A week in the Scottish countryside, and he had found reason to believe the killer had indeed stayed for potentially as much as a couple days after the murder. He appeared to have generally lived in the house until the bodies would have started to smell, then taken the car and disappeared. DNA was found in a variety of places, but there was nothing to match it to in the system.

In fact, this was the second of such a murder, but he failed to get much further than the local police had. The killer had simply vanished the first time. The second, the only suspect had been found dead, similarly murdered, a couple miles away.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street with nothing. His first case in weeks and he had failed to solve it.

Exhausted, he dropped onto his bed, and continued to mentally search for anything he might have missed until at last he fell asleep.

Mycroft knocked on the door of 221 Baker Street, and waited for Mrs. Hudson to answer the door. After a substantial wait, she pulled open the door, one hand full of cleaning supplies, and a heap of air fresheners and a fan piled near the stairs.

"Spring cleaning?" Mycroft queried.

"Sherlock's not in," the landlady supplied. "Left the place in quite a state though."

"Hopefully nothing too drastic."

She shook her head unbelievingly. "Muttered something about tobacco ash, all I know is I've never had anything smell so badly of smoke."

Mycroft followed her up the stairs, to find the flat indeed reeked of smoke so badly he could barely breath, and that was after she had opened the windows, turned on the fan, and hung a variety of air fresheners.

"You said Sherlock was out, did he say where?"

She shook her head again. "Haven't seen him in a couple days actually, not that anyone could stand to live in this mess."

Mycroft nodded. "Please let me know if you hear from him, and I'll get someone in to help with the… mess."

Where are you? Mycroft had resorted to texting three days ago. Despite his resources, Sherlock was proving remarkably difficult to find. He wouldn't answer his calls, he managed to duck the CCTV, and no one seemed to have seen him.

Sherlock had been difficult before his trip to Scotland, and no less so since his return. Unfortunately the case hadn't been quite as simple as it seemed and, if possible, Sherlock handled failure worse than boredom. Still, he should have left something by now. Mycroft had looked in all the usual places, including the ones he really hoped not to find his brother, with nothing to show for his efforts. Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard anything, Lestrade had no idea where he was, he had simply vanished.

A month went by before he heard anything, and then it was only a text of garbled letters he couldn't make anything of. He traced it back to an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city though and immediately summoned a car.

1:30 AM

Greg's phone buzzed on the nightstand, rattling against the surface as a surprisingly effective way of waking him. Although why someone insisted on calling him in the middle of the night though was beyond him. Picking it up, the screen only revealed 'blocked number.' Telemarketer probably. Still, he was awake now anyway.

"Ello?" he answered groggily.

"I need your help," the voice on the end said.

It took him a moment to place the voice, finally realizing it belonged to Mycroft Holmes.

"Why me? I mean, what can I do?"

The other man recited an address, "Come quickly. I need someone I can count on to help, quietly. It would be in your best interest to say nothing to anyone else."

"Alright," Greg answered uncertainly. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't so wrong about his older brother; he did have an uncanny way of getting people to do what he wanted them to without really leaving them feeling like they had much choice in the matter.

Mycroft slipped the mobile back into his coat pocket, trying to maintain his composure, but it was anything but easy. The text had indeed led him to Sherlock, or what was left of his brother. The man before him lay on a dirty mat, disturbingly thin and battered. His wild curls were tangled and matted, dirt and dried blood caked on his face. Both arms were littered with an alarming number of needle marks, and behind the cloudy eyes and constant tremors, he wasn't even sure that Sherlock recognized him.

He sat down beside him, one hand falling to the shaking shoulder of the slight man, "Sherlock…" there were no words to really explain how he felt. The disappointment and guilt, not only that Sherlock had found his way into this again, but that he hadn't been able to stop him, that it had ever gotten this far.

"I'm sorry."

"Alone…" the words slurred together and trailed off. "T-took t-too much.." The shuddering grew worse, and Mycroft could see he was struggling to maintain consciousness.

"Sherlock, stay with me," Mycroft said, quickly pulling a pen and piece of paper from his pocket. "I need you to make a list."

"L-Lisst?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered solemnly, placing the pen in the shaking man's hand. "I need you to make a list of everything you've taken."

This took a good deal of effort from the younger man, his drug addled brain slowly processing the words, he nodded and started writing.

He finally finished the list, at least Mycroft hoped it was finished, and dropped the pen as he struggled to breath and began convulsing.

Mycroft was immediately on his phone again, calling for an ambulance as he simultaneously tried to sooth the younger man and keep him from doing any further damage to himself as he thrashed around.

Greg answered his phone without hesitation as it began ringing again, this time with more unnerving news from the elder Holmes.

"Change of plans, we're headed to hospital," he announced curtly. "Sherlock has overdosed."

Brief phone call ended, he changed direction and headed back towards the hospital.

He arrived about the same time as the ambulance, EMTs quickly and efficiently unloading and taking the man directly into the emergency room. Still dressed in the ever-present three piece suit, Mycroft was left just outside the doors looking a little lost and rumpled, although remarkably composed for someone whose brother was on the brink of death.

Perhaps it wasn't that bad, Greg thought to himself, couldn't be. Surely even Mycroft Holmes couldn't be that composed if it was that bad.

"How is he? What happened?" he found himself asking as soon as he was within speaking distance of the other man.

Mycroft sighed, still wishing somehow he could have gotten there sooner, that he could have stopped him, if nothing else, just that last injection. Maybe, maybe he wouldn't be here then. Maybe Sherlock would be okay.

"Is he gonna be alright?"

"He overdosed on cocaine, as well as a few other things," Mycroft answered simply. "He's malnourished, bruised, bloodied, started having seizures, and now he's going into cardiac arrest. He's far from alright. Honestly, I don't know if he ever will be."

He settled into one of the chairs in the waiting area, forehead resting in his hands, the exhaustion and frustration at being helpless clearly evident.

"All we can do now is wait."