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. 

John POV: Letter after letter, day after day, the whole in John's heart seemed to widen. Communicating with Sherlock was certainly enough to keep him satisfied, or at least satisfied enough in the five minutes it took to read the letter and send a reply. The letters got shorter as their conversation began to dwindle, there was so little to talk about that it almost felt pathetic to try. John, it would seem, wasn't the only of the three that was missing his significant other. Greg was getting more and more down in the dumps as the days went on, moaning about how much he missed Molly, and even Mike seemed kind of depressed when they would try to hold a steady conversation about how their relationships were progressing. They were all in the same boat now, the same very lonely boat, wishing that they had three extra passengers. Their complications were only spawned by this hellish school, now that rugby had started they had no time to sneak out, they were up to their necks in homework and had now just lost two to three hours a day to running about the field and doing simply too many pushups. Sure, they were going to look buff and attractive for the girls (and Sherlock), however it seemed futile to even consider what the girls (and Sherlock) might think about them if they weren't going to see them for another month! Maybe if Wisteria wasn't so strict about leaving the walls then they would be able to go down and spend an evening with their dates, or at least they could meet accidently at the drug store as they went to buy more shampoo! Nevertheless it was becoming increasingly lonely in these somber halls, and the arrival of the game schedule seemed to be a gift sent from God.
"A home game this Friday night!" Mike exclaimed as he held the paper to his face, scanning all of the games eagerly. John smiled knowingly, leaning up against the dry tile wall of the showers where they now hid. No one showered after practice, so the facilities offered in the dingy locker room were hardly ever used, and they always provided some privacy for conversations they didn't want overheard.
"And it's against Musgrave; those prissy losers can't even throw the ball without bursting into tears." Greg said with a confident laugh.
"Don't underestimate them yet, remember what that 'skinny boy' did to you last game? He almost took your tooth out!" John defended with a laugh.
"That's because his bony elbow hit my lip, there was nothing I could do about that, and it was a foul anyway!" Greg exclaimed defensively, looking between Mike and John for anyone's support.
"Ya, on you." Mike added with a laugh. Greg snatched up the schedule from him again, checking the times and dates.
"This would be a perfect excuse to get the girls up." Greg muttered with a smile.
"And Sherlock!" John defended quickly. They always seemed to forget Sherlock's gender.
"Ya well, he's still kind of one of the girls." Greg said with a careless shrug.
"Sure I mean, he's kind of feminine, but he's still no less of a boy." John pointed out, crossing his arms with a small little frown.
"And you're still no less of a homosexual." Mike assured with a sarcastic little smile. John just slapped him; he hated it when they used that word as if it was offensive.
"No I do believe we decided John was bisexual." Greg pointed out helpfully, not realizing that the conversation was over before it started. John felt his cheeks going red, and he hated when that happened as well. He knew there was nothing to be ashamed of, but God did he hate titles...
"Oh what does it matter, we need to get them up here, and how will we do that? Friday's only two days away, and the mail carriers can't walk a block in three!" John pointed out in exasperation.
"I could always sneak out and go tell them." Mike offered sincerely, but the looks he got from the other two were enough to convince him that was a bad idea.
"We'll call them of course, how else have we been planning our little excursions? Mrs. Hudson's schedule never changes, and in five minutes we'll have this all planned out. Easy as that." Greg said confidently, folding up the schedule and tucking it into his back pocket.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? Who knows what will happen if we're caught..." John muttered nervously.
"Don't worry John; we'll tell the truth, we're just calling our girlfriends. No one has to know that Sherlock's involved." Greg assured with a smile, reading John's mind immediately. John nodded, clicking his fingers against the tiles before straightening up and making for the door without a word. He hated taking chances like this, he always had some sort of qualms before they broke the rules but this was totally different. If Mrs. Hudson overheard their conversation and she found out that Sherlock still had contacts in Wisteria what would she think? What would she do? And even the idea of Sherlock coming to a game here was a risk, someone would surely recognize him, surely they'd be suspicious. And Victor, what if Victor saw him, and reported him, or even worse, talked to him? John wasn't trying to be a jealous boyfriend but if he had to he will, as hateful as Victor ended up being to Sherlock there still may be feelings in the darkest depths of their hearts, and what would Sherlock do to stop him? This was a bad idea, surely this was a bad idea, but then again, it was the only idea they had. They could just get Sherlock a big floppy hat, and he could sit with Sarah and Molly at the very back of the stands, where no one would think to look. No one would see him, and if they did they wouldn't recognize him, and after the game the six of them could slip out somewhere and hang out. It would be romantic enough, and secure enough, it would be fine. John had to stop worrying about things he had no control over.  It didn't take long until the time for their operations was approaching. Time flew around here nowadays, especially since they couldn't get a breath between homework and studying and practicing. Even during dinner their books were open and they were doing something academic, and so when they were finally showered and ready for bed the dawning realization that they had to break the rules once more was beginning to settle over them. Mike arrived in their room right before they knew Mrs. Hudson's rounds were to begin, right around eight forty five.They had a plan, of course, the same plan they always used for illegal phone calls out of Wisteria. Greg would get on the phone and call Molly, Mike would be lookout right at the door, and John would be lingering out in the hallway so that he could make the excuses that were necessary should Mrs. Hudson come around earlier than expected. He hated this job the most, however should she discover the entire plot he probably would get a lesser punishment. His job,however, had the most anticipation. He hated to sit around and wait for Greg and Mike to return, not knowing where they were, what they were doing, or whatever holdups they may be having. The excuse manager was always the one out of action and stuck permanently in a state of confusion. And yet it was always John's job, simply because he was a very good liar. When nine o'clock struck they assumed their positions, John waiting near the door in the hallway while the other two boys scampered down to the front lines. He hoped they knew what they were doing, and above all he hoped the knew what to say to Molly about Sherlock. John had giving them a sort of overview about what to say, about the secrecy and whatnot, but John was sure that anything logical that was stowed away in Greg's brain would be expelled the moment he heard Molly's voice over the phone. John sighed heavily, leaning up against the wall next to their door and listening intensely for any footsteps that may be making their way down the hall. He could hear voices from the boys in the other rooms, talking and laughing and all of that; however no high heels, at least for now. If they were caught Mrs. Hudson would surely send them to the headmaster, who would either give them detention, suspension, expulsion, or simply a few whacks with a ruler. John didn't want any of that, however, because simple discovery would lead to the unavailability of the only phone they had in this school. They would be out of contact and surely out of luck should Mrs. Hudson discover their plans, not only that but security would be tightened, they wouldn't be allowed out of the walls, their letters might be read, maybe their bedsheets would be taken away so they couldn't make any more ropes! It would be chaotic;they would be shut in like prisoners, so for God's sake they couldn't get caught! John knew that they must've gotten the phone by now, at the pace they had been running they were bound to be at the office, they had to be fast,  oh they simply couldn't mess up now.