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It was Mycroft who stepped in and solved Sherlock’s drug problem, who set up the treatments and hospitals, who really saved Sherlock’s mind. But Sherlock tried first. He tossed drugs out the window and bought books on addiction, turning page after page, hands shaking so badly that more than one page was torn clear out and eyes squinting to try and make sense of even one line of text amid the chaos of his mind detoxing. He’d keep at it until the screaming became too much again, and he had to leave to hunt for the drugs outside the window to make it stop.
It became clear that Sherlock would not succeed the day he could barely hold the book at all and it tumbled to the ground. His fingers were no better at dialing the phone number into his phone, but he managed it after forty-five minutes of mistakes. Sherlock has asked his brother for exactly one thing in his life. There is always price for which someone will compromise their pride, and Sherlock’s was his mind. So Mycroft swooped in like a grotesque version of a fairy godmother with his connections and his doctors and solved everything. Sherlock’s now read the book cover to cover, and he’s clean and fine and in control. But he still keeps the book.