Do you ever think that there may be something wrong with us?

Sherlock remembers giving into curiosity, to sentiment, and asking his brother that question just once, after the first time they'd been told that Irene Adler was dead. At the time, he'd wondered about the grief that he was supposed to feel but which he didn't. The idea of Irene being gone had not been nearly as vexing as the idea that he'd never have the chance to solve the case, that she had died before he could finish his work. Grief is not a concept that Sherlock is familiar with: he was young when his father died, and of course Mummy is still around and Sherlock knows for a fact that he will not mourn the day that she dies, in fact he'll probably take John to Angelo's to celebrate. So grief has always been something of a mystery he has never really cared to solve.

Right now, he suspects he knows what grief feels like. It is a curiously heavy weight on top of his chest, his ribs, making it feel as though they could potentially be crushed at any moment. Every breath he takes becomes a struggle. He keeps seeing Irene's face when he shuts his eyes, and how she'd looked when she'd come to the flat and asked for his help. Perhaps, he thinks, she might have died anyway. From the sound of it, Norton had jumped at the opportunity to get her out of the way - probably because she was starting to learn too much. But the knowledge that she died because of Sherlock, because Mummy wanted to bring him back here, burns. Even when he tries to give in to the drugs that feeling drags at him, keeps him from sinking too far, keeps him on the surface.

In the distance a door slams shut and Sherlock lets his eyes open, looks up at the ceiling. It seems very far away. His whole body feels slow to respond to any command. The drugs are potent, and this child's body is not used to it the way his adult body would be. But that does not mean he has forgotten all of his old tricks. Grief, he decides, is a useless emotion, making him want to remain exactly where he is and wallow in the fleeting memories that he has of Irene Adler. That sort of reaction helps no one, least of all Sherlock. He'll end up going through puberty again if he does that.

The thing about Sherlock is, when he was a child he had a dreadful reaction to sedatives and anaesthesia. It is not the sort of knowledge that he freely spreads around, and Mummy wouldn't know that, of course, because she rarely - if ever - took him to the hospital. That was an enjoyable task reserved for his nannies or Mycroft when he was home from boarding school. As an adult, Sherlock trained his mind and body to be able to withstand both drugs as best he could. He no longer gets unbearably ill, and - with his history in drug abuse - he can actually fight off a sedative far more quickly than most people would. It's the reason that most kidnapping attempts don't actually work. He always wakes up sooner than the idiots think he will, even if he is a little bit sicker afterwards than most.

It takes effort to roll over onto his side. He pants with exhaustion just from that simple move. A nauseous feeling slides up from his belly, gripping his throat, and it only gets worse when he tilts his head up from the pillow. Excellent. Smirking, he hefts his weight up onto his hands. The key is to keep pushing, even when it means that the world swirls around him in a dizzying circle. Bile surges up from his stomach, hot and disgusting, and he gags. Leaning forward, he vomits over the side of the bed as best he can. Most of the food he has consumed for the past few days comes up in one vile rush. He spits and chokes again, then throws up for a second time: more bile, and water, and the last of the food.

"Sherlock!" The door flies open and Mummy rushes in, a gun in her hand. She looks around wildly.

Sherlock blinks up at her. This is new. His mind quickly catalogues the way she clutches the gun, how familiar it is in her hand. She knows how to use it, he realizes. He vomits for a third time.

"Darling, are you sick? What's wrong?" Mummy starts to approach him, then stops. Her gaze drops to the spreading pile of vomit on the floor, and a fleeting expression of deep distaste flashes across her face. She turns back to the door. "Brown!"

The man from earlier - Brown, apparently - comes in and takes one look around the room. "I told you that you might be giving him too much," he says, wrinkling his nose as the stench begins to rise. "He's only a child, Violet."

"I gave him what the dosage said!"

"At every meal," Brown counters. "And now look, you've made him sick."

"Well..." Mummy gestures with the gun and Sherlock flinches back, too aware that she is pointing it in his direction. "Clean it up!"

"I'm not your maid!"

"Clean. It. Up." She points the gun at him now, steady, and his eyes go wide. Sherlock wants to call him a fool. He lays quiet on the bed instead, breathing raggedly, trembling. "Then wash him and change his clothing. I'll go call the doctor and make sure that we haven't poisoned him."

"We?" says Brown, sounding highly insulted at the implication. "I had nothing to do with this! And just how the hell are you going to call a doctor? What exactly are you planning to tell them?"

"I'll decide that! You get to work!" She storms out, roughly pushing past him. Brown stands where he is for a very long minute, his face twisted into an expression of annoyance. Sherlock hopes that he will ignore the commands, and - were he capable of speaking - knows he would be able to goad the man into doing just that. But in the end, Brown comes all the way into the room and plucks Sherlock off of the bed.

"Little brat, if I'd a way to prove that you'd done that on purpose..." he says, roughly carrying Sherlock into the bathroom. He drops Sherlock on the floor in front of the toilet. "Stay there and don't you bloody well move, or some drugs will be the least of your problems." He walks out before Sherlock can bother to tell him that he's already got far more problems than Brown could imagine.

For a couple of minutes, he remains where he is. His throat burns and his head aches, and his side throbs from where he hit the floor, and he's still exhausted. It takes several seconds of intense concentration. But when he's able to lift his right hand and clench his left into a loose fist, that makes it all worthwhile.

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