Sherlock Holmes welcomed the poison into his veins. Having graduated university, he found his life boring. Dull. Incomplete. The only thing that could give him the release he desperately needed was cocaine. Yes, it was dangerous, and as a scientist, he knew exactly what it could—what it would do, but it was a choice between his brain rotting from boredom or from drugs, and there was very little he hated more than being bored.
Tonight would be twice his usual seven per cent solution. He'd had an extremely trying day of doing absolutely nothing, and he needed his escape. (Contrary to popular belief, boredom is highly stressful.) He'd never done such a high concentration before and he was looking forward to it.
As he was tying the tourniquet, the phone rang. He ignored it. It would probably be Mycroft, calling about that time Sherlock spent in jail—again. Not important. It went to voicemail just as the needle broke the flesh.
"Sherlock, we need to talk. This is getting out of hand."
He pushed the plunger on the syringe.
"I know what you're doing right now. What you're always doing at this time of night. It isn't healthy. Mummy worries."
"Bugger off," Sherlock said at the speaker grille.
"I worry." The concern in Mycroft's voice was clear, but Sherlock didn't care. Why did Mycroft feel he had the right to screw with his life? Then the drugs kicked in and suddenly his mind was leaps and bounds ahead of anything and everything, dancing on the stars, so high in the sky that he came crashing down into oblivion.
Beep, beep, beep. Sherlock opened his eyes. The hospital. His mind burned. Mycroft sat next to him, very worried.
"Oh, good, you're awake. You really must stop this childish habit."
Sherlock's throat was dry. "I knew there was a risk. I knew that—"
"Which is why, effective immediately, you are in rehab." Mycroft was stern. There was no room for diplomacy. "I'm paying for it, don't worry. Even if you had the money to pay, I know you'd refuse to."
As the withdrawals kicked in, Sherlock thought he was dying. The pain was excruciating, the vomiting common, and the insomnia didn't help. They couldn't give him much in the way of painkillers, partly on Mycroft's orders, but mostly for medical reasons. Within the first few days, Sherlock had lost five pounds and had become, mentally, a shadow of himself. When he did fall asleep, it was usually sobbing from the pain and the paranoia. Did Mycroft want him to suffer? Why was he doing this? Why couldn't the nurses give him more pain relief? Were they in on it?
And then there was the emotional support group. Sherlock was the only respectably-dressed person there. All the others were your common junkies. He knew there were other groups with proper people in them, but somehow he got stuck with the people he was robbed of the power to deduce. His mind had collapsed under the weight of self-support.
"How often did you inject?" the medical man asked, the first question going to Sherlock.
"Every night," Sherlock replied honestly.
"Why?"
"I was bored." Sherlock stared the man down. He didn't want to be here and he was showing it.
"Alright then, Sherlock, why did you decide to stop?"
"I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"You must be deaf."
The man put his pen down. "Then why are you here?"
"My brother." Sherlock sat back in the chair, his body language oozing rebellion. He leaned backward too far, however, and fell over. Some of the others laughed. "Oh, I suppose you think it's funny? Look at you, leading your backwards lives. Kaycee, the crackwhore, three months pregnant. Joe whose father died of overdose and who doesn't want to go the same way. Baz, only here because the courts told you you had to be. Jade who only turned to cocaine because you couldn't stand the memory of being raped. And of course, who could forget you," he said, turning to the group leader. "You 'understand' us because you've done it all before. You, who beat your wife when you were high and now you're trying to redeem that mistake. I'm done here. Get yourselves some real help." He marched out of the room and straight into his brother.
"Sherlock," he said, reproachfully. "You need help."
"No, Mycroft, I don't. What I need is to think. Now get out of my way. I'm leaving." He tried to walk past Mycroft, but the elder brother blocked the way. Again this process was repeated, and then once more before Sherlock snapped, hitting his brother. Mycroft retaliated, and soon pinned Sherlock, weak with fatigue and drugs to the wall.
"I don't want to be your enemy," he whispered. "I will be if it becomes necessary."
"You couldn't if you tried. Too much physical activity."
"Don't be like this, Sherlock." Three nurses had seen the scuffle and had summoned security. Now the burly men pulled the two apart. Sherlock didn't have the strength to fight much, so he was back in his room before too much longer.
Once group therapy was complete, Mycroft had insisted on keeping him for a period of observation. Private therapy required Sherlock to take up a hobby, but there were none that interested him. Yet again, it was Mycroft to the rescue as he coaxed the therapist into permitting scavenger hunts of a sort—he knew his brother well. Sherlock honed his skills, working his way up the ranks, first solving a mystery of missing medication, and eventually helped out in solving the apparent suicide (but in reality, murder) of a patient. From those experiences, he realized the purpose to his life. Mycroft had saved him, though he'd never show his gratitude. If it weren't for his brother, Sherlock would, undoubtedly, have died from a fatal overdose. Of course, Mycroft checked in on him from time to time, concerned about a potential relapse into the days when his twenty-three-year-old brother turned to the needle nightly. He worried about him. Constantly.