"Hey Sherlock, happy birthday! I told everyone to come at 5, so expect it to be closer to around 6. Molly's bringing her new boyfriend, oh, what's his name? Greg? Craig? Jeffrey? I don't know. Anyways, I'll see you then," the answering machine called out.

Birthday? Ah, yes it was the 6th of January wasn't it? Only 12 days after Christmas, why have another celebration? So much money spent and social interactions involved with this day, it seems quite bothersome to Sherlock. All he wanted for his birthday this year, like most years, was to stop the constant hurricane of thoughts going through his head. He had lived another year and he felt that A, he didn't deserve it, as he was a horrible person, and B, he can't stand not being in control and persistently having to be aware of everything.

Last year he had the same problem. He had just come back from Serbia and presented himself to John, showing that he was, indeed, not dead. He had missed John tirelessly throughout his "death" and being tortured wasn't even the majority of his pain. He may say he's a sociopath, but honestly, does anyone believe that shit?

When he realized that John hadn't taken his resurrection as well as he had hoped, his already low self esteem plummeted. He had lost weight since the last time he had seen John, as John always took care of him, and he had relapsed into his drug addiction that was never really gone. This really was just another reason that he wasn't worth his life.

"Do you have a list?" Mycroft had asked when he had found him last year. So intoxicated in his own sadness before the drugs even gave him his high. Sherlock handed Mycroft a tiny scrap of paper clearly torn out of a notebook and had been crumpled in Sherlock's pocket for quite some time.

1/6/15

Cocaine - you know how much I like - Intravenous as always

"Are you sure there's nothing else you took? Sherlock, I'm not as thick as I seem. I know that you're worse on your birthday. You always have been."

He's right, it always has been the worst day of the year. Starting in middle school when he had started being bullied by many of his classmates. He had known he was different for a long time now, but most of his class hated him. Middle school is now the best place to be different, and Sherlock gave them a flurry of characteristics and flaws to pick at. In elementary school, he had let Mummy arrange birthday parties even though he thought they were pointless. It's just another day. When he got to middle school and his birthday rolled around, however, no one came to the planned event. Sherlock took this as a sign that he really was as abnormal and unwanted as he had feared. He wanted to be normal and for the thoughts to stop. No one else had so many thoughts and memories crammed into their brain space. That day he took just enough sleeping pills to be out like a light and to stop thinking, but not enough to hurt him.

Then there was the first time Sherlock ever did cocaine. This was the first time he had ever tried a hard drug, period. It was his first year of Uni, and he felt underappreciated as ever. He had tried to have a girlfriend to fit in, but she broke up with him quite soon after that, as she felt he didn't do well in social or emotional interactions, and all she wanted to do was party. His birthday was here, and he was all alone. He got a phonecall from Mummy, and talked to her awhile. He made it seem like Unni was great. He didn't even bother to answer Mycroft's call. He knew he'd show up at some point to make sure Sherlock was safe and he sure as Hell would see through all of Sherlock's lies.

Sherlock had managed to buy some cocaine off the streets for an "experiment" as he called it. He was going to test what would happen and how he would feel. Now, depressed and lonely, was a better time than any. He carefully measured out a 7% solution of it into the syringe and just went for it. He pressed down on the syringe forcing the drug throughout his veins and throughout his body. What the drug did, though, was better than he had ever imagined. Mycroft found him only about 20 minutes later and panic was shown through his normally very calm structure. He found that Sherlock hadn't, in fact overdosed like he had feared, and went on to ask Sherlock, if he were to ever find him in this state again, to have a list. A list that contained what he took, and how much he took.

Mycroft had been finding him drugged up every birthday since and sometimes other days than that dreadful reminder of his existence.

Mycroft was right, he always was worse on his birthday. Sherlock took back the scratch paper and wrote another few words on it.

1/6/15

Cocaine - you know how much I like - Intravenous as always

Heroin - just a tiny bit - Intravenous

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm not mad, you know? I was always there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you. Now, let's get you home, Brother, Dear."

Mycroft carried him back out of the drug den, into his car, and drove him back home that day.

Fast forward a whole year later, and Sherlock is in almost the same place as he was then. He had taken the cocaine already, that was a given. It slowed down his thoughts so he could concentrate on one at a time and just analyze it until he wanted to stop. Next was the heroin. He hadn't taken it yet. He was moving at rather steady pace but he was contemplating whether or not to administer his normal amount. He had enough in his possession to just end all of the thoughts, forever. This had been the thought he had been analyzing and scrutinizing for so long now. He could just OD and all would be done. It wouldn't even look like it was on purpose. At least, not at first. He was a genius, but even a genius could be so intoxicated to accidentally get a little drug happy.

Mycroft would know. That thought alone is what is deterring Sherlock from actually pressing down on the syringe. Mycroft would know there is no way in Hell it was a bloody accident. He would know that Sherlock was in so much pain that he thought the only way out was through killing himself. Would Mycroft tell Mummy? That's another question Sherlock had, but his mind and past experiences told him otherwise. Mycroft would take the suicide of his brother to his grave. Does that make Sherlock feel even worse than if it was out in the open that he committed suicide?

He's thinking too hard. He hates his thoughts, he hates his brain, he hates himself. He opens his eyes and grabs a sheet of notebook paper. He writes, with his best handwriting imaginable:

1/6/16

Cocaine - the usual - IV

Heroin - a lot - IV

Sorry, Brother, Dear. I thought I'd never say this but: I love you. I don't want you to know I meant to overdose without the last thing you hearing being that. I appreciate your effort in trying to help me over the years, I really do, but you know I'm always worse on my birthday.

He sets the paper down on the floor beside him. He knows Mycroft will be the first person here. He'll make sure to get here early in case this very situation unfolded, but it was too late for him to save Sherlock this time. Sherlock grabbed the syringe once again, and filled it to a point past his norm, to a point he knew would stop his heart soon. He injected it into his vein and felt the sweet poison flow throughout his body once again.

Soon his sweet high would finally come to him.