He remembers precisely the last time his brother was high. Remembers being sworn at, being shoved against the wall with movement so quick and fast that he almost forgets the time his brother spent learning a martial art to somehow be able to overpower another person. He can take the drugs away so much easier than it would be for Sherlock to obtain him, and even with Sherlock in the doorway, Mycroft doesn't back down.

He's the most powerful man in London, or one of them, and far be it from him to allow his stupid little brother to make him cower down. Mycroft finishes the kitchen - clean as a whistle, bags and syringes and powders and all sorts of drugs and chemicals thrown into the garbage like they're only bits of rubbish.

"I don't think so, Sherlock." His voice is quiet, and he's near bordering on cruel with how distant he's made himself, watching the man and holding the bin in hand. He comes to him in the doorway, quiet and demanding. "Please move. I don't have all day for this, dear brother." Polite, as though they were children again and Sherlock was being stubborn, trying to force Mycroft to stay home with him rather than allow him to go on with friends and a new life.

"This can either end with me, or I can call Lestrade to bring you in. We'll put you in a rehabilitation center, and you and I both know you don't want that. Not again." His voice sounds weary to him, as he hears it aloud. "Not with Moriarty out and about still, or someone, someone trying to pretend he's still alive. It took me ages to convince them not to criminalize you for what you've done. Breaking that would ruin my reputation, Sherlock, and I do not. have. the time."

A stress, and he massages his temples. "Do try to be logical for once."