"Are you trying to help me?" Sherlock asked sharply.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Whyever would I do that?"
Sherlock gestured to the office. "You sent a polite invitation for me to meet you here, rather than executing the typical formality of kidnapping me."
"You came," his brother pointed out.
"Beside the point."
"Ah. Mummy made you."
Sherlock glared at him in response.
Anthea, Mycroft's secretary, poked her head in. "He's here," she said, and cast Sherlock a poorly disguised grimace of disgust. His tattered hoodie and dirt-streaked sweatpants did appear marginally out of place amongst the sleek leather and shiny mahogany furniture filling Mycroft's lair.
"Hi," said a man, entering shyly. He had a slight limp, secondhand suit, and cautious brown eyes.
"John. Please, take a seat."
Sherlock glowered. If this was another bloody social worker…
"Sherlock, this is John Watson. He's a social worker. No," he said firmly, pushing Sherlock back into the armchair. "You're staying."
"I'm not a drug addict," Sherlock insisted. "I know you've convinced yourself, and brainwashed everyone else, but I'm perfectly fine."
"Says the bloke who I've dragged out of drug cartels not once, not twice, but thrice this week."
"Don't say 'thrice.' It sounds pretentious."
"John's just going to help you formulate a plan to gain control of your... dependence."
"John isn't going to do anything of the sort."
"Addiction is hard," John said softly. "Whether it's alcoholism, or drugs. I'm not going to ship you off to prison for it."
Sherlock paused, then stated, "your sister is alcoholic."
John blinked, nonplussed. Couldn't blame him. "Yes."
"Shame. I, however," he said, turning back to Mycroft, "do not have a substance abuse problem."
Mycroft gave a simpering smirk. "I believe we call this denial."
John somehow anticipated Sherlock's next move and, before the younger guy could launch himself across the desk, intercepted him, arms – surprisingly strong, given his small stature – wrapped securely around Sherlock's abdomen and hanging there like a dead weight until the fit of rage had subsided.
"Sorry. Reflex," he muttered, relinquishing his grip.
Sherlock refused to be impressed, and said coolly, "That was altogether unnecessary. And I have things to do, so if you don't mind." He moved to leave.
Mycroft said quickly, "Sherlock, I really would encourage you to –"
"Stay out of it," Sherlock snarled, and had his hand on the doorknob when John was suddenly at his side.
"Running away doesn't solve anything," the social worker said quietly. "It never did for me, and I'll hazard a guess and say that it hasn't for you."
"Running away is my division," Sherlock sneered, though his palm slid off the metal handle and he backed away infinitesimally.
"Sherlock." John was very close. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't mind.
"I don't have a drug problem."
"If you say so."
"I don't."
"Fine."
They scrutinized each other. John's mouth was set in a thin line, stubble lightly peppering his jaw, gaze pure and open and sincere, despite the fact that something hollow and damaged lurked in the background.
"Don't run away," said the social worker firmly.
"Why should I stay?"
He shrugged. "Because deep down, you want to get a handle on this."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you're still standing here."
Growing petulant, Sherlock snapped, "Do you have an answer for everything?"
John, admirably, remained calm, kept his voice level. "Sometimes."
"Prove it."
"You'll have to stay for that."
"And if I change my mind?"
"Then you change your mind." John paused. "Please. Stay."
Sherlock was very, very tired. John's hand rested lightly on his forearm, physical contact that he never would have allowed anybody else. Something about it was soothing; the social worker's fingertips were callused in texture, but gentle in motion as they smoothed over the worn sleeve of his sweatshirt. He looked bleakly at the man his brother had hired to... what? Ruin his life, or save it? These lines were blurred.
"For me," John said, barely a whisper.
Two words. That's all it took. "Okay," said Sherlock.
Mycroft smiled smugly from his desk, and shuffled a stack of documents pompously as he said with considerable self-satisfaction, "It would appear that this is a good fit."