Mycroft stood, waiting for the inevitable backlash.
He glanced down at the ragged piece of paper clutched in his hand. The list was short; mercifully so. Only a few substances, written in Sherlock's copperplate hand, but it was enough to make Mycroft's heart stutter and his mind go blank.
Flashing lights bounced off the surrounding buildings, bathing the dank bricks and gaping windows in a kaleidoscope of too-bright colour. But it was the noise that churned Mycroft's stomach and brought a sour taste to the back of his throat.
The sirens, the paramedics yelling back and forth across Sherlock's prone body; they assaulted his ears. Worst of all was the barely audible sound of Sherlock's laboured breaths.
Mycroft was scared, but he was also livid. Turning to the man at his side, he bit out, "I told him. I warned him that should I find him in this state again he would be sent to rehab, whether or not he wants to go."
Sergeant Lestrade turned to him and said sadly, "You know he won't stay. Rehab won't work if he doesn't want to be there."
"I know," signed Mycroft, "but what am I to do? Watch him kill himself?"
He sighed again, "Arrangements have been made."
"He'll hate you for it."
"I know."
Mycroft stood, waiting for the inevitable backlash.
