N: This is something that has been in my mind for a while. I have always wanted to really explore in my own mind the circumstances that surround Sherlock and Mycroft. So, I took it upon myself to do this little one-shot about something I think could have possibly happened at one point and time. Also, when I talk about Sherlock at Uni I'm picturing the Sherlock of the Unaired Pilot… I'll include a link at the end for those who haven't seen it. Also, trigger alert for drugs, and implied depression, and domestic abuse... please enjoy!

-Pinktron

Letting it go, he was told, would be extremely difficult. No one had really told him what it would entail though. They just said it would be hard and slightly painful. That was why sitting in his dark flat his sweaty hair clung to his forehead as he tapped out strange melodies on his arm-rest. His stomach churned, his head ached, and he just wanted a fix. Just a little one. Anything to stop the pain, the feelings, the thoughts and emotions. He just couldn't' get his mind off of it.

It had been a habit for him; at least that's the way it had started. It had just been a way to cure boredom. He was a genius, addiction could be beaten easily. Wasn't this how all bad habits start though? Believing you can beat something that is beyond your control? He had even been the odd one then. Freak, Psychopath, Weirdo… those nicknames weren't new to him. The others had gotten to him quickly. He was more impressionable then; wanting some kind of audience, some kind of attention… from anyone. It had started harmlessly with the smoking; the guys always stood on the left behind the dorm buildings letting the smoke create patterns in the cool night air. He had joined them; it felt good. It numbed his brain just a bit, and it helped him repress his emotions. He loved it, and before long the addiction he promised he could beat overtook him. It got worse, and these people became his dealers… of course he had more than one. He tried so many different kinds of drugs… but after a while he chose heroin. It was easy to hide the syringes and clear liquid. Who would question those among the many others he carried for experiments. Not that anyone question what he did anyway.

Now, sitting alone in the flat he was beginning to regret it all. He itched his arms, he needed a fix. He regretted taking that first cigarette, and that first time he chose to shoot up. There was nothing he could do now. His heart was pounding, his throat dry… damn his brother! Why couldn't the fat bloody bastard mind his own business! HE was fine on his own; always had been.. always would be.

The silhouette of a sleek black car pulled up in front of 221 B Baker street and a tall figure got out. It was obviously a man who gestured for a young woman to stay in the car. He slowly walked up the outside stairs and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it up and just gestured up the stairs. The man nodded at her solemnly before starting up the 17 slightly old and creaky stairs.

When he got to the top he opened the door slowly and made his way to the chair a sweaty and heavily breathing man sat. "How's the detox going?" Mycroft Holmes leaned on his umbrella surveying his younger brother Sherlock. He knew the question wouldn't get answered; he could read it all on his brother's face. It wasn't going well… well he really couldn't say that. It was probably going well, but it was obviously wreaking havoc on his younger brother's brain.

The young detective grunted. He hadn't shot up in nearly a week, and it was literally killing him.

"Don't be like that, Sherlock Holmes! I'm just trying to help you!"

"I don't… I don't need your help!" He was so weak but his voice held so much venom. He almost immediately regretted the words, but he couldn't let that show; he never let emotions show.

"You should have gone to the facility I said I'd provide. Money was no obstacle for us, you should have gone." Mycroft sighed; He really was trying to help his younger brother. The juvenile just didn't' see this yet.

"Oh you would have just… loved that!" Sherlock spit out the words with a vindictive tone. Then he got up weakly and took a swing at his brother. His brain was so blocked up he simply didn't know what he was doing.

Mycroft lightly grabbed his younger brother's wrists. He didn't feel in danger, obviously, he was just trying to stop his brother from accidentally hurting himself. "I am trying to help you!" He spat at Sherlock. "You're just being a petulant child!" He was yelling now. He was fed up, what more did the younger man want from him?

"Let go!" Sherlock shook his head, lightly slicking off beads of sweat.

"No!" Mycroft's voice was stronger now, more insistent. A few more minutes of yelling and thrashing and finally the younger Holmes brother began to calm down. Mycroft finally was able to lead his brother to the worn leather couch at the other end of the dimly lit flat. He laid the young man down and placed his hand of the sweaty forehead.

Finally, he was able to get a good look at Sherlock all grown up Sherlock. Gone were the jeans from when he was at university, instead he now wore perfectly tailored and well-worn suits. He was much skinner, paler, frailer than Mycroft had remembered from last time. His eyes were blood-shot, staring into nothing; his curls plastered to his for- head with sweat. Sherlock's fingers shook and Mycroft could see yellow nicotine stains and the small needle marks on the inside of his brother's inner arm. He looked awful, and suddenly the older Holmes felt incredibly guilty. He rubbed his temple and told himself to repress the emotions… caring was not an advantage.

"I need it." Sherlock's voice was no more than a whisper but the words echoed mercilessly through the Baker Street Flat.

"No you don't."

"Yes… I … do…." Each word seemed like hell for the younger Holmes, he sounded so much like a lost little boy. He obviously didn't know any better. "I haven't… gone without it… in years….I need it… get me some." He threw his head back into the crease of the leather couch and moaned. His façade was fading fast, the walls he had tried to build up for years; finally crumbling around him.

Mycroft, looking at his brother now, saw the boy he had never wanted to see again. The boy that he had ignored, their mother had abandoned, and their father had beat in rage. The small child he just couldn't protect; the thing he felt most guilty for in his entire life. "No." Well, he was done with that now. He would continue to redeem himself, to do what was best for the younger man.

"Please." Mycroft watched his brother finally crack. He never begged… blue eyes met brown and finally he himself broke.

"I'm sorry… I'm so so sorry." Was it an apology to himself or to his brother? Mycroft didn't really know, maybe it was both. That's when he did something he was sure he would regret, he reached into the pocket of his jacket revealing the syringe he had hidden there. He took his brothers arm, the younger man was shaking far too much to be able to do this himself, and slowly injected the substance into him making his own fingers shake. His heart literally broke as he plunged the needle into an already healing mark. He felt his finger stop pushing and realized he had injected it all.

Sherlock locked eyes with him yet again a questioning look etched over his face. "Why?" Obviously he hadn't expected his brother to give into the pleas.

"You needed it." Mycroft's voice was like ice; as if he was regretting what he had just done… allowing that for his brother. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was awful, but he knew the younger Holmes needed it.

The younger Holmes clutched at his arm and threw his head back with his eyes closed. He was waiting for the high to hit; for it to take him away.

Mycroft hadn't left that night. Instead he had fallen asleep on the floor of his younger brother's flat. Had the man really thought his older brother would divulge his heroin addiction? Yes, he had tricked Sherlock, but it was for his own good.

The younger man was shaking more now, and it had been this way since 2 in the morning. The addict lay in his brother's arms, but it was obvious he didn't want to have to be there. He had been throwing up all night, his vision had gone blurry, and he had been through at least 3 seizures. Mycroft sighed as he ran his fingers over his sleeping brother's face. It wasn't that he wanted Sherlock to feel like this; it was just that he needed help, but he didn't want to accept it. He HAD to disguise the dose of Methadone as heroin to get the detective to take it. He felt awful… this was obviously going to strain their relationship more than it already was, but it was the last option.

"m'roft…." Sherlock snuggled into his older brother; he just wanted to be close to someone. Mycroft looked down and he could barely keep his eyes off the frail body. His lips and fingers were blue, his entire body shook, and red dots were starting to appear on his arms.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I had to. I need you to get better." It was a confession that Mycroft hadn't wanted his brother to actually hear, but now it was coming out. Human emotions had finally gotten the best of him. "I couldn't… I couldn't live with myself if you died. I had to give you the medicine…" his voice trailed off and he felt wetness fall down his cheeks.

Sherlock moaned in pain. "I need… hospital…" He was in so much pain, his vision was blurry and rings encircled any light he could see. He knew he couldn't stand. He needed help… he knew he needed to go somewhere that Mycroft picked. Staying like this in a barely furnished and inadequate flat would kill him, and he knew it. There wasn't another option.

Mycroft gently laid his brother's head down and reached for his cell-phone. "Please tell the facility we are on our way." He chanced a glance at the other man who was shivering in pain, but still glaring hard at Mycroft. "Alert the nurse I have given him a dose of Methadone… the pain killer." He listened intently to what his assistant said, and tried to answer her questions as accurately as possible. "He hasn't used in a week. I gave him the dose in liquid form. He thought it was heroin. The symptoms are bad, he's a lot worse than I thought. Please send the car." He hung up the phone and looked at his brother. "I'm sorry Sherlock. It was the only way."

"You should've just let me have the drugs… I don't want to go… I don't need…. I don't need rehab… 'mmfne." Sherlock's words were starting to slur together as the symptoms of the pain-killer kept plaguing him.

As his brother drifted into unconsciousness Mycroft stayed by his side. He stayed by the addict's side in the car, when they got to the facility, and he was even there when they dosed him up again and the horrible side-effects came back in full force a second time. All he had ever wanted to do was to help the little broken boy he called his brother. Why did he feel so unexplainably guilty? Caring is not an advantage he reminded himself. Yet, he couldn't help but care as he watched his little brother barely breathe in the stark white hospital bed. This would change their relationship forever… but at least Mycroft knew that for once in his life he had done the right thing.

A/N: So yeah, I wrote that… Each fic I write is a labor of love and it would mean to world to me if you could take the time to review! Also I want to extend a big THANK YOU to the wonderful Parivash who read through the drafts of this story and actually gave me the Methadone idea and helped me find all the symptoms of the painkiller/detox drug. Couldn't have done this without you! Hope you all enjoyed! If you liked this check out my series of drabbles "The Diary of 221B" and my one-shot "That Cigarette Breath." Link to unaired pilot on Dailymotion: video/xpa6do_sherlock-s01x00-unaired-pilot_shortfilms