Warnings: Language, drug use.
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Before John
He lolled his head back onto the filthy futon and grinned toward the ceiling. Concentrating for a moment, he pulled the rubber strap from his arm and flexed his hand several times, encouraging circulation in his limb to restart.
He felt the tingle start in his fingertips, felt it move toward his head. Felt his heart speed up, his breath quicken, broke out in a light sweat. He moaned, vibrating on the couch, and grinned wider.
He knew this session was going too far—he was strung out, hadn't eaten in days. He couldn't exactly remember when, but he knew he'd kicked Vincent out, called him a slut, accused him of stealing his stash. Vincent had cried. He didn't care.
He noticed when Mycroft came in, accompanied by a silver-haired cop. He also didn't care about this. He did care, however, when his brother picked up the needle, the vials, handed them to the officer.
"Myc'ft, the hell're you doing?"
His brother's face looked pained, but it was an act, he knew this. Mycroft didn't care about him.
"You're harming yourself. I can no longer watch you self-destruct. I am taking you to a facility."
He tried to stand to get his drugs, couldn't support himself long enough, fell over.
"Fuck you! You have no right!" he spat at his brother.