My next chapter :) warning for mentions of drug use

But lately her face seems

Slowly sinking, wasting

Crumbling like pastries

And they scream

The worst things in life come free to us

Cos we're just under the upperhand

Go mad for a couple grams

Mycroft was adamant, Sherlock was going to get clean whether he liked it or not.

Sherlock had stumbled to his house in the early hours of the morning before collapsing on his front steps, overdosed on cocaine. Mycroft had called his private doctors immediately after finding him, who had then preformed all the necessary duties to ensure his brother's health. He was now lying in the bed of Mycroft's spare room, unconscious for the time being. Mycroft was currently sitting at the end of said bed in a comfortable plush armchair simply observing his younger brother. He couldn't believe how much he'd changed in the past four years.

Sherlock had always been slender (something Mycroft secretly envied) but his appearance was now positively starved; his limbs were thin as twigs, and looked like they'd snap just as easily, his cheekbones protruding from his face more obviously then they used to, making his face look hollow and empty. His hair was disheveled and straggling to his shoulders, his lips cracked and his hands covered in sores from sleeping out in the cold London nights. There was also the many needle marks peppering his arms, scratches where his hand had shook as he punctured the skin in his haste to give himself some relief. His clothes were lying next to the bed, having been exchanged for a hospital gown on arrival. Though in Mycroft's mind rags was a better word for the clothing Sherlock had been wearing.

Mycroft wondered how his brother had come to this. When he was younger Mycroft had always thought that Sherlock would grow up to be a scientist of a philosopher, someone admired and treasured for his genius. Sherlock however had not seen this future for himself and had dropped out of university in his third year at the age of 19. He had drifted about for a year living in various cheap accommodations and doing odd jobs when he was short of cash. Mycroft had of course offered him financial support on multiple occasions but Sherlock was long past accepting help from him. Then of course Sherlock had run out of money, not paid the rent and retired to a life on the streets. And he still had not asked Mycroft for help, it had taken him to be at the brink of death to kneel down at Mycroft's steps. Had their relationship really deteriorated that far? Mycroft could still remember the small boy with bold dark curls who would sit on his lap and ask him to read a story, predominantly of pirate genre. When had that bright young boy been exchanged for the sociopath addict who lay before him?

Mycroft was roused from his thoughts as the pale figure in the bed began to stir. Bloodshot heavy eyes flickered open and his deep voice croaked "Where the hell am I?"

Once again you'll have to wait for the next chorus for the rest of the story. Thank you to MoriartyandHisTardis and phanpiggy for reviewing, you have no idea how happy it makes me to log on and see a review! XD