"What are your findings, doctor?" Mycroft asked. He was lying down on his barely-used leather sofa in the living room and John was giving him a quick medical.
"Honestly? You're just as bad as Sherlock. You've got an irregular heartbeat, high blood pressure and your lungs don't sound good." John replied as he put his equipment back into his medical bag.
"But will I live, doctor?" Mycroft asked sarcastically.
"Yes, you'll live. If you give up your drug habit." John said, zipping up the bag and placing it on the floor.
Sherlock returned from upstairs with a box full of small bags of cocaine. "You need better hiding places, brother." he said.
"I have much more imaginative hiding places than you. You haven't found all of it and you never will." Mycroft replied as he sat up and buttoned up his white dress shirt.
"If you don't tell me where the rest of it is, we won't deal with your detox at home, I'll have you put into rehab. Just like you did to me." Sherlock warned, "I won't stop, Mycroft. Not until you are clean."
Mycroft sighed as he pulled on his waistcoat and buttoned that up too, "Fine. I'll humor you. I'll get the rest of them for you." he said.
"I'm coming with you. John is too slow to notice your tricks." Sherlock said, putting the box down and following Mycroft.
The two Holmes brothers walked around the house as Mycroft dug out the entirety of his stash. He knew what the drugs were doing to him and part of him wanted to be clean and back to normal. He could feel the withdrawal beginning and didn't want to think about the state he'd be in for a few weeks.
John had seen many things in his years as Sherlock's flatmate and best friend, but in all that time, he'd never ever seen Mycroft out of control. He'd never even imagined that Mycroft wore anything other than three piece suits. To see the British Government wandering around in pyjamas and slippers was strange, to say the least. Mycroft did well to keep his physical symptoms hidden, but he struggled to hide the withdrawal effects on his mind. Sherlock was on hand to support his brother, as both he and John had moved into Mycroft's home for a few weeks.
"Why can't I think?! This is madness! I'm sure that my brain is dying!" Mycroft shouted in frustration, picking up one of the decorative vases in the hallway and throwing it at the wood-paneled wall.
"Sit down and take the sleeping pills that John has for you." Sherlock said, walking over to his brother, "You'll have difficulty concentrating until the withdrawal is over. It'd be much easier if you slept through the worst of it."
"I'm not weak. I've been trained to resist torture. I can cope with this." Mycroft said, his cold mask falling in place to protect his exhausted mind.
"You're not weak, but you need to sit down. Throwing things won't make you feel any better." John said, appearing beside Sherlock.
"What do you know? The great John Watson, blogger and danger addict! How dare you come in here and lecture me about my addiction whilst you still pander to yours! You are nothing compared to me, John, not even close!" Mycroft shouted, letting all his anger out at John.
Without any hesitation, Sherlock punched his brother square in the face, knocking him to the floor. "Don't you dare speak to John like that. I understand you're in pain and you're angry, but he isn't the one you should be angry at." he said.
"Stop! Stop!" John said, pulling Sherlock back and getting in between the two of them, "You both need to calm down. Sherlock, go and get ice from the kitchen."
Sherlock glared at his brother before he stalked off to the kitchen.
"Come on, Mycroft. Let's go and sit down." John said, helping the man to his feet.
Mycroft sat down in the living room and allowed John to clean up his bloody nose. "You'll be black and blue for a few days, but your nose isn't broken." John said after a quick examination.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so rude to you." Mycroft said, pressing a tissue against his nose, "Sherlock and I haven't lived in the same house for a very long time. We rile each other up. I shouldn't have dragged you into our petty fight."
"I understand, Mycroft. Withdrawals are tough, but you're getting there. Another week and you'll be back to normal." John replied with a reassuring pat on Mycroft's shoulder.
"I'm going out. I need some fresh air." Mycroft declared one morning, appearing fully dressed in a tailored three-piece suit in the kitchen. The tremors in his hands were the only symptoms left of his withdrawal process and he managed to hide them to an extent.
"Don't get yourself killed, brother dear." Sherlock called as Mycroft left with his umbrella.
"Two weeks of being clean won't have much of an effect on him if he's been taking the cocaine for years." John said, looking up from his breakfast.
"I know. He hides the cravings, but they're still just as strong as they were two weeks ago." Sherlock replied with a sigh, "Do you think we've done the right thing?"
"I think so." John nodded, "I mean, he was all over the place before and now he seems much more collected."
"Mycroft is a master of his emotions. Even I can't see behind his poker face. For all I know, this could be an elaborate distraction to stop me from meddling in one of his cases." Sherlock replied.
A/N: Please review and let me know what you think of the story so far! The next chapter is coming soon...