"No."
"Sherlock, this is non-negotiable." Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. "I will have you see a professional. If I have to use force, so be it."
"No."
"Do you hear what I'm saying? Non-negotiable. This is not up for discussion, and I expect you to behave yourself, for once."
"You're not my mother." Sherlock rolled over and buried his face in the sheets with an irritated groan. "Leave me alone."
"Perhaps I'm not, but I'm sure she would say the same thing, if we told her. Two o'clock pm today, little brother. I suggest you be ready."
Sherlock groaned again and pulled the duvet over his head. "I'll never be ready..."
This would be simple.
Go in, explain the situation, and never have to do it again.
Seeing a 'professional'... Really.
Mycroft was out of his mind.
Sherlock kept his back as straight as he could, and walked with as much poise as he could manage with a jackhammer of a headache drilling behind his eyes.
Mustn't even look at Mycroft.
Mustn't give him the satisfaction.
His brother had insisted on walking with him all the way up to the door, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn't even get that far if he weren't escorted personally.
Forced.
Mycroft stopped at the doorstep and waited patiently while Sherlock took a moment, working out just what he would say in his head before he drew in a quiet breath and pushed the door open.
The interior of the office was suspiciously nice, well furnished and clean.
Typical.
And just annoying.
He didn't need to be here.
But it would be alright soon. He could leave then.
The therapist stood as he entered. He was a small man, prim and neat, and in the early stages of male pattern baldness.
Three children, one cat, married for ten years to an unfaithful wife, and... also an amateur painter.
Interesting.
Not.
With sudden flair, Sherlock stepped forward and extended a hand toward him. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure we're both well aware that my brother has initiated this visit, without consulting me, and I'd like to make it perfectly clear that it is beyond unnecessary. I am independent and absolutely content in my own way, and I do not require any of your 'assistance.'" He flashed his widest, most charming smile. "So you see, there's really no point in continuing with this any further, and I'd appreciate it if you would validate my point with my brother, who seems completely unable to fully grasp the truth."
The therapist just stood there looking at him for several maddening seconds before leaning forward and taking his outstretched hand, fixing him with a calmly inquisitive gaze. "Sherlock Holmes, are you quite aware that your smile doesn't reach your eyes?"
Sherlock was momentarily taken aback. "I... well... At least I'm aware that your wife is cheating on you."
"I thought so..." He bent over his notepad for a few seconds, and Sherlock was just starting to hope that had done the trick, when he straightened up again. "Milo Helmsford. I do hope you'll forgive me if I don't believe a word of your little speech. No hard feelings? Good."
"Wait, so… you're telling me you actually had him see a therapist. A real one. An actual visit, in an office. And he actually agreed to this?" John couldn't conceal the look of scepticism on his face, but Mycroft only shook his head.
"No, of course he didn't. But, I think you'll agree, it was necessary to do something."
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Considering how close you were to him, I want you to be present while I consult with Mr. Helmsford on what's to be done about my brother. Perhaps then you can assist us if he becomes… more difficult. At times you are the only person he will speak to."
John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, not looking up from Mycroft's desk. "Isn't there such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality...?"
"In most cases, yes. But in this particular case our patient is in danger of doing himself harm, and that justifies our doctor to speak up."
"Okay, but I..."
John was interrupted by a knock at the door, and presently a small, balding man was ushered in. He nodded politely to both of them and shook hands, introducing himself as doctor Milo Helmsford.
John's first impression was that he was fairly professional—if a little odd.
He sat back in his chair and regarded Mr. Helmsford curiously, trying to fathom what a meeting between him and the great Sherlock Holmes might have been like.
He would have put most of his money on 'pretty damn bad.'
Sherlock had never taken very kindly to being analysed.
For the most part, John's only role in the conversation was as the silent observer, attempting to get over his disbelief at the absurdity of it all and to really get himself to connect the things Helmsford was saying to the Sherlock Holmes he knew.
Or thought he knew.
"I believe Sherlock is mentally and emotionally unable to cry." Helmsford was speaking in a hushed, serious tone, leaning toward Mycroft, who was listening calmly. "He won't let himself, and even if he tried I'm not sure he'd find it very easy. He's very bottled up, it seems to me."
John wasn't certain if the sound that almost made it out of his throat was a scoff or a sympathetic outburst.
At the moment, both were present in his mind.
It made sense. But it still seemed so incredibly unlikely for the detective, so uncharacteristic of him—such a faraway problem...
Both Helmsford and Mycroft turned to look at him, and he shrugged it off, unsure what to say.
The therapist went on; "It's possible that he is using the drugs as an alternative way of coping, since he can't find relief any other way. I would suggest trying to find better ways of doing that. But first, rehab might not be a bad idea."
