"He's going to leave you, you know."
The nurse stopped mid-way through sticking the small, round plaster on the spot where she'd drawn blood and looked at Sherlock.
"Sorry?" Her voice was calm and steady, she had been warned not to let the man get to her, but over the past 4 months, she had learned that it was much easier said than done.
"Oh, don't be." Sherlock replied, as if the conversation was completely normal, "He'll leave you, but you're not happy with him anyway. That young thing on reception that you're seeing, she's the one for you."
Jess snapped herself back to reality, realising she was both staring and sitting open-mouthed at the revelation. "Don't let him get to you." The words echoed through her mind. She turned back to the plaster and finished securing it before packing the rest of her things away and turning to leave.
"That should do it, Mr Holmes." she said, her voice confident and unaffected. "Sadie will be along shortly with your new schedule of treatment." Without waiting for a response, she exited the room and left Sherlock to his own thoughts.
"Treatment." Sherlock scoffed. Stupid, boring and pointless. Aloof doctors and dumb nurses, all thinking they know what's best. "You need to do this, Mr Holmes." they say. "We can treat you." "We can help you."
I don't NEED help, Sherlock thought. I'm perfectly capable of managing my drug use.
In the twelve months before he was arrested, he had perfected his dosage, obtaining just the right amount of positive effect without causing any unwanted side-effects - mostly.
The night he'd been arrested, he had been impatient. He had wanted to use right then and there, not wanting to wait until he had got himself somewhere safer; more secure. It was an error in judgement on his part. One which led to him being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now Mycroft - he cursed silently at the image of his brother - had decided that Sherlock needed help. Long-term treatment for addiction.
"I am NOT an addict."
Sherlock shouted loudly, hurling the nearest object to him - an empty coffee mug - at the wall as he did so.
Damn Mycroft. Damn his infuriating, interfering older brother and his 'ways and means'.
Sherlock clenched his fists angrily, almost snarling as his eyes darted frantically around the room. He hated Mycroft. He hated that his brother had used his influence to admit Sherlock against his will. He hated that he was being treated like a prisoner here. He hated... He just hated everything.
He would never forgive his brother for such a betrayal.
God, he needed a fix.