Beep beep beep.

Mycroft sat at his brother's bed, wondering what had gone wrong. Sherlock had been in rehab for three months, and after that, he was clean as a whistle (whatever that meant). But now he was here again, in the hospital, having nearly died from an overdose of cocaine again. It was as if Sherlock didn't care about what happened to himself.

Had the rehab failed? Had he, Mycroft Holmes, failed? He began to cry slightly as Sherlock lay there, his thin form more pale than usual, a ventilator doing his breathing for him. Why had his brother returned to the needle? And why with such viciousness? Sherlock was strong, both in will and body, so why on Earth after five years did he feel the need to poison himself again?

Mycroft was crying harder now. He couldn't remember when he'd cried before. Perhaps this was the first time in his life he'd cried. It was a horrible feeling, but he didn't care. He was frightened for his brother. Ever since he was a teenager, Sherlock had done stupidly reckless things, but by far this return to drugs was the worst. Mycroft had always taken it upon himself to protect his younger brother (and as near as he could tell, he always would), so this moment felt like utter failure. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob since no one was around except Sherlock who was unconscious anyway.

The speed of the beeping increased. It was said that even when in a coma, someone can react to the sounds of those they love in distress. It gratified Mycroft to know that Sherlock could hear him, even if technically, he was in a state between unconsciousness and a coma, his body slowly metabolizing the cocaine he'd self-administered.

He felt like he'd failed as an older brother. He was sad that Sherlock's will had failed. And so Mycroft sat sobbing by his near-comatose brother's hospital bed, vowing never to let him out of his sight again.