Thursday

Mycroft was not used to his brother visiting, so when Sherlock appeared at his doorstep unannounced one afternoon he knew there was something the matter with him. Sherlock looked even more weary than usual and Mycroft noticed the red on his eyes, even though his brother was making an effort not to make eye contact.

-I know you may not want to have anything to do with this, Mycroft, but I am in need of your assistance.

As he spoke he walked pass Mycroft, right into the house, as if he was in a hurry to get somewhere. When he got into the living room he headed to the couch but then decided he wouldn't sit down just yet. He gave one look at his older brother and then resumed his walking, this time up and down the room. As he walked his hands moved from his pockets, through his hair and back into his pockets in a slip of a second. By this point Mycroft was getting as anxious as the younger man. He tried to keep his composure but the scenarios floating through his head made his voice tremble a little.

-Sherlock, for the love of God, you have to tell me what is going on.

Sherlock finally settled for a spot in the room and began speaking again.

-This… DI Lestrade. Are you familiar with him?

Mycroft nodded in approval. He was, after all, familiar with every person in a semi-important position in a 5 mile radius.

-I've worked with him in a few cases. He had heard of my… abilities and consulted me a couple of times when things weren't going as smoothly as the police would have wished. He's now offered me a job. Well, not a real job, but something somehow more permanent, as a consulting detective for Scotland Yard.

Sherlock made a pause, but Mycroft knew he wasn't quite finished yet. Their eyes met again and Mycroft saw it. He had been crying. It had been ages since he had last seen his brother cry, probably since they were children. And now there he stood, a grown man but still his little brother, fragile looking again, and Mycroft had to contain himself from throwing his arms around him right there and then.

-With one condition.

Then Sherlock made a longer pause, and bit his lower lip. Then, with a nervous laugh, he spit out the words as if they had been burning his tongue.

-I have to wean off cocaine.

Mycroft felt his heart miss a beat, but didn't have time to say anything; Sherlock had resumed his walking and was now speaking faster than before.

-I know what you're thinking, I tried to do it on my own, but it's no good. I… It can't be done. I need a more efficient solution. And I'm not going into a clinic where they are making me draw pictures of my feelings and make flowers out of clay, Mycroft, I will not.

He couldn't explain why, but it bothered Mycroft that Sherlock couldn't say 'I can't do it' and went with 'it can't be done' instead. He tried not to look too disappointed, this were good news, after all.

-How much time do you need?

-A week, perhaps a little longer.

-Don't be dense, Sherlock, that is not even enough to get pass the physical symptoms, what are you going to do when your head is sober and clear and you need to feel the euphoria again? You are not going to have cases all the time, Sherlock; you need to learn to deal with…

His brother cut him short, his tone not so much that of a wounded child anymore, but his more usual defiant, insolent one

-I'm just staying here for the detox, that's all I need. I'll deal with the rest on my own. Do you agree or not?

Mycroft sighed as silently as he could manage and replied

-Very well. You may stay.

Friday

The first night went by without so much as a minor incident. Mycroft had, of course, taken every precaution imaginable to keep his brother comfortable. He had spoken to the most renowned physicians in the matter and made sure he followed every order. Still he had not much to worry about that night.

On Friday, Sherlock awoke early, looking bad but not too terrible, it seemed. He sat across his brother on the breakfast table and started eating without saying a word. Mycroft dared not ask him directly how he was feeling, for it appeared that his brother was not in the best of moods.

-Did you manage to sleep well last night?

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but didn't look up from his plate to meet his brother's gaze.

-Well, that's a stupid question, even for you, Mycroft.

Mycroft had checked on Sherlock several times during the night, and was certain that he had slept quite soundly, at least so it had seemed, but he didn't want to alter his mood any more. He just ignored the comment and poured him a large glass of water.

-You need to drink lots of liquids, Sherlock; it'll help your body get rid of the drug quicker.

Sherlock grabbed the glass and took a drink. Immediately after he stood up and, glass in hand, went towards the guest bedroom again.

-I'm going back to bed. Don't bother me.

After entering the room, he slammed the door shut.

Mycroft resisted the urge to follow him that instant. Perhaps, he thought, Sherlock could sleep some of it off while he was dealing with work. He had taken a few days off from the office, naturally, but he still could take care of some business from home. He wouldn't usually work from the dinning, but it was the closest room to his brother and he would be able to hear if he needed his help.

He had been able to work more than he had expected, within about two hours, however, he decided it was time to go and check on Sherlock.

His brother lay asleep on his side, curled into a ball. At first sight it looked like he was sleeping peacefully, but on a closer look, Mycroft saw his eyeballs move swiftly underneath the leads. If he was dreaming, he thought, it wouldn't be strange that he'd have nightmares. He didn't want to wake him quite yet, so he sat on a chair and waited. Soon enough, Sherlock's body began shivering as if in fear and he started mumbling in his sleep. Mycroft came to the decision of waking him up, before things got any worse. It took more effort than he thought, and he had to shake Sherlock with more energy than he would have liked to use. Opening his eyes, Sherlock grabbed onto his brother's arms, startled for a second. His eyes were wild with confusion, and it took him some time to realize where he was.

-Sherlock, look at me, look at me. It was just a dream, everything is fine.

Sherlock's breath was quicker than normal and his body was covered in sweat.

-Come, take a shower, you'll feel better.

They had an early lunch, since it was clear that Sherlock's appetite had increased already and the doctor had told Mycroft that his brother needed plenty of rest but also plenty of food. The day went on fairly normal, with Mycroft trying his best to entertain his bother and Sherlock non-responsively watching nothing on TV while picking at his nails and cuticles.

-Mycroft, for the love of God, will you please, please just shut up already and turn down that damn heat, I'm boiling up!

-The doctor says cocaine is water soluble, if you drink plenty of liquids and sweat, the process will be quicker.

Sherlock sulkily took another sip from his glass (that Mycroft made sure was always full) and went back to compulsively changing the channel.

By night Sherlock had become severely agitated and started walking up and down the living room while muttering to himself. At dinner he'd tap his foot and ran his hands through his hair at what it appeared to be choreographed intervals. Mycroft tried to make small talk and even got a smile or two out of his brother. By the time dinner was over, Sherlock announced he had a splitting headache and that he was exhausted and without more ado went to bed.