He hadn't wanted to come.

His mum had phone him at five in the morning, right when he was getting up for work and she knew he couldn't avoid her, and begged him to.

"I'm worried about Sherlock. What he's up to." She had said tearfully. Mycroft sighed through his nose and slid down on his pillows.

"You and the rest of England." He grumbled sleepily. He could almost feel his mother glaring at him through the phone.

"I'm serious My. I haven't heard from him since his first week of uni, and you know how bad he is at..."

"Acting normal?"

"I was going to say making friends." She paused. "Could you please just stop by? Just tell me if he's doing alright."

Mycroft had put on his glasses, lightly slapping his own cheek to wake up.

"Why me?"

He heard her hesitate on the other end of the phone.

"You're his big brother. There's still a bit of him that looks up to you. He'd talk to you before any of us stuffy adults."

"I am an adult. And so is he, he turned nineteen two weeks ago!"

"MYCROFT." His mother's voice was suddenly rife with warning. Even though he was two hundred miles away, he still felt himself cower a little, thinking of her glare. He closed his eyes and paused for a long moment.

"Fine." He sighed.

"Thank you. And take care of yourself too." She said as he hung up. "Go easy on the cake!"

So here Mycroft was, riding the tube across London at seven in the morning, umbrella and briefcase tucked under his arm, hoping he could make this quick. He didn't want to miss any more work than he had to.

He remembered Sherlock's building from when they helped him move in five months earlier. He walked up to the front desk and flashed his I.D. to the bored looking freshman working there.

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes." He sighed. He didn't know why, but he almost felt a little offended by the look of shock that flashed across the kid's face.

"You're here to see...Sherlock? You serious man?" The boy had a thick Irish accent that made Mycroft's head hurt. He narrowed his eyes and put his I.D back in his pockets.

"Of course I'm serious, why on Earth wouldn't I be?"

The boy looked slightly amused. He raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

"Sherlock's just...you know..." He looked around and then leaned in. "Everybody hates him." Mycroft felt his stomach drop. "He won't talk or eat or sleep, just randomly comes 'round the dining hall and announces who's been getting off with who." The kid leaned back on his chair. "And most of the time he's right. Fuckin' weird man."

Mycroft felt a surge of anger. He quickly snatched his umbrella up and glared at the boy staring at him.

"He's not..." He faded off, then drew himself up to full height. "What my brother does is his business. Children like you should mind your own."

The kid held up his hands in a mock-frightened fashion. Mycroft turned on his heel and marched past the desk and into the dorms. He then realized he couldn't remember where Sherlock lived, and he certainly wasn't asking the brat at the front desk.

If the girls are on the odd number floors than that eliminates half, freshmen usually get the lower levels so between the 200s and the 280s...it's alphabetical, so the H's are roughly in the middle... Mycroft worked his deduction so fast he found himself standing in front of room 227 in less than thirty seconds. He knocked on the door lightly.

"Um, hello, I'm looking for Sherlo-"

The door swung open. A dazed looking boy with red hair and a gray shirt that proclaimed I AM NED stumbled out. His room was dark and dank smelling, with hazy wisps of smoke floating and twisting around him.

"You lookin' to buy?" He slurred. His blue eyes were unfocused. Mycroft pulled his hanker chief from his breast pocket and covered his mouth and nose.

"No, thank you. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes?"

The boy, presumedly Ned, nodded slowly, but didn't say anything, his mind too drug-addled. Mycroft felt a growing annoyance building within him.

"Where is he?" He said sharply. Ned pointed down the hall, and then burst into giggles.

"221. Man, Sherlock..." He faded off. Mycroft turned to go, not feeling like hearing more critiques about-

"Dude's one of my best costumers."

Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks at that. He didn't look back at the Ned, didn't even ask him, but something clicked in his mind. Some things you just know.

"Oh God no." He started walking briskly down the hall to 221. (No matter how panicked he was, he never ran.) He smacked the door handle and forced his way in.

Sherlock was sitting on a mattress in the middle of the room. His blankets were all twisted around him, a few books in his lap, a microscope leaned up against the mattress, along with a jar of what appeared to be intestines. Sherlock himself had his head lolling about, his eyes closed and his muscles twitching ever so slightly.

And a long, yellowish syringe was hanging from his arm.

Mycroft's eyes widened.

"Sherlock?" He asked, his voice three octaves higher than normal.

Sherlock squinted up at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then he swayed and fell onto his back, like a ragdoll. He didn't move. Mycroft felt his breath hitch in his throat. He took a couple more steps into the room.

"Sherlock, wake up." He tried to command, but his voice was too shaky. Sherlock didn't move. His chest wasn't even going up and down.

His chest wasn't going up and down.

What happened next is something only understood by older siblings. Big sisters and brothers all over the world who have seen their siblings hit rock bottom. One might call it a trance. Others an animal instinct, every fiber of your being screaming at you to protect and save this littler person, a duty you've been called to since the day they were put in your arms. Whatever the reason, something deep inside Mycroft sent him leaping across the bed and tearing the needle out of Sherlock's arm, suddenly manic. He shook him by the shoulders, although he vaguely knew one wasn't supposed to do that to the unconscious.

"Sherlock Holmes, you wake up this instant."

Sherlock didn't move. Mycroft pressed his hand against his brother's wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was faint and slow, but still going. Mycroft frantically tried to remember the medical training he'd had in prep school. All he could remember was that the sick needed plenty of water. He resumed shaking Sherlock, wondering if he should splash water on his face from the tap.

Luckily, it was at that moment when Sherlock's eyes started fluttering open.

He saw a hazy blur of colors, the fuzzy shape of his brother's profile swimming and morphing before him.

"Mycro-" He began, but was cut off by Mycroft slapping him across the face. Sherlock gasped, his eyes cracking open a bit more. They were bloodshot and his voice was raspy.

"Wha..."

Mycroft whacked him again, upside the head.

"ARE YOU CRAZY?" He yelled. Sherlock stared at him. Just like the boy in the hall, he was too stoned to understand what was going on. Mycroft looked at him helplessly for a second, then yanked him to his chest, hugging him so tightly his arms went numb.

"Oof! Mycroft, geroff me!" Sherlock flailed around, high and freaked out. Mycroft just lay him down on his mattress, his heartbeat slowing back to normal. Sherlock looked at him blearily for a few more seconds, then passed out. This time though, he was breathing, so Mycroft let him lay. He reluctantly fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed the office.

He'd be calling in sick today.

When Sherlock came to a few hours later, he squinted in the bright light, the faint effects of the drugs still in his blood making his head pound. With a groan, he slowly shifted himself upright in bed and opened his eyes wider as the adjusted to the lights.

His bottle of intestines, his books, and his microscope were all stacked neatly on his shelf. The filthy floor had been swept and the sheets around him folded neatly. And that damn overhead light was on. He thought he'd shot that thing to bits the first week...

He was suddenly aware he wasn't alone.

He turned to face the presence, then winced at the pain that shot through his head.

"What to you want Mycroft?" He mumbled as he clutched his head. "What did you do to my room?" His brother sat up taller, trying to appear dignified. Although, it was a hard thing to do when sitting on the floor and leafing through A Teen's Guide to London! He didn't look up from the magazine though, as he spoke.

"Your room was filthy, you were going to get sick."

"Mummy think something's wrong." Sherlock mumbled, standing and rubbing his temples. Mycroft lay down the magazine and sighed in exasperation.

"Can you blame her? I show up here and you're about to overdose-"

"I wasn't overdosing." Sherlock seethed. "That what it does. It knocks you out when the buzz is still high so you sleep through the crash."

He crossed his arms and scanned his now neat room. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" Mycroft said, louder than he meant to. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, When he opened them, Sherlock had turned, observing him.

"You've been talking to the others." He stated. Mycroft stood.

"There's that Ned character over there who's apparently your drug dealer!"

Sherlock cocked his head, looking mildly surprised.

"That's his name?"

Mycroft ignored him.

"Then there's some Irish brat downstairs who tells me everyone-"

He caught himself and looked down. Sherlock rolled his eyes, a sarcastic look of intrigue painted on his face.

"Oh, everyone what?" He yelled in mock exasperation. "What about everyone did you find so fascinating?" Mycroft continued to study the floor.

"Everyone...hates you." he mumbled.

The smirk left Sherlock's lips, and his face fell for the briefest of seconds. Then he raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, all confidence and swagger once more.

"What do I care what a bunch of dull, simplistic-"

Mycroft rapped his umbrella on the floor, making Sherlock fall silent.

"You are supposed to be making friends with these people."

Sherlock openly scoffed, flopping back down on his bed again.

"They wish." He muttered. Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed through his nose.

"Fine. Sit here by yourself, the way you always do." He picked up his few belongings and started backing towards the door. He hesitated, looking back at his brother.

"Just...please stop with the drugs. For me."

Sherlock arched his eyebrow.

"Are you asking me for a favor?"

Mycroft threw his hands in the air and walked out, closing the door behind him. He walked down the hall, past Ned's room to the end of the corridor. He leaned against the wall and punched in a familiar number.

"Hello? Yes Mummy." He swallowed, rubbing his free hand against the hook of his umbrella. "Yeah. Um, Yes, I saw him."

He cast an uneasy look at the sealed door of 221.

"He's...doing fine."

He felt the guilt swirling in his stomach as his mother practically cried in relief on the other end of the phone. He knew he hadn't stopped Sherlock from doing anything, and his mother...

She couldn't know what her precious baby Sherlock had become. He had to protect her from this. This was his load to bear, now.

So Mycroft started worrying about his brother.