team of forensics experts as they trooped in and out of the crowded murder scene. "How old?"

A bit preposterous to be asking this now, certainly. They were in the midst of a *case*, after all. But then, of course, that very fact also meant Sherlock was now caught in a trap of sorts - no matter how averse he was to this conversation happening the man wouldn't be able to leave. Not if he didn't want to lose access to his puzzle, at any rate. Fool-proof tactic for John to get some of these nagging questions answered and out of his head without undue fuss. Plus to top it all off he wouldn't have to listen to his friend whinge about not being permitted to slop about in a pool of blood for the next half hour. Wins all round. Honestly he felt rather pleased with himself for managing to twist the situation to his benefit so easily.

Whilst John was busy being chuffed with his own cleverness Sherlock had been staring sidelong at him.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're on about, John," he finally remarked blandly, turning back to the rabble of police. John frowned. Oh, no. Not getting away with *that*. Denial? Oldest trick in the book.

"You said, and I quote, that you once *'swallowed an entire bottle'* of pain pills. Don't pretend you've forgotten."

"Did I?"

John shot his flatmate a look that could send a dragon scurrying for cover. Sherlock quickly relented.

"Oh, yes. That. Well." He sniffed in an oddly aristocratic way, raised one shoulder in a shrug. "I was lying."

John tilted his head with a bemused half-smile, turning back to face forwards again. Liar... right. Not born yesterday.

"Nope. You weren't," he asserted calmly, tone buoyed by a false veil of amicable friendliness. "Because you did that *thing*, didn't you? The thing where you go all taut like you can't believe you just said whatever nonsense you just said. You don't do that when you're lying. You only ever do that when you've accidentally told the truth."

Beside him Sherlock went silent again. Something in the general intensity of his presence told John the man was scowling darkly at the tableau of police presence before them, though he still didn't turn his head to look. This was a discussion best held sans eye contact, he'd decided. Keep on staring forward.

"If I tell you will you drop the subject?" Sherlock asked after several beats of silence. There was perhaps a tiny hint of a petulant whinge to his tone.

John just smiled to himself. "Maybe. Depends on what the answer is."

"Well in that case I haven't much incentive to play along, have I? If you're just going to be annoying regardless."

"Guess not. Thing is, though..." John shifted a bit where he stood, absently stretching the muscles of his injured shoulder, ignoring the twinge of pain from his ribcage. "If you *don't* tell me, I'll keep harping on about it until you snap in front of a load of forensics boys. So if you're fine with that..."

"I'll just ignore you."

"Like you ignored the cabbie on the way here?"

"That was different, he was-," Sherlock cut himself off and huffed, plainly growing annoyed. Good. Everything going according to plan. A vaguely pissed-off Sherlock was far preferable to a whingeing one, and if John were very lucky he might even get round to having his question answered. He really was getting to be quite the old hand at this whole *manipulating geniuses* business, wasn't he?

Silence enveloped them for a few long seconds.

"Why do you care how old I was?" Sherlock eventually asked in a low grumble.

John shrugged with his good shoulder. "I dunno. Just curious, I guess. Were you trying to get high or something?"

Finally he darted a glance towards his flatmate, was unsurprised to find Sherlock's hands had migrated to the side pockets of his greatcoat. Often did that when he was uncomfortable - defensive posture, old habit. Not that the Great Detective would ever in a million years admit to having such obvious tells, of course, but John knew his idiot friend well enough by now to have picked up on more than a few of the man's mannerisms.

"You don't aim to get *high* by just swallowing prescription oxycodone, John," Sherlock responded, half-rolling his eyes in exasperation. "You grind it into a fine powder first and then insufflate it. Elsewise you risk losing half the active dose to digestive enzymes."

"Oh. Er... good to know," John said slowly, blinking. Sometimes he managed to forget Sherlock had once upon a time been an honest-to-god junkie - bloke knew *far* more about illicit drug usage than was healthy or reasonable. Still, though, that tactic wasn't going to work either. Clear as day: trying to distract from the original point, obfuscate the topic with uncomfortable subject matter. Not happening. John was bloody determined to get his answer now. Mostly out of a sense of pig-headed stubbornness than anything else, to be honest, as he'd long since really stopped caring about the information itself. Just wanted to get one up on his flatmate.

"Anyway, your age?" he prodded again.

"You know my age," Sherlock quipped blandly, sarcastically. With a hint of smugness. Hrmph, right. Thought he'd won? The idiot.

"Your age when you overdosed," John dutifully clarified. Then before Sherlock could speak he quickly added a modifier, because the git had just smirked in that way that meant he'd spotted a loophole and was likely-as-not about to list off whatever age he'd first OD'ed on cocaine or some rubbish, which John already knew was around twenty. "On oxycodone," he reiterated. "By swallowing an entire bottles' worth. Don't dodge the question."

Sure enough Sherlock huffed a bit, annoyed to find his escape route rudely thwarted. "Why do you care so much?"

"Why don't you want to tell me?" John retorted.

"Because it's none of your business."

"No, it's not. And my middle name was none of *yours* but that doesn't seem to have stopped you sussing it out anyway. I still want that copy of my birth certificate back, by the way."

"Already returned it to your mum. Hamish."

John ground his teeth in frustration but swiftly reminded himself of the task at hand. Oxycodone overdose. Age. Answers. Clearly information Sherlock didn't want to part with, which had to mean it was valuable in some way. And that meant John was bloody well going to find out about it, because *damned* if he was losing yet another verbal battle with this arrogant sod.

"Shall I start guessing, then?" he quipped lightly, training a faint frown in the direction of the crime scene as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Twenty...? No, wait. That one was cocaine, wasn't it? Twenty-four? No, hang on, that was morphine."

Sherlock startled a bit and shot an affronted glare his way. "Stop memorising my medical files."

"Stop hacking into mine."

Finally the detective huffed a very put-upon sigh, then glanced elsewhere in abject irritation. Perfect - served him right. John was just opening his mouth for another go at guessing when he was mercifully cut off.

"Fourteen," Sherlock muttered, voice nearly too quiet to be audible.

John blinked. *Fourt-?* Bloody hell. No, no... had to have heard it wrong. Had to have.

"Sorry?" He shot a bewildered look towards Sherlock, who was very determinedly glaring elsewhere. "... Did you say *fourteen?*"

"Nearly fifteen," Sherlock amended in a bland quip. "It was Christmas."

"You... swallowed a bottle of pain pills. At fourteen. On Christmas."

"Yes."

John slowly shook his head, opening his mouth a few times, then just snapped it shut again with his eyebrows raised. Well. That was... unexpected. Also... also, *wait*. Undocumented? He furrowed his brows. Just a moment, now... hang on.

Sherlock hadn't been wrong about his memorising the medical records - John had indeed had a quick flip through them during one of his flatmate's semi-frequent hospital visits a few months back, taking careful mental note of all the major chemical-related incidents he could find. It'd been shortly after realising Sherlock may not have been as entirely clean as he said he was *(the blown-out pupils and mad rambling during the midst of a child abduction case a few weeks beforehand had been a bit of a red flag)* and he'd wanted to know exactly what sort of substances he might be dealing with should worst come to worse. Cocaine, occasional morphine, isolated case of amphetamines... but, as John recalled, *definitely* no prescription painkillers. Not in his teens, at any rate.

"You're lying," John decided flatly. And, yet, with the declaration he also frowned in confusion, because Sherlock hadn't displayed any of his usual 'talking out his arse' tells. Still, though, lying. Had to be. "There aren't any records of you being treated for overdose at that age."

Sherlock breathed out a short, exasperated huff through his nose. "Naturally not, I wasn't taken to hospital."

"You weren-? No, you'd have had to've been. Would've needed a stomach pump, at least, activated charcoal..."

"No, I told you already - I vomited it all back up." Sherlock removed his hands from his pockets, unconsciously mirrored John's posture as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Doubtless the brandy, never could handle more than a few ounces of sweet liquor without being ill. Disgusting stuff."

"Brandy!" John sputtered. "You- *brandy!?* With painkillers? You honestly *were* trying to kill yourself!"

"*No*," Sherlock asserted, beginning to sound frustrated. He lifted a hand and scrubbed it through his hair a few times in agitation. "I wasn't, not... not *deliberately*, there was no forethought to it. Was just an impulsive act, teenage stupidity. It... seemed like a reasonable solution at the time. Somehow." Grimacing slightly he lowered the hand to instead rub at his forehead. "In any case I assure you I later paid dearly for the moment of caprice; spent the entire rest of the month medicating a broken wrist with nothing but paracetamol. Not exactly the most pleasant way to kick off Lent Half."

John just stared wide-eyed, still not quite believing any of this. A question floated past in the confusion and he latched onto it for no good reason. "Why was your wrist broken?"

"Because I was an idiot."

John blinked, furrowed his brows. "What do you mean by-?"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock barked suddenly. "Honestly, how *bloody* long can snapping a few photos take?" With an annoyed grumble he strode forward, ducked under the strip of yellow tape with a crisp, efficient swoop and swiftly made his way across the short stretch of garden towards their waiting investigation.

John startled, his arms dropping from where he'd still had them crossed over his chest as he stared after Sherlock's retreating back. The long hem of the greatcoat disappeared round the edge of the house's squat door, and within seconds the sounds of a surly, over-frustrated detective berating a room full of forensics experts could be heard drifting along through the breeze.

John grit his teeth and quickly shook his head of all thoughts. Sod the history drama, then. Time to solve crimes.

Without a second's pause he rushed off after his friend.

**««**