A/N: This is a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone, and I rather like how it came out. It takes place when Sherlock is about eighteen, and Mycroft is making him go cold turkey on drugs... Poor Sherlock.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this story.

Mycroft walked to the study of his new apartment expecting it to be in darkness, but was mildly surprised to find the lights already on and a lot of crashing coming from behind the door. He sighed and pushed open the door, surveyed the chaos around him for a moment before speaking, "Sherlock, I'd really rather you didn't ruin this place yet. I still want to get my guarantee back at the end of my tenancy."

The younger man turned and sneered at his brother, "What have you done with my stuff Mycroft?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and sighed, "You mean all those vulgar chemicals you have been pumping into your system, I eradicated them all."

Sherlock roared in fury and lunged at Mycroft, planning to land a punch on that smug, fat face. He didn't expect Mycroft to move out of his way and allow him to launch himself straight into the doorframe. He collided with the sharp corner at a great speed, and a sickening thud followed. Mycroft winced at the sound and moved to help his little brother, "Sherlock are you–"

"I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, he knelt against the wall with a hand pressed against his face. Mycroft watched silently as Sherlock gently moved his hand away, blood covered his palm and gushed from his nose and a diagonal wound across his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are not fine. Come with me." Mycroft ordered. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to obey, but he did. He struggled to his feet and followed him to the rather large bathroom. Mycroft sat him down on the edge of the bath and searched in the cupboard for the first aid kit.

When he at last found it he pulled out the cotton wool pads and antiseptic spray, "This is going to sting Sherlock." he warned. He tilted the teen's face upward and began to gently clean the wounds. Sherlock hissed and writhed in pain as Mycroft worked, after the spray and pads came the gauze and plasters. Mycroft had never been the greatest first aider, but Sherlock's incessant squirming didn't help matters at all. By the end of it Sherlock slightly resembled a badly wrapped birthday present, plasters used like sticky tape to keep the gauze in place.

Sherlock caught sight of himself in the mirror, "I look ridiculous." he muttered.

"No worse than normal, brother dear," Mycroft retorted quickly.

Sherlock turned to him with a snarl, "How's the diet going?"

Mycroft didn't grace that with an answer, instead retreating to his study. He'd forgotten that Sherlock had all but destroyed it. He opened the door and saw the havoc that his baby brother had left in his wake; an exasperated sigh escaped his lips. He wandered through the room picking up books and stationary, newspapers and official documents, and began placing them back in their designated drawers and shelves.

Once the room somewhat resembled the safe haven it had been before Sherlock attacked, Mycroft sat down at his desk and did some work. There were papers to sign and contracts to read before tomorrow, he would likely be up most the night. A shuffling sound from the doorway caught Mycroft's attention, he looked up and saw Sherlock stood in the doorway.

"Hello," Mycroft said in surprise, Sherlock usually tried to keep well out of his way after an argument.

"Hi." came Sherlock's hesitant reply.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock trailed off uncertainly, this was a new development in the young man, uncertainty.

Mycroft frowned, trying to figure him out, it dawned on him, "You're not getting any drugs." he said firmly.

Sherlock groaned and leaned heavily against the door, Mycroft's gaze flitted from his brother to the blood staining the wood of the doorframe and back again, "I mean it Sherlock. I'll lock you in your room again if I have to."

"And I'll escape again, just like last time. You can't keep me prisoner in here!" Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, please leave me to do my work. Don't you have anything to do?" Mycroft sighed. Sherlock shook his head, Mycroft pressed his index fingers to his temples, "Fine, do you want a book or something?"

"Something."

Mycroft inhaled deeply and counted to ten silently, all the while glowering at his infuriating younger brother. "Here, try your hand at this." he said, picking up a discarded violin and holding it out to Sherlock.

Momentarily intrigued, Sherlock stepped forward and took the instrument, "Fine." Was all he said as he turned away and left, the violin and bow held gently against his chest.

Mycroft managed to finish all his work quite quickly, without the constant interruption of his brother. He slipped the last document into the large manila envelope and locked it away in his drawer, not that he thought for one minute that would keep it safe from Sherlock.

He stretched his arms and stood up, glancing at his watch, half twelve. Time for bed then. He flicked off the lights and wandered through the apartment towards his bedroom. He passed through the open plan living room and saw Sherlock curled up in the armchair, the violin Mycroft had given him hugged to his chest as he slept.

Mycroft smiled in spite of himself, sometimes, it was nice to have Sherlock around. Mainly when he was asleep and couldn't wreck the place. Mycroft looked around for something to cover the teenager with; he found a random blanket and tucked it around Sherlock's slim frame. The younger man stirred slightly, but didn't wake. It occurred to Mycroft how pale and ill Sherlock looked, anger suddenly overwhelmed him at the sight of his brother looking so ill. He would make those disgusting drug dealers pay for this.

After a moment calming himself down, Mycroft shook his head and walked away to his bedroom, content to leave Sherlock in the living room for one night. Mummy would have a fit, she hated them not being in a proper bed, said it ruined the body. She was probably right.

"Mycroft," a sleepy voice called from behind him, he turned around to face Sherlock, "There are worse brothers than you, I suppose."

Mycroft smiled at the rather back-handed compliment, "And I'm sure there are brothers worse than even you, Sherlock." he replied, it was a wasted comment though, as Sherlock was already asleep before Mycroft uttered the first word.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it, please don't forget to leave a review. Thank you.
Mags