"Can't do what again?" John asked, brightly, as he appeared in the doorway of the flat. He took in Sherlock's appearance; saw the frown on Mycroft's face. His entire demeanour changed as he repeated "Can't do what again, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment and then slowly began to explain.

*Holmes Manor, February 7th 1997*

She was here again. Mycroft did his best to ignore her, draped across his little brother on the sofa. She smirked at him and whispered something in Sherlock's ear. He sniggered. Poison, Mycroft thought as he crossed to the bookcase, studiously ignoring them both. That was what she was, poison in a bottle marked wine.

*Sherlock's Bedroom, February 7th 1997, Midnight*

Carly was his drug, Sherlock thought, during one of his rare properly lucid moments. He truly believed that he did not need the heroin or the cocaine while he was with her. Of course, it helped that she brought him both. It dulled out the things he didn't want to remember.

She loved him. He knew she did, she told him so. So why did he want to forget the chunks of time he spent in her company the very second she was gone? No. It wasn't when he was in her company was it. He deliberately searched for what he'd hidden from himself with the aid of the drugs.

*The Stables, February 7th 1997, 6.54pm*

They were laying in the hay, cuddling. It was nice. Sherlock was sleepy. The drugs always made him sleepy. Carly pressed a kiss to his chest. He smiled.

"S'nice baby…" He slurred

She repeated the action, further up his chest.

Sherlock sighed contentedly.

Another kiss for him, open-mouthed, over his nipple.

"Mmm…"

More kisses, light and feathery, up over his shoulder, up his neck. Hands on his hips. A nip to his earlobe. She was warm against him. He felt dazed. Something was wriggling in the corner of his mind. Something just out of reach. He felt her undoing his trousers and the something in his mind gave another squirm. He knew where this was going. No. No, actually he didn't fancy it that much. He tried to tell her as much, he really did, but the drugs that made him slur seemed now to have full control of his voice.

"Nngh…" was all the rebuff he could manage.

"I know, Lock, I want you too." No, his mind reiterated. No. But her voice was breathy and her hands were everywhere and he was hard and he seemed to be going with it anyway.

*Carly's Bedroom, February 5th 1997, 2.08pm*

The kiss was sudden and heated, he hadn't expected it, stumbling a little, off balance. That was the drugs as well, buggering his balance. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he tumbled backwards, she followed, kneeling above him and resuming the kiss.

When he next opened his eyes, a few intense moments later, he realised that at some point during their make out session, she had removed her blouse and was now perched above upright above him faffing with her hair. He gazed at her, feeling heat course through him. "Carly…" His voice was rough, his hand moving to cup her breast. She smiled down at him, rolling her hips a little against the interest in his jeans. He moved his hands to her waist, insinuating fingers between the waistband and her skin and stroking gently. She wriggled delightfully. He moved his hands to the fastening of her jeans. She brushed him away, clambering to her feet and opening the wardrobe.

"Not now Lock, I have a party to dress for."

*School Disco, December 20th 1996, 9pm*

They were sitting this one out, Carly was tired of dancing and he was high so he didn't really care. His back was against the wall, she was leaning back against him and they were swaying a little to the music. It was dark. Most people were on the dance floor. Carly spun in his arms, leaning against his chest and smiling up at him.

"You ready to dance again?" He asked. He wasn't that high. He didn't want to get thrown out. It was just a little background buzz, not enough to make him slur or wobble.

"Yeah." Her smile widened. He made to move off, but she was leaning closer, pressing him back against the wall "I had a different kind of dance in mind." Her hand crept between them and squeezed his crotch teasingly.

"Carly!" He hissed, feeling himself twitch at the attention.

"What?" She seemed preoccupied and he felt his fly being lowered, her hand slipping inside and goddamnit why hadn't he worn pants?!

"'s too public…" He murmured, attempting to remove her hand. She batted him away far too easily

"No one will notice." She insisted, hitching her skirt up a little and wrapping her body around him, holding on to his shoulders, leaning heavily on his chest and lifting her legs to wrap around him so that he was forced to bring his hands to her thighs and take her weight if he wanted to breathe.

"Carl-eee!" He tried one last time, ending in a gasp as she pulled him inside. He leant against the wall, gripping her thighs and closing his eyes as he let her take what she wanted.

*Sherlock's Bedroom, 1.06pm*

Oh.

If he wasn't much mistaken, that was not a healthy sex life. He reached for the little bag always hidden in his pyjama pocket.

Thank god for the drugs.

*The Stables, One Month Later*

It hurt. Sherlock curled deeper into the hay, clutching at his stomach. He was cold and it hurt. He hadn't realised how dependant he had become. Everything hurt so much. He screwed his eyes shut against the tears and shivered, unable to control it. She must have known, must have realised that he would get like this while she was away. She hadn't left him enough and she knew it. She was off sunning herself in France, and he was here, curled in the dark, praying to a god he didn't believe in that it would stop, that he would just die and it would stop.

And that was when the stall door opened and someone crept in beside him, arms went around him and for a moment he tensed, sure somehow she was home, but no, after a few seconds he began to realise the differences between her body, little and curvy, and the body against him, muscle and strength. Decidedly masculine. He forced himself to turn over and found himself face to face with his brother. Great. Just what he needed right now. An argument with the one person on earth who might actually win.

But Mycroft simply gazed at him for a moment, something in his eyes Sherlock had never seen before.

"Oh Sherlock." He breathed "Brother mine, what has she done to you?" He pulled him closer, holding him tightly.

Sherlock pressed his palm against Mycroft's upper arm and clung on, his cheek against his brother's shoulder. Safe.

"Hurts." He murmured, cringing a little as the pain rose to the centre of his consciousness again.

"I know, little brother. I know." He cradled the back of the younger boy's head in his hand "Be brave."

"I'm trying."

They lay there for another four hours, then Mycroft smuggled his unconscious brother up the back stairs and stayed with him all night.

*Present Day*

John stared at him for the longest time after that.

"Bloody hell." He said, eventually.