"Of all the idiotic things you could have done! You were willing to throw away your talents and your life by putting those disgusting chemicals into your body? I don't understand it, Sherlock? What happened to you? Last time I saw you, you were perfectly happy and normal."
Mycroft, of course, had a fairly good idea of what had happened to make his brother like this. And Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew, so he felt perfectly justified in ignoring him.
In fact, Sherlock had felt perfectly justified in ignoring everyone for the last three weeks. So he had.
He'd been stuck in this stupid, dull hospital room for three weeks and he hadn't said a word since he'd been found. He hadn't uttered a single sound all through the two weeks of vomiting and hallucination that came with withdrawal. He hadn't uttered a sound when he'd been caught attempting to flee the hospital for a third time and it had been decided that he would have to be restrained. He hadn't even said a word of protest when Mycroft first showed up.
Pretty much all Sherlock had done for the last three weeks was stare out of his window while he tried to avoid thinking about his biggest, and, if he were being perfectly honest, his first, real failure. And it was such a simple thing, too. Something thousands of people had done before he even considered it. How it was possible for him to fail at suicide, Sherlock had no idea.
He'd even had a backup plan! He'd found himself a quiet alleyway about a kilometer from his supplier's favorite haunt and proceeded to inject dose after dose after dose of heroin. His backup plan was rather gruesome one that he hadn't really intended to use unless necessary. He'd made a spur of the moment decision to go through with it, though. He'd used the pocket knife he'd been carrying around in his back pocket for years to make a rather bloody mess of his arms.
Sherlock still couldn't believe how terrible his luck that night had been. Why was it that the police had chosen that night to patrol the area? How was it even possible that they'd been able t see him in the dark of the night? And how on earth was it possible that they'd gotten him to the hospital before he'd managed to bleed to death?
Sherlock had spent the first day or so that he's been in the hospital unconscious. The next two weeks had been pure hell because of the withdrawals he was suffering through. It was 15 days into his hospital stay when his identity had been revealed thanks to an missing persons report his boss had filed with the police. It was the day after the hospital discovered his identity that Mycroft had arrived, proving Sherlock's theory that his brother had it set up so that he was alerted every time Sherlock's name appeared in any database anywhere in the world. Sherlock had known that Mycroft would do something like that once he discovered that the Reinhardts had died in a car crash.
Mycroft had been trying, unsuccessfully, for nearly four days to get any reaction from him. The doctors and nurses had been trying ever since he'd been admitted. All Sherlock had done was stare blankly out the window or tug on his restraints in another futile attempt at escaping.
One thing Sherlock had noticed since Mycroft had arrived was that Mycroft never seemed to shut up. He always had another card up his sleeve, another plan for how to make Sherlock react.
"Fine, Sherlock, act like a child if you must. Ignore me. I don't really care, you know. You aren't offending me with your silence. But I know you can hear me, and you are going to listen to what I have to say. Once you are cleared to leave the hospital, you are coming back with me to England. I've already made contact with one of the best rehabilitation facilities around. It's just outside of London. After you've been cleared by the facility you will either move in with me in London, or with Father in Sussex until you've gotten your life back on track."
"Il n'est pas mon père!" Sherlock hadn't been able to stop himself from responding. It was instinct. Every time Artair Holmes was called Sherlock's father, his response was the same. It was so ingrained that Sherlock was unable to stop himself, ending his weeks of silence.
"Speak English, Sherlock, you'll have to get used to it now that you're leaving France. And of course he's your father!"
"There is no reason for me to be speaking English, Mycroft! You're in France now, brother, so you should be the one changing your language. And he's not my father. Not anymore. He never acted like one to begin with, and he officially stopped being my father the second he signed the adoption papers. My name isn't Sherlock Holmes anymore; it's been Sherlock Reinhardt for half my life. My parents aren't Artair and Elizabeth Holmes. They were Alexander and Victoria Reinhardt. You're not even really my brother anymore, so you can leave and go back to your miserable England and let me be. I will not be going to any rehabilitation facility."
Sherlock felt a brief bit of satisfaction at the tiny bit of hurt that crossed Mycroft's face when he said that they weren't even really brothers anymore, but it was gone before he had a chance to truly revel in it.
"I know you won't believe this, but he always intended to bring you home. Every time he started to think it was time to go get you, Aunt Victoria would send him another picture of you laughing and enjoying yourself and he would change his mind about taking you away from them. He didn't want to bring you home when being with them made you so happy. But they're gone now, Sherlock, not that you bothered to tell anyone, and it's time for you to return to where you belong."
"I don't belong there! I belong in Toulouse, where I have a home, the very home I grew up in, and friends-" Sherlock began, before he was interrupted by Mycroft.
"Your dealer and all the local junkies do not count as friends, Sherlock!" Mycroft's normally impassive face was suddenly full of a barely suppressed rage as he shouted at his younger sibling.
Ignoring him, Sherlock continued "I even have a job, well, I'm probably fired after going missing for this long, but the point is that I can take care of myself. I will not leave France."
To Sherlock, it was obvious that Mycroft barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Instead, he hissed one final response to Sherlock before stalking out of the room, umbrella in hand, "You are going back to England with me if I have to bind and gag you before tossing you in the boot of my car to get you there."
Sherlock woke for the first time in ages to the obnoxious beeping of his alarm clock. He couldn't remember exactly what he'd dreamed, but whatever it was left a bitter, stressful feeling in its wake.
Suddenly, there was nothing he wanted more than a cigarette. Well, he would actually rather have his cocaine back, but a cigarette would have to do for now; he'd work on getting hold of his preferred poison later.
Grabbing the half-empty pack out of his dressing gown pocket, Sherlock crossed his room and went to the window. After climbing out of the window and onto the roof, Sherlock settled himself cross legged on top of the Holmes family home.
Fifteen minutes and three cigarettes later, he climbed back through his window. He could almost hear Mycroft's condescending voice in his ear, "Three cigarettes before you've even showered? Oh, dear; something must have you really worked up. Keep going at this rate and you'll poison yourself before the day is done."
Sherlock shook himself to get rid of the image of his brother; it was far too early to bother thinking about Mycroft.
After a hot shower that did absolutely nothing to relax his constantly taut muscles, Sherlock found himself standing in front of a wardrobe that was far more grandiose than it needed to be.
Looking into the wardrobe, Sherlock was reminded of another reason he could be upset with Mycroft.
His useless lump of a brother hadn't even allowed Sherlock to return to his home in Toulouse to pack his own bag. He'd called some woman named Anthea and requested that she go to Sherlock's home and pack a few bags full of whatever Sherlock might need. Sherlock hadn't even gotten to make any special requests, which meant that his skull and all of his experiments were left behind. Presumably Mycroft had kept Sherlock from his home because he was worried that Sherlock would attempt to smuggle out some hidden stash of cocaine in one of his bags. If that was the case, he needn't have worried; there was nothing left of his stash. He'd brought it all with him the night he tried to kill himself, intending to use every last bit of it to end his existence.
The clothing that had been packed for him was possibly all of his least favorites. There was nothing interesting at all. Of course, what could he expect from someone whose boss wore nothing but three-piece suits day and night? The girl, Anthea, probably thought Sherlock was just as uptight as his brother, and that would explain why his wardrobe was full of everything except comfortable or interesting clothing.
He finally found some clothing he could stand to wear, hidden in the darkest depths of the wardrobe, and began to ready himself for the day.
As he was about to put on his purple shirt, long-sleeved of course, he never wore anything with short sleeves anymore, Sherlock allowed himself a moment to look at the marks covering his skin.
His left arm was a mess of faded track marks and angry red lines, all of the marks at least four weeks old but every one looking like it had been made only days before. Sherlock knew they probably looked even worse to other people than they did to him, so he kept them covered somewhat out of a rare bit of concern for others but mostly to keep them from asking him annoying questions. His right arm was the only remaining visible evidence of what happened six months ago that ruined everything Sherlock knew.
The three of them had been on their way home from an audition of Sherlock's. He was trying to get his name out there as a violinist, but not many people would take a sixteen year old musician seriously.
No one had seen the other car coming until it was far too late. It was the dead of night and the other vehicle was driving with no lights on, going far faster than they should have been. They hadn't stopped, or even slowed down, when turning onto the road that Sherlock's family has driving on, and had slammed into the passenger side of the Reinhardt's car.
Sherlock had been flung from the tumbling car through the open window because he hadn't been wearing a seatbelt. He'd been pretty badly injured, but being flung from the car had probably saved his life. As the car finally stopped rolling, and Sherlock was futilely attempting to lift himself into some sort of standing position to check on his parents, he was shocked by a sudden wave of heat and flames and pieces of metal rushing toward him.
His right half had been caught in the flames, but they'd only managed to burn through his shirt and a small bit of his trousers before he'd managed to put the flames out by rolling around on the ground. Still, his arm and side were causing him excruciating pain; and that was on top of the pain he was already experiencing from the injuries he'd already acquired.
He'd known it was unlikely that his parent were still living. He'd also known it was unlikely that he would survive too long without medical aid. His mobile had been sitting next to him on the seat of the car, so there was no way that he could call for assistance. His final thought before surrendering to the darkness that was trying to claim him was that he only hoped someone living in the area would call for an ambulance.
He still had the burn scars to prove what had happened to him. No other visible evidence remained.
He kept these scars hidden for a more personal reason than the comfort of others or avoiding questions. He kept them covered so that he wouldn't have to look at them, wouldn't have to think about them, could pretend they weren't there. He kept them covered so he could distance himself from the memories and the consequences attached to them.
Sherlock sighed and shook himself from his reflections. He needed to stop thinking about it. Thinking about it didn't help, didn't change what had happened.
What he really felt he needed, above all else, was a dose of his drug of choice. He would be able to stop thinking about it if he could just get his hands on some cocaine. A month after he'd had his last dose and Sherlock's skin still crawled with the feelings that came from withdrawal. The very real feeling of imaginary creatures crawling all over his body, never giving him a moments rest, had not left him for the last month. He devoted most of his attention all day, every day, to not reacting to the sensation. He would not allow anyone, especially Mycroft, the satisfaction of knowing what he was dealing with.
Sherlock told himself that he would go explore Sussex on Saturday and see if he'd be able to recognize the usual types of places a dealer would haunt, and that was the thought that he decided would get him through his second day at school.
After his first day at school, Sherlock had known it was dull and that he didn't like going to school. After his second day of school, Sherlock knew he absolutely hated it.
The school day had started with a Physical Education class, mandatory for everyone. His class contained all the males in his year. It was the first time that Sherlock had ever been in a locker room situation, and he decided fairly quickly that it was not something he enjoyed.
The problem wasn't that Sherlock had a problem with a bunch of boys changing around him, he'd seen plenty of people completely nude before so a group of adolescent boys getting slightly undressed around each other wasn't what he had a problem with. The problem was that Sherlock didn't exactly enjoy feeling like he was on display and that was the exact feeling that he got while changing in a room full of his peers.
Changing faster than he would have previously thought was possible, Sherlock escaped the locker room unnoticed.
He noticed that most of his classmates were wearing mesh shorts and t-shirts, but Sherlock couldn't even imagine himself in something like that. He wasn't even comfortable in his lightweight jogging bottoms and hoodie. He felt too much like he was wearing pyjamas in public, which was always something he looked down on people for.
The class was in the middle of their section on tennis. Sherlock supposed it could have been worse, after all, they could have been playing football or rugby or something horrible like that, but that still didn't make him enthusiastic when he'd been handed a racquet and told to go find someone to play against.
Sherlock couldn't deny that he enjoyed moving around again. After three weeks in a hospital room, he was sick of sitting around all the time. The physical exertion was nice. He didn't really like tennis, though.
He considered going back to martial arts, which he hadn't even thought about since he quit when he was fourteen, and decided that he'd think more about it that afternoon once he got out of school.
His third hour class was an entirely different sort of torture. Health class. Why he had let the school counselor who handled his scheduling put him into a health class, Sherlock had no idea.
The class period started off horribly enough when the teacher had made him stand in front of the class and introduce himself, and it just went downhill from there. It was just his luck that the class had just started talking about substance abuse. If he didn't know any better, he would suspect that Mycroft had something to do with this.
While the point of the class was clearly to discourage such things, all that the class period had done was make him ache to light up. Or shoot up, but he knew that would have to wait until he could find a new supplier.
Once lunchtime rolled around, Sherlock made his way over to the Music and Arts Building and found Mr. Jones. Once he'd been granted entry to a practice room, Sherlock had again spent his entire lunch hour playing the piano. His heart wasn't in it, though, and Sherlock was disgusted by the way his skills had deteriorated from his lack of practice. He had a feeling that part of the problem with how his left hand was performing had to do with the damage he had caused when he'd cut his arm open, but he didn't want to think about such things and so he told himself he would get back to his previous level with practice.
As he returned the key to Mr. Jones' office at the end of the hour, Sherlock was shocked by the words that came out of the teacher's mouth.
"You know, if you're going to be coming in here to play every day during lunch, I could help you out a bit. I can hear you practicing, and you're rather good. You don't really sound like you need much help, but you sound a little rusty. The pianos in here are nicer than the ones in the practice rooms, so if you decide you want to you can practice in here and I can give you a few pointers while you're at it."
The man looked completely sincere, and Sherlock could detect no signs that he had an ulterior motive, but the offer still put Sherlock off.
Sherlock wanted to protest when the man had said that he, Sherlock, was rather good, because to Sherlock's ears he sounded horrible, but he held himself back.
After a pause that was probably a bit longer than was comfortable for the music teacher, Sherlock finally responded. "I'll…I'll think about it." Almost as an afterthought he added a short "Thank you."
That off-putting exchange out of the way, Sherlock continued on to the rest of his classes.
They were all just as nightmarish as they had been the day before.
By the time the day was done, the only good thing Sherlock could think to say about it was "At least it was a Friday."