Sherlock never meant to make himself infamous at uni. His survival mechanism, engrained in him from a young age, was to do exactly the opposite. Make yourself small. Hide. Let no one see you. Making oneself into a sort of on-campus celebrity broke all those rules and then some. Mycroft would be furious when he found out (and he would, inevitably, find out, the prodding sod). Of course, he didn't really care what the fat bastard thought, or whether he was furious or not, but it would doubtlessly be tedious and largely inconvenient. And to be fair, Mycroft was already righteously pissed off about the instance leading up to the infamy. Probably was too focused on that bit to have foreseen the inevitable circulation of the story, and honestly, it would have been so easy to have put his political foot down at the campus newspaper and made sure no one wrote up about the strange eccentric genius who jumped out of a window while tweaked out of his mind.
Honestly, the article was over exaggerating to a large degree. Campus newspapers were worse than celebrity tabloids in that; all the skiving journalist majors trying to one up each other to find the juiciest story. That competition gave way to a lot of sensationalist writing, in Sherlock's opinion.
He hadn't been tweaked out of his mind.
He had snorted coke, as he always did when his mind was incapable of focusing and his brain felt like it was shattering into a million small fragments, each piece tangible and interesting enough to take up some of his attention until he was spread so thin he felt like imploding. And yes, he perhaps had done two massive lines as opposed to the moderate intake he was used to. But it hadn't been that bad; he obviously hadn't overdosed. Just decided that his focus would be best turned to testing physics equations about velocity, momentum, and free fall.
Honestly, no one who was out of their mind would have been able to use their drug-addled brain to that capacity. The average gits around him at uni couldn't possibly comprehend the beauty of his cocaine serenity, the tranquility of the stillness it brought to his mind, the peace that kept him from over-loading, shutting down into one of his migrained panics, rocking back and forth on the floor, hitting his head on the wall to give himself any tangible connection to the external world as he internally imploded. No, they didn't understand, not the journalists, nor the doctors, nor the bloody psychologists that had been hounding him ever since. Not even Mycroft, who should empathize more than most seeing as he had grown up with his wirey anomoly of a brother. It was none of their bloody business. They could fucking sod off.
It hadn't been a suicide attempt. It really hadn't.
Fucking twats.
Sherlock lay on his dorm bed, gazing at the ceiling with unveiled fury. A cigarette rested lit in his mouth. He knew this was against building codes, that it was a violation of school policy, but he honestly didn't care. The residence hall had recently pilfered through his things, attempting to find any drugs or paraphernalia to land him with a dealing charge. Thankfully, he had used the last of his stash on that night so he'd had none present in his dorm, just a joint hidden with the cigarettes in his slippers for when he needed to sleep despite a cocaine high, and some questionably legal chemicals that he had honestly been using for some organic experiments. He hadn't been charged with anything though, which was lucky, and probably due to his ever-present Big Brother's influence. Nonetheless, the experience had made him resentful of the university's unacceptable interference in his life; hence, the unadulterated rule breaking.
(Also, the influx of nicotine through his system helped to stave off the headache from withdrawal. Hadn't had any cocaine in nearly a week and a half, since his time in the hospital had obviously left him with no opportunity and now his actions were no doubt being monitored for future infraction. Not to mention the fractured hip and all over bruising wasn't too comfortable either. His body hurt, his brain hurt, everything hurt, so if his peers were going to complain about the smell of a cigarette and some mildly potent secondhand smoke they could go straight to hell, they knew nothing about being uncomfortable.)
Sherlock's mobile rang on the table next to him. Groaning, he rolled to one side, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth as he did so. He glanced at the screen to check the caller I.D. It was a number he did not recognize, but it wasn't restricted so it couldn't be Mycroft. Sherlock tossed the phone onto his bed, morphing back into his original position. He really couldn't tolerate people right now, not with this massive headache. His self-restraint was severely compromised and he didn't think he had the willpower to reign himself in, to hide, to go unnoticed today. The phone stopped buzzing and Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaling the cigarette smoke with ease.
The phone on the bed rang again, this time muffled by his comforter. Sherlock snatched the phone up again to see he'd received a text… from Mycroft. He rolled his eyes, flicking open the flip phone's screen.
Answer your phone. -M
So it was you, you manipulative prat. Commandeered another person's number to trick me into answering? -SH
Your phone will ring again soon. If you don't pick up you can expect my interference. -M
If you want me to have this information so badly, why don't you just bloody text it to me LIKE YOU'RE DOING NOW. -SH
Just answer the phone. –M
A moment later, as if on cue, the phone rang out, this time from the same number as before. Sherlock sighed before picking it up, flicking the screen open.
"Hello?"
"Hello, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes I presume. This is Oxford's Counseling and Mental Health Services. We'd like to schedule a mandatory appointment with you. When's your next earliest convenience?"
Sherlock hung up immediately. His phone rang again, this time a restricted number.
"No. Bleeding. Way. In. Hell," Sherlock growled into the phone.
"Mandatory protocol when a suicide attempt has been made, Sherlock, there's nothing I can do," Mycroft intoned on the other line. Sherlock could almost imagine the smug look on his face, the slight condescending tilt of his brother's head as he said those words. "If you don't like any of the counselors on hand at uni, I'd be happy to find one in the nearby area and have my people escort you to and from."
"Don't tell me there's nothing you can do, you know well enough you could do something if you wanted to."
"Well, I think we've gotten to the root of it then. I don't want to do anything about this situation. I think it would be good for you in your present… state."
Sherlock very nearly threw the phone against the wall. He pulled it away from his ear for a second to get himself under control, calm, composed, don the stoic face he so often showed to the world (but he had been right, he had no patience for the farce today, not with this migraine and withdrawal and now the prospect of seeing a therapist. No way.)
"Mycroft, I wasn't attempting suicide. I already told you. I was simply testing a physics equation for non-lethal falls from a tall height. Could very well be useful in the future for if I ever do need to successfully fall from a building without dying…"
"Sherlock. If you want to go discuss this and attempt to weasle your way out, I suggest you take it up with the Mental Health Services directly. If they decide you don't have to go, that's perfectly legitimate. However, if you are mandated to attend therapy, and you attempt to get out of it, I will send my people to collect you. This is not negotiable."
With a click, Mycroft hung up, leaving Sherlock righteously infuriated with him, and the school, and just… it wasn't a bloody suicide attempt.
Sherlock stood, sweeping his charcoal pea coat on in a grand gesture and dropping his cigarette to the floor, leaving a burn mark in the cheap carpet. Fine, if he had to convince some overweight pencil-pushers of his sanity, that was fine. He grabbed some markers on his way out, slamming the door behind him.
