The rehab center was no place for someone like Sherlock.
The thought was loud and obvious in Mycroft's mind as he sat in an uncomfortable plastic waiting room chair, scanning the room around him. The walls were white and bare, as were the floors, ceilings and all the furniture. The nurses and doctors all were clean and blank and colorless. It would be impossible to deduce more than two or three facts about them. Nothing carried any history or story or clue.
Sherlock must be going out of his mind.
"Mr. Holmes? Your brother is ready." Mycroft thanked the nurse and followed her down a long hallway, stopping at a door near the very end. She left him be and he knocked three times. The door cracked open just a sliver. A blonde boy around nineteen or twenty peeked out. Mycroft held up a hand in greeting. "Is Sherlock in?" The boy blinked at Mycroft for a moment. Than, as if it was causing him great strain, turned and said flatly over his shoulder.
"Sherlock. Door." There was some shuffling and the door swung open even more widely. Mycroft turned to face the blonde boy.
"Thank you, um..." "Elton. His name's Elton." Sherlock stood up behind him. His dark curls had grown even more unruly since Mycroft had left him there three months before. He was scrawny for twenty-five, his hip bones sticking out from the pajama pants he wore, he cheekbones more prominent than one could believe. His eyes were narrow and glaring, but they were worlds clearer and more alert than before, so Mycroft didn't mind.
"I came to arrange your discharge." He told his brother, leaning on his umbrella. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked over to his bed, sloping down and letting out a sigh of irritation. Elton also looked bored. He nodded to Mycroft and walked out of the room.
"Leaving. Lunch." He called. Sherlock didn't even respond. Mycroft watched Elton leave and then turned back to his brother. "You look much better." He said finally. Sherlock didn't move, but stared at the plastered ceiling tiles as he spoke.
"And you've just had a promotion. Your watch is brand new, and you don't buy yourself anything unless you think you deserve it. You have lines under your eyes which means you've been worrying a lot or not getting enough sleep, probably both. Another sign of working for the government." Mycroft smirked a little as Sherlock finished his deduction and crossed on of his ankles over the other. His face was blank. They stayed in awkward silence for another thirty seconds. Then Mycroft rubbed his temples and sat on Elton's recently vacated bed.
"Look, I know you're angry with me-"
"I wouldn't sit there if I were you." Sherlock said, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "Elton has boundary issues. He's only been here three weeks and withdrawal has made him suspectable to frequent lash outs." Mycroft stood. Sherlock locked his jaw once more. Mycroft walked over and sat on the edge of Sherlock's mattress. He had a brief flashback of a toddler Sherlock, sitting on the end of his bed and whining at Mycroft to wake up. He quickly banished the thought from his mind and focused on the task at hand.
"So, you'll be getting out Friday morning at eight-thirty. I thought that would be enough time to pack your things." Sherlock scoffed.
"I don't have things." He met his brother's eye, glaring. "They confiscated anything that was on my person the night you dragged me here." Mycroft closed his eyes.
"I did not "drag you" here, your rehabilitation was court-ordered." Sherlock sat up in bed.
"No, it was court-ordered that I stop using recreational drugs. It was you that dragged me to this hellhouse with doctors and therapists and sharing rooms like I'm a bloody fourteen year old and writing about my feelings in this thing-" He pulled a thin brown notebook out from under his pillow and whipped it at the wall. "I don't have feelings, Mycroft! You made it so I don't feel!" he yelled, his eyes blazing. Mycroft glowered at him.
"Well, it sure looks like your feeling something now." He licked his lips and then pursed them together. "So apparently I didn't ruin you quite as much as you think." Eyes blazing, Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, not sure what was going to come out, when a small beeping made them both look down.
It was coming from a metal bracelet around Sherlock's skinny wrist. He fell against his pillow, holding his arm up to his face.
"Shit." He said quietly. Mycroft heard footsteps coming down the hall. "What?" He said uneasily. Sherlock clasped his hands in a prayer position, pressing them to his lips. "It's my bracelet, it's standard pulse-reading technology. If it gets too high, they come." Mycroft closed his eyes once more and nodded in understanding. "To make sure no one's having a panic attack."
"-Or killing themselves." Sherlock said softly. It was at that moment three nurses came bursting in, running to Sherlock with a cold cloth and needles, murmuring about he was going to be OK, it was going to be fine. It wasn't fine. Even with the drugs expunged from his veins, his life about to start anew, there was something stuck in him that wasn't right. So Sherlock wasn't fine.
And watching his brother get prodded and poked and cooed to, watching the light in his eyes grow more and more angry with the world around him, with his brother who put him there, Mycroft wasn't fine either.