Perhaps the worst thing in life is not watching your younger brother spiral down a path of violent self-destruction, but walking in on him pale, thin, and practically dead.

Mycroft had put up with Sherlock's addictions. He had learned to accept the fact that his brother was always going have bloodshot eyes and trembling fingers whenever they met-which was not often. Mycroft had grown to tolerate the horrible stench of marijuana that permanently lingered in Sherlock's lonely flat. He had even on occasion been called to pick up his brother from various opium dens and drug houses. He knew Sherlock often went home with boys and girls alike, indulging himself in every sense of the word. By no means was he happy with Sherlock's life choice, but on that note he was also not going to interfere.

But when Mycroft had stumbled into Sherlock's flat after an unusually long period of silence and unanswered text messages, the horribly graphic image of his brother collapsed on the cold, hard floor, pale and unconscious with a needle in his arm was enough to make Mycroft finally stand up and do what Sherlock had never wanted him to do.

"He's lucky he was found when he was," the doctor had told Mycroft. "He probably wouldn't have lasted the night."

"What was he on?" Mycroft asked, his voice stern and calculating.

The doctor let out a deep sigh of contemplation. "Any drug you name, he was probably on it."

"Oh god," Mycroft groaned.

Mycroft stayed by his brother's side all through the night, the younger Holmes never once stirring. He looked dead. Cold, colorless, gaunt, and dead. How he had ever been able to survive on his own like this was beyond Mycroft's comprehension.

When morning came, duty called and Mycroft could not be bothered with his seditious next of kin, and so he left the hospital with specific, quite demanding, instructions for Sherlock's doctors.

Sherlock awoke from his brief coma for about five minutes before his eyes grew too heavy and he fell into the dark once more.

Three days later, he was completely up and alert.

"Your brother has requested that you be moved to a rehabilitation facility."

Oh

Hell

No.

It took three nurses and a surgeon to successfully hold Sherlock down as he kicked and struggled and screamed in protest. He was strapped to the bed and ordered to be watched 24/7 after being labeled a dangerous disturbance. And in the end, he still went to rehab.

Rehabilitation centers are known less for being structural and creative and more for being dull, boring, and smelly. Drug addicts especially tended to be the dullest, most boring, and the foulest smelling. Typically, junkies were part of the less intelligent group of society.

Sherlock, despite being an addict, hated addicts with a strong passion. Thus, he silently spited and cursed Mycroft as he was dragged all the way from the hospital to the nearest rehabilitation center, a large white building designed especially for addicts of all sorts.

There, they strapped a plastic wristband to Sherlock's unhealthily thin wrist that read "Sherlock Holmes: Addiction to sex and alcohol."

Sherlock spent his first night at rehab trying to claw the disgusting bracelet off.

In the morning, he was fed toast and jam with a side of methadone and given a new bracelet to replace the one he had tried to destroy. He was watched with intent until every last crumb had been licked off his plate, and then he was sent to play with the other children.

He chose to sit in the corner and sulk.

Every so often, someone would walk up to him and ask his name. He would respond with cruel things such as "I don't know, why don't you ask your dead mother?" or "Perhaps the reason your husband cheated on you was because of your annoying curiosity," which of course lead him to gain a bad reputation quite quickly.

And in the afternoon, he met Doctor Watson.

"Hello there, Mr. Holmes, please sit down." John Watson gestured to a comfortable chair opposite from here.

"Sherlock," was the response.

"Mr. Holmes," Watson insisted. He then cleared his throat. "Really, take a seat. I'm Doctor John Watson, and I'll be your personal counselor throughout the duration of your stay here."

"John," Sherlock nodded.

"Doctor Watson," John repeated.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, reluctantly taking the seat across from his so-called counselor. "Doctor Watson."

John cleared his throat once again and held a pen to his clipboard. "So, I suppose I'll start by going over the conditions of our visits. For two weeks you are to see me daily, and from then on I'll decide the frequency of your visits based on what condition I feel you are in. You are allowed to discuss anything you wish. If I ask something too personal or uncomfortable, you are not obligated to answer. At the same time, you are not allowed to ask me anything involving my personal life. We have a strict doctor-patient confidentiality agreement, so anything that is said in this room will not leave this room. Is that all right?"

"I don't know, doctor Watson," Sherlock mocked him. "It's going to be very difficult to put my recovery in your hands when you can hardly handle your own sister's addiction."

John immediately froze. He stared straight at Sherlock's smug face and practically dropped his clipboard. "How…?" Never mind that Sherlock was already breaking the rule about not prying into John's personal business.

Sherlock sat back and rolled his eyes. "The envelope on your desk. It's addressed to John Watson and not Mr. Watson, so it has to be someone close. The pile of letters underneath it reveals it to be someone very close, most likely familial. The handwriting is feminine, yet shaky, so some female in your immediate family harbors an addiction. Based on the sheer number of letters, you haven't been writing back to her, probably because you're ashamed. Embarrassed that, despite your blooming career in helping individuals overcome their addictions, you have yet to help her overcome her own. Your embarrassment indicates more of a younger sister than a mother, as one does not tend to give up on their mothers that easily."

Half of John was fuming. The other half was bewildered. Nonetheless, his patient had broken protocol and it could not be dealt with lightly. "You…" John began, stammering around for the words. "Don't question my ability to counsel. I am perfectly qualified and seventy four percent of all my patients have successfully reentered society without relapsing. My sister is a hopeless cause-but that's not what we're going to talk about. My main priority right now is you, okay? So let's keep the subject on you and your recovery."

"See," Sherlock started. "I think that's where we have different intents." He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and fingertips pressed together. "I am here against my will. I did not happen to wander in here or have some sort of epiphany that made me decide to turn my life around. My brother put me in here, and let me just say, Doctor Watson, that I have no intention of becoming clean. I do not want to sober up. I am perfectly content with drugs in my life and nothing you ever say to me will make me change my mind."

John huffed up a bit. "Well, regardless, as long as you are in my care, I have given my sworn oath to get you clean whether you like it or not."

Sherlock stood up abruptly, shocking John for a split second. And then frail arms were on either side of John's armchair and a-distractingly so-handsome face popped through John's personal bubble.

"Mr. Holmes," John squeaked, leaning back away from his patient.

Bony fingers grabbed at John's chin, tilting his head up so that he was gazing directly into Sherlock's eyes, his heart rate rising faster and faster as each second passed.

And then Sherlock's lips were upon him.

John gasped aloud and struggled, but Sherlock trapped him with his own body, his weight sinking onto John and a leg between John's thighs, rubbing promiscuously against his clothed groin.

Sherlock, with his hands on either side of John's face, harshly tried to pry open John's lips, but was met by cold defiance.

Eventually, John was able to free himself as he turned his head away from Sherlock's advances. He braced both his hands against Sherlock's chest and pushed the taller man away, completely flustered and disheveled.

Sherlock stumbled backwards a bit before meeting John's conflicted gaze with his own sharp and harsh eyes. "So what now?" Sherlock sneered. "Are you going to call for a patient transfer?"

John furrowed his eyebrows angrily at Sherlock and took deep, uneven breaths. "You don't fucking think I've dealt with sex addicts before? If I transferred a patient every time they came onto me, I'd be the lousiest doctor in the country. So no, I'm not going to call for a patient transfer."

"Very well then," Sherlock huffed. He then turned on his heels and headed for the door.

"Hey!" John called out. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I've said everything I wanted to say today," Sherlock informed him. "So I'm ending our little session early today."

"In that case I want to see you here early tomorrow."

"Good day, John."

"Doctor Watson."

"John."

And as Sherlock opened the door, John called out once more. "And it's my older sister, not my younger."

Sherlock froze in his tracks. Then he stomped his foot. "Dammit! There's always something."

Maybe John almost smiled.