"Get. Me. Out of here, Mycroft."
Mycroft winced as he cautiously entered Sherlock's room. He hadn't anticipated a warm welcome from his brother, but he really didn't know what to expect.
Sherlock had been in rehab for 10 months, and his progress had been slow. Unwilling to admit that he had a problem controlling his drug use, Sherlock had been a difficult patient, and the staff had needed considerable 'encouragement' from Mycroft to continue treating him.
"Sherlock." Mycroft began, his voice already showing his exasperation even in that one word, "If you do not allow the doctors to treat you effectively, you will be here much longer than is really necessary." He moved to the corner of the room and sat himself down on the one chair that wasn't piled high with books. He had overheard the nurses complaining about the state of Sherlock's room, and now he realised why.
"Brother," Sherlock spat, throwing himself down on the bed in a fit of pique, "I do not need your, or anyone else's, help. I am fine. I am in complete control."
He began banging his fist on the wall alongside his bed, like a petulant child.
"There is NOTHING to do here. I. Am. So. Bored!" Each word was emphasied with a heel-kick on the scuffed wallpaper.
"Really, Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Must you do that? You have to let these people help you."
Sherlock's motions stopped and he let out a long sigh before swinging his legs back around into a sitting position.
"This is YOUR fault." he said to his brother, fixing him pointedly with a stare.
"I will never forgive you for this."