Author's note - This is the first fic I've posted anywhere, so please let me know what you think.

Disclaimer - I don't own Sherlock, if I did it would be very different considering I was 8 when Series 1 came out. Being 15 now I could probably have some fun with it but that honour falls to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

The day after his sister had tried to kill him, Mycroft Holmes was back in his natural state - alone. DI Lestrade had spent the night babysitting him, no doubt by Sherlock's instructions, but had now gone back to his own life. Sherlock and John were at Baker Street, trying to piece together their lives after their flat was blown apart by a bomb that Mycroft himself had authorised. And that was it. There was nobody else around to think about him.

Despite it being two o clock in the afternoon, Mycroft decided it would be an excellent time to begin drinking. Grabbing an unopened bottle of scotch, he headed in to the largest bathroom on the second floor. Yes, there were multiple bathrooms in the second floor. He had seven bathrooms in total, in a house belonging only to him.

'Pointless,' he thought as he locked the door behind him. 'Utterly pointless. A house of this size when there isn't a single chance of it being shared with another person.'

He sat on the floor, leaning back against the oversized bathtub. Unscrewing the bottle and taking a large swig, the train of thought continued, led by a vicious voice inside his head.

'And of course that's all your fault. You shut yourself off from everyone, even if they wanted to they couldn't break through that icy mask.'

Another mouthful of scotch.

'And even without the mask, everyone would hate you anyway. When you were at primary school, the other children would run away from you screaming, you never had friends even then. There must be something about your personality that just instantly repels people. Maybe the fact that you can deduce the hell out of them within a split second of meeting them. Or that you have worse social skills that your self proclaimed sociopathic brother. Or that you don't understand emotions like people are supposed to. Probably all of them, and more.'

With another drink, an idea swept across his mind. Getting up, he opened the medicine cabinet and picked up a small bottle of prescription pills. They were for his migraines but, not wanting to have get involved with drugs in any form after everything with Sherlock, he had never even opened them. Well maybe now they had a use.

The voice in his head continued, becoming more and more persuasive.

'Why not - it's not like anyone would miss you. Your parents hate you, you kept their daughter from them. They have every right to hate you. Sherlock has John, he doesn't need you. Besides, yesterday he was prepared to kill you himself. He'd be better off without you anyway. Over the last few days he's nearly been killed so many times because of your screw ups. If you'd kept a closer eye on Eurus, stopped her from getting out, stopped her from meeting Moriarty, none of this would have happened.'

Another swig from the scotch.

'You've screwed up everything. You pride yourself on being in control but look at you. Everything you touch falls apart, it's a wonder the government isn't in a worse state with everything you've gotten involved with. You have no control. Over anything. You've been on a diet for the last thirty five years, and you're barely closer to your goal than when you started. You're weak, you can't even do a simple thing like that. Every decision you have made in your life has been the wrong one, why don't you do the world a favour and make the right one now.'

He opened the bottle of pills with a small crack, tipping them out on to the counter. Quickly counting them and, taking in to account their dosage, he came to his conclusion - this would be enough to end it.

The voice spoke, egging him on. 'There we go: The right decision for once. Just swallow them down and you won't have a chance to ruin any more lives.'

He paused for a second. The bottle of scotch was nearly empty, surely he wouldn't be in the best frame of mind to be making such a final deduction. He quickly brushed that thought aside, alcohol only makes you brave enough to do things you would still consider while sober, it doesn't come up with the idea itself.

The voice backed him up. 'You can't back out now. That would just show how weak you really are.'

Mycroft knew the voice was right. He swiftly scooped up the pills and put two in his mouth.

'There we go. It'll be just like falling asleep, and then you won't be able to hurt anyone else.'

He knocked then back with the scotch and picked up two more. Before long, there were no more pills left on the counter and Mycroft felt… Mycroft felt nothing. Just like the voice promised, he felt himself quickly sinking in to unconsciousness.

The last thing he heard was the voice in his head.

'Everything's going to be better now. Everything is better now.'

Author's note - I don't know much about ODing on painkillers but I'm assuming that because Mycroft took a lot and they were fairly strong, the effect would be quite quick. If anybody is able to correct me on that it would be appreciated.