Wow, I was so blown away by all the encouragement I got from you all! :) Thanks for all the reviews and follows! Tackling the challenge of Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship is going to be hard, but hopefully I do it justice. If you guys have any tips or suggestions, let me know.


Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night. He sat in his cell with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, and his head buried so no one could see his face.

He cried until there were no tears left. Until all he felt was an aching emptiness inside of him. He wished the emptiness would simply swallow him whole. That way he wouldn't live through what he knew was to come.

Mycroft had always had bad cholesterol. It was why Sherlock teased him about his weight and why Mycroft obsessed over his diet and exercise. But Sherlock had never imagined his bad cholesterol would come into play this soon…

"Two years, eleven months, four days."

"It's getting rather exciting now. Tick, tock, tick tock…"

A chill ran down Sherlock's spine. Had he subconsciously deduced that Mycroft's condition was getting worse? Did his brother only have two years, seven months, and four days to live now? No. No. It had been a break from reality. That couldn't be the case. Mycroft wasn't dying. Not anytime soon.

His thoughts then went to John…

He was positive the army doctor was going to kill him the next time he saw him. First, Sherlock had disappeared on John from the hospital. That was probably close to unforgivable in John's book. Then, Sherlock had been using consistently for the past four months, barely coming up for air between doses of cocaine. Sherlock had lost about two stone. Maybe close to two and a half. His face looked sunken in, skin stretched too thin over his prominent bone structure. Dark purple bruises under his eyes were the only color to his skin. He hadn't slept properly at all during his four-month drug excursion.

And finally, there was the fact that he'd missed the birth of John's daughter.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a long, shaky breath. He suddenly wished he could take those four months back. But he knew that wasn't logical. He could feel the sweats from the withdrawals beginning to set in. It wouldn't be long before the body aches and pains began. He knew they would be intense. He'd probably develop a fever as well, hallucinate a few times, but he couldn't think about that now. He needed to get out of here and see Mycroft. That was his first priority.

Sherlock had been in his holding cell for eighteen hours when Lestrade finally came back. He was in a different set of clothes. Obviously he'd actually gone home for the night. "Your bail's been posted. Anthea's here to get you. But let's get you washed up first, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, getting to his feet as Lestrade unlocked the cell and let him out.

Lestrade wordlessly guided Sherlock to the men's locker room. Sherlock didn't speak either. It wasn't until they were inside and the door was closed that Lestrade said anything. "I got some fresh clothes for you. Not what you usually wear, but they're clean." Lestrade picked up a neatly folded bundle of clothes. It was a pair of sweat pants with a thin shirt and a pullover hoodie. Sherlock took them with a nod of thanks. "There's some things in the shower so you can clean yourself up as well. I'll be here when you're done."

Sherlock moved towards the shower. "Thank you." He said quietly.

"Welcome." Lestrade replied, taking a seat on one of the benches.

Sherlock took the hottest shower he could manage. It was a relief to be out of his grimy clothes. He felt as though he scrubbed his skin within an inch of its life. He washed his hair harshly as well. When his thick curls were wet, they hung past his shoulders. Afterwards he dried and dressed in the clothes Lestrade had supplied him with. He walked back out into the locker room and simply threw his grimy clothes in the trash.

Lestrade looked up at Sherlock with a small smile. "You look a bit better already." He stood and motioned to the sink. I have some things if you'd like to shave. And I'm not a barber, but I could clip your hair as well." Sherlock and Lestrade shared a dark history. This wasn't the first time Lestrade had helped him clean up after a relapse.

Sherlock gave a small nod. "I'd like that."

After Sherlock carefully shaved, Greg cut Sherlock's long hair to the best of his ability. It didn't look half bad. "There." Greg said with a warm smile. "Just gotta get some meat on your bones and you'll be back to normal, yeah?"

Sherlock tried for a smile and gave Lestrade a nod.

Lestrade gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze before leading Sherlock up to the lobby. "I paid Mycroft a visit. He's alright… mostly just sleeping a lot. Worried about governments falling apart without him."

A genuine smile twisted the corner of Sherlock's lips upward. "Of course."

Soon, Lestrade and Sherlock were in the waiting room. Anthea was waiting there for Sherlock. Lestrade gave Sherlock's shoulder another squeeze. "Stay in touch, mate." He said quietly.

Sherlock knew what that really meant. 'Don't disappear without a trace again. And for god's sake please don't relapse again.' Sherlock nodded. "I'll try."

Lestrade smiled and nodded. "You'll probably see me around."

Sherlock nodded and then walked over to Anthea. Anthea gave him a worried smile before reaching into her purse. "This is yours." She said before handing Sherlock his mobile. "Mycroft is at the Royal Brompton. It has the best heart center in London. He's under the best care."

Sherlock gave a small nod. He'd never doubted Mycroft would have the best care.

Anthea led Sherlock out to one of Mycroft's cars. Once they were both inside the driver began their route to the hospital. The car ride was silent. The trip took double the time due to rush hour traffic, however Sherlock was soon standing in front of the hospital. He followed Anthea as she led him up a lift and through a maze of hallways. She then stopped in front of the door to a private room.

"He's in here. I'm going home for the night, so you two will have some privacy." Anthea offered with a small smile.

Sherlock nodded and whispered a thank you.

Sherlock stood outside the door until Anthea was out of sight. He waited a moment more and held his breath before he pushed the door open…

Sherlock swallowed thickly as he saw his older brother. He looked nothing like himself, dressed in a hospital gown and covered in the thin hospital sheets. His skin was sickly white, something Sherlock had never seen on his brother before. Sherlock had always been the sick one. Not Mycroft.

"You don't have to hover." Mycroft said in a low voice before opening his eyes.

Sherlock took a few steps forward, rubbing at his arm and staring at his toes. He swallowed again, not knowing what to say. A few moments passed…

"You look horrible." Mycroft said bluntly.

"You should see yourself." Sherlock replied before looking up from the floor. A look passed between the Holmes boys… Something that outsiders may view as nothing, but to them was the equivalent of sharing a laugh. But any humor from the moment quickly passed. Sherlock carefully sat in the chair next to Mycroft's bed, moving it a bit closer.

"Have the withdrawals started yet?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock gave a small nod.

"Mm." Mycroft hummed. He studied Sherlock for a moment. "Have you slept?"

Sherlock sighed, "Mycroft, please." After Mycroft's gaze didn't leave him Sherlock gave another sigh. "No, I haven't slept. But I'm fine."

"Eaten?"

"No."

The two brothers didn't say anything after that. Sherlock eventually found the remote for the television and flicked it on to a news station. Something to keep Mycroft's mind occupied.

An hour passed before Mycroft spoke in a voice that would have been a yell if he weren't so ill. "Sherlock, you can't keep doing this to yourself. I'm not always going to be arou-"

"Stop."

"…I'm not always going to be around to help you." The repeated words were spoken slowly to drive his point home.

Sherlock looked over to find his brother's eyes locked on him. Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose, his voice dangerously low. "For God's sake, Mycroft, you have had a massive heart attack and could very well have died. Can we please ignore my problems for once and focus on yours."

The room fell silent once more, the noise of the television falling on deaf ears.

"The doctors have assured me that I will make a full recovery with the correct amount of physical therapy." Mycroft spoke, turning his gaze away from his younger brother.

Sherlock stared at the wall as well. "What about long term?"

"Medication. Diet. Exercise." Mycroft stated simply. "Nothing more that can be done."

The brothers always knew this would be a problem eventually with their family history, but Sherlock had never imagined it would come up so soon.

Sherlock decided that was enough information from Mycroft for now. He'd steal the man's chart later when Mycroft was asleep and read it for himself. That would give him all the information he needed. Sherlock turned his gaze to the telly, but didn't actually watch.

It was only when a nurse came in a few hours later to check Mycroft's vitals that Sherlock realized he'd dozed off shortly after the end of their conversation. Sherlock suppressed a groan as he realized the body aches from the withdrawals were in full swing. He felt his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably as well from the cold sweats. He watched the nurse do her work and caught Mycroft giving him an anxious look. His brother then looked over at the nurse. "Would you mind bringing in a pillow and blanket for my brother?"

"That's really not necessary-"

"Of course I can." The nurse offered with a smile. "I'll be back shortly." As soon as the door closed Sherlock looked over accusingly at Mycroft.

"If you're going to stick around you may as well be comfortable." Mycroft said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock huffed and rearranged himself into a more comfortable position on the large chair at Mycroft's side. "I am perfectly comfortable." He grumbled. The nurse returned with the requested items and Sherlock took them. The pillow did help his neck tremendously, but he wouldn't admit that to Mycroft.

"Don't die while I'm asleep." Sherlock muttered, eyes already closed.

Sherlock swore he heard a chuckle before consciousness was quickly snatched away from him.


Disclaimer: I don't really know if the Royal Brompton Hospital is the best cardiac center in London, but that's what Google told me. Google never lies, right? ;)