Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9510479.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mycroft_Holmes_&_Sherlock_Holmes, Mycroft_Holmes/Sherlock_Holmes
  Character:
      Mycroft_Holmes, Sherlock_Holmes, Anthea_(Sherlock)
  Additional Tags:
      mentioned_underage, holmescest, Drug_Use, Protective_Mycroft, Possibly
      OOC_Sherlock, Eventual_Smut, First_Time, Virgin_Sherlock, Sherlock's_been
      good, Pre-University, Teenage_Sherlock
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-30 Updated: 2017-02-21 Chapters: 2/3 Words: 2623
****** Knight in Shining Armour ******
by Johnlockuniverseonice
Summary
     Mycroft comes to Sherlock's rescue, finding his now 18-year-old baby
     brother nearly unconscious in a drug house. While Mycroft is tending
     to Sherlock's recovery, he finds there are things from the past that
     need resolving.
Notes
     No explicit underage content, just a flashback to an underage kiss.
     Nothing explicit in this chapter at all actually.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Mycroft finds Sherlock slumped on a stained mattress on the second floor of the
abandoned house. Sherlock had sent him a text, just an address, though it had
been difficult to decipher with the typos. The house reeked of vomit, and mold,
and death, decaying flesh and body fluids and filth.
And here was his little brother, little more than a crop of dark curls, his
pale skin clinging to his bones, bruised, under his spoiled clothes. Sherlock’s
hoodie all but engulfed him. Mycroft bent down and took his brother’s thin
wrist, checking for a pulse. The lump that had formed in his throat subsided a
bit as he felt the steady beat of his brother’s pumping heart. It was too fast,
but it was there. He moved to push the curls from Sherlock’s porcelain face.
“Sherlock?” he whispered. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.
“Mycie?” His answer was barely a breath and Mycroft didn’t hear it so much as
see Sherlock’s lips form it.
“Yes, Sherlock, I’m here. We need to get you out of here.” Sherlock smiled now
and nodded into the mattress. Mycroft hesitated for a moment, then knelt down,
slid his hands under Sherlock and as he stood, lifted his brother’s body in his
arms. Sherlock turned into Mycroft’s chest, throwing his thin arms around
Mycroft’s neck.
“Oh, Mycie,” Sherlock sounded as though he was in a dream, his voice too
wondrous and whimsical. “Here you are, my knight in shining armour.” Mycroft’s
brow furrowed and he looked down to his brother.
“I’m sorry? Sherlock, are you aware of what that--” Sherlock cut him off and
instead continued on with his fantasy.
“Always showing up to save the day. What would I do without you, Mycie? I
couldn’t, I...hmm,” Sherlock was humming softly now, too tired to continue
speaking as Mycroft carried him outside and to the waiting car. Anthea was
sitting in the backseat and soon Sherlock was beside her. That didn’t last
long. As soon as Mycroft had taken his seat next to his brother, Sherlock had
leaned down into his lap, placing his feet in Anthea’s. Mycroft looked at her
apologetically but she only smiled before returning her attention to the phone
in her hands. Mycroft cleared his throat.
“There’s a doctor on his way to the flat?” He asked her.
“He’s already there.”
“He has everything he needs?” Mycroft asked though he knew he did. There was a
reason Mycroft had a two bedroom flat, and it wasn’t because of guests. After
Sherlock had taken to drugs at 16, Mycroft had fitted the spare room with any
medical supplies that would be needed to care for his little brother through
his injuries and withdrawals. Anthea nodded.
“Mycie,” came a quiet whine from his lap. Mycroft threaded his fingers through
Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock mumbled something too quiet to hear before
relaxing again.
When they arrived at the flat, Mycroft carried Sherlock up the stairs and to
the second bedroom, located just down the hall from his own. The doctor was
waiting there, and after Mycroft had placed Sherlock on the bed, took the boy’s
vitals.
“Do you know what he took?” the doctor asked.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft leaned over him, whispering in his ear, “Where is your
list?” Sherlock simply huffed, which hardened Mycroft’s voice. “Sherlock, you
promised there would be--”
“M’ pocket, think.” Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft checked, finding the small wad
of paper in the back pocket of his baby brother’s trousers. He carefully
smoothed the paper, reading over the list before handing it over to the doctor.

“It’s a bit light for you,” Mycroft commented. “Are you sure you wrote
everything down?” Sherlock nodded roughly. “What happened?” Mycroft asked
softly.
“I missed you.” Sherlock smiled, and Mycroft paled. “No,” Sherlock said softly,
“I mean, I did, but it was Mummy, and school and the exams are coming up, and
then, you know, university.” Sherlock swallowed in an attempt to steady his
voice. “I was scared,” he whispered. Mycroft drew in a deep breath. They were
going to have to talk about this, but not now. First the detox.
Once the doctor had done everything he could do, Mycroft was left alone,
sitting in a plush chair beside Sherlock’s bed. He helped his brother through
the vomiting, the chills, the fever, all of his withdrawal effects, enduring
his soured attitude and the quiet pleading and the angry hurtful accusations
that were spit in his face. When Sherlock settled a bit, Mycroft brought him a
glass of water and some sugar biscuits.
Sherlock’s heartbeat had returned to a normal speed, and Mycroft knew from
experience that the worst was over. What his brother needed now was sleep. He
left to go to his own room, exhausted, his chest full of tension and worry. He
crawled into bed in his pajamas, falling into a blackout sleep.
The creaking of his door awoke him. Light filtered into the room around
Sherlock’s darkened outline. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to crawl into
Mycroft’s bed once he felt well enough to move. Though, as Sherlock had gotten
older, Mycroft wondered if he should put an end to it. Instead, he scooted over
in the queen-sized bed and pulled the bedclothes back for Sherlock.
“Come on, Lock,” he said, patting the spot. Sherlock padded over to the bed. He
had changed into the set of pajamas Mycroft had placed into the closet in his
room.
“It feels like a hospital room,” Sherlock grumbled, as he crawled into the bed,
wrapping Mycroft’s arm around his shoulders and curling into his brother’s
side.
“Is that the excuse you’re going with this time?” Mycroft asked, smiling.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“I can go back if I’m a both--”
“No.” Mycroft said it too quickly, and Sherlock gave a self-satisfied huff of
contentment. “Sherlock,” Mycroft started, tentatively. “Do you remember what
you said when I found you?”
“Yes.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the thought just seemed too
delightful in his drug-addled head at that moment. Big, strong, protective
Mycroft running to his aid. He always did. Always came. Always saved Sherlock.
From the bullies, from Mummy, from himself. His heart ached with how much it
meant. And so he hadn't been able to stop his intoxicated mind when Mycroft had
found him and scooped him up like some prince rescuing his sleeping beauty.
“There hadn’t been any dragons to slay, though. Maybe I over judged you.”
Sherlock was teasing, and Mycroft could tell that his little brother was
embarrassed, so he allowed it.
“Myc,” he paused to swallow, “I’m eighteen now.”
“Yes?” Mycroft said carefully, wondering if they were going to talk about
university now, in the middle of the night.
“Well, you said...when I was eighteen...if I still wanted…” He couldn’t say it,
didn’t know how to say it. He could remember his brother’s promise years ago, a
whisper hidden behind the trees in the back garden behind their family home.
Sherlock had been too old at fourteen, kissing his brother until the man was
pressed against tree bark, and he had put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders,
pushing him back, away, his eyes wide. And Sherlock had thought he was going to
cry because Mycroft looked just mortified and that wasn’t what he had been
expecting. Mycroft’s gaze softening as he looked at his baby brother’s face,
eyes starting to well, and he had pulled Sherlock against his chest whispering,
“I’m sorry, Lock, I’m sorry, we can’t, we can’t,” and Sherlock had broken down,
had begged because he didn’t have anyone else, didn’t want anyone else, didn’t
understand why not. Mycroft had calmed him, as he always did, and finally gave
a bit.
“Okay, Lock, just listen. You’re just a child, hush, quiet, listen. You’re a
child. I can’t, I can’t, you’re too young, Lock.” Sherlock had started whining.
That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault he was younger. “Oh, Sherlock. A
compromise?” Mycroft had asked, and Sherlock had nodded eagerly, wanting
anything, anything. “Alright. Can you wait four years? It’s not that long, if
you can wait, if you still want this, if you still...feel this way, I…” Mycroft
had taken a shaky breath, feeling as though he was selling his soul, “we can
try, Sherlock, I promise. But you have to be eighteen. Can you do that?” And of
course, Sherlock couldn’t. Four years? That was too much, too long, he needed
now, right now, he couldn’t wait. But he nodded all the same and agreed to the
promise, counting the days.
Now here he was. Eighteen. In Mycroft’s bed. And waiting to prove that he’d
made good on his side of the promise.
“You said when I was fourteen, that if I waited, if I was good, if I still
wanted, then we could try. I still want, Mycie, please. I’ve been waiting so
long.” Mycroft felt his brother’s chest shudder in his hold as he remembered
that day. The cold air biting at his nose and then Sherlock’s hot lips pressed
to him, and he had frozen. He had watched Sherlock crumble into him and
couldn’t not give him anything he was able. So he had accepted all the guilt
and desolation this decision would eventually bring and promised Sherlock
something he had hoped the boy wouldn’t come back to collect. But here Sherlock
was, in his arms, just as fragile as he had been at fourteen, and now Mycroft
had no bargaining power, no excuses.
“Alright.” Sherlock froze, blinked, not sure he’d heard right. He hadn’t
thought it would be that simple. Mycroft was never simple. “But,” of course
there was a but. Of course. Always something. “Not tonight. You need to be
clean and sober. You need to have tests done and gain some weight. You need to
be healthy, Sherlock. I’m not doing anything until you’re taken care of.” Oh.
Well that, that was something. He could do those things. He could...he would
get to have what he had waited years for, dreamed of, wanted so badly he
thought he might actually die. He breathed deeply, and his lungs stuttered a
bit, but he smiled.
“Alright,” he agreed.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock stays sober.
Chapter Notes
     No smut yet really, but we are getting there, promise!
It had been three months since Sherlock had promised to get clean, and there
had been plenty of relapses. But instead of Mycroft searching for Sherlock in
grimy dilapidated buildings, he found his little brother, crying and shivering,
in his own bed. Sherlock always slept in Mycroft’s bed now. Mycroft’s heart
wrenched each time, but he crossed the room with solid steps and knelt by the
edge of the bed, brushing the sweat-soaked curls from Sherlock’s sticky
forehead and promising over and over that he was there; he was never leaving.
Eventually, the relapses were spaced farther apart, and then they seemed to
stop. Mycroft knew addiction was a lifelong disease, and Sherlock had years
between relapses at times, but he couldn’t help the hope crawling its way into
his chest. It had been fifty-seven days since Sherlock’s last relapse, and he
had settled into life with Mycroft. Uni would be starting soon. Mycroft had
helped Sherlock study for his exams, and the boy had, of course, aced all of
them. Now Sherlock would be studying in London and living with Mycroft.
This meant a few things. First, that Sherlock wouldn’t poison whichever
roommate was assigned to him. Second, that Mycroft would know if he was using
again, hopefully before it was too late. And three, arguably the most important
stipulation, Sherlock would get to sleep with Mycroft every night. Well, every
night Mycroft wasn’t working and every night that Sherlock could actually
sleep.
It was a Tuesday night when Mycroft had come home smiling. Which didn’t happen
often. Usually, he was exhausted and barely made it through dinner. But, on
this Tuesday, he was beaming.
“Welcome home, brother,” Sherlock said nonchalantly from where he lounged in
the sitting room.
“Get dressed,” Mycroft said as he placed his umbrella by the door. “We’re going
out.”
“What for? We don’t go out.”
“We’re celebrating.”
“Are you daft? What could we possibly be celebrating? Classes start in less
than a month.” Sherlock groaned, throwing a pale arm over his eyes
dramatically.
“It’s been two months, Sherlock, and while you’ve barely gained any weight, you
have at least, been drug-free and relatively less self-destructive. Though
something needs to be done about your insomnia.”
“Insomnia is a valued skill among university students,” Sherlock sniffed. “Two
months?” he asked then, thinking. He sat up, swiveling his head to look at
Mycroft, his eyes alight. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” he proclaimed and
bounded from the settee and up the stairs.
“Make it fifteen; I have reservations,” Mycroft called after him.
They had a wonderful dinner in a far too expensive restaurant where plenty of
people mistook them for a couple, which caused Mycroft anxiety and Sherlock to
smile as he softly denied the claim. After, they strolled through the park.
“You can almost see the stars here,” Mycroft commented, peering through the
light pollution.
“Ah, yes. See, there’s a few constellations brighter than the others, and they
stick out like that one there,” Sherlock pointed up, and then continued
babbling on about space and stars and it was a lovely sort of hum. Mycroft
thought how his brother knew all the most beautiful and least useful
information on the planet. It made him both smile and worry.
Eventually, they were alone, having trailed away from the path and the lamps
without meaning to. They were shoulder to shoulder, the backs of their hands
brushing, and Mycroft could see the moon reflecting in Sherlock’s pale eyes.
Mycroft looked away and slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. Neither looked at
each other. Sherlock was scared that if he moved, the moment would fragment and
be lost forever never to return. Mycroft was of terrified of what was going to
happen tonight. While Sherlock was certainly the more inexperienced, Mycroft
found himself feeling both much too old to be doing what he was going to do and
much too young to know what he really should do.
After a few moments, Mycroft whispered, “let’s go home,” and Sherlock hummed in
agreement, and they walked the short distance to their flat.
Mycroft had barely shut the door when Sherlock had him pushed up against it,
his lips an inch from his brother’s, his eyes heavy lidded, but searching all
the same.
“Sherlock?” It was barely a breath from Mycroft’s lips when Sherlock’s brow
furrowed and his head dropped to his brother’s shoulder, gently shaking it.
“Why?” Sherlock whispered. Mycroft didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to
say. “Do you want this? We don’t have to...It was four years ago, Mycie, it’s
not fair of me to hold it over you.” Mycroft swallowed hard.
“Sherlock, I--God, I hate it, I hate the whole world and everything in it,
every exam, every interview, every politician and queen, every agent, every
fieldwork assignment, everything, Sherlock, everything--But I want this more
than I have ever hated any of it and we’re going to hell, brother, but it can’t
be much worse than this incessant waiting.”
Sherlock’s breath shuddered for a moment. He had forgotten how to breathe. Must
have accidently deleted it. And then his lips were on Mycroft’s and Mycroft’s
hand was on the small of his back and the stars were right in front of him on
the backs of his closed eyelids and for a long while that’s all there was.
“Breathe, Sherlock,” Mycroft chuckled when they finally parted. Though he
didn’t have much room to talk as he was just as out of breath.
“Mycroft, I love you.”
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