Mycroft was acting strange.
He started having nightmares again, the same kind from when I visited him when he was in the hospital.
He seemed more anxious, hesitant and wary around the three in 221B. Sherlock, John, and even Mrs. Hudson.
He's been eating less, no matter how times I've been trying to get him to eat more.
He always wears long sleeved shirts now, even in bed.
He thinks I don't notice these things, but I do. Like the fact that he's been sleeping less. He tells me it's because of work, but I know it's because of the nightmares. Most of the times, I just want to let him sleep, but I don't want him to be late.
Sherlock picked up on this. Especially on how he kept tugging at his sleeves.
Now, I get home to our flat, after long hours of work. I call for him.
No answer.
I get to our bedroom, and look around. Are we playing hide and seek? Maybe he had to work late?
I took out my phone to call him, he didn't pick up, but I heard the ringing from somewhere inside the flat. I went to a washroom, where the sound was coming from. I ended the 'call', which made the sound stop. I was hesitant at first, but I opened the door, slowly. When it opened, my phone was no longer in my hand.
Mycroft. He was against the wall in front of the entrance of the room. His sleeves were rolled up, blood was slowly rolling down from almost freshly made cuts on his arms, which went from his elbow to his wrist, and all around his arms. A blade in his loose, right hand. There was an open bottle of pills, knocked over, but nothing spilling out. He was still his normal colour. I got beside him on my knees, and felt for a heart beat. There was, but it was slow..
It's been weeks now, he's still in a coma. Sherlock visited every now and then, crying into the bed, saying it was his fault this happened. John would join him sometimes.
Now I'm here again, I knocked, then walked into his room. But, when I slowly and quietly shut the door behind me, his head slowly and painfully turned towards me, and when he saw who it was, he smiled. I felt like crying, and went over to the bed. The beeping of the monitor was slow, and calm.
His throat was dry, so it hurt for him to talk. I ended up bringing him water. He tried his best to tell me that he woke up a little bit ago, and that he had a panic attack. But he was okay. He tried his best to tell me that he didn't remember why he started acting the way he did, but I didn't know whether to trust that or not.
After a couple weeks, he came home. I showed him my love and care for him, which he enjoyed. Sherlock and sometimes John would visit more than usual, and stay longer than they said they would. When I called Sherlock to tell him that Mycroft was awake, he freaked out. He immediately came, and cried, and kept frantically apologizing to him.
He was almost the same way when Mycroft first came home. Except, less apologizing.
I'm happy Mycroft is back. I don't know what we would've done if something bad had happened.
I'm glad it was a happy ending.