"Right then," Mycroft looked down at Melaine. "You know what must be done."

"What must be done?" John asked, looking between the brother and sister. He had a very bad feeling that this had to do with Sherlock. He strode over to Melaine and stood between her and her brother. "Are you putting your sister in harm's way?"

"She started it. Putting herself in harm's way," Mycroft barely said the words when John's fist met his face. He grimaced and shook his hand. Melaine grabbed it, and stroked it softly. He pulled her into his arms and glared at Mycroft on the ground.

"First you had Moriarty!" John yelled, "Then you gave him up! You released him!"

Melaine pushed forward, trying to untangle herself from John. "You had Moriarty!?" she was at her brother in two seconds, who was still trying to get up, and slapped him. "Sherlock died because you did NOTHING!?" Then she broke down, truly and utterly broken.

Mycroft just stared at her, trying to figure out what to do. He thought he had told her, thought she knew about Moriarty. He had never seen her break down like this before. Not a tear was dropped when he had rescued her from the greedy hands of the American Mob. At least no tears he had seen. Perhaps only Sherlock had seen them, that might explain the bit of poem he had written.

John was on the floor beside Melaine, sweeping her curls off of her tear stained face. His hands shaking, he had never seen her this way either. He knew about her past, and how she had returned home to care for Sherlock when he was struggling with the drug problems. But he hadn't realized that maybe Sherlock had helped her as well.

Melaine was struggling with her own sort of detox, just as Sherlock was. Both of their minds utterly locked in a battle with themselves. Sherlock had been a mess when she had arrived, hidden in his flat with his dirty spoons and small flames. She watched in the shadows as he wrapped the elastic cord above his elbow, flexed his hand and injected himself.

She stifled back a silent sob, oh how the Holmes children had fallen. Sherlock looked up, sadness pooled inside those beautiful aquamarine eyes. He saw her and uttered one word before he passed out. "Help."

Melaine had put him in bed after cleaning him up. She gathered all of his supplies and drugs, including his cigarettes and asked Mrs. Hudson to throw them out. Mrs. Hudson was very concerned for the youngest Holmes, she knew how strong Sherlock was, and how clever he was able to be to get people to buy him drugs.

"I'll be fine Mrs. Hudson ," Melaine leaned tiredly against the doorframe. Her brother was fighting nightmares in bed, and she had to return quickly to him. "Just don't bother us for a week or so. He'll be more human by then."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "You poor girl, coming back from America must have been very hard for you."

Melaine's eyes flashed and Mrs. Hudson took a step back. "Please don't bring up America, Mrs. Hudson." She closed her eyes and counted to ten, then she heard Sherlock moan loudly, then begin to cry. "I have to go."

She closed the door on Mrs. Hudson's face. She felt badly for it, but she knew the woman would understand. Then she quietly made her way to Sherlock who was tossing and turning. He was sweaty and his eyes were dilated as he stared at her, his lips cracked and peeling, his face ruddy and tarnished. She cried for herself and for her older brother then, as she got into bed beside him and let him wrap himself around her, gently tugging her hands through his dark hair.

A little while later she woke up with Sherlocks head on her stomach and Mycroft sitting across from them, a small frown on his face. "What do you want Mycroft?" She sighed, Sherlock cried out but went silent as soon as she began sweeping her fingers through his hair again. Like that mother had done to each of them when they were sick.

"I've just come to check up on his progress," he drawled, "And yours as well."

"Oh! Its bloody brilliant!" she laughed out, then struggled to keep the tears in. "How could you let him get this way!?"

"He started when you left." Mycroft said harshly.

"HAH!" She laughed, a lone tear escaping. She gently moved Sherlock's head to a pillow and hushed him quietly. Then she sprang up and pounced at her eldest brother, slapping him. "Do NOT turn this into something that I did!" her voice was low and hushed, but still she seethed.

"But its true," Mycroft opened and closed his mouth as a red handprint started to bloom on his cheek.

"You forced me out!" Melaine cried. "You know you did. Ever since I was little I tried to be better for you! I looked up to you! But you ignored me, one turn after the other," she paused. "I was beneath you. So finally I had enough," she threw her hands in the air. "And I had to leave. Sherlock understood."

"But like all men who become so very attached to you Melaine," Mycroft sighed, twiddling with his umbrella. "He was better for you. As was I."

Melaine turned and looked at him, fury in her eyes. Very slowly she only spoke two words. "Get. Out."

He sighed and stood up, turned and began walking out the door. "This isn't over."

"Is it ever?" She asked, going back to Sherlock.