Okay...so...I've got a house full of sick kids, because it's all or nothing or the universe is conspsiring or some other such thing, which means probably not much time for writing today and possibly tomorrow, we'll see how it goes. Either way I didn't want to leave my author alert peeps without anything to read. I wasn't going to post this for a while because I have so many up that I'm working on, but this is the last one I've been working on so...anyway...there are warnings...

Warnings: This is a bit darker. Mentions of drug use...past, not sure about present yet, but possibly. Severed body parts, might get a bit descriptive later, but not too much, least I hope not, guess that all depends on your angle. Sexual situations, but that won't be till way later and if you've read my other stuff you know I don't get too descriptive...least not when compared to some fics out there. :) If I left anything out I apologize.

Sherlock sighed as the sound of his brother's footsteps reached him. What the hell was Mycroft doing there? Wait. He listened. No, his brother wasn't there for his help. Mycroft wasn't worried, not that his brother would admit to that. Mycroft seemed… He rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed right now was a chipper brother.

There to gloat no doubt, though Sherlock couldn't recall having done anything gloat worthy. Must have to do with some story in the paper. He'd gone back to celebrity status following the return of Moriarty, after which everything from the trial to his faked suicide had been dredged up and even after he located Moriarty and put an end to the man's final game, once and for all, the papers kept up their incessant stories.

He thought things had begun to die down, at least neither John nor Mrs. Hudson had mentioned any new articles, but perhaps he hadn't been listening. He did have a tendency to tune them out occasionally.

Mycroft stepped through the open door, but Sherlock purposely kept his gaze affixed to the ceiling, hoping that with enough annoyance his brother would leave as quickly as possible.

"No cases then," Mycroft said, noting that the detective hadn't changed from his sleep ware as he walked across the room and then sat down in John's chair.

"How very observant of you," Sherlock replied in disdain.

He could practically hear the smile his brother wore and it grated on his every nerve.

"Not turning to something more recreational in your spare time, I hope?"

Sherlock sighed. His brother had been asking him that nearly every time they saw each other since Magnussen.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he snapped, sitting up and eyeing his annoying older brother.

"That wasn't an answer, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, the man's smile slipping.

He sighed again.

"No, Mycroft, I'm not using. I haven't since Magnussen and you know why that was necessary."

Mycroft visibly flinched at the man's name. Not liking to relive the memory of his brother nearly being killed over a selfish act of sentiment when there had been other ways to handle the situation.

"Good," Mycroft replied, glancing around the flat. "No new roommate then?"

"Why would I have a new roommate?"

"If not for the money then company perhaps? You do go in for that sort of thing as I recall."

"I've John and Mary if I require company. When's the last time one of your friends stopped by for a visit?" Sherlock smirked. "Oh, yes, you don't go in for that sort of thing. Sorry, brother dear, must have slipped my mind."

Mycroft gave him a tight lipped smile.

"Yes. Well. When was the last time John stopped by? Last week wasn't it? A Wednesday if I recall."

Sherlock's smirk became a glare.

"They have an infant."

"Yes. A little one," Mycroft said as if it were the most horrid thing he'd ever heard of. "Doesn't leave much time for friendship, but then I did warn you at the wedding that this would happen."

Sherlock stood up, irritated. Mainly because his brother was right. Ever since the baby John had become more busy with less time for cases. Mary invited him over constantly and he'd gone, most times, but it wasn't the same and many times he'd leave, making up one excuse or another.

"Did you have a reason for your visit?" he snapped.

Mycroft watched his brother's behavior. He'd been right. Sherlock was in a state. Not a danger night, but it wouldn't be long before they started. His brother had never done well on his own. John was good for him, the doctor kept his brother balanced, but without John Sherlock would eventually spiral, worse than before because he had something to lose, something he felt he was losing.

"I've found a roommate for you," Mycroft said, no sense beating around the bush.

He'd found a knock to the head worked much better when dealing with Sherlock. His brother paused, eyeing him.

"Roommate?" he asked, slowly, not at all buying what his brother was saying. Why would Mycroft find him a roommate? And then he knew. "You want to put someone here to keep an eye on me. Well, I don't need a handler Mycroft."

"After what you did-"

"And I've more than made up for that. Or are you so quick to forget Moriarty?"

"Yes. Well. With recent events…" Mycroft replied, unfolding a paper that he'd been holding under his arm and handing it over.

Sherlock took it and glanced at the photo. He'd gotten into a row at the last crime scene with one of Lestrade's officers. He recalled the flash of a camera, but at the time he hadn't paid much notice. It seemed the photo had made its way into the paper.

"And, of course, it doesn't say anything about the way the idiot tramped all over the crime scene, something Lestrade suspended him for."

He tossed the paper on the nearest surface, which happened to be the side table.

"The point is, Sherlock-"

"The point is, Mycroft, I'm not allowing your sitter to set one foot inside my flat!"

"She's not my sitter," the elder Holmes replied.

Sherlock paused and eyed his brother, drawing his brows together.

"She?"

"She's the daughter of a business associate," Mycroft replied, which was completely true, though not many people knew who the man really was, where he came from, or what exactly he did for the elder Holmes.

He kept most of the detail even from his colleague, but Mr. Tyler gave him far too much leverage to chance letting the man fall into anyone else's hands. Although Mr. Tyler was getting quite a lot out of the deal in return. The man was a business man to the core.

"Wouldn't the daughter of one of your business associates have the means to rent her own flat? One in a much nicer neighborhood?" Sherlock dismissed.

Mycroft wasn't going to let his brother out of this. He had cards to play and he would play them if it came down to that. Sherlock couldn't be left on his own, left to his own devices. He knew where that road led. He'd been trying to locate someone for months, ever since Sherlock located Moriarty and the man had been dispatched, per his colleague's orders.

The idea to use Ms. Tyler didn't come to him until yesterday when he spoke to her. Mr. Tyler mentioned two weeks ago that his daughter was looking for work, something Mycroft had to be very careful with. He couldn't have her working just anywhere, couldn't have someone find out about her and her family, couldn't have her drawing attention from the wrong person. That would never do.

He went over her work experience. After finding out about her missions for an agency called Torchwood he thought she might be suited to work as an agent, but he could tell that she had a noble streak, something that would hinder that sort of work. After that she mentioned that beyond working in a shop, something she never wanted to do again, her only other experience lay in dealing with moody geniuses. Of course that had been a lark, but he prompted her for details. She'd been a bit evasive, but the story he got was that she had traveled with a man for two years who was indeed a genius, this backed up by Mr. Tyler and her mother, though he didn't particularly care for that woman. That the man had been a bit rash and unstable at times, not her words, but her story of his actions conveyed that. And that was what gave him the idea.

"You're spiraling, Sherlock. We both know it," Mycroft insisted.

"I am not spiraling, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped.

"The hands, Sherlock."

The detective glanced at his hands, almost unconsciously. He'd noticed it, of course, knew his brother's words were true, but he'd never admit it. The itch was there. Had returned not long after Mary gave birth. Not bad at first, but he'd had Moriarty to deal with. Now though…it had become a daily battle and one he knew he was losing.

"I'm fine, Mycroft!" he growled, his voice rising.

"Of course you are," his brother replied, completely calm and it fairly made him want to strange the man.

Sherlock eyed his brother.

"I am!"

"Yes. I heard. Now about her accommodations-"

"I'm not taking a roommate!"

"Splendid! Mother will be thrilled!"

"Mother?" Sherlock asked, sitting back down in his chair.

"You think I'm the only one who noticed? They do receive the paper."

Sherlock glared over his brother. Mycroft was serious. He sighed, slouching back irritably without replying.

"Ah, well, mother will be disappointed, but I'm sure she'll be glad she doesn't have to miss her line dancing class." Mycroft stood up, retrieving his umbrella. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson make up John's old room, shall I?"

Sherlock ignored his brother and the grin he was sure the man was sporting. After a moment he heard his brother step out, closing the door. Mycroft was right. He shouldn't have gotten attached. He sighed, glancing down at his right hand, noting the slight tremor before returning his gaze to the tiles.

Standard Disclaimer.

Thank you to all my brilliant readers!

If you have time reviews are always welcome. :)