E06/13/13, 061713,061813 Sorry about the extra alert, some minor changes and additions. About 125 extra story words. If you've already reviewed chap3 and have comments feel free to PM me instead.

06/11/13 So my updating schedule is a little erratic. *shrugs* I may have spent the weekend with friends and visited vampires aka I gave blood, it was amusing if anticlimactic, I wasn't even slightly light-headed after. I do however still have a red dot on my arm, big gauge needles apparently, then forgot I needed to post the next piece when I got back. This is the first thing I've got that has a part three to add.

This chapter is Rated T for mentions of drug use and one word.

I have to say though that I'm finding it terribly amusing to post a chapter with drug use when I've got a needle mark on my own arm. At least mine was for a good cause?

Unwanted – Mycroft age 26

The sky was overcast as it had been for the last several days but the rain seemed to be refusing to fall to clear the clouds away, even if it would only give a brief respite from London's typical shades of grey. Mycroft stood upon the sidewalk looking up at the truly pitiful apartment building that was made to look even more decrepit, if that was possible, by the half-light provided by the covered sun. He'd been putting off entering on the off chance the one he wanted to see would leave first. Sighing he moved forward and entered the building, the door squeaking loudly as it opened and closed.

The stairs creaked ominously as he ascended them. Sherlock would have perhaps made a comment that it was simply that his weight was too much for them to handle. He would have perhaps, if he wasn't high once more. Reaching the right floor he stepped gratefully off the suspect stairs and walked door the hallway absently noting the flat numbers, and the flats whose numbers were absent. Steeling himself for the, no doubt unpleasant, encounter he pushed open the appropriate door without bothering to knock; no one in this neighborhood would bother to open their door unless they were expecting specific company but there was hardly anything of value to require locking it to begin with.

If the state of the building was dreadful to look at the inside of this flat was almost painful in its state of filth and disrepair. One wall had the barest remains of wallpaper while the others were ghastly mixes of chipped paint and questionable stains. The floor was certainly no better having traces left from pests mixed in piles of garbage and stains of its own to match the walls. At least the building's interior lacked the graffiti its outer walls bore. What interested Mycroft more was the lone occupant though, laid out on the only intact piece of furniture present. He at least looked somewhat cleaner than the apartment itself though the clothing he was wearing was still something Mycroft would have only found fit to toss in a bin. "Good afternoon, Sherlock."

While his entrance hadn't been anything the other noted, the familiar voice pulled him from the drugged haze he'd entered and he bolted upright from his slumped position only to droop once more as it registered who the familiar voice belonged to. "Oh go fuck yourself, Mycroft. The afternoon is hardly good now that you've arrived." His tone was positively dripping with disgust at his brother's presence.

Mycroft almost winced at the offensive reply but settled for rolling his eyes. Drugs had always made Sherlock more vulgar in his speech. "Pleasant as always." He sighed. "Must you really be so crude? A simple 'afternoon' or 'to you also' would be a sufficient reply."

"It would also be utterly boring. I'm high not brain dead, Mycroft, but dealing with you're presence here might just drive me to change that." Sherlock remained sprawled out on the couch not even bothering to open his eyes during the conversation. He missed the visible wince Mycroft gave at the mention of his possible death. He couldn't understand the disregard Sherlock had for his health. As flippant about his death as he was it was truly a possibility and that made his nonchalant treatment of the matter all the worse to deal with.

"My presence can hardly be worse than the company you've been keeping or are your fellow addicts simply such good conversationalists because you're too strung out to comprehend their words and substitute your own? I would have thought a little proper conversation would be the highlight of your empty days." The word's tones were harsher than he'd intended but seeing Sherlock in such a state always brought out the worst reactions in him. He saw Sherlock flinch. A small movement any other would have missed; the bitterness drained out of him.

"Unlike you, Mycroft, I don't require such trivial things as people to fill my time. As I'm sure you can observe I have much better things to occupy myself with." He gestured languidly to the gear littering the floor beside the dilapidated couch. "I would think you would have more sense that to waste time where you obviously aren't needed or wanted. Why have you come, dear brother?"

The bitterness returned full force and his features twisted with disdain before he could smother the anger that rose at Sherlock's blatant disregard for his health. "You're right." His words were clipped, his tone icy. "I can observe quite clearly what you've been wasting your time on. I came to extend an invitation to a clinic once more; a fully equipped facility that would be more than sufficient to deal with your current interests."

"Not. Interested." The conversation was over, if ever their sniping at one another had been considered conversing to begin with.

It was the answer he always received but Mycroft couldn't help but grip the handle of his umbrella tighter on receiving yet another negative response. He took a breath and loosened his grip. He stood there a moment longer to simply look at his little brother's lithe form before turning away toward the door. "Goodbye, Sherlock." He received no response. He hadn't expected one but he had hoped none the less that perhaps this visit would be different.

He made his way back down the hallway and the frighteningly creaky stairs but halted before exiting the stairwell taking a few moments to rest his head against one slightly less abhorrent wall and simply breathe. He straightened then to his usual posture and left the building nodding to the two men waiting outside the door. He stood watching as they entered. When they returned Sherlock would be with them, cursing foully enough to turn the air blue no doubt, and railing against Mycroft for forcing this on him once again. The two would see Sherlock transported to the facility Mycroft had mentioned earlier where he would be held for rehab.

He left before Sherlock was brought down. They both knew logically that it needed to happen.
This wasn't the route either of them wanted to take though.

W04/27/13, E061013, 061313, 061713, 061813