They say the first day is always the worst.

That was true, but so was the next day.

And the next.

And every single one after that.

They stole your personal effects away and gave you standard new ones; they gave you new clothes, and they gave you a new schedule. They stole your independence, and your dignity.

All because you'd lost control.

As if they could do it for you.

Fix you.

Clean you up.

Honestly.

In short: rehab sucked more than sergeant Donovan, which was really saying something.

Of course Mycroft had sent him to a live-in facility. He wouldn't want to have to deal with having his defective little brother hanging around his place any longer; that would look bad. Sherlock had expected that, and he understood.

Clever of Mycroft, really. Out of sight, out of mind.

Anyone else would have done the same.

He found there was one particular 'inmate' whom he despised the most—though that was all relative, considering that he hated every single thing about the whole facility with a fiery passion, including everyone in it.

She, in particular, had shredded every last nerve he had with her incessant flirting, which was not only irritating but also pointless, as she was clearly already married.

Besides, he found her manner—or lack thereof—and her outdated racial prejudices to be wholeheartedly repulsive. If he could have selected her and pressed delete, he would have.

Waste of space.

Waste of time.

The first time they'd met he'd been quite sure he'd made his intentions perfectly clear, but she didn't seem phased, somehow.

He'd ignored her after his initial sweep of the room for information, having done the calculations and deciding that she wasn't worth his time. But just a few moments later his sulking had been interrupted by an irritatingly seductive voice—a tone that was certainly not made any better by years of heavy smoking.

"Hey, hot stuff. I couldn't help but notice you were looking a little lonely over here all by yourself."

Sherlock didn't even bother to look up, rolling his eyes. "Oh please... If it's a choice between my own company or yours, I think I'd rather be assigned to an isolation cell, stat."

She only chuckled, and settled herself into a chair next to him. "Well, you're a bit nasty, aren't you? I don't blame you; the withdrawal's starting to get to me too." He could practically hear the smile in her voice. "Nancy, by the way. And what do they call you?"

He finally turned to look at her with a cold, hard glare. "You know who I am. Don't pretend you didn't follow the whole story in the papers like it was some sort of soap opera. You probably even thought I was guilty, didn't you? Typical sheep... You'll believe what they tell you, even up to that final article—'Suicide of Fake Genius,' wasn't it? Horrible reporting..." He shook his head. "And now you want to try associating with 'celebrities.' You think that will make you look good, or perhaps it'll make your husband jealous. Honestly, though, I think he's given up hope a long time ago, and justifiably so. I pity him."

She wasn't smiling anymore.

He'd won…

Nancy sat back, crossing her legs and brushing a lock of blond hair out of her face. An unnecessary motion: she was unsettled, nervous perhaps, and compensating for her current lack of a good response.

Boring.

"Well, you… can't blame me for trying. You're certainly every bit as good as they say you are."

Sherlock scoffed under his breath. "Of course I am. I didn't come back from the dead for nothing."

"Did you really?" Nancy was leaning forward now, looking at him. "Because I don't believe you, you know. You look just as dead now as you did in those photos in the paper. You, Sherlock Holmes, are a walking dead man."

"Is that supposed to be some sort of threat? Because if it is—"

"No, no. Just an observation." Nancy got to her feet, pausing behind his chair for a moment. "But, if you ever decide you're ready to be resuscitated, I'm sure you can figure out where to find me."

He just sat there after she'd left, his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side.

In part, he had a strong urge to vomit. But in another part, though he still felt naught but annoyance toward her, his interest was vaguely piqued.

But not in a good way.

A knock on his door.

Then another one.

It wasn't the right time for a check-up, so who could be…

Sherlock finally pushed himself up off the bed and scowled at the door. "WHAT."

It squeaked open slowly on its hinges.

"Sherlock? I, um, just thought I'd come by, since it's my lunch break and all. See how you were doing."

Sherlock blinked, his scowl replaced by a slightly surprised stare. "John…? I… how did you…? Oh. Of course. My brother sent you, didn't he? You're a doctor, you're familiar with me, nobody's going to think of him if they see you coming in here, so—"

"No." John spoke slowly, stepping over to the bed and awkwardly taking a seat on the edge of it. "Actually, my friend is in rehab, and I genuinely wanted to see how he was doing."

"Your friend is—"

"You. Just to clear up any confusion, you know. If there was. So… uh… things going okay in here, then?"

Sherlock gave him a deadpan look. "Can't you at least figure that out for yourself?"

"Okay… not so good, I take it."

"Worse."

John pursed his lips and looked at the floor uncomfortably, and Sherlock could tell he was trying hard not to tell him off.

But why was he resisting?

He'd never had a problem with that before.

Odd…

"Er… get many visitors in here?"

"You're the first, obviously. It's painfully dull in this prison, and I'm starting to feel sick."

"Yeah." John nodded. "That'll be the withdrawal. It's only going to get worse, I'm afraid. Sorry. Kind of your fault."

"Oh please… I don't need to hear that from you, too…"

"Well, it's the truth. Alright? Maybe if you weren't so repressed, or something."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What was that? Are we playing quack therapist now, too? Because I believe Dr. Helmsford has already taken that position."

"No, just trying to state the obvious." John shook his head ruefully and got to his feet, starting for the door. "Look, I can tell you're in a bad mood, so…"

"I'm always in a bad mood."

"Yeah, well…" John was almost to the door when he paused, and glanced over his shoulder at the detective. "Oh, um, but… by the way… Happy birthday, Sherlock."

For several moments Sherlock's only response was a blank stare.

"…Oh. Hm. …right…"

"You… didn't know, did you?"

"Well, I have rather more pressing matters to think about than simply being another year closer to death. It's not happy; why do people say that? Especially not here. Quite the opposite, actually. You try spending more than five minutes in here. I guarantee you, it's not anywhere close to happy."

"I'm… sorry. …I'll come back on my next break. How about that? Hmm? Maybe I can even bring a game or something. Clue, even. I'll stay a while."

"Don't bother. You'll miss all of Mary's morning sickness. What fun that'll be…"