Sherlock: Before He Became a Consulting Detective

9. Another Hospital Another Bed

After knocking and banging on the flat's door, Mycroft phoned his chauffeur to come up and break the door down.

He grimaced when he entered the flat. Newspapers were scattered over the floor. Dirty coffee mugs and teacups stood on the kitchen cupboard.

He found his brother passed out on the couch and gasped when he noticed how skinny he became. When he walked up to him, something cracked underneath his shoe. He picked up the broken container and arched a brow. How many of these did he take? He shook him, but couldn't wake him up. "Oh Sherlock, what have you done."

Mycroft took his phone out of his pocket and called an ambulance. He gave them the address. "Please hurry. I don't know how many of the sleeping tablets he took."

The paramedics barge within minutes through the door. They connected him on a heart monitor, put him on the stretcher and wheeled him out. The lift was too small for the stretcher with a patient on it to fit. They had to carry him with it down the stairs.

Mycroft followed the ambulance to the hospital.

After the medical personnel pumped Sherlock's stomach, they admitted him into the psych ward, before Mycroft could see him.

He sat next to his bed, waiting for him to regain consciousness.

Several hours later, Sherlock opened his eyes. "Where am I?" he mumbled. "What are you doing here?" he asked when he noticed Mycroft.

"Yes, once again I saved you, little brother. This is the second time in just over a year I'm sitting next to your deathbed. Are you stupid or something?"

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Look at yourself. You've become a bloody drug addict. Good god Sherlock, you have so much potential and you're throwing it away."

He pushed himself upright. "I'm not a drug addicted. I took only two sleeping tablets."

Mycroft jumped up. He opened his medical file, took out the lab results and chucked it on the bed. "Then explain the amphetamine sulfate they found in your system."

Sherlock shoved the paper off the bed. "I need it to get rid of my nightmares."

"I told you to seek professional help but you refused. Now look where it brought you."

"I'm not addicted to it. I can stop at any time."

He drew his lips in a thin line. "That my little brother is a lie and you know it. As soon as the doctor discharges you, you are going to a rehab center."

"I can't, what about my work at the lab? I'm not due for leave yet."

"I will secure your employment at St Bart's." Mycroft smiled. "I'm working for the government, Sherlock. I can let anything happen."

After two days, Sherlock's body craved the amphetamines. His whole body shivered. His head wanted to explode with the throbbing pain in his temples. He yelled at the staff, threw the trays of food on the floor as soon as they left his room. After many attempts reinserting his intravenous feeding to boost him with vitamins, they gave up when he pulled it out again.

On the third day, they locked him up in a soundproof padded room, while keeping an eye on him via a monitor.

Not allowed to visit in the padded room, Mycroft watched the video footage of him.

Sherlock crawled on the padded floor. Sometimes he lay on his back staring without blinking. He talked to himself waving his hands and arms in the air. A day later, he noticed the cameras high up on the wall. After receiving his food, he threw it at the cameras.