Sherlock was twenty-one, and he was destroying himself. Mycroft was forced to watch, and there was nothing he could do to intervene, short of kidnapping his brother and forcibly having him go through a program. It wasn't as if that would work either—Sherlock was too stubborn, and his brother would escape within a month. So Mycroft simply stood by the side-lines. Very, very reluctantly. He wanted to trust Sherlock, he really did—he wanted to trust his brother to resolve this on his own. He was brilliant. He was a Holmes, and that meant he could work out this problem on his own.

Mycroft hoped. He had hoped very much.

It was his birthday, and there was a small gathering in a café near the office to celebrate. As a budding government asset, it was imperative for him to know the people he'd be working with, and for them to know him as well. Running a government was a team effort, after all, even if he might end up handling most issues in the future.

It was well into the event, with people chatting, coming and going, just generally having a pleasant time. The café, with a bit of persuasion, managed to come up with a good range of spiked coffee drinks, and everyone was loosening up a bit. As much as they could, anyway—it still paid to be vigilant and careful. Gatherings like these were a possible hotbed for fishing secrets, Mycroft knew as much. There was another reason why he'd set it up.

A scruffy-looking kid in a hoodie stumbled into the café despite the huge 'closed for a private party' sign, and no one really noticed him until he'd shambled over to the microphone set up. He tapped the microphone, and the sound reverberated around the room. Everyone turned and stared. Mycroft did as well.

Ah, merda. Per l'amor di Dio, perché?

Happy Birthday was sang like a funeral dirge. The kid's voice sounded a nice baritone, but it was interspersed with tiny chuckles. It sounded very… well, odd. "Happy Biiiirthday Big Brooother, Happy Birthday to yoooou!" The kid finished. "George Orwell will be so proud. Or appalled, most likely."

The whole party was quiet, not a single soul moving. Mycroft took slow breaths, made his way toward the microphone, and took the boy's sleeve, pulling him to the exit. "I shall take care of this, please enjoy yourselves."

The boy waved at the others enthusiastically, tipping his hands in mock salutes.

There were polite nods from the crowd, but no one spoke until Mycroft had dragged the hoodied boy outside. The sudden buzz of activity could be heard as the glass doors swung closed. Mycroft tugged on the boy's arm until they arrived at the alley beside the café, and he yanked down the boy's hood.

"Mycroft! Did you like my present?" Sherlock gestured. His words slurred together as he spoke faster than usual, and he looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. "I thought I sang well, better than everyone did when they give you that monstrosity of a cake. They shouldn't have, you have gone fat, much fatter than usual. Aren't you supposed to be on a diet?"

Sherlock grinned at him, eyes bloodshot, cheeks sunken more than usual. His pupils were dilated and clouded over. Sherlock gripped Mycroft's arm with a hand tightly, and winked at his brother. "Your tie feels wonderful," said Sherlock, running his fingers on Mycroft's tie. "Silk, isn't it? Feels wonderful on my fingers. Happy birthday brooother, I wanted to give you a gift but I didn't know what to get you. Aside from a personal appearance of course, which I knew you would appreciate dearly." His words tripped over themselves in a contemptuous sing-song, while he grinned widely. "You do so love your little brother don't you?"

"What are you doing, Sherlock? You're high!"

"Very, very very, like a kite, that kite you made me once that got tangled in that tree only higher." Sherlock mimicked a kite soaring to the sky with his hands. "It's fascinating, it feels brilliant… amazing! I feel like I could do anything—everything, and it's all so sharp and I can see everything. It's wonderful, it's fantastic!"

Mycroft gripped his brother's wrist, and pulled it down to Sherlock's side. "What did you take, Sherlock?"

"Oh, does it matter, brother dear? I feel wonderful." A smile was plastered on Sherlock face. 'You worry too much."

"Of course I worry, Sherlock. You are going to kill yourself," Mycroft said. "And I cannot stand by and simply watch you destroy yourself. Do you know what drugs do to your mind? What did you take this time? Cocaine? Heroine? Both?"

Sherlock yanked his hand away, and stepped back from Mycroft. "Have you been watching me? I had told you to leave me alone. Did you put up cameras in my flat... you did, you are watching, you are always watching. This is why I never stay in my flats. Leave me alone. Stop watching me. It's none of your business what I do with my life and you made that clear when you—" Sherlock paused. He frantically looked behind Mycroft, almost knocking his brother over. He suddenly looked very nervous, eyes darting around. "What was that? Fuck. I need to go."

"Sherlock, wait!" Mycroft yelled, holding out a hand to his brother. Sherlock had already slipped away to the back of the alley. Paranoia had kicked in before Mycroft could even stop his brother from running again.

Something had to be done. This had to stop. Mycroft was done watching from the side-lines, and his newfound position has some advantages that he could use. That was, if this disastrous party had not derailed his career. He was still on the way up, and Sherlock might have jeopardised his job significantly, but... no. Sherlock needed his help. What happened at the party was a minor inconvenience, and with Sherlock showing up again Mycroft could finally have him followed again. After all, he cared for his brother so much. And he'd promised Mummy.

The next day, Sherlock was 'abducted' and brought to the Holmes' country home, which had all the personnel and tools Sherlock might need to recover.

He escaped a week later, but not before swearing incessantly at the cameras and screaming at Mycroft to leave him alone, that he could stop on his own, and he certainly did not need Mycroft's help.

Mycroft sighed, and knocked down the brandy he was nursing. He couldn't help Sherlock any longer. He was climbing up the ranks in unseen positions of the British Government, yet he could not help his own family. It was… a terrible failure.

He needed to put someone in position to help Sherlock, since he could not do it himself. From then on, every person Sherlock met, Mycroft made sure to do background checks on, and to question personally when needed. He would not fail his brother again.

Then Sherlock Holmes met Greg Lestrade, a week after his little brother's birthday.

Mycroft made sure that the Detective Inspector wouldn't turn his brother away.

No, I really have no idea how to curse or speak in Italian. All brought to you by google. Supposed meaning: 'Ah, shit. For the love of god, why?'

Thank you shwatsonlocked for beta-ing! 3 comments are most welcome. Only two more chapters to go! They're all lined up for betawork, so. :D