Still haven't found me, have you Mycroft? –SH

That is not your concern. Your concern is to fabricate a good alibi for Mummy when she returns. –MH

Brother dear, if only you would look at yourself. Weak; always listening to Mummy; So emotional. –SH

Come back Sherlock. There is no use trying to hide from us. –MH

Hide? I never wanted to hide. I know you know my location. –SH

Sherlock, stop doing those drugs. You know how badly they affect your body. –MH

It is my choice. There is no need to bother with my life, Mycroft. –MH

Sherlock Holmes! You are coming back right now, else I will let you die on the sidewalk, exactly like the homeless person you are imitating. –MH

You don't have to worry now. –SH

Mycroft Holmes panicked. Sherlock Holmes was moody, but never emotional. And right now, he was emotional. Emotions usually spelt trouble for the younger Holmes. He quickly contacted his new Personal Assistant, Anthea.

Take a car and pick up Sherlock from the co-ordinates I sent you. Inform me about his condition. –MH

Yes Sir –A

About thirteen minutes and twenty four seconds passed till he got a new text message from his PA.

Sherlock Holmes located. Status: Unconscious. Possible due to drug overdose. Being transported to St. Barthomelew's Hospital immeadiately.

"Dear god Sherlock. What have you got yourself into this time?"

Doctor John Watson was not in a good mood. He had just been informed that his sister, Harry, was having an upset stomach and a terrible hangover by her girlfriend, Clara. Two out of the four patients he was treating died under his care. Not that they would have survived anyways. But sometimes, he wished they did.

He dismissed such thoughts. After all, if one had to be an army doctor, one had to get used to the deaths outnumbering the living.

Being an intern was not easy for him. He had to look after his mother, and his sister. Both got onto his nerves, which was a feat no one else could perform.

His head snapped up as he heard the sound of an ambulance approaching. Good, another case. He could use this as a distraction from his life. Other than the fact that he was accepted into the army, there was really nothing else for him to look forward to.

Ah, the perks of being an intern.

The ambulance stopped right outside the emergency exit. The doctors wheeled out a tall young man with dark curly hair, possibly twenty one, unconscious, from the car, followed almost immediately by a young lady, well dressed, who looked concerned, but could not keep her eyes off her mobile phone. Strange couple.

" What is his status?"

" He had two cardiac arrests on the way. Cocaine overdose. Was a regular junkie, but took a really major hit this time." One of the doctors smiled sadly at this.

John did not like it either. Why did anyone have to do drugs?

The trauma team wheeled the young man in, preparing to resuscitate him when his heart stopped again.

About eight minutes from the time Anthea messaged him about Sherlock's condition, Mycroft reached St. Bart's hospital. He almost jumped out, and ran towards the waiting area, where he saw Anthea sitting with a distressed look on her face. He went towards her with a questioning look.

"He had three cardiac arrests since we found him. The doctors say that if he gets too many, his heart would be too weak to continue on its own, therefore giving rise to possibly a pacemaker, and a healthier lifestyle." Anthea told the older Holmes.

Mycroft just sat down in one of the waiting chairs. What was wrong with Sherlock? Why could he just keep off the drugs and nicotine?

" Anthea, get me information about his attending, his doctor, his records, charts everything. I need to see if this was a suicide attempt."

" Yes sir"

" Keep me updated about him. I need to go."

" Sure sir. I will."

Mycroft got up from the seat, and was going to take a step towards the threshold when he heard the speakers crackle to life, and a woman's voice call out, " All doctors, come to Room 221, B-wing."

Mycroft turned to Anthea to ask what was Sherlock's room number, when he noticed that her normally ruddy face was drained of blood, and she had the look of one in pain. He realised that the room was none other than Sherlock's.

Mycroft ran up the stairs, following directions, dodging doctors, all while thinking about Sherlock's attempt at overdose. He reached the door of the room to see it swamped with doctors, all trying to revive a boy of twenty, with dark curly hair. He was too pale, too fragile to look at, and not moving at all, as the doctors around him put tubes, injections, everything to start his heart again, to keep it beating. Mycroft took a glance at the monitor. He had flat-lined.

He sat down with a huff on the nearest chair, as though someone had suddenly kicked him hard. Sherlock was possibly dead.