Sherlock Holmes had never wanted to be a celebrity less.

Well, that probably wasn't entirely true, but he would be hard put to name a worse time in his life.

The papers had immediately latched onto the scandal. Brillaint Violinist on Drug-Crazed Bender in Sleezy Motel. Signs of abuse. Overdose. Rape. The last one was the worst, because he knew the truth. He hadn't been raped. He'd let it happen. Begged for it, even, looking at that damn bottle and needle just out of his reach.

He closed his eyes, trying not to think about it all.

"You cannot simply pretend this isn't real, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned, then coughed a few times, the breathing tube in his nose tugging behind his ears as he bent forward. Sudden gasp, small cry of pain. Several broken ribs. Jaw that was still tender where it had been dislocated. His left arm - his fingering arm - was in a cast. He settled back against the pillows - two hands were there, helping him lay back.

"Why are you here?" he managed to wheeze. He was handed a cup of water with a straw in it. His nose krinkled involuntarily, and he made another small noise. Broken nose. Of course.

"As ever, I am concerned about you."

"Just go." Sherlock took a small sip of water - cold burned down his throat. He winced, remembering...

"Oh Sherlock." The voice sounded tired, and full of suffering. Sherlock reached out and a hand came immediately to take the water out of his hand.

"Please, Mycroft." Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes again. "Please go."

"You know I won't." A hand came up to rest carefully on Sherlock's right forearm. "Mummy would never forgive me."

Sherlock said nothing, knowing that Mummy wasn't the only motivation behind Big Brother staying with him. Mycroft would never tell anyone else this, but he did care about his brother. And because he cared, he'd raced from his home in Belgravia to a shit-hole little motel just far enough from the Royal Albert Hall at a simple, single word in text from his baby brother.

[Help.]

Sherlock swallowed painfully. Not one of his finer moments.

"In thirty-three years I've never known you to ask for help." Mycroft always seemed to read Sherlock's thoughts. Sherlock often attempted to ignore him. "You scared Maestro Lestrade quite a lot, you know." Sherlock turned his head away.

Lestrade had taken a chance on him - a strange youth who'd never taken more than a handful of formal lessons in his life but could play like the violin had been made just for him, only for him. he'd given him first chair when the President of the United States had visited for one of those diplomatic sit-downs the world leaders were always having with each other. He'd had a solo. The president had cried, the first lady had sobbed, and the room had erupted in cheers after he'd finished. He'd watched it all with cold distance, smiling only because he knew it was protocol, was expected.

He wished he could remember how to smile because he wanted to. He was sure he'd known how, once...

"I think you should know..." Sherlock turned back as his brother paused. Mycroft was decisive, direct when speaking, and had never paused mid-sentence without there being something truly awful he didn't want to share at the end of the sentence. "...there are... pictures." Sherlock sighed, softly, carefully.

"Of course there are." There always were.

"Not of the scene, Sherlock. I made sure of that."

"Then of what?" Sherlock listened to his brother's breathing for thirteen seconds.

"Of you here, in the hospital." Sherlock's eyes snapped wide open, and he stared at Mycroft.

"What?"

Mycroft had the grace to look mildly ashamed. "I'm sorry. I thought I had things firmly in hand."

"Who - of course, that nurse, the one I hadn't seen before. I thought something was off..."

"You can hardly be blamed for not realizing sooner, under the circumstances." Sherlock tried not to think about what his brother was really saying, because he knew that no matter how hard he tried or how fast his mind worked, it would never measure up to Mycroft's unattainable perfection.

"Demands?"

"None. They've likely gone to the press already."

"Wonderful." Sherlock's voice caught a bit. He and Mycroft agreed silently that they would ignore it, and carry on as though nothing had happened.

"You should have come sooner." Mycroft was looking down - his umbrella was settled across his knees, fingers playing over the wooden handle. Red Oak, polished from insessant use as a walking stick. Sherlock suddenly could not recall his brother ever being without that blasted umbrella.

"I didn't want to come to you this time." He was being childish and he knew it, and he couldn't be bothered to care in the slightest. When you're in a hospital bed after spending several days fighting to live only to see your life and reputation tarnished beyond recognition, worrying about your big brother's feelings was not something that mattered.

"I will of course do what I can." Mycroft ignored Sherlock's last comment, as he so often did. "But there will be consequences, Sherlock."

"There always are." Sherlock looked at his brother again. He knew he was wearing his heart on his sleeve, or in his eyes, and right then all he wanted was to hear someone - anyone - tell him it would be alright. "What happens next?"

Mycroft regarded him coolly. "Next, you check into Clouds House. And you don't set foot off their grounds until they say you're ready." Sherlock glared. "And if I hear of one instance - just one instance - of you relapsing at all, or even attempting to relapse, I'll have you home and under Mummy's supervision before you can blink." Sherlock's glare retreated quickly. He loved his mother. But he knew she would be ruthless when needed to keep him clean and sober.

"When do I leave?"