The Final Stretch

Sherlock opened his eyes. The room was still dark and it was hot and stuffy. He hated waking in the middle of the night here. He rolled over onto his back and took a deep breath. He turned his head to the side to see the medal glistening in the moonlight and the paper lying neatly next to it.

He reached out his hand and turned on the lamp next to his bed and picked up the letter. With his other hand he rubbed his eyes and read the letter again.

And again.

And again.

In fact he read it a total of 12 times that night. Each time he read it he felt a few hot tears fall down his cheek. He didn't know why. All he knew was that every time he read the words in front of him, there was a sharp pain in his chest.

He ended up just staring at the paper for the rest of the night, only to be brought out of his trance as a woman came in with his breakfast which he didn't eat. Normally he would take a few bites to satisfy them but today he couldn't. Today he said no to his meals, no to seeing Dr Weaver and no to the nicotine patch.

Today he just sat there on his bed, staring at the same passage.

You are an excellent young man Sherlock, and do not let anyone else tell you otherwise. Do not feel like anyone else is better than you, as you are their equal. You are extraordinary.

Jonathan had had faith in him. He would do this for him, for Jonathan, even though every time he saw his name, it hurt.

"I don't get it Sherlock. When did you suddenly doing what they say?"

Sherlock turned to Megan, the girl he always spoke to during their group sessions. He had been there for just over 7 weeks now. Ever since Jonathan's letter he tried extra hard to escape. Not in the traditional 'oh I'm just going to climb over this wall and run away'. No, he was going to do exactly what they wanted of him. He didn't make it obvious, sometimes he would act a bit more like his usual self so they could say he was 'relapsing' to make it more believable. All he could say was that it was working. He seemed to have them all fooled; everyone that is except Megan.

He leaned towards her and spoke in barely a whisper "If I do what they say and look like I'm recovering, the quicker I'll get out of here."

"You're mad!"

"It's working. Look at all the privileges I get now. I have full access to the entertainment room, I can have pretty much whatever I want when I want it and I can go anywhere in the facility without some kind of guard making sure I won't run off. The same can't be said for you."

"You mean to say, you're not recovering and all you're doing is acting?"

"I've already told you, I have nothing to recover from. I'm not an addict, I never was. I just used the drugs to help clear my mind, slow it down a bit."

"Yet you're here, like me, like everyone else in this room. Obviously something went wrong."

"Yeah, a roommate and an overprotective dickhead of a brother."

Before Megan could reply, Dr Weaver spoke up. "Okay that's enough pair work for today." He said with a smile. He preferred it when Dr Weaver took the sessions rather than the other doctor. Sherlock hadn't bothered to even learn his name.

Once everyone had reformed their usual circle, Dr Weaver spoke again. "Now today I want to speak about the first time you took the drug you are addicted to." A few weeks ago, this would have been the point where Sherlock would have complained that he was not an addict, but he had learnt to keep his mouth shut and pretend to agree with him. "You do not have to say anything you don't want to and as usual, you do not have to participate if you find this difficult to talk about." He smiled kindly and turned to the girl on his left. "Would you like to start Donna?"

The girl shifted in her seat slightly but nodded. "I was nearly 14…"

Sherlock pretended to pay attention but already knew how everyone started. It had been quite easy to deduce. His eyes flicked around the room to each person.

14, peer pressure from friends, trying to be accepted in the group. 12, drank too much when parents weren't looking, been an alcoholic ever since. 15, father's death, only way to soothe the pain. 13, peer pressure again but was more forced into it rather than it being her choice. 14, just interested. 16, copied an older sibling's habits. Then there was Megan, the one who just wanted to rebel, took ecstasy for the first time at the age of 12, her lack of attention from her family meant she continued for 2 years before they realised what had happened.

Sherlock hesitated a bit at that last thought. Lack of attention from her family. Maybe she was more like him than he originally perceived…

"Sherlock?" he heard Dr Weaver's voice interrupt his thoughts.

Sherlock looked up, realising he had been staring at the ground. "Hm?"

"Would you like to talk about your first time with heroin?" he asked kindly, probably expecting Sherlock to say no. He had done so in their private sessions before so the good doctor thought he would not open up to the group. He hadn't approached the matter in a few weeks.

Sherlock sat up in his seat slightly and nodded his head. "Okay."

Dr Weaver raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise but quickly corrected himself. "What happened Sherlock?"

Sherlock noticed how everyone had suddenly changed their position, staring at him intently. They probably wanted to know more about the mysterious boy who usually didn't say much at all in the sessions. Most of the time he just sat there patiently and listened. Little did they know he wasn't actually listening, just trying to deduce more about them out of sheer boredom.

"I was 13. I had just received a letter to say my old butler had died. Cancer… It hurt. He had basically brought me up. I missed him. I had a cigarette but it didn't help so I contacted my dealer and he got me some heroin. I had my own dorm so I went back and took some. No one knew. It felt…good. I had control over it though. It slowed my mind down, gave me a break from the constant thoughts, puzzles, mysteries, memories. It gave me peace of mind. I don't get that. Not in here. There's always something going through my head. It never stops. Each time I answer something, there's just another question waiting to be answered. What's the square root of pie? How many roads are there in London? What will happen if I mix bromine and potassium? Who's Mycroft paying to spy on me this time? What's Anderson going to call me tomorrow? Freak? Fag? Bender? What will happen when father next beats me? Will he kill me?" Sherlock threw the medal that had been in his hand across the room. He must have subconsciously taken it out of his pocket while he was talking about Jonathan. His voice had been getting angrier and louder as he had been speaking. He stood up abruptly, sending his chair flying behind him and fast walked to the door to go to his room, ignoring the surprised stares he was receiving from the group.

He ran all the way back, the anger surging through his veins. He slammed his door shut and fell onto his bed. He closed his eyes tightly and grabbed his hair, trying to remove all the sudden memories of his father hitting him. He took deep heavy breaths and calmed himself.

Gain composure. Sort yourself out; he thought to himself, Caring hurts. Don't let it take that control. It won't end well.

He opened his eyes as he heard a knock at the door before it opened. There stood Dr Weaver. Sherlock sniffed and rubbed his hair, making sure it covered his eyes. Need a haircut…

The doctor came and sat next to Sherlock on his bed and held out his hand, the medal sitting safely in his palm. Sherlock slowly lifted his hand and carefully took the cold metal object and placed it back in his pocket.

"Sherlock, do you want to talk?"

Sherlock coughed before answering. "We don't have a session scheduled until tomorrow."

"I know but I don't have any other sessions scheduled today. I have time now if you want it."

Sherlock looked at the man sitting next to him. Why was he being kind? He saw the concern on his face.

Then he remembered the last thing he had said before getting out of there as fast as he could.

"Will he kill me?"

Stupid. Why had he slipped that out? That had been one of his primary concerns in life but he had never told anyone about it, not even Jonathan. Now he understood, as far as he could understand anyway, Dr Weaver's concern.

"Tomorrow." Sherlock said.

"If you're sure." Dr Weaver said and patted the boy gently on the shoulder, only to see him visibly flinch at the contact. He frowned slightly before smiling at him. "I think you made a lot of progress today Sherlock. You're on the final stretch of getting clean. I don't think you'll be here in a couple of weeks time." And with that, the man stood and left Sherlock in peace.

The boy laid down on his bed once more and closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift off to sleep

"So Sherlock, I presume you know what I want to talk about today?" Dr Weaver asked as he took a seat opposite him. Sherlock nodded and he continued. "The real question is: are you ready to talk about it?"

Sherlock looked up from the floor and nodded again. "Yeah I'm ready."

"For how long have you been hit by your father, Sherlock?"

"For as long as I can remember."

"If you could describe your relationship with your father in one word, what would that be?"

"Shit." Sherlock said bluntly and shifted his position.

"So do you feel like if you had a problem, you couldn't turn to him?"

"Precisely."

Dr Weaver nodded and wrote a few notes down in his notebook. "Do you have anyone to talk to about this, whether it be at home or school, anyone?"

"No."

"Do you feel alone?"

"Alone protects me."

"Have you tried to make friends?"

"No I'm a sociopath."

"I'm sure that's not true-"

"I've been told it enough times to make it true." An image of an 11 year old Mycroft popped into his head. He remembered the first time he had said that to him…

"What about Jonathan?"

"He's dead."

"I know." he said kindly "I believe his death may be the primary trigger of your addiction."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side before speaking. "Why do you think that?"

"I think that over the years you've built up all this negative emotion inside of you and then when he died, you felt like you lost your father, not an old butler. I know how it feels to lose someone that close to you." Sherlock looked at the man and knew he was telling the truth. He only worked out a few weeks ago about his father's death. "Sherlock, each time you think about Jonathan, how do you feel?"

"I don't know."

"You do, deep down you do. You may think you're a sociopath with no understanding of emotion, but I know you feel something. When you talk about your experiments, you get excited and interested. When we spoke about your father you were angry. Really think about it Sherlock, when you think about Jonathan, what do you feel?"

Sherlock paused for a second before replying honestly "Sad, as if something's missing."

"Okay…" Dr Weaver wrote some final notes before leaning forward and looking directly at the boy. "Here's what I want you to do Sherlock. Each time you feel a craving or a need to take anything, think of him. Not in the way that makes you sad like his death, but more about the happy memories you have of him. Always think of the positives in a negative situation."

"Says the one who was clinically depressed at my age." Sherlock said bluntly without realising exactly what he had just said.

"I still don't know how you know that but yes es, I admit I was, but I recovered and became a psychiatrist so I could help young people, like yourself, to not go through the same bad experiences as I did. See, positive in a negative situation."

"They really drummed that into you, didn't they?"

Dr Weaver smiled. "Yes, they did." He put his pen and notebook down and turned back to Sherlock. "That'll do for today. Just think about what I said, okay?"

Sherlock nodded and got up from his seat, leaving the man in peace.

Sherlock thought it strange that both doctors had turned up for his last group session. It was supposed to be Dr Weaver's session but that other doctor had turned up again. It was probably to make sure the nightmare that was Sherlock was definitely leaving.

"And our time is nearly up…" said Dr Weaver as he looked at his watch then smiled at the group. "If you are not already aware, this is in fact Sherlock's last group session with us. He will be leaving tomorrow afternoon."

Sherlock noticed the familiar four faces that he had been meeting with for his time at the youth drug rehabilitation centre, all looking at him intently. Three of them had already left, only leaving 5 of them, from tomorrow onwards only 4. 9 weeks of pretending to have an addiction to get out of there. He was finally escaping.

"Do you have any last words Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned back to the man who had been so patient with him for the last few weeks. He rubbed a hand through his messy hair and coughed slightly before saying "Bye, I suppose. Bit of advice, listen to what they have to say, it helps a lot." His final bit of acting before he was free. "Don't be idiots. So yeah, bye."

He received a confused applaud from the group before it split up. He was told a few congratulations and good lucks before leaving.

"Alright for some." Said Megan as they were leaving the room.

"Told you it would work."

"I'll give it a go I suppose…"

"Good luck, your acting is terrible."

"Oh thanks!" she said sarcastically before smiling. "Not going to be the same without you Sherlock."

"No it'll be a lot more dull I should imagine." He smiled back at her in a 'haha for you!' expression.

"God I'm dreading it."

"Don't expect me to be back."

"I wouldn't dare imagine it. Have fun going back to school." She winked mockingly.

Sherlock groaned. "Great, they're going to give me a load of 'catch up work'. I'm doing my bloody A levels for God's sake."

"Yeah yeah I know genius boy. Anyway, you, good luck and all that bullshit everyone else said. What are you going to do once they've let you out?"

"Have a cigarette."

Megan laughed lightly before shaking her head. "Trust you to take a drug as soon as you step out of here."

"It's not illegal." Sherlock said defensively.

"It is at our age idiot." Sherlock twitched up the corner of his mouth. Megan looked at the watch on her wrist and groaned. "Great, I've got another therapy session with that bloody awful Dr Bridger."

Sherlock frowned. "Who?"

Megan gave him a look of disbelief. "Really?"

Sherlock made no reply, just cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

Megan smiled slightly and shook her head again. "That doctor we've had in our therapy sessions for the last 9 weeks. You know, the one we hate?"

Sherlock nodded. "Oh so that was his name… Have fun." He mocked her.

"Oh whatever. I suppose this is goodbye then."

"Goodbye."

"See you around Sherlock." And with that the girl walked away towards the individual therapy rooms.

Sherlock made his way back to his own room and smiled. Thank God he was getting out of here…

Tada another chapter :) Bloody long one at that :P

Anonymous: I actually had tears in my eyes when reading your review :') it is literally one of the kindest things someone has ever said to me! I'm so so glad you're enjoying it! Whoever you are, I love you! :)