There Is Nothing Wrong With Me

Just Take Your Medicine

When Sherlock arrived home from school he didn't need to check the mailbox, and it was a rather odd feeling to walk right past the little red box and make his way into the house. Mycroft was home, he could tell by the sleek black car that was sitting out in the driveway, and yet he certainly didn't want to converse with his brother at the moment. However when Sherlock finally managed to escape to his bedroom he found that the door was open, only a crack, which was unusual since he always left his door shut... Sherlock pushed open the door forcefully, and the tall form of his brother spun around in shock, as if he hadn't heard Sherlock come in.
"Sherlock, my goodness you gave me a heart attack!" Mycroft exclaimed, holding his hand to his chest as if what was left of his heart was actually pounding. Sherlock wasn't amused; he was more confused as to why his brother was purposely invading his privacy. The top drawer of his dresser was open, and in Mycroft's hands was the little pouch that held his medicine, but why on earth would Mycroft be interested in that poison?
"What are you doing in here?" Sherlock snapped.
"Would you believe me if I said laundry delivery?" Mycroft wondered with a sort of chuckle, dropping the medicine pouch back into the drawer innocently.
"No of course not." Sherlock insisted, and Mycroft sighed heavily, as if he expected as much.
"I'm checking the medicine, making sure you've been taking it and what not, on father's orders." Mycroft admitted with an innocent little shrug, and yet Sherlock still wasn't convinced.
"Why would father care what I was and was not taking?" Sherlock asked suspiciously, dropping his backpack on the ground and walking over to the dresser, closing the top drawer roughly and staring challengingly at his brother, as if daring him to touch his things again. Mycroft just drew back, looking a little bit unnerved by his little brother's sudden daring.
"If my calculations are correct, it seems as though you skipped a day, didn't you? There should be thirty milliliters left and yet there's forty still in the bottle, which suggests that you had just decided to skip a night, just for a little bit of fun..." Mycroft muttered, standing taller now that he knew he had the high ground. Sherlock stepped back a little bit, cursing himself for being so stupid. Well of course he hadn't taken his medication, not on the night of the drive in, not when he needed to be homosexual the most! And he had been so caught up in making himself look presentable that he forgot to dump the remaining medicine down the sink! Oh he was so stupid, and now he's been caught, oh why on earth had he let John Watson infest his mind and let him think that everything was suddenly going to change for the better?
"Mycroft..." Sherlock muttered, and yet he couldn't think of anything to say, he couldn't possibly think of anything to say.
"Why aren't you taking your medicine Sherlock?" Mycroft asked sternly, adjusting his tie so that it strangled him just a little bit more efficiently. Sherlock kept his head down in shame, his hands shaking at his sides and yet he could do nothing to control them.
"I think it's killing me." Sherlock said weakly. Mycroft was silent for a moment, and suddenly he gave a great laugh, a fake laugh but a laugh all the same, as if trying to express some amusement while not being amused at all. He was a man of little emotion, but will do his best to convey whatever he thought he should feel at moments he felt would provide him leverage over his opponents.
"What on earth do you mean Sherlock, it's medicine, it's supposed to help you not, not kill you!" Mycroft exclaimed, his smile vanishing as soon as he began to talk. Sherlock simply held up one of his white hands, which was shaking so convulsively that he could do nothing to still it.
"It's not medicine Mycroft, it's poison, I couldn't take it a couple of nights before, I was feeling sick already and...and I didn't think it would help anything." Sherlock whispered. Mycroft made a sound that almost reminded Sherlock of a snarl, and instinctively he ducked away, retreating to the far wall so that his brother would have a difficult time getting around the bed to hurt him.
"Now Sherlock you know full well that it's going to help you, you know that it's only here to make you normal again." Mycroft assured in his best version of a sweet voice. Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced, and for good reason, he could tell that even as Mycroft talked he was beginning to lose his temper, and all the while Sherlock was shrinking and shrinking where he stood, too afraid to speak out against his fancy, tyrannical brother.
"Yes I know, I know it's supposed to help..." Sherlock agreed.
"And yet you're not taking it! Almost like, like you don't want help at all? Don't you want to change Sherlock, don't you want to love like a normal person, don't you want to be like a normal person?" Mycroft demanded.
"Yes, Mycroft, I do! I do!" Sherlock exclaimed defensively, lying through his teeth as he said anything he could to get his brother out of his room.
"So why don't you take your bloody medicine?!" Mycroft roared. Sherlock cowered fearfully against the wall, and Mycroft threw open the cabinet drawer, taking the little pouch out and setting it on the counter.
"I will, I will I swear to you!" Sherlock exclaimed. Mycroft grunted in agreement, however he didn't seem like he would be satisfied until he saw Sherlock stick that needle in his arm.
"Yes Sherlock, yes you will. And you'll take what you didn't take the other night too." Mycroft agreed, taking the syringe out of the case with his fat angry fingers and clumsily taking up the medication as well. Sherlock straightened up, looking at his brother fearfully as he stuck the needle in the bottle and began to suck up not ten but twenty milliliters, double of what Sherlock was supposed to take.
"Mycroft no, you can't do that, that's overdosing, that will kill me!" Sherlock exclaimed horrifically. Mycroft just laughed, clicking his tongue while he read the measurements carefully.
"Oh but it was doing that already, wasn't it? Killing you?" Mycroft wondered with a sharp, fake laugh.
"Mycroft you can't make me take that, wait until Mother comes home, please, she'll tell you!" Sherlock begged. But Mycroft, when his mind was set, was never up for any sort of peace treaty, or any reasonable argument at that. When he made a decision that decision was going to be acted out properly, and God help anyone who dared get in his way.
"You need to get better Sherlock, you need to get normal. This will help Sherlock, it's okay...just take your medicine." Mycroft insisted, starting his way across the bedroom with the syringe pinched between his two fingers, as if he was expecting to inject it himself.
"Mycroft you can't make me take that, Mycroft stop!" Sherlock exclaimed fearfully, and yet Mycroft still made his way over. Sherlock flattened himself against the wall, tempted to fight, tempted to run, and yet he knew that he wouldn't get anywhere, nor could he fend his brother off. He felt hopeless, defenseless and weak, pressed up against the wall and hearing his brother's footsteps slowly advance on him. Surely this will kill him; surely double his dosage wasn't just harmful, but deadly. And so Mycroft stopped, snatching Sherlock's arm from where it dangled at his side, and so Sherlock decided he had no other choice. With his one free arm he smacked blindly at his brother, or more accurately, at the syringe that was pinched in his brother's hand. It would seem that Mycroft had a decent grip on the syringe after all; however Sherlock's slap didn't go amiss. With the combined pressure the syringe shattered, the medicine splashing over the two quarreling boys and the glass shards lodging their way into their fingers, and with a sudden scream of rage Mycroft threw his body weight into a slap that sent Sherlock flying into the bedside table, falling over the lamp and clutching at his bleeding hand while his violent brother ran for the bathroom, perfectly happy to leave his brother to suffer while he desperately tried to save himself. Some sibling he was. Sherlock cowered against the wall, breathing loudly and heavily as he tried to pull the glass from his bleeding hand, wincing as the shards cut new gashes into his skin, the medicine that had splattered upon him stinging into the wounds and entering his bloodstream despite all his efforts to keep that poison at bay. Hopeless once more, and feeling more alone than ever, Sherlock sank to the ground, wincing and weeping as his hand throbbed in indescribable pain. His brother, his horrific brother, was this what he was supposed to call family? Was this the man he was supposed to trust in his own house, in his own room? The disgusting man, probably out to help Sherlock so that he could help himself, so that Sherlock's tarnished reputation didn't put a halt on Mycroft's 'promising' career. What a disgusting man he had grown to be.