I had to do so much research for this chapter. Drug research, the court system, MDA, NHS and NTA mark just a few of the topics. Being American, again, I am making shots in the dark writing about the legal system in the UK. Hell if I know about all that! If you find disparaging facts and you'd like to correct me, again, please do.

By the way, thanks to those who have reviewed/favourite/and followed MMM. I'm so happy people are taking well to the story!

Edit: Here we go. British English. Again. Seriously, Americans. Why is "eying" a viable spelling whereas "eyeing" is not? I never spelled it "eying". It looks wrong! I hated spelling it that way for this fic. Can't wait to alter it! Also, "ass handed to me"= what in British slang?

When Lestrade lifted his gaze back to his increasingly unravelling colleague, tissue in hand, Sherlock's deep quiet laughter cut off and his eyes darted right back at Lestrade. While crouched he looked like a cunning carnivore backed into a corner, his poised bearing in stark contrast with his dishevelled appearance. Blood covered the lower portion of his face and now the hands that were holding his nose, blood from both wounds mingling.

An electronic sound erupted from Lestrade's cup holder and he snatched his mobile while Sherlock grabbed the tissue, eyeing him suspiciously. Holmes the younger saw the text. The number was blocked, but he was certain he knew who it was from.

'New Message:

Check coat pocket.'

He gurgled darkly "There never was a case was there, Lestrade?"

"Ah- well..." the D.I. stumbled.

"Mycroft put you up to this," Sherlock accused as if in disbelief. Lestrade swallowed and straightened, re-enforcing his presence. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I've got to check your coat."

The amateur detective could almost see the gears turning in the other man's head as he came to grips with what he might find. It was grossly maddening, yet he had little option at this point other than to obey Lestrade, who was after all, a police officer.

Greg, his mouth tightened, reached into the mad genius's pockets with faked confidence, pulling out a wallet, a small toolkit and a shut off mobile phone. "You've got more pockets than this, I'm assuming? Anything in here you'd like to warn me about? Like a weapon, drugs? Or body parts? Knowing you." Sherlock did not respond; he merely kept pinching his nose.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Which I apparently don't, know you that is." This earned a cold glance.

"Right. You know, this is nothing personal." He continued his search and pulled out a pill bottle, stopping to look it over. "Ritalin?" The D.I hummed thoughtfully.

"Yes. It's valid", Sherlock murmured, chagrin thinly veiled.

"Prescription does look good, except for one problem. Adults aren't prescribed Ritalin. Unless you have narcolepsy. You don't have narcolepsy, right?" Lestrade scrutinised the bottle with suspicion.

Sherlock shot a derisive look. "It's for ADD."

"ADD? You? I'm not surprised, actually. But you're an adult now-"

"As an adult, I've attempted life without it, but its artificial stimulation keeps me sane during periods of stagnation."

"Stagnation." Lestrade looked up as if in thought for a moment, then back at Sherlock. "You're not abusing, are you?" Sherlock's face became unreadable. Lestrade opened the bottle, pulled out a small clouded plastic bag and waved it in his blank face as if it might get him to talk. "What's this?"

"It's a small bag."

"You're abusing your prescription! How many of these pills are you on right now?" Sherlock shook his head. "I legally hold a prescription."

Lestrade sighed, attempting to keep up his professional face, but the bitter disappointment broke through in his voice. "Look, there's no point in denying it anymore. I caught you. Work with me and I might be able to help. Are you high right now?"

Sherlock swallowed, staring intensely at the dash. "Broken hand. In pain. Adrenaline is rushing through my-"

Lestrade got in Sherlock's face, exasperated. "Shut up! Just, shut up! You are high; you took too many of these pills! I may not be a genius like you, but I'm not a bleeding idiot!"

Sherlock sat up and his eyes scanned Lestrade's face, his own like a melting glacier dripping profusely in the heat of the sun. He spoke in contrast to Lestrade's frustration, monotone and firm. "Yes. I am 'high'." Lestrade bit back his attitude, taking a breath to calm himself. "Do you use any illegal substances?"

"I have."

"Do you have anything else on you?" Without waiting for an answer, Lestrade continued to poke through Sherlock's pockets. "I do." Finding a generous wad of cash, he looked at Sherlock disbelievingly. Holmes shook his head. Lestrade groaned at the sheer madness of it all. "Tell me you haven't put any drugs in a clever place. Please."

"'A clever place'? No. I have not hid drugs in any cavities, if that's what you're asking. If I had expected your perfidy, I would not have been caught."


"Treachery, untrustwor-"

Lestrade snapped. "My 'perfidy', What about YOUR perfidy?! You're breaking the law, Sherlock! This is idiotic! You're probably the most gifted man I'd ever met and yet you're just going to throw it all away!" He finally lifted the cigarette box out of Sherlock's inner jacket pocket and looked inside. "This is-", Lestrade stumbled. Sherlock answered for him. "Cocaine." Lestrade looked from the cocaine to the wad of cash, completely distraught. "You're not-?"

"Really? Really! What need would I have to sell drugs? Come now, Lestrade. You're supposed to be a detective! Please stop wasting my time with foolish questions."

"Sherlock, this is ABSURD! It's not even worth explaining to you right now. I'm trying to give you some dignity here. We could do this the hard way."

Sherlock apologised brusquely and bit his lip.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" Lestrade asked despairingly.

"My mind. The world slows down around me, but my mind is ceaseless, always craving more problems to solve, more to discover. Artificial stimulants fill in when the world cannot provide. I detest the dull routine of existence."

"There's got to be a better way to entertain yourself. You're risking your career, your life, for what? Not to be bored?"

"If you're concerned, you could always let me in on more of your cases."

"I can't let you in on ANY of my cases."

"Why not? I've not once been high for any of your consultations."

"You were high for this one."

"But as it turns out there was no case."

"There could have been! Now listen Sherlock, I've been breaking regulation for you. If I were to continue to let you in and anyone were to find out about", he gestured with his hands at Sherlock's trembling body "this, I'd get fired. Don't you understand that?!"

Sherlock could feel his heart throbbing so hard it dizzied him. This was a nightmare. With Mycroft's hand in things, he'd no longer have a connection with the Yard. Not a connection he'd like, anyway. His marred record would force him to come begging or change careers, probably both. He wiped at the blood on his face and returned to pinching his nose. "I understand."

"Then you know full well that I can't have you trolling my branch for cases anymore."

The amateur detective's face blanched. "You'll come back to me. You need me", he said with a hint of desperation.

"That may be true, but I certainly don't need your problems. It's like making a deal with the devil, working with you." Lestrade looked away, fiddling with the gears to pull out of park.

The younger Holmes felt his face twitch as his heart skipped a beat. "Yes. I have a problem."

"You have a multitude of problems."

"I have a few issues to work out but I'll go to rehab-"

"Not all of which can even be worked out by rehab. It's over, Sherlock. You're done. This thing we had is done."

"No, you're done. You can't just arrest me. What will everyone think?"

The D.I. scoffed. "Are you threatening me?"

"If I were threatening you, you wouldn't be asking."

Lestrade stopped the car again and glared. Sherlock glared back.

The consulting detective was roughly led to a holding cell and shoved inside, traces of blood left smeared on his fiercely intense face. He stood up straight and turned around, obstinately staring at his captors.

Lestrade came up from behind them, obviously fed up. "I'm taking lunch. Maybe by the time I get back you'll have started to see some sense." He threw his bloody hands in the air and left.

A doctor came and gave him an ice pack wrapped in a towel. He also pressed against various portions of the now fully blown up hand, then marked his suspicions on a notepad before treating the wound and wrapping it in gauze. "I'm recommending X-rays. Be careful with it." Sherlock was also forced to pee in a cup -in front of people-, among other embarrassing things.

After they were done with him, the room emptied. 'I was beginning to wonder when Mycroft would show. He wouldn't miss this for the world.' Mycroft appeared as if by clockwork, a change of clothes and Sherlock's violin in hand. He placed a seat in front of the cage that divided them as his associate unlocked Sherlock's cell.

The two stared at each other, the air in the room growing uncomfortable. "As always, it's up to me to break the silence after a disagreement. Hello, Sherlock."

If looks could kill, no amount of security would have saved the elder Holmes. Mycroft sighed tiredly and placed the violin beside his seat, then threw Sherlock the change of clothes, and he caught it roughly then placed it beside him on the bench, never letting his brother leave his line of sight.

Mycroft was handed a piece of paper and looked it over, tutting. "Abusing your prescription? Cocaine intoxication? Intent to distribute? Is this like when you picked up smoking? Trying to get a rise out of me?"

Sherlock bristled. "My actions don't revolve around you Mycroft!"

"Of course not."

There was another silence.

"You weren't actually intending to distribute; that was money won in a bet", Mycroft said pointedly. Sherlock's eyes widened. "You've been watching me." His older brother shook his head and his mouth thinned. "No. It's some of what I've gathered thus far about your current situation. Wasn't hard to dig up."

"I heard from Lestrade that he won't let you work with him any more. That is unfortunate. You shouldn't have resisted arrest." Mycroft steepled his fingers.

"Don't act like you didn't play a hand in this!"

"I was concerned. Initially, I only wanted Lestrade to give you something constructive to occupy your time with, but I was informed of your recent poor choices and had to make a difficult decision. No doubt you're furious with me."

The younger Holmes felt his pulse quickening. He took up the violin, but unable to properly play, he merely held it in his lap and plucked at the strings with his trembling left hand. 'Furious doesn't begin to cover it.'

Mycroft continued. "How long have you been doing this?" Sherlock shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. I'm done with drugs."

"I would have thought you'd learned that lesson after testing substituted cathinones on yourself."

"Will I ever hear the end of it!", Sherlock proclaimed, vexed.

"I was worried I had lost you", Mycroft cut in, sincerity in his eyes and soft voice. Sherlock looked back down at his violin. "It nearly gave you heart failure. Even when that was over with, no one knew when your psychosis would end."

Sherlock plucked more violently as he felt warmth reach his cheeks.

"And I'm assuming you broke your hand while intoxicated with cocaine?"

The younger brother shifted in his seat on the bench, glaring down at his violin. "Why are you here?"

"Obviously to bring you some clothing and to... I want to- Would you like a cigarette?"


The two lit up and again stayed in relative silence. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft.

Mycroft smirked mischievously. "You know, Mr. Jones is furious with you for destroying the rose garden."

Sherlock let out a deep chuckle and Mycroft joined in. They smiled contritely at one another, Sherlock softly fingering the strings. "So am I really arrested? Or were you planning on making this 'disappear'?" Holmes the elder raised a brow. "It depends. What are you going to do with yourself? You obviously can't keep on like this. Look at you. You need a place to stay."

"If it's between jail and living with you, I pick jail."

Mycroft chuckled affably. "No, I don't suppose continuing to live with me will be good for either of us."

"No, not very realistic. But I can't stay in jail either."

Mycroft paused thoughtfully. "Rehab may be a viable option."

"No, it's not."

"The police might be more apt to forgive your discrepancy."

Sherlock pouted. "Rehab was demeaning and tedious! There's got to be some other way, like an out-patient programme or something."

"Sherlock, you're not in any position to bargain. It's rehab or jail."

"My hand hurts", Sherlock winced as if that would make it seem more convincing. "Yes, I can see that", Mycroft sighed. "You've really done a number on yourself."

"I'd like to take a shower. And how am I supposed to get dressed without any privacy?"

"Welcome to the life of a prisoner."

"Very funny. You got me a T-shirt. A T-shirt? Come on." Mycroft sighed, beginning to lose patience. "You can't button a shirt with your hand like that!"

"Try me."

"All right, stop snivelling like a baby. I'll see what I can do. For now, wear the damned T-shirt. I'd like to remind you that you were the one who chose to get high and punch a wall."

Sherlock began to protest when a tired looking Lestrade came walking back inside. "Hey, there's no smoking in here."

Mycroft smiled. "Hello detective inspector. Would you care for a cigarette?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who shrugged and raised his brows. "What the hell. After a day like today, I think I deserve it."

Oh Mycroft and Sherlock. As always, very fun and natural to write. Next chapter, I'll get to write Lestrade, Mycroft, and Sherlock in the same room! I'm both excited and frightened.

Thank you for reading up until this point, and I hope to see you next chapter. Let me know what you think so far!