Mycroft Holmes knew his brother needed help.

He just didn't know how to proceed. It'd been a long time since he'd taken care of his brother, specifically for drug use. The last time was when Sherlock was what, sixteen? Mycroft shuddered at the thought. It hadn't been a fun time for Mummy or Father.

The only reason Mycroft had even noticed Sherlock's disappearance was because of the state of his flat. With John and Mary on their honeymoon, Sherlock had been living alone and was strangely quiet. Mycroft had expected some kind of outburst, maybe a fit of rage or a few rowdy trips to the bar; things that Sherlock typically wouldn't do. So when he'd gone to see Sherlock about a potential case, Mycroft wasn't completely surprised to find it messy and vacated.

He carefully stepped over a pair of trousers and an empty carton of milk as he made his way out the door.

"Yes, right, I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft informed the hooded figure posted outside of the drug nest.

"Who wants to know? I don't know no Sherlock."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and flashed a badge. "Step aside, British Secret Service."

The man quickly pulled his hoodie off and threw his hands up in surrender. "I'm clean, I swear! I've been going to a help session every Tuesday night!"

"I'd suggest tranferring to another group." he suggested snarkily, moving past the man and towards the heart of the nest.

"Sherlock!" he called into the scattered collection of people. "Sherlock."

His brother was slumped in the corner, wearing a coat much too large for him. "For God's sake!"

Mycroft hauled Sherlock to his feet. "We're going home."

Sherlock began laughing hysterically.

"What?"

"Home to Mummy?" he giggled.

"No, to your flat. Come on, let's go. Lift your feet Sherlock, you know how to walk."

"Do I?"

Mycroft sighed. He hated Sherlock acting like this, so childish. His brother was a grown adult, not a teenager anymore, and needed to act like it. Getting high on cocaine or methamphetamines or whatever the hell he was on just proved how stupid he could be.

Two hours later, Sherlock was lying on his couch, detoxing. "M-Mycroft."

"What, Sherlock?" Mycroft droned, not exactly listening.

"I'm hungry. I want a sl-slice of p-pie." He was shivering and sweating profusely.

"Not now."

Sherlock coughed roughly and made a face. "John would've given me some."

"I'm not John."

"I w-want John here, n-not you."

Mycroft's face didn't change. "How unfortunate."

After a couple minutes of angry silence, Sherlock began trying to remove his clothing. His brother stared as Sherlock took off his t-shirt and trousers and kicked them to the floor.

"What? I'm hot."

"Sherlock Holmes, put on some trousers!" Mycroft yelled, snapping his computer shut. "I'm tired of your foolishness."

"No!" Sherlock snapped back. "If you're not careful, I'll take off my pants as well!"

"For God's sake, do I need to call Molly?"

Sherlock paled. "No, please don't."

"You know what? I fear I may be right. Let's see, Molly Hooper…" He pretended to scroll through the contacts on his mobile.

"No, Mycroft!" Sherlock stumbled to his feet, tripping. "Don't phone her!"

The older brother raised his eyebrows. "Are you going to behave?"

"Yes." Sherlock retreated to his sofa, collapsing on it and put his shirt on.

"Now go shave and wash up. I can't stand looking at you covered with… 'scruff'."

AN - Hello, all! So I've got a new story going, this Sherlock one. I'm still open to prompts for this fic so if you want, you can either PM them to me or merely leave them in the comments. If you're not familiar with this trope, I'm doing five chapters of Mycroft taking care of Sherlock and one chapter of Sherlock taking care of Mycroft. What's plaguing them is up to you! Thank you guys and I hope you enjoy the rest of your Sunday night.

Disclaimer - I don't own Sherlock (BBC) and I don't think I ever will. All characters were created by [not me].