CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Start from the beginning."
"Did you bring what I asked for?" Sherlock demanded.
"Yes." Mycroft held the new mobile phone out of reach. "You may have it when you explain what happened that night."
"I figured I'd give it one more try at uni – fitting in – acting normal. I went to a party, boring I might add, had a couple drinks. Not much, only two, I think."
"You think?"
"The details are a bit fuzzy. I was passed out in the kitchen floor, if you remember," Sherlock shot back.
"Fine. Two drinks. Continue."
"I started to feel poorly, so I left early. I was just going to go home and sleep it off. I went to the kitchen for a drink and dropped the cup because my hands were so shaky. That's all I remember."
"What about the bruises?" Mycroft prompted.
"Earlier. I had a disagreement with my ex-drug dealer."
Mycroft pulled the phone out of his pocket.
"One more thing. Who's the girl?"
"What girl?"
"The one that followed you home. She was wearing your coat."
"I don't know, just a girl. She was cold, so I let her wear my coat. Must have forgotten it when I left."
Mycroft handed over the mobile phone.
"So how, and why, were you drugged?"
"How should I know?"
"Figure it out."
"It was probably added to my drink. Only people there who knew of my drug history were..." he paused briefly. "No one. No one there knew."
"Obviously someone did," Mycroft supplied. "That, or you're lying."
"I wasn't shooting up in the corner, if that is what you are implying. I wouldn't have bothered going in the first place if that were my plan. I also wouldn't have ended up in the damn hospital, Mycroft, I'm not an idiot!"
"It wouldn't be the first time you let things get out of hand," his brother reminded. He wanted to believe Sherlock, but given his past it was hard to dismiss the idea. "Your high tolerance to cocaine is the only thing that let you get as far as you did, and you still nearly died. Clinically, you did. Do you even realize that?"
Only Sherlock Holmes could invoke such a temper in him, he knew, but he couldn't stand his brother's indifference to something so dangerous. Every time he fell into this trap he'd slipped a little further, become even more distant. This might be his last chance to save Sherlock, and he sure as hell wasn't going to squander it.
"No." Sherlock stated, interrupting the silence that had settled between them.
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were thinking it. I'm not going to rehab," Sherlock refused.
"If I send you, you won't have any choice."
"There's always a choice. I didn't do it, I promise you. You may not understand the reasoning behind it, but I've never lied to you about this, and I never mix drugs and alcohol. It's too unpredictable."
"Then I need something to go on."
"I need coffee, lots of coffee."
"When did you start drinking coffee?"
"Now. Just get me some."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but did as he was asked, reminding himself that without a very good explanation Sherlock was going to rehab, whether he liked it or not.
Ӂ
After downing an entire pot of coffee, Sherlock seemed strangely calm. Most people would be beyond jittery by now, but he leaned back against the pillow, eyes closed like he was going to go to sleep, but his mind raced.
"Two drinks – started feeling poorly after the second," he said aloud. "My hands were shaking, felt hot, gave my coat to a girl who promised to return it before she left." He breathed in deeply, the slightest tremor visible in his hands. "Nauseous. I didn't have any money on me, so I started to walk back, felt so sick, could barely stand. Tripped going up the stairs. Thirsty." He absently sipped the nearly empty cup still in his trembling hands. "Someone was following me. I was going to have a cuppa, but I dropped it, shards everywhere, cut myself, loosing consciousness, bleeding a lot, cut must've been deep. Going to wash, fell, vision blurry, need help, can't feel, can't think, can't breathe..." Sherlock's eye flew open and sat bolt upright.
"Did she bring it back? My coat, did she return it?"
"She was still wearing it when I found you," Mycroft answered, realizing what he had done. She was passed out when they left in the ambulance, but he'd left his flat with a drunken stranger for the last two days, God only knew what kind of state it was in now.
"I need to talk to her."
"Now's not the time. I'll deal with it later," Mycroft decided. Hopefully, she was trustworthy, would sleep it off, and lock up on the way out. If not, well, it was probably a little late to do anything about it now.
"No, I think she might know who drugged me."