A/N: So after the masterpiece that was the New Year special, the awesome Shiv mentioned her need for fics involving Sherlock's drug use. Her wish is my command!

This will be in the format of an extended '5 +1' fic, and there will be angst and there will be feels (and probably the death of a non-vital character in the last chapter) so you have been warned! No slash of any description though; I must be ill... Oh yes, and obviously there will be drug use and swearing! Hopefully the next part will go up next weekend (exam week! YAY!); the more feedback I get, the more people I feel I'd let down by updating late, so the more likely it is I'll finish before Christmas.

Anyway, the boring bit's over! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Though I could just eat a Double Decker...

The First Time

The first time, the very first time, Sherlock turned to drugs to solve his problems, he wasn't even an adult.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Michael Green and his associates were always easy to identify, even with the pretentious uniforms that were standard issue for any teenage boy in an expensive boarding school. They were the really rich boys, the sons of important people whom the school board wouldn't dream of expelling. Green's gang walked around with their ties undone, their sleeves rolled up; they sat at the back of the classrooms eating sandwiches pilfered from the kitchen; they lounged in the copse at the edge of the grounds flicking lighters and smoking Marlboro's. All of the younger boys thought they were the bee's knees, and the prefects spent most of their time firmly steering them in the right and proper direction.

Sherlock didn't need steering. He thought Michael Green et al were a bunch of mindless idiots and had far better things to do than join the rest of his dormitory in wishing they could get away with never turning up to Ancient Greek. Sherlock didn't go to prayers without his waistcoat, or eat Double Deckers in English Lit. He didn't try to sneak out and by cigarettes (not yet, anyway), or blag them off an upperclassman. Sherlock didn't have time.

He was reading about murders in the newspaper, looking up ciphers in the library, asking his Chemistry teacher endless questions about the viscosity of various bodily fluids. Occasionally he was even doing his homework, if Mycroft threatened to write to Mummy. Yet he knew more about Green's gang than anyone else in his year; knew that when they weren't in class, or sprawled around the grounds, they were probably holed up in the belfry smoking a lot more than tobacco.

There came a day in Sherlock's second year where his Astronomy teacher found the open copy of Great Unsolved Murders of the 19th Century on his lap beneath his desk and threw him out of the classroom. This in itself wasn't unusual, and as it was a nice day (i.e. not raining) Sherlock decided to continue his research in the secret nook behind the herb garden. After slipping through the gap between hedge and wall, he was surprised to find three members of Green's entourage, who noticed his arrival but continued to pass around their spliff. The blonde investment banker's son (Sherlock could tell by his watch) in the far corner slowly blew smoke rings at him before stating the obvious.

"Hey Benjy, it's a kid."

"No shit," 'Benjy', the son of an oil baron, replied.

"Quite," said Sherlock.

"The fuck do you want?"

It was Banker Boy again; the third student appeared to have passed out (though death was also an option, Sherlock didn't really care).

"From you? Nothing."

"Well fuck off then," Banker Boy said, taking a drag from the spliff Benjy offered him.

Sherlock stayed where he was.

"Why are you smoking cannabis? Do you realise it increases your chances of dying a horrible drawn-out death from lung cancer or developing a psychotic illness such as schizophrenia, particularly when smoked during adolescence when the brain is still developing? Not," he frowned, glancing into an open satchel by his foot, "that you'd be particularly bothered about the loss of your mental faculties. I can't imagine you had many to begin with. And by the number of condoms you're carrying, I doubt you'd be overly perturbed by a reduced sperm count either."

Benjy and Banker Boy looked at him like he'd grown a third head (by Sherlock's judgement, they'd already had enough to make it highly probable that they thought he had two).

"You wanna know why we smoke pot?" asked Banker Boy.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That was my question, yes."

"It chills you out," said a soft voice. "I'm, like, so chilled right now… I could be a fridge."

Oh, thought Sherlock, so he's not dead then. Yet.

Benjy laughed and kicked the third student in the head.

"Nah," said Banker Boy, "it's an elixir. Soon as you take a drag, all your problems go away."

"Don't be absurd," said Sherlock.

Banker Boy shook his head.

"C'mon kid, do I look like I've got problems? No," he went on, before Sherlock could answer to the contrary, "because I don't. Now Benjy here, he had problems. But now he doesn't, 'cause this" -he waved the spliff lazily- "made him not give a shit. Not. A. Flying. Fuck."

Banker Boy took another drag, then looked Sherlock in the eye with a stare that seemed surprisingly coherent:

"Now piss off."

Sherlock left, but he didn't forget.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Three years later, exams (important, career-vital exams) loomed over Sherlock's horizon (and Mycroft's, not that Sherlock could give two hoots about Mycroft). One of these exams was English Lit. In Sherlock's mind it was pointless (what was the use in understanding symbolism in a dreary novel from several hundred years ago?); according to Mycroft, Mummy, and, it seemed, the rest of bloody England, it was Very Important. Needless to say, Sherlock was failing it. Badly.

The deputy headmaster took him aside.

"Look, Holmes… I know that you struggle with literature, but you have to pass these exams."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

The deputy headmaster sighed.

"The school doesn't allow students to continue education past 16 unless they achieve at least a C in certain subjects, no exceptions. Unfortunately English Literature is one of them. Holmes…" he took in Sherlock's 'so what?' expression, "Sherlock. You're a bright lad. Don't throw away your future over two measly exams, simply because you believe the subject to be unworthy of your attention!"

In the end, Sherlock was forced (by both family and faculty) into extra study sessions, consoled only by the knowledge that the useless data about 'similes' and 'juxtaposition' would be deleted the moment the second exam was over.

There were six other students in the sessions, which Sherlock liked to think of as E. ., or 'else' (as in, "pass English Lit. or else"- Mycroft). Two were foreign, one dyslexic, and the rest were heirs to the legacy of Michael Green (the boy in question having long since left the school), so their presence was easily and logically explained. To Sherlock, so was his own: he had been forced, against his will, to undertake examinations in the most pointless, boring subject in the British education system, and had until now refused to dedicate any of his valuable time to it. However, the rest of the school, being dull and unobservant, hadn't realised this.

Sherlock had never been one to make friends, and there were very few people he would even class as acquaintances. Not like Mycroft, who had the entire staff (and board of governors) in his pocket. Sherlock was different, and happy to be so, which only increased the gulf between him and the rest of the student body- something Sherlock considered a bonus.

Even so, he'd be lying if he said it didn't irk him when his peers would call him 'freak' and 'psycho', or pretend to ward him off with garlic in the corridors, or how the first years would run away from him, having been told he'd use them in his experiments. So every time, he'd turn around and make deductions about them, squeeze out all of their darkest secrets and air them out like dirty laundry. He'd wipe the smirks off their smug faces, the smirks that said "oh, aren't I clever", and smirk at them instead, so everyone would know that he, Sherlock, was the clever one. They were just idiots, just silly little boys.

Sherlock always won.

Then the rest of the school found out that Sherlock was failing English Lit., the subject that practically everyone else thought was a piece of cake. The taunts changed.

Now they'd call him an idiot, and ask him to spell ridiculously long words (which didn't even make sense; that was English Language). When they discovered he knew nothing about basic astronomy or politics, they taunted him with planets and prime ministers as well. And when Sherlock had had enough, when he turned around and laid out their secrets for all to see, now their smirks only grew:

"Yeah, well, at least I'm not going to be kicked out of school."

"At least I'm intelligent enough to come back next year."

"At least I'm not a failure, unlike some people, freak. I bet your whole family's ashamed of you."

Sherlock was clever. He was much cleverer than them. But no one else could see this, not now. He'd lost his only weapon, his only mask against the world.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

At the top of the deconsecrated church (now used for storage) was a trapdoor up into the old belfry. It was quiet up there; he could think, and he needed to think. He had to show them that he was clever, that he was better.

The belfry was empty these days; the successors to Green's gang preferring the old toilets near the chapel, cordoned off due to asbestos (handy for escaping prayers). Sherlock often went up there at night, so much so that he'd dragged an old mattress and sheets up the 105 steps and stolen some candles from Sunday mass to give him enough light to read by.

He wasn't alone up there. The occasional bird swooped in, sometimes a bat, and there was no shortage of spiders. All preferable company to a dormitory full of idiot humans. One particular night, as he watched the candles flicker in the light March breeze, he noticed a spider crawling up the wall. Not an unusual sight, until it crawled into the wall. Suddenly intrigued, Sherlock knelt down and ran his long fingers over the stone where the spider had vanished. Unlike the rest of the stones, there was no surround of thick cement, and looking closer Sherlock could see scratches and dents coating the edges. He pulled out his penknife and gently worked the stone free.

Behind it was a small cubbyhole between the outer and inner belfry walls. Sherlock picked up a candle and shone it into the gap. Its light fell on a battered metal biscuit tin.

After replacing the candle, Sherlock carefully extracted the box, and from the branding discerned that it couldn't have been there for more than five years; probably less. He eased off the lid, not ashamed to say that he was surprised by the contents.

Drugs. Cannabis, by the smell of it probably the stronger sinsemilla, and by the look of it, still smoke-able. A packet of tobacco, and all of the paraphernalia required to assemble a joint. And, well wrapped in a corner of the tin, one small rock of crack cocaine, along with two brand-new hypodermics. Altogether, Sherlock's mind supplied, a street value of less than a hundred pounds- inconsequential enough to have been left behind in the former owner's graduation or move to the toilets.

Sherlock sat back and stared at his find. A voice echoed in the back of his mind. Takes away all your problems.

No, thought Sherlock. No, it doesn't. It just stops you caring about how you're making even more for yourself.

But, said another voice, you've already got a packet of cigarettes in your pocket. It's not much of a stretch. Think of it as making your own cigarettes; just tobacco and a few impurities…

"NO," he said aloud, "no. It's bad for thinking."

How would you know? Have you tried it? You're not like everyone else.

"I have to pass my exams."

You're failing English. Doesn't matter if you fail the rest as well, you're not coming back here anyway.

"I won't fail it."

You will. You're a freak. You're a failure-

Sherlock slammed a fist against the floor. He looked at the tin.

Half an hour later, he put the joint to his lips and took his first drag.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Mycroft Holmes was a very busy man, even if he was only eighteen. He had his Head Boy duties, he had to keep up to date with political affairs (especially those that the media wasn't privy to), make sure that everyone in his pocket stayed right where they were, pass his exams, and look out for Sherlock. It was no surprise that this last item was occasionally neglected, especially when Sherlock insisted in resisting Mycroft's every effort at being a good elder brother.

It wasn't Mycroft's fault that Sherlock took a friendly request to actually attend the extra tutoring sessions he'd been assigned as an insult. Neither was it his fault that he was stressed, and less amenable to Sherlock's retorts. That didn't mean he wouldn't blame himself for the resulting argument.

After all, he was the one who told Sherlock to shut up and listen for once. Who told him that unless he put in the work, he would fail his exams; he would be thrown from the school. It was Mycroft who answered Sherlock's assertion that his brother wouldn't let that happen, through bribery or blackmail, with a raised voice.

"Sherlock, you have to learn! I won't always be here to sort out your problems for you. If you fail these exams, you're on your own; I'm not picking up your mess for you, not this time. If they don't let you back in September, so be it. I'm tired of babysitting you. If you ruin your future, you've only yourself to blame."

Sherlock had walked straight out of his rooms, and Mycroft's… associates had informed him that his brother hadn't attended a single one of his classes for the rest of the day. This was nothing unusual; Sherlock always liked to sulk after he lost.

As the evening drew on, Mycroft began to regret his words. Sherlock was his brother; he had responsibilities. And he was sensitive, the Redbeard Incident had proven that. Sighing, Mycroft put down the file he had been reading, and decided he ought to apologise. Perhaps then Sherlock would see that he only had his best interests at heart.

Sherlock wasn't in his dormitory (not that Mycroft really expected him to be; his brother didn't find Normal People conducive to sulking), so Mycroft strolled across the grounds towards the old church. Rounding the poplars that concealed it from the rest of the school buildings, he was encouraged by the faint light in the belfry, and quickly slipped inside the unlocked door.

As he neared the trapdoor at the top of the stairs, he called out.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's your brother. Look, I…"

He trailed off once he had the trapdoor open and could see beyond, frozen in place by shock and horror.

Sherlock was lying curled on a thin mattress on the far side of the tower, surrounded by candles, a myriad of small objects strewn haphazardly before him. Mycroft didn't need his ridiculously high IQ to know what they were for, not when combined with his brother's trembling and the stench of tobacco and marijuana in the air.

It was a small whimper that unfroze Mycroft's legs, and later he couldn't remember moving to kneel beside the mattress, careful not to crush anything on the floor.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" He shook his shoulder firmly. "What have you taken?"

No response.

"Sherlock, answer me, what have you taken?!"

Rewarded only with a few gasps a small sob, Mycroft cast his eyes around the room, finally focusing on the discarded hypodermic syringe and yellow-white residue on the stone floor.

"Was it just cocaine? Sherlock, did you take anything else or was it only cocaine? Sherlock!"

"…Just… Just cocaine…"

Mycroft exhaled in relief.

"What about the marijuana?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Sherlock, have you taken marijuana?"

Slowly, Sherlock nodded.

"S'afternoon… didn't help…"

"Christ, Sherlock!"

Mycroft moved closer to Sherlock, sweeping all but the candles out of the way now that his surroundings had told him all they could. He put a hand on Sherlock's chin and gently tilted his face towards the light. The sweat on his brow glistened.

"Sherlock, I'm going to run over to the science building, there's a phone in Professor Hartford's office; I'm going to call you an ambulance-"

Suddenly Sherlock's hand shot out and caught Mycroft's wrist.

"Don't."

"Sherlock, I won't be long, I promise."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No ambulance… stay."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft's voice was pained.

Sherlock slowly turned his and locked his shining eyes, pupils wide, with Mycroft's own.

"…Please."

Mycroft pursed his lips. Sherlock never said please; not like that anyway, not meaning it, definitely not begging… But this could be serious. Mycroft was no expert on drugs (not like Sherlock, who made criminality his business), but he knew enough to recognise an overdose.

He weighed up his options. On the one hand, leave Sherlock here, alone, probably scared, and fetch trained medical help. On the other, stay with Sherlock, look after him, and see how things progressed.

Mycroft made up his mind. Sherlock wasn't an idiot; Mycroft had to trust that he'd know if this were bad enough to need a hospital. He was also young, and the picture of health. For now, Mycroft would stay with his brother, but if it got worse, Mycroft would run to the science building faster than he ever had in his life.

"Alright… I'll stay."

Sherlock closed his eyes and mouthed a thank you, then laid his head back down on the bundled sheet he was using as a pillow.

Mycroft sat next to him on the mattress, and ran a not entirely steady hand through his little brother's damp curls.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Sunrise was often a beautiful sight from the belfry. On a clear day, it was possible to see over the town to the rolling hills and pastures beyond, lit up in pinks and yellows; birds singing and dew glistening. Near the top of a tree, not far away, a sparrow was calling to her young chicks, newly hatched and hungry. Mycroft watched her fly away to fetch their breakfast, then looked back down at his brother.

There had been no need for an ambulance in the end. Within an hour or two, Sherlock had stopped trembling and was sleeping peacefully under Mycroft's blazer. Once it was a reasonable hour, Mycroft would drag him to the nurse (she could be trusted to keep things hush-hush, he'd made sure to get her onside early on in his school career), but for now, Sherlock needed rest. A few minutes later, the boy in question spoke.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft…"

Mycroft paused for a moment, not yet prepared for this conversation.

"For what?" he said at last. Knowing Sherlock, he could be sympathising with some imagined shortcoming of Mycroft's.

"For being a failure."

Mycroft was stunned.

"Sherlock, you're not a failure. You're a genius."

"I'm failing English Lit."

"So was Einstein, and it never did him any harm."

"But if I fail it, I can't come back next year, and if I can't come back, I can't go to university-"

"Of course you're not coming back next year. You're a scientist, not a politician; you should be in a school that reflects that. I've already written to Mummy, given suggestions for suitable establishments. If you fail Literature, you fail it; it won't stop you going to university."

Sherlock looked confused, and it was all wrong.

"But… you said you wouldn't help me anymore. That I was on my own."

Mycroft's stomach dropped.

"Sherlock, listen to me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did yesterday. God knows I didn't mean it; I was stressed and I should never have taken it out on you. I never thought you'd… Sherlock, you're my brother. I'll always be there for you."

Sherlock slowly sat up but wouldn't meet Mycroft's eyes; instead boring a small hole in the elder Holmes's right ear.

"Do you promise?" His voice was stronger, increasing in both pitch and tempo. "Promise me, Mycroft, promise me because I can't-"

Suddenly he gave a sob, and instantly Mycroft had his arms around him, smelling sweat and cigarette smoke, feeling a wet patch form on his shoulder, blinking to clear his suddenly cloudy vision.

"I promise, Sherlock. I promise."

As the sun rose higher, and the colours of dawn disappeared, Mycroft thought about his brother. About what he'd done, in this beautiful, lonely place, and how, because of who Sherlock was, he'd do it again. Mycroft could talk to him. He could send him to counselling, send him to rehab, send him to Mummy, and it wouldn't matter. Sherlock was Different. He found his home in the darkest crevasses of humanity where the light rarely touched, and he was happy there. And, Mycroft knew, all those who walk in the darkness have a vice. This was Sherlock's.

Finally the sky seemed light enough to call on the nurse. Before Mycroft began what would likely be a hard-won argument (for Mycroft would win), he brushed his thumb across the hand of his brother, who was curled cat-like against his side.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Could you promise me something?"

"What?"

Mycroft gripped Sherlock's hand, tighter than he meant to.

"Promise me you'll always make a list. A list of everything you've taken. Please."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and it was testament to their relationship at that moment, and to the seriousness of the request, that he didn't ask why Mycroft wasn't ordering him not to do this again, or tell him that he wasn't a child who needed looking after. Instead, he returned his brother's grip.

"I promise."