[The look on Mycroft's face grows stormier, he's debating the merits of taking him to the hospital. Of course Sherlock wouldn't want to go, their parents would get involved. How disappointed they would be.

He holds his phone with both hands a moment, biting his lip. Their parents would end up blaming him too. He should have looked after Sherlock. He always should have looked after Sherlock.

He'd already failed looking after Victor and Eurus. One moment, and they were gone. Their parents had been furious at him.

He'd been furious at himself.]

Sherlock, I have to phone them. Tell me, what did you take?

[He reaches over to check his pulse. He had the same line of thought. Either he was dead already, or he wasn't. And if Sherlock couldn't tell him what he'd taken...they'd waste time trying to diagnose him and he'd be dead from that, too.

All he could really do was monitor him himself, then take him home.]