Aged 23 Years old.

Sherlock took a deep breath and resurfaced from the murky bathwater. He panted steadily rubbing the soap from his eyes. His frame shook as the cold washed over his thin frame. On the side of the bath was a needle, a tourniquet and a few drops of his blood. He squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering. His fingers traced the tiny puncture wounds that covered the crook of his elbow, not really thinking. So many memories within the wounds… His hand curved around his arm holding it tightly. Old wounds dulled against the new ones. It was somewhat comforting. His mind raced furiously. It was exhilarating.

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock ignored it. There was a noise; someone was talking. Sherlock delved deeper into the bath letting the water rise above his ears. He closed his eyes.

...

Mycroft pulled his brother from the bathtub, soaking his suit straight through. He checked his pulse. Barely over 30. Pressing his lips against his brother's, he breathed. CPR was a difficult thing to learn. Sherlock choked, spewing up water and a little bit of vomit.

"You stupid, ignorant bastard!" Mycroft breathed, pulling a towel around his brother. He caught sight of the needle on the bath edge. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sherlock mumbled something before slipping into unconsciousness. Mycroft pulled his brother up over his shoulder and carried him away from the bathroom.