1.

"He's a good-for-nothing, interfering, annoying bas—"

"Okay, okay," John sighs, "I get it. Mycroft is horrible and never does anything nice for you. I do have a sister remember, I know what it's like to be bossed around."

Sherlock pulls his dressing gown close to his body and curls in on himself in his chair.

"What did he do this time?"

"He shut down one of the cases we were working on," Sherlock sighs, "classified by MI5 apparently. Didn't want me or the Met to go any further into it than we already were. We almost had it."

"You win some, you lose some," John shrugs, "you've never been bothered before."

He perches on the arm on the chair and puts an arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

"He feels the need to interfere in every part of my life. It was almost touching when we were young, but now it's just irritating."

John chuckles, "he's a big brother, and he's just doing his job. He's allowed to worry about you, especially in our line of work and with your past."

"He always tries to take away the things I have that he doesn't," Sherlock sighs. He wraps his arms around John's middle and squeezes, nuzzling at John's stomach, "he can take the cases from me, but he's never having you."

John smiles and pulls his fingers through Sherlock's hair, "that's true. You don't need to worry about that. I only talk to him when he wants to discuss you and I have to talk him down from whatever he's thinking about doing to you."

Sherlock pulls John from the arm of the chair and onto his lap. He buries his face in John's shoulder and tangles their bodies as close as he can. John presses a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.

"Siblings, who would have them?"

2.

"Alright, boys, drugs bust," Greg Lestrade marches into the living room of 221b and claps his hands together as his team storms up the stairs.

Sherlock glares from his chair and John pokes his head around the corner of the kitchen. He narrows his eyes.

"What did Sherlock take this time?"

"Oh nothing important," Greg says nonchalantly, "just a case file and evidence for a majorly public case."

"Sherlock," John sighs, "just give it to him and save us all the trouble."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "I don't have them."

"You seriously expect me to believe that," Greg scoffs, "I saw you looking through my files yesterday and now it isn't there. Where is it?"

"If you actually bothered to check your desk then perhaps you'd find it," Sherlock snaps, "don't blame me for everything that goes missing, Lestrade. The case wasn't more than a five; I had no interest in it."

"You were plenty interested in it when you were reading it."

"And I'm not anymore. I told you who to arrest within minutes. Just get out. I'm clean and I don't have your file, you're wasting all of our time," he all of a sudden spots two officers getting a bit too close to his current experiment, "don't touch tha-"

The words die on Sherlock's lips when he sees the beakers connect with one of their elbows. They slide off the worktop and everything seems to go in slow motion as Sherlock dives forward to catch it. He flinches backwards when it and the contents crash to the floor.

Sherlock's jaw visibly tightens when he straightens his back.

"Out."

The room remains silent.

"Get out," he snarls, pointing at the door.

The members of Scotland Yard look to Lestrade, who nods. They silently walk out, leaving John, Sherlock, and Greg in the main room.

Greg runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.

"Look, Sherlock. I'm really sorry about what Henderson did. It was an accident; the Yard will pay for new equipment. But in the future please answer my texts when I send them. If you had we wouldn't have needed to come over."

Sherlock moves forwards to they're nose to nose.

"I was busy with an experiment I've been planning since I was ten years old, which coincidentally is the one your team have just ruined. When I said leave, I meant leave."

Lestrade holds his hands up and mumbles, "fine, fine," and turns to follow the officers down the stairs.

Sherlock glances at the mess of glass and chemicals on the floor and throws himself into his armchair. He rests his elbows on his knees and holds his head in his hands.

"Hey," John murmurs, standing between Sherlock's legs.

"What," he grumbles.

John puts his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and rubs circles on the nape of Sherlock's neck with his thumbs.

"You said you've wanted to do this experiment since you were a child."

John feels Sherlock's head nod.

"Then surely you can manage another few days while you gather the supplies again. Consider the first a control, or what you had of it anyway. A practise run, yeah?"

Sherlock sighs and nuzzles at John's chest.

"They were looking for drugs and papers. They didn't need to be in the kitchen and they didn't have to break my equipment," he mumbles.

"No, they didn't," John says, feeling Sherlock's muscles start to relax, "but you know what they're like. Incompetent idiots, the lot of them."

Sherlock looks up at John from under his eyelashes and starts to smile.

3.

"Go away," Sherlock glowers at his flatmate, "I'm busy."

"Busy sitting on the sofa," John retorts, nudging Sherlock's feet off the coffee table.

"Thinking," he hisses.

"No, Sherlock," John points at him, "you're grumpy. You haven't eaten since yesterday morning and haven't slept in longer. The case has come to a dead end; you need to wait for Lestrade to call."

Sherlock puts his hands under his chin and ignores John leaving, "I've missed something. I must have done."

He sits in silence for a few minutes until John holds a plate of toast in front of his face, "eat. Or I feed you."

Sherlock glares at him, but takes the plate and starts eating. After the first few bites he realises how hungry his body actually was and has somehow wolfed down four slices of toast within a matter of minutes. He hears John laugh as the plate is replaced with a glass of juice, which he gulps down.

"C'mon," John holds his hand out, "you said you need to clear your mind and I know the perfect way to do that."

Sherlock takes John's hand and eyes him curiously. John pulls him to standing and presses their bodies together. He runs his fingers down Sherlock's back, "a good orgasm usually does the trick for you, doesn't it?"

"You know I don't have sex when I'm on a case," Sherlock frowns, trying to ignore John's hands, which had started moving lower and lower.

"What case? You said yesterday that it's useless until they strike again so technically you aren't on one right now. You've been grumpy ever since."

He presses their lips together and Sherlock feels his body start to respond. He finds his fingers have tangled themselves in John's hair.

"Come to bed," John whispers against his lips when they part.

Sherlock has always had difficulty saying no about anything in regards to John and eagerly pushes him towards their bedroom door.

4.

"I'll be in the room if you feel like joining me."

Sherlock remains frustratingly silent, staring at his whiskey glass. John groans and leaves through pub to find the stairs up to the rooms. He bumps into one of the owners they'd met earlier, Billy, he remembers him as, and narrowly avoids throwing someone's dinner all over himself.

"Everything alright?" He asks.

John shoves his hands in his jean pockets, "yeah, I'm calling it an early night. We've had a long day and the fresh air is getting to me after living in London so long."

"I see, well if you're looking for fresh air you're definitely in the right place," Billy grins, "where's your partner?"

"He's still in the main room having a drink," John hops awkwardly from foot to foot, "we had a bit of an argument and well."

He shrugs and trails off, hoping Billy would understand.

Billy leans around the door. His eyes find Sherlock quickly, still nursing his drink in front of the fire.

"Yeah," he agrees, "he doesn't look to be in the best of moods. I'll leave the pair of you to it; don't want this food getting cold."

John smiles when he leaves and turns to go up to the room. He uses the key to get in and throws his jacket onto the plush chair in the corner. He rubs his hands over his face and sighs. He didn't enjoy arguing with Sherlock but it seemed to happen a lot.

He considers a shower, but decides to try to sleep instead. He takes of his jeans and shirt, leaving them with his jacket, and pulls a soft t-shirt out of their shared bag. He pulls it on and climbs between the soft sheets. He groans when he feels the mattress and makes a mental note to consider buying a new one for their shared (what was Sherlock's) room at home.

John isn't asleep when Sherlock finally joins him.

He's lying on his back with his eyes closed, trying desperately to find sleep when he feels Sherlock slide under the duvet. John lifts his arm automatically and Sherlock curls up against his side, pulling the arm down and around his body. He tucks his head under John's chin and tangles their legs together, letting out a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Hm?" John opens one eye and looks down, "what for?"

"I said I don't have friends. What I meant is that I've just got one."

John presses his nose into Sherlock's hair, "it's alright. You seemed pretty freaked out, I've never seen you like that. What was up?"

"I saw it, John," Sherlock's voice shakes, "the hound."

John gently rubs circles on Sherlock's lower back with one hand while the other splays across Sherlock's hip. He pulls Sherlock further on top of himself and nudges Sherlock's head up to look him in the eye. He searches Sherlock's face in the darkness.

"You're seriously scared of it, aren't you?"

Sherlock nods, "it was huge, John. Red eyes and teeth. Henry saw it too, he said it was the same one he saw when he was a boy, the one that killed his father."

John feels Sherlock shake in his arms.

"It's alright, Sherlock," John whispers, tucking Sherlock as close to him as he can, "nothing can get to you in here. I've got you. Try to get some sleep."

John feels Sherlock's breath against his throat for a few minutes, and is almost asleep when he hears a quiet, "thank you."

He kisses Sherlock's temple in reply.

5.

"You did your best."

"My best wasn't good enough."

John sighs and leans forward. He raps his knuckles against the glass sectioning them from the cab driver, "here's fine, mate."

The driver pulls up to the kerb and John hands a few notes to him. He grabs Sherlock's cuff and pulls him out the car and into an alleyway. He gently presses Sherlock against the wall and brushes a stray curl out of his face.

"Stop thinking about it."

Sherlock scoffs and turns his head away, "I can't."

John cups Sherlock's face and brings it down to his own. He presses a gentle kiss against Sherlock's lips. When they break away he keeps Sherlock's eyes on him.

"It wasn't your fault."

"If I had just worked quicker there wouldn't be a body in the morgue right now, John. It is my fault."

"Does Greg beat himself up every time he can't save someone? Probably yes, but do you see him moping about it?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"I've lost people on my surgery table. People I could have saved if I had maybe worked just that little bit faster. But working that little bit faster would have opened me up to other mistakes that could have been dangerous. So yes, you couldn't save them, but you still solved the case in time so even more people didn't die. You of all people know it's a bad world out there, especially working as a detective."

"This is the first time it's happened. I didn't know I would end up feeling like this," Sherlock whispers.

"You're allowed to be upset, but remember, if you keep it at the front of your mind it'll slow you down on the next case and it'll happen again. You have to learn from this as a way of avoiding it in the future, yeah?"

Sherlock nods and drops his forehead to John's shoulder.

"You can't be expected to save them all, Sherlock. You're not Superman."

He clings to John's jacket as John rubs his hands down Sherlock's back.

After a few minutes Sherlock raises his head and rests his forehead against John's with a sigh.

"Feel a bit better?"

Sherlock nods.

"Let's go home then. You've been working non-stop these last few days and need to recharge."

+1

Everything had gone exactly to plan. Moriarty was dead. Sherlock's death certificate had been signed. John Watson, Mrs Hudson, and Greg Lestrade were alive.

What Mycroft didn't expect when he got home that evening, was his brother curled up in his living room.

"What are you doing here?" Mycroft sighs, "I thought you'd be halfway across Europe by now."

The second thing he didn't expect was when Sherlock looked up at him with red rimmed eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Mycroft goes to the chair and gathers Sherlock up in his arms. Sherlock tries to pull away but Mycroft holds him tight, feeling him slowly relax into the embrace. He nuzzles his face into the soft material of Mycroft's suit, keeping his hands tightly by his sides, his mind alternating between wanting his brother's sympathies and wanting their public icy relationship back.

"If I survive this John is never going to forgive me," Sherlock mumbles into his brother's shoulder.

"Then you need to make this whole scheme worth it. If you go back to him having done nothing, put him through the heartbreak only to go back and tell him Moriarty's web is still at large, he'll never forgive you. Bring it down and live, and yes, he will be angry, but he'll know you didn't do it in vain. The quicker you do it, the sooner you can be back in 221b with him."

Sherlock sniffs, leaning away, "I'm sure there'll be a Eurostar on tonight. Don't worry Mycroft; I'll be out of your hair within the hour. I just needed somewhere to hide until then."

He grunts when Mycroft pulls him back, "don't be a moron. The spare room is ready for you, as usual. You're exhausted and need to sleep. Yes, the web needs taken care of, but it can wait one more day. You need to rest, eat, and get your mind back on track. I'll organise everything for you."

Mycroft starts to pull his fingers through Sherlock's curls and holds his head against his shoulder again. Sherlock's fists finally uncurl from his sides and cling to Mycroft's waistcoat. He muffles a half-hearted sob and buries his face in his brother's neck.

"I don't want to leave him," he whispers, feeling like a child again, crying into his brother's shoulder over a boy.

"Like I say, the sooner you get it done, the sooner you can come home. I'll watch over John for you, I'll keep him safe."

Mycroft gently brushes Sherlock's hair with his hand, barely able to remember the last time his brother had let him touch him so much. They'd never been very physical siblings, especially after Mycroft left for university, but when one needed the contact, the other was always there to provide it.

"You'll send me CCTV footage? Photographs?"

Mycroft smiles, "of course, brother mine. Now, let's get you to bed."