Mycroft led Sherlock into the study, still handcuffed, shutting the door behind him. He motioned for Sherlock to down, and he did.
"This is really not necessary Mycroft..." started Sherlock,.
"There is significant evidence to the contrary..." said Mycroft, raising his eyebrows.
Sherlock noted it was the most original room in the house. Many of the others had been modernised or modified, but after Mycroft inherited the house he had kept this one the same. He had always told Sherlock it was because he liked the look of the room, but underneath Sherlock knew that it was in memorial to his father. Mycroft interrupted his thoughts when he started to talk.
"You can't just stop taking the tablets. How many times do you have to do this to understand: It won't just go away..." he said angrily, pausing for breath "It's a serious condition, Bipolar. You know this. Either you take the Lithium or you will get the mood swings.". Sherlock just let his brothers words wash over him, concentating on the intricate engraving of the wooden panelling. He was angry, understandably. Sherlock would let Mycroft take it out on him and get it out of his system. It was always a weakness of Mycrofts, he was far too emotional.
"...and I know how much you hate feeling dependent on anything or anyone. You can't just use your intellect to get out of this one, you need to play by its rules. You end up hurting the people who care for you." he stopped, looking at Sherlock. "Are you even paying attention to me" He said, angrily.
Sherlock nodded and motioned. "Of course".
Mycroft sat, watching him for a few seconds "Why do you do it" he finally asked. "If you know what happens, why?"
"You already know Mycroft, I'm not explaining this again." Sherlock said calmly. "You're good with people. You tell me"
"You enjoy the highs." said Mycroft, measuring his reaction. "The energy it gives you, it heightens your intellect" he said, not breaking eye contact. "There is also an issue of control. You don't like having to take them because it makes you feel dependent, and vunerable." Mycroft shifted slightly, "...AND you're a perfectionist, by not taking it you worry you could have missed something, a tiny detail. You can't stand not knowing if you're being the best you can be."
There was silence again, the clock in the corner accentuating the seconds going by. Finally, Sherlock replied, quietly.
"Yes" he stared at the ground, his face taut. "I can't help it." his eyes finally meeting Mycroft's.
"I want you to stay here for a week, just until you sort yourself out again" Mycroft said Firmly
Sherlock paused for a second, "...and what if I don't agree" he said.
"Then I'll get you sectioned under the mental health act" Mycroft said in a clipped voice.
Sherlock sighed. He knew when he was beaten. "Fine, only a week though." he said, nonchalantly as he could muster. That was the longest period of time he could tolerate being near his obnoxious brother, he didn't even know if he could stand that long.
"I'm glad we could come to an agreement" Mycroft said smugly. Reaching into his pocket he took out the keys for the cuffs and unlocked them. "See you at dinner" he said smiling mildly.
Sherlock stood up and walked quickly out.
As soon as he left, Mycroft slumped into his chair. His brother could be so very selfish sometimes. He slipped the phone out of his jacket, however when he saw the display he sat up.
3 missed calls (John).
Mycroft froze, drawing on his memory of the flat. Table, Empty box, note left on the table.
A flash of realisation crossed Mycrofts face. Stupid amateurish mistake, god he must be getting old. He hadn't phone to explain the situation. John will be out of his mind with worry.
He dialled the mobile, but it went to answerphone immediately. Phone either off, out of charge or out of signal. John is in London, there is signal everywhere, he wouldn't turn his phone off at a time like this - flat battery is the only option then.
Calm, first imperative is to locate John and tell him Sherlock is safe.
He paused for a second, then pressed the speed dial button.
"Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes here." pause "Yes, I need you to put the force on the alert to find a Mr John Watson. Yes... Yes. Straight away, I can't explain now. I'll be there in 10 minutes". He disconnected, and a movement caught his eye Sherlock stood leaning against the doorframe. "What was that about?" he said asked.
"John wasn't made aware of the situation, and he's looking for you right now." Mycroft said.
"You left the note on the table and the box."
"If you hadn't done this in the first place..." Mycroft said, tersely.
"I'll help look" Said Sherlock, grabbing the phone out of his pocket.
"No. You'll stay here. I've got the whole of the Met out looking for him. I don't need to be worrying about you out there as well as John" He said, walking towards the door
"And before you think about it, I have all the keys to the cars" he said, not looking back.
Sherlock glared at him as he walked away. Of all the people who could have been his sibling...
#~#
John stood in frozen, staring at the note on the table.
Sherlock, dying. Sherlock , dead.
"No no no.." he shouted, breaking into a run up the stairs. "Sherlock, Sherlock" he called out checking both the bedrooms. No body... yet.
"Fuck, fuck. I need to phone Mycroft" he muttered desperately, running back down the stairs at breakneck speed. He fumbled on the keys, and selecting the right number seemed to take an age. Finally it started to ring.
"Please pick up, Please pick up" he repeated to himself. The call went onto voicemail. "Bugger" he said, trying again, and again.
The only time in the world he actually needed Mycroft and he wasn't picking up, typical.
John stuffed the phone in his pocket, his eyes darting around the room. He had absolutely no idea what to do. He had left Sherlock here hours, he could be anywhere in London by now. It was at this moment he damned himself for not being clever like Sherlock; he would know exactly what to do, but he could be about to die. Or it could be already too late.
John pushed that particular thought to the back of his mind. Pulling on his coat, he ran down the stairs and out into the street. The heavy rain pricked his face, he looked wildly about. No one was in sight. "Sherlock" he shouted again. There was no reply, he hadn't expected one. He started jogging down the street, moving into a sprint. John had lost a lot of fitness from his army days, and he stumbled to a halt, doubling over and breathless after about 500 metres. Tears, sweat and rain streaked down his face. He walked as fast as he could, over and through the local park.
He tried to think about where he would go if we wanted to kill himself, but finding it difficult to dispel the image of Sherlock dead on the grass. He walked down the steps, and in the pitch black darkness beginning to jog slowly along the path.
Suddenly he felt his shin crack on something hard and cold, and he went flying. He felt his head collide with granite, and all he could taste was blood and salt as his vision clouded over and he fell into unconsciousness.