Well, here it is. The much (un)anticipated sequel to Hands On Education.

This is set two years after Hands On Education finished. I hope this new fic doesn't disappoint. :)

I really really hope you like this. Remember to review and let me know what you think!

MB

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Closer. Still

Chapter 1

Sherlock

Two Years Later

Sherlock slouched back on what remained of the sofa. If he had been in his right mind he would have curled his nose up at the dank, dusty smell the thing emitted, he would have shifted uncomfortably at the sharp, pointy edged springs digging into his back and the visible edges where the cushion had been worn away. In fact if he had been in his right mind he wouldn't even be here at all, in a strange house surrounded by low life's and losers.

If he had been thinking properly he would have had better judgement then to be amongst complete strangers with an expensive phone in his pocket and a coat worth more then they all had put together. If he was in his right frame of mind he would have got out of that cramped house quickly, with it's rotten carpets and dark rooms. He would know there was a high chance he could be mugged or attacked, and that any minute now the police could burst through the door.

But he wasn't in his right frame of mind, right now the sofa he lay on felt like a cloud or a feather bed, there was no one around him, no one who could do him any harm whatsoever, no hurt or pain. No fear or dread. As soon as the heroin was inside his vein he felt nothing but pure relief. He closed his eyes as the effect took hold, it was as if he had been immersed suddenly into a hot bath, everything felt so warm and comforting. He mumbled a few words to himself and felt his brain click out of focus. He could just about make out the two armchairs in front of him, both equally as unkempt as the sofa, and a few people he didn't know slumped on them. He couldn't remember their names, or if he had seen them before. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn't.

Once his brain had completely clouded over, no thought was allowed through, he didn't know who he was or where he came from, he didn't even know his name, he felt groggy but so wonderful. It was his first time on the drug, cocaine was still his oldest and dearest friend, but the curiosity and pull of the new and unknown was too much to ignore. Spending the evening passed out and vulnerable in one of Oxford's most gloomiest of crack houses seemed like a small price to pay.

He didn't notice anything after that, as soon as the needle slid out of his skin he was in an entirely different world. A world where nothing mattered. The past and the future, even his very self, ceased to exist, he paid attention to nothing, not the loud banging at the door, he didn't pay attention to the shouting or to the words that were being spoken in raised, angry tones.

'Who the hell are you?'

'That doesn't matter, just tell me where my brother is.'

He barely noticed Mycroft hauling him up, he barely noticed the look of sharp disapproval in his face, the piercing stare and the 'you have disappointed me yet again' glare in his cold, joyless eyes.

He barely noticed being dragged out into the street and flung into the back of the car. He didn't notice that a bag of his things was in the back seat. He was as high as a kite so all he could do was shut his eyes and savour his visit into oblivion.

He had only just started to come down when the car stopped, which direction they had come or even how long had he been in the car for he could not tell.

'Where the hell are we?' he demanded an answer from his older brother. His stomach constricted as if he was going to be physically sick, he knew the come down would be steep, yet now he felt incredibly unprepared. He desperately needed to go back to his flat and find something to deal with it. Some pot and a few pills would do. Now he was also sober enough to realise that he desperately needed a shower.

The building in front of them looked like an old country house. It was large, the only building for miles around, the surrounding grounds were neat, the grass that surrounded them a uniform length, the hedges perfectly trimmed into large rectangular shapes. The gravel beneath them had made a loud crunching sound as Mycroft's car travelled across. The sky was covered in grey clouds which matched the grey exterior of the brickwork.

He saw a few people pottering about the garden, and to his shock two men in white coats were waiting at the entrance.

'These people are here to help you' Mycroft's said flatly.

Realisation dawned on him. He would refuse, he couldn't stop the drugs, he needed them. He needed to forget Jo... He shook his head, 'No' he told himself. He wouldn't think of it, he had been thinking of it for the past two years, his brain not letting it go for a moment. Even after two years it still burnt him, he remembered last night, he remembered how the drugs wouldn't let those thoughts through. They wouldn't let the memories touch him.

'I'm not staying here, I'm going home.' Sherlock leapt out of the car and slammed the door shut. He tried to make a run for it but the men who had been standing by the door were joined by a few others creating a crowd of white. They had already walked over to greet them, each carefully position themselves around him to block any chance he had of escape.

'You must be Sherlock.' one of them said, holding out a hand for him to shake.

'Fuck off.' Sherlock snapped.

'Sherlock do not talk to them like that' Mycroft chastised, climbing out of the old jag.

'That's quite all right Mr Holmes.' The doctor replied calmly. 'We've had far worse.'

Sherlock detested the way he smiled so inanely, how he let the expletive just wash over him made his face go red.

He was led inside, Mycroft following behind, the men forming a circle around him and forcing him forwards. The interior was all white washed walls and blue carpets. A strong smell of disinfectant was everywhere. When he was all signed in and a thorough search had been made to make sure he hadn't smuggled anything illegal in, he was led to his room. A tiny space on the third floor with barely enough room for a bed and a desk. The far side wall was taken up entirely by the window, again the walls were white, as were the skirting boards and radiator.

'The doctors want to start treatment immediately, they will be up shortly to begin...'

Sherlock interrupted his elder brother by grabbing his elbow.

'Don't leave me here.' he said desperately, tightening his grip, he couldn't remember ever pleading with Mycroft before, yet he was doing it now. He was well aware of the look of abject helplessness he must have had on his face. 'I will do anything, I can get off the drugs if you really want, just don't leave me here, alone.'

Mycroft undid his fingers so Sherlock's hand fell to his side. Preferring to walk the length of the room and stare out the window, his hand clasped behind his back. 'They allow you one fifteen minute phone call every week, I promise I will be at the other end.'

And with that, Mycroft left. Sometime later a nurse came with his bag, while he unpacked he was told of the routine, what time he would be woken, what time he would sleep, when breakfast and dinner were served, when he was expected to go to counselling, and a long a detailed account on how he would get through withdrawal. When she had finished it was dark outside, he was told to get his pyjamas on, clean his teeth and go to bed. Sherlock curled up into a ball on his new bed, dreading the days to come.

Withdrawal was hell on earth. Every minute he felt like he was going to die, in fact it got so bad that he wished for the sweet finality of death if only to end it. He seemed to vomit all the time, he felt an extreme sense of fatigue yet his sleep was rare and troubled. During the day he felt agitated and restless. He trusted no one.

The staff at the facility tried to get him involved in the support groups, the talking therapy and counselling. He refused, he refused to sit in a group with the other addicts and talk about his life or how he ended up here. Everyday he was dragged into the therapy room, every day he would sit in the corner scowling at everyone, he didn't say a word. Eventually they just gave up.

He didn't settle in well. Almost immediately he was labelled as a difficult patient. He deduced the patients and staff, he refused to co operate, he was dismissive and rude. 'why must you be like this?' one nurse yelled at him when he had made a fellow patient cry. He shrugged his shoulders and went to read a book.

Mycroft kept his promise, every week he was there for his phone call. Not that Sherlock ever had much to say for him. Apart from telling him how much he hated him, this facility and everyone associated with it. Though he began to find himself relying on the weekly phone call with Mycroft, his only connection to the outside world. He liked the routine, the surety of it, knowing that once a week someone would be there to listen to him, he got through the dark days by counting how many hours he had left till Mycroft would ring him again.

After the terror of the withdrawal was over Sherlock felt something even worse. Boredom. There was nothing to occupy his mind, he wasn't allowed to smoke or do any experiments. If he wanted to go for a walk in the grounds he would have to be accompanied. Sometimes the boredom got so bad he began to wish he could go through withdrawal again, if only to have something to do.

He was on the verge of tugging his hair out when Mycroft arranged his university work to be delivered. How Mycroft arranged that he did not know, but he was grateful for this distraction. He threw himself at it with eager abandonment. Usually he did his essays off his face on coke, and would wizz through them all in mere days, but even without the drug he was an exceptional student. Mycroft had promised that he would be out in time to do his end of years exams.

The last week of his time there the doctors began to prepare him for life outside rehab. Sherlock was itching to leave. He wanted to be in his own place, which didn't smell of bleach and didn't have a million members of staff following him everywhere.

Mycroft came to fetch him, he gave him a big hug, the first time in years. As a present he presented him with a brand new microscope. A congratulations for being clean and sober.

He also made him promise to stay that way.

Sherlock carefully placed the test tube back into the rack and automatically began scribbling down the results. His professor had given him the spare key to the lab earlier that day so he could work in peace. He had been back at Oxford for one day and was excited to finally be back in the lab. His home, his sanctuary, his escape. Everyday when he was in that awful place he had dreamed of one day returning here, being amongst the glass and the acid once more.

There would be a week of exams next week and then his second year at Oxford would be over. Just one year left at university. Now at twenty years old, yet he did not feel like an adult. He was not self sufficient, relying on money from Mycroft still, Mycroft provided him with everything he needed, though he had been less inclined to give him cash until he could prove he was now on the straight and narrow.

Sometimes it felt like his life was in tatters, just out of rehab and thrust back into a cold world that didn't want, need or trust him. He could count the number of friends he had on one finger, confused as to what he would do once university was over, wishing he could just be a student forever. Not wanting to find a job and get a life of his own. All the dreams he had while at school seemed so implausible now, he still yearned for detective work, but that was gone now, that was part of an old life. A life he no longer had.

It had been easier when he was an addict, when all he had to worry about was getting his work in on time and getting his next fix. Now there was nothing left to distract him, the drugs had masked the sorrow underneath, now that curtain was ripped away he had to face the cold light of day.

He caught his reflection is the glass of one of the test tubes, his face covered slightly by his curls. He had been staring at that same reflection for twenty years, it hadn't changed much in the years he had been at Oxford.

'Sherlock!' A cheery voice came from behind him, the door swinging violently on it's hinges as it was opened with far too much enthusiasm. Sherlock didn't look up from the page he had been scribbling on, or removing his gaze from the row of test tubes with the different colours fizzing away. He couldn't take his eyes away from his latest experiment. The reactions the two acids made inside the glass, the way they changed, fizzed and buzzed, it was like a kind of theatre to him.

Sam Tully grinned as he took a seat next to where he was sitting. The young man hadn't changed a jot from when he had first laid eyes on him, all those years ago when he had his interview. There was still a head full of auburn coloured locks, still incredibly tall, still incredibly handsome with a pair of wild, mischievous blue eyes.

Sam was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend in the whole world. He did wonder, when he first arrived, that maybe things would be different here, but he quickly realised this was not the case, Oxford was a glorified version on St Bartholomew's, and Sherlock was still the social outcast, still feared and distrusted. He was not welcome by his peers in St Bart's, and he was not welcome by them here. Well, all except Sam.

'It's so good to see you back.' Sam smiled again, slapping Sherlock good naturedly on the shoulder.

Sherlock tried his best to hide his grimace, he liked Sam, he really did, he was inoffensive, slightly slow witted but still vaguely tolerable, but that didn't matter, he just wasn't in the mood for talking. He wished he could just be left alone with his acid and experiments. He wished he could spend the rest of his life locked away in the lab, studying how everything worked alone and undisturbed. There was nothing for him out there any more.

'I tried ringing you but Mycroft kept saying you were too ill to talk. I know the feeling, glandular fever is just awful.'

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at that. He imagined Mycroft flustered and lying on the spot to hide where his little brother really was. Sherlock had hidden his drug habit well, no one was close enough to him to notice that he slipped out every night, no one bothered to look to closely at his arms or asked what he did on the weekend. No one cared enough to realise he was spending almost all his time shooting up in the gutter.

'I take it you are still shagging Jess?'

Sam laughed, unlike everyone else, who wished to punch him in the face when he showed his skill, Sam loved his deductions, though he saw them as a cheap form of entertainment, rather then a science of observation.

'Go on, tell me how you did it?' he squealed with all the enthusiasm of a child who wanted to know how the magician pulled a rabbit out of his hat. Sherlock scowled, his deductions were not a parlour trick.

'Chance' he shrugged.

'Ha, I knew it' Sam exclaimed, flailing his hand in the air 'I knew it was just chance and you were really just making it all up.'

'No' Sherlock shook his head 'Chance, the perfume Chanel make. Jess wears it and you reek of it.'

He saw the tip of Sam's ears go slightly red. Turning his head away he went back to the experiment, writing down the results once more.

'Listen' Sam coughed 'A few of us are going to the pub at six, going to have some fun before exams start. Fancy coming?'

Sherlock shook his head again 'No.' Sam had spent countless hours trying to convince Sherlock to go places with him.

Sam harrumphed in annoyance 'Come on Sherlock' he wailed 'You never come out with us, ever. Why are you being so anti social?'

Sherlock didn't answer, he had spent most of his life avoiding people. He really wished Sam would just give up, but he just would not let him go. For two whole years he had been inviting him over, and every time Sherlock had refused. Not that Sam had ever got the message.

There was a scraping of a chair against the floor. Sam flung his bag around his shoulder and headed for the door.

'One day you are going to look back and wonder what the hell you did with your life Sherlock, all you do is work and study, it's not a bad thing just having fun for a few hours.'

Sherlock watched him walk out the door then went back to his experiment, he heard the door shut but he did not look up as Sam left. He kept his eyes fixed on what he was doing. What was wrong with just working? What was the appeal of sitting in a loud pub with people he didn't care about. Listening to inane chatter and having to 'join in' like an idiot? He shuddered.

When he was all done he headed back to his flat. It barely took ten minutes to walk from the college to his home, deciding on the way to spend the evening studying hard with some text books. At least at his place he knew he would not be disturbed again.

The flat was exactly as he has left it, papers and various science equipment scattered everywhere. Mugs with half drunk cups of tea and newspapers were dotted about the small apartment. The curtains were still drawn, Sherlock didn't open them to let the last bit of daylight through, instead he just turned on the lamps to give the flat a warm glow. He threw his coat onto the rack and dumped his bag somewhere between the door and the kitchen.

While the kettle was boiling he opened up his laptop and quickly scanned through the large amount of emails he had received from Molly, all demanding to know where he was and why the hell he was not replying to her. He turned it off when he read them all, deciding he would answer her tomorrow.

He made himself a cup of tea and a cup-a-soup. The powder he emptied out of the sachet and poured the boiling water over was supposedly tomato. Yet the vaguely red thin broth did not look at all appealing. He took a few sips from his spoon. It tasted of hot nothing. It would do.

The soup lay uneaten by his elbow for the remainder of the night, he had forgotten all about it long before it became cold and inedible. Sherlock focused all his attention on the books that lay in front of him. He had been ransacking Oxford's many libraries ever since he had arrived and he was currently enjoying the latest spoils. There was never nay doubt in his mind that he would sail through his exams next week. He studied hard to expand his mind, to learn as much as he possibly could, to cram as much information as he could into that spongy grey matter till there was just no space left.

His arm kept itching, yearning for Sherlock to put a needle in it. He desperately fought his craving, furiously scanning the words, biting hard on his bottom lip. He needed the drugs, he needed them so badly. If he read hard enough, maybe his brain would be distracted and forget the addiction. Maybe. One phone call was all it would take. One phone call, a few minutes out in the cold and he would have his release. His body screamed at him, begged him. Just one more fix, just one more.

Digging the tips of his fingernails into the palm of his hand he recited out loud the page he had just read back to himself. When that didn't work he got up and paced the length of the small flat.

Eventually the craving began to subside and he went back to his reading.

It wasn't until there was a loud knocking on his front door that he even looked up from the pages he had been concentrating on. A quick glance at the clock on the wall at his his horror he realised it was one in the morning. He regularly stayed up till early in the morning, sometimes even dawn itself, studying or doing some kind of experiment, but when he had last looked at the time it was just gone six, he had blanked out for far longer then he thought.

There was another series of knocks, loud and furious on his door.

Sherlock quickly made a mental note off the possible people who could possibly be banging on his front door at one in the morning. Maybe it was a dealer, maybe he had a debt he had forgotten about. He hoped so, maybe he could buy some more, now the temptation was right on his doorstep how could he refuse? It could be Mycroft, he could have come back to send him to another rehab.

'Open up.' A voice shouted through the wood.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as recognition washed over him.

'What the hell are you doing here?' Pulling the door open to greet Sam's smiling face. The other boy waltzed straight in without being asked, Sherlock bristled.

Sam staggered to the sofa and collapsed on it without answering. Sherlock closed the door quickly and watched as the other boy made himself comfortable.

'Got anything to drink?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'Shame, oh well.' Sam shrugged. 'Got a cigarette?'

Sherlock quickly thought about lying, though Sam knew he would never allow himself to be out of his beloved Marlboro's.

Deciding to give Sam what he wanted in the hope it would get him out of his flat quickly, Sherlock dug out the packet from his trouser pocket and handed one to the auburn haired youth. Sam only smoked when he had been drinking, though judging by his pupils and relatively steady coordination he hadn't been drinking long. Something had cut his night short.

'What happened?' Sherlock cut to the chase. Luckily Sam knew him well enough not to be offended by the lack of social niceties. He sat himself next to his only friend, leaning his foot against the top of the coffee table and positioning the old rice pudding tin he had been using as an ashtray between them.

Sam shrugged and took a long drag from his cigarette, Sherlock used the pause to light up himself. A hard night's studying made the nicotine rush all the more sweeter.

'Jess dumped me, she decided she wanted that Italian bloke instead.'. Sam sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve, taking another drag from the cigarette he stared into the distance.

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder, pretending to be sympathetic though he was not surprised. Jess was only interested in what was new and exciting, she had finished with Sam and now was moving on to someone else. It was inevitable.

'Are you okay?' he asked lamely, unsure of what was the appropriate way to behave in these types of situations. Should he comfort him? Should he call Jess a bitch and say he was better off without him? Should he say there were plenty more fish in the sea and that he would soon meet someone new who didn't have a thing for olive skin tone? He just didn't know.

Sam met his gaze and smiled.

'Yeah I'm fine.' he grinned. Not taking his eyes off Sherlock's. Stubbing out his cigarette into the tin he turned and faced him. 'I don't need her.'

Sherlock was relieved, there went his fear of conducting an impromptu counselling session.

'You know what?' Sam leaned foreword, his face mere inches from Sherlock's. He didn't know what the hell was going on, why was Sam so close? So close he could smell the soap and shampoo he had used. Maybe he was drunk after all. He furrowed his brow in confusion as Sam took his fag from his fingers and stubbed it out. Placing the tin out of reach.

'Maybe there is someone I like even more.' he whispered, running a hand through Sherlock's hair and caressing his cheek with his thumb.

Sherlock leaned further back on the sofa, trying to get away but it was too late. Within seconds Sam's lips were on his, he tried to gasp in horror but he lips stayed firmly shut as Sam's mouth lightly tugged and nibbled on his bottom lip. The coarse stubble on his jaw rubbing against him. Sherlock tried to shake him off and get up but he was pinned into place, trapped under Sam's body weight unable to move.

'You're really pretty you know' Sam commented pulling away, if he thought that was the end he was wrong. Quickly he registered the feeling of lips against his neck, caressing and licking at the skin.

He didn't want this, he just didn't. He remembered how it felt to be kissed like this, it stirred something deep from within him, something he had been trying to bury for two whole years. Grabbing Sam by the shoulder he pushed him back. Fighting and wriggling out of his arms he hauled himself of the sofa.

'What the hell are you doing?' wiping his lips furiously, trying to get the taste of Sam out of his mouth.

'I thought...I like you, I thought you liked me' he spluttered out his response. This was the second time he had been rejected that evening. Sam was still adjusting to this new knowledge that not everyone wanted to sleep with him. Seemingly undeterred he walked over to where Sherlock was standing.

'It's been you, it's been you all along. I just never had the courage to do anything till now.'

'Leave, please, just go.'

Sam sighed, looking down at the floor as if it had the answers to all life's questions. His eyes flashed with anger, Sherlock wondered for a brief moment if he was going to hit him.

'It's all right to care about people, you do know that don't you Sherlock?' he spat 'No one ever died from caring for someone.'

With that Sam turned on his heels and left, slamming the door shut behind him.

He waited a few minutes, just staring at the door, Sam's words going round and round in his head.

No one ever died from caring for someone

He allowed himself a few moments of silence, till he was certain he was entirely alone.

'I did.' He murmured to the now silent space.

Collapsing on his bed he rubbed the inside of his elbow in frustration. He hated Sam, he hated him for bringing back all the painful memories he had tried to forget. For god's sake couldn't he go five minutes without thinking about it.

He needed cocaine, he needed heroin, he needed something. He clutched as his curls violently, almost tearing them out of his scalp. Why had Sam done this to him? Couldn't he see he was off limits? Since when had he given the other boy any indication in two whole years that he wanted him? When?

The pain in his arm was almost too much to bear. Curling himself into a tight ball and wrapping his duvet around himself he desperately tried to resist the urge to get high again. He sweated and shook with need and silent sobs.

John.

Sam had brought him right back to the surface, not that he had ever really gone away. His face was tattooed into his consciousness and open or shut he was the view his eyes refused to let disappear.

'I bet you think I'm over you, don't you.' he hissed angrily. 'I bet you think I never think of you any more, but I do, I do every single day of my life.'

Two years, two years was such a very long time. John would have forgotten all about him by now. He would have had a kid by now, probably, he would spend his days grinning and fawning over the little thing. Sarah glued to his side, the pair helplessly in love, making everyone else jealous of their picture perfect relationship. Sherlock was the mistake John would vow never to repeat. Thinking of him would probably make John sick, he would come out in a cold sweat and hold Sarah even tighter. Savouring her forgiveness. If he went back to that old town John would run in the other direction. That's if he even remembered him at all. Maybe he didn't, maybe he had simply forgotten all about him like a bad dream.

He thought about sleeping, for once he wouldn't mind it, yet his mind simply would not shut off. He stayed curled up even though he was wide awake. Letting himself wallow in the memories, haunted by the past, haunted by the love he had now lost.