DISCLAIMER: Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC, not me.

A/N: I am not a doctor, nor do I know anything about drug withdrawals. Please feel free to correct me on any of this.

This is a companion fic of sorts to Humanities, but can easily be read alone. It is set before Humanities, and explains some events merely touched upon in the other fic.

Define: Scrap

- (noun) 1) A small piece or amount of something, esp. one that is left over after the greater part has been used.

2) A fight or quarrel, esp. a minor or spontaneous one

'The best and most beautiful things in life can not be seen or even touched – they must be felt with the heart.'

(Helen Keller)

Sherlock's eyes were wild as he spun around the room. Mycroft watched silently from the doorway, his groundskeeper and all-round guard standing just behind him in case he made a break for it.

(-though sometimes Sherlock was such a whirlwind of fire that he wondered if it would be possible for anyone to stop him-)

"Let me out," Sherlock hissed furiously. Mycroft shook his head, emotionless.

"No."

"You have no right to do this," the man snapped and suddenly he was in front of Mycroft, his shoulders square and his face angry.

"I have every right," Mycroft replied calmly, even as he felt emotion flood his brain when he got a closer look at the pallor of his brother's face and the huge dilation of his pupils.

Sherlock hissed again but spun away. Mycroft knew that the drugs coursing his system made it difficult for him to stay still, but he preferred to allocate the continuous movement to Sherlock's personality.

(-"Will you keep still?" their mother snapped once. Both of their heads jerked upwards, Sherlock standing still for a moment; neither had heard their mother address them directly for some time-)

"How long do you plan on keeping me here, then?" Sherlock said viciously from the other side of the room. "A year? Two?"

"Very funny," Mycroft said dryly, whilst mentally racking his brains for a suitable answer. He honestly had no idea how long it would take.

"I am not a dog!" Sherlock yelled suddenly, and Mycroft managed to restrain his surprise. For a supposed sociopath, Sherlock displayed a lot of emotions.

It's the drugs, his mind whispered, and he allowed himself a brief shut of the eyes. His brother was not supposed to be like this. He was brilliant, a genius, stoic, and yet strangely lonely.

He was not this mess of a man before him.

But you helped make him this way, a small voice told him and he firmly shut it out. Now was not the time for self-blame.

"You'll stay for as long as it takes," he replied finally.

"For what?" the man retorted. "To die of boredom?"

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft said heavily. "You'll stay until you're clean."

With that, he turned and shut the door behind him, ignoring his brother's yell of protest. He didn't lock the door, but nodded to his guard who immediately went to secure the house.

He didn't know when Sherlock had first started dabbling with drugs. He hadn't been there when his brother first fell into the downward spiral he could no longer lift himself from. He had been working.

And wasn't that just the story of Sherlock's life?

"Mycroft, I swear to God!" Mycroft sighed when he heard his little brother swear again. It was only the second day of Sherlock's forced withdrawal and it hadn't fully hit him yet – the swearing was just in preparation.

"Mycroft, I fucking hate you!"

"I know," he whispered to himself, shaking his head in despair and sipping more of his tea.

Suddenly, Sherlock stormed into the kitchen, Mycroft's safe haven.

"Let me out of this fucking house!" he snapped, but Mycroft just shook his head and pretended to be engrossed in his newspaper. He didn't want to look at his brother's thin frame and know that he still had the physical symptoms to look forward to. This was just the calm before the storm.

"I don't want to do this," Sherlock said quietly, and Mycroft looked up sharply. His brother hadn't spoken to him in anything other than a harsh voice since he'd locked the man in his house.

(-who was he kidding? Sherlock hadn't spoken to him nicely in years-)

"I'm sorry, brother," Mycroft said heavily, feeling the truth of his words in his heart. He had never wanted to cause Sherlock pain.

"Then let me out," Sherlock said persuasively. "Please . . ."

That's when it hit him that Sherlock was just as good a liar as he was. He hadn't thought Sherlock knew enough about emotions to be able to manipulate them, but he should have known never to underestimate him.

(-"You're such a sociopath!"-)

"No," he said firmly, his mind again resolved. This was for his own good, was it not?

Sherlock's face twisted into disgust again. "You're no brother of mine," he hissed, and spun suddenly out of the room. Mycroft could hear him storm up the stairs, no doubt to sulk in his room. Two failed escape attempts had dissuaded him from trying to run again; apparently he wasn't happy with being dragged back to the house by the groundskeeper.

"Here's the report you wanted from Afghanistan, sir," his assistant said, breezing smoothly into the room, in a way that seemed to juxtapose directly with Sherlock's forceful entry earlier.

"Thank you," he replied, taking the thick wad of papers. "What is it today?"

"Hmm . . . Annabel," she said, smiling. They played this game every morning: he would pretend he didn't know her real name and she would come up with something new every day.

"Is there anything else scheduled for today, Annabel?" He prayed not, but sometimes duty had to come first.

"I cleared today and tomorrow of all meetings and conference calls, sir," Annabel said, her voice businesslike. "None were urgent."

He glanced up at her and thought that the decision to hire the odd, beautiful assistant years ago had been the best decision he'd ever made. She'd been fresh out of university – inexperienced and stubborn – but something in her eyes had made him reconsider his first (wrong) opinion and he hadn't regretted taking her on.

He nodded with a small smile and she left the room, pulling out her customary blackberry as she went. He opened the file and started reading. He might as well get as much work done as he could whilst watching Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" he called up the stairs the next day. It was the afternoon, and the man hadn't appeared downstairs at all. "Sherlock, you up there?"

He heard nothing, so climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. "Sherlock?" he asked again.

"G'way," a voice mumbled from behind the door. Frowning, he ignored it and pushed into the room. He stood in the doorway, taking in the sight in front of him. Sherlock lay on the bed, his duvet wrapped around him and his face planted in the pillow. Mycroft could see tremors running through his skinny frame and he realised that the withdrawal must have finally hit him.

"You alright?" he asked, knowing the futility of the question even as he spoke.

"Fuck'ff," his little brother groaned back. "S'your fault."

"You know this is necessary, brother," he replied calmly and he inched into the room. He was quite rightly cautious of Sherlock's actions; the man was unpredictable and wild at the best of times.

"Fuck off!" he snapped again, lifting his head from the pillow so Mycroft could see his bloodshot eyes and miserable face.

Mycroft sighed, hating what the drugs had done to his brother. "I am sorry," he said quietly.

"Just fuck off, Mycroft!" Sherlock said harshly, rising rapidly from the bed to stand toe-to-toe with his brother. His whole body was shaking and he looked feverish.

"I'll get you some water," Mycroft replied steadily, ignoring his brother's swearing. He turned to leave but was stopped by Sherlock pushing him hard against the wall. Mycroft was alarmed slightly but said nothing as Sherlock leaned in and his grip on his arms tightened.

"Leave me the fuck alone," he hissed. Mycroft could feel bruises forming under Sherlock's hands and marvelled at the bizarre strength his skinny brother had when he was desperate. He was beginning to see how Sherlock could box so well.

"Sherlock, please calm down."

"I will not calm down!" he snapped back. "You're the one bloody locking me up, and you think I should calm down?"

Mycroft breathed heavily. "Sherlock, you're hurting me," he said gently.

Sherlock paused in his rant and stared with wild eyes at Mycroft. Mycroft gazed back calmly and waited for his brother to come to his senses. The man was feral and out of his mind because of the withdrawal, but he wouldn't actually hurt Mycroft on purpose.

"Just leave me alone," Sherlock mumbled at last, pulling away from Mycroft and flopping back on the bed. Mycroft shook his arms out and retreated back to the door.

"Dinner will be at eight," he said finally, watching the shell of his brother shake on the bed. He hadn't been expecting an apology and so he wasn't disappointed.

"Fuck off," Sherlock repeated, but it lacked the earlier venom.

"Please eat something." With that, Mycroft shut the door behind him and started downstairs. Halfway down, he slid to the floor and gazed with unseeing eyes at the floor. How had relations between them gotten so bad?

Because you left him, a traitorous voice whispered in his head. Because you abandoned him to a childhood of loneliness.

And it was true. He had gone off to first boarding school and then university, sparing hardly a thought for his little brother left behind. By that point their father was mostly absent, away on business or pleasure, preferring to be anyway than their cold home. Their mother was indifferent to them both; she had neither liked children nor wanted them. Mycroft and Sherlock had been born purely because that is what was expected of a family of their class. But Mycroft's childhood had been spent with friends and nannies and even his father, before he had practically run away from their home, whereas Sherlock had had no friends and his upbringing left to Mycroft. He had lived basically alone from the age of eight, and their relationship had deteriorated from there.

(-"Please don't go!" Sherlock begged. Mycroft turned his back on his eight-year-old brother and picked up his suitcase.

"I have to," he replied woodenly. "I'll see you in a month or so." With that, he stepped into the car.

"Mycroft!" He shut his eyes and tried to drown out his brother's cries-)

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't turn up for dinner. Mycroft ate alone in the empty kitchen, wondering when it had started to feel so lonely. He pulled his mind out of the melancholy thoughts and retired to the lounge, where he switched the TV onto the news. Nothing much happened that he didn't know about in advance, but the trivial things sometimes proved to be amusing.

He didn't know how long he had sat there before he started to hear creaking sounds from upstairs. It sounded like Sherlock was moving around; unusual considering his state. The faint groans of the stairs were audible, but he refused to let himself get his hopes up.

Sherlock wouldn't willingly seek him out. Would he?

He pretended to be engrossed in the TV – some bizarre story about a yearly cheese race or something – and didn't look up when Sherlock entered the room. It was only when he spoke that he did.

"'Croft?" Sherlock said quietly. Mycroft glanced up immediately. He hadn't heard that nickname for many years.

"What's the problem?" he asked softly, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't seek him out unless something was wrong. He began cataloguing his appearance: dishevelled (to be expected considering the withdrawal), bloodshot eyes (again, expected), shaking (expected), wild look (expected). In fact, nothing other than the obvious appeared to be wrong.

"'Croft," Sherlock mumbled again, his mouth opening and closing slightly. He swayed where he stood and Mycroft thought he saw fear beginning to line his brother's face. But that couldn't be right, could it?

Then he remembered where he'd seen the symptoms before. Although most could be attributed to the withdrawal, they also used to happen years ago. The shaking, the inarticulacy, the wild eyes, the fear . . .

"Sherlock, focus on me," Mycroft said firmly. He stepped forward and was pleased to note that Sherlock followed his movement with his eyes. "Good."

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed soundlessly again, as if he couldn't find the words. Mycroft knew that it was more that he couldn't concentrate long enough on the thought to speak it.

"Listen to my voice, ok?" he continued calmly, and slowly reached out a hand and laid it on Sherlock's arm. He ignored the scars of numerous puncture marks just as he ignored the flinch his brother made at the contact. "You can feel my hand, right?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. He placed his other hand on Sherlock's forehead in an old comforting gesture. "Just concentrate on me, Sherlock, drown everything else out, ok?"

Sherlock nodded slightly and shut his eyes.

"Now juts breathe in and out for me, alright? Slowly breathe for me," he carried on, his voice unchanging. He tugged Sherlock towards the sofa and sat him down. The man was almost unresponsive but that was normal.

"Can you still hear me?" he asked, and got a nod in reply. "Good. Now just relax, and concentrate on me."

He sat down next to his little brother, keeping his hands in light contact with his skin. He continued to talk nonsense, his voice even and soothing as Sherlock relaxed into the sofa. He was surprised how easily it was coming back to him, this old familiar routine. It had been years since he'd last had to deal with one of Sherlock's 'shut downs' as his mother had called them when she had found out. Sometimes his brain had just been too much for him as a child; it was too active and it consumed him at times, until he almost overloaded with the sheer thoughts and information swarming his mind. Mycroft had developed this routine through trial and error: the voice keep him focusing on the present, the skin contact meant he could shut his eyes and concentrate on purely what he could feel and hear.

"What brought this on again?" he said to himself. As he had grown up, Sherlock had gained more control over his mind; the main issue became the boredom. Mycroft presumed it was the withdrawal from the drugs that was the problem. Whilst on them, they had done almost the same job as Mycroft did, focusing his brain on one thing at a time. Sherlock had simply forgotten how to cope without the drugs and so had become lost in his own mind.

They sat there for some time, Sherlock drifting nearer and nearer to him subconsciously until he was resting on Mycroft. He smiled to himself, and carried on talking. He talked about the news, about his job, about everything and nothing until Sherlock's breathing deepened and he slipped into a peaceful sleep. Mycroft uncharacteristically wrapped an arm gently around Sherlock's shoulders, wincing at the bones he could clearly feel, and shut his eyes.

Mycroft woke up the next morning by himself on the sofa. He got up, had a shower, ate breakfast, and didn't bring up the subject with Sherlock. Instead, the swearing and fighting and battles began again, as if nothing had happened.

But something had, and Mycroft clung to that one memory in the relapse-filled years to come.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed it, and please review.

Dreams