So I imagine not a lot of folks will read this one but I had so many ideas that I just needed to get out.

Full summary: John notices that Sherlock isn't eating very much and becomes worried. A woman enters Sherlock's life and tries to help him live again. Some John/Sherlock fluff, but it'll eventually be mostly Sherlock/Molly.

As usual, reviews/feedback are much appreciated! Please don't hesitate to pop me a review because they're nice and make my day.

Chapter One: Beginning of the End

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock Holmes sighed in exhaustion as he entered the flat, taking off his long coat and scarf and placing both on the coat tree by the doorway. He absentmindedly scratched the back of his head and then planted himself on the couch as John walked over and sat in his usual chair by the bookshelves and fireplace. He heard his stomach growl but ignored it, rubbing his eyes. It had been a long few days of crime-solving and the two of them had just finished their most recent case involving a heavier bloke who had died of an apparent heart attack, however, his heart had shown no evidence of strain. It had turned out that he had died of being poisoned by his mistress for his life insurance money.

He put his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, feeling his friend's eyes on him. "What?" He asked, more coldly than he had meant to.

He glanced over at saw that John Watson was biting his lip. "I just… I don't know. Usually you're all fired up once you've solved a case. Was it not as exciting for you this time as most of them?"

Sherlock was silent for several moments, letting himself feel the soft leather couch underneath his body, wishing he could sink all the way inside of it and disappear. "Well, it's over now, isn't it? The case. We've solved it. Everything's just a bit more boring now."

John just nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer. Sherlock sighed again and then turned his back to him, laying on his side as his stomach rumbled once again with hunger. He couldn't get the image of the heavy dead man out of his head and it was haunting him. Why wasn't he more fit? Didn't he know that he would've died of a heart attack if he hadn't been murdered? It was common sense, wasn't it? He swallowed hard and closed his eyes as he hugged his arms around his body. With his thumbs, he could feel the bit of fat that had started to creep up on him, expanding his stomach to a slight bulge.

Then a thought crossed his mind. I'm criticizing a man who had been overweight when I'm gaining weight myself. It's fascinating how much of a hypocrite I can be when I put my mind to it.

Then, for whatever reason, he felt compelled to bounce the idea off of John. He hopped off the couch and then walked over to him, standing up straight. "Look at me and tell me what you see, John."

The request had surprised John so much that he cleared his throat and looked up at his friend. "Err, I see an intelligent person who can also be a pretty big arse on occasion – "

His ignorance set something off in Sherlock and he shook his head and waved his arms for emphasis. "I mean me, John! For God's sake, me!"

"Of course this is about you! Who do you think I'm talking about…?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and swallowed hard, trying to keep his patience. "I mean physically! Not as a person! How do you think I am… physically?"

"Oh," John replied, nodding in understanding. He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. "Tall, grey eyes, dark curly hair, slender in build – "

That was where he was getting at. "Slender? Slender implies… thin, rather skinny in nature?" When Sherlock saw John nod yes, he started shaking his head before he unbuttoned his lilac colored shirt he had been wearing and did a spin-around. "I'm not though, am I? I'm… getting fat….aren't I?"

John raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "No, Sherlock. I believe it's physically impossible for you to gain any weight at all. Your metabolism has to be through the roof. You might be, bulking up a little but for you that's a good thing! You were looking almost skeletal for a while, weren't you? I could see your ribs and your shoulder blades. It's probably from all the running around we do. Between you jumping over fences and down stairways, it's probably muscle. You need to put on a few pounds…"

Sherlock inhaled through his nose, trying to not let the words get to him. He couldn't understand how he could gain any weight. He had been small his whole life, even when he ate at home. He looked at John and nodded, trying not to give himself away. "Right… right. So, umm… I think I'm going to go get some fresh air." Sherlock grabbed his shirt and began to button it again.

"Oh, great. I'll come along…"

"No! No," Sherlock replied, cursing himself for having almost yelled the first time. "You should stay here in case Graham –"

"Greg," John automatically corrected calmly.

"Right, in case he stops by with another case his team is too incompetent to solve. I'll be back in a bit."

John nodded and exhaled, looking slightly disappointed. Sherlock ignored his coat on the way out and ran down the stairs before he left the house, walking quickly around the corner. He kept on walking, his mind trailing back to his weight gain. The more he thought about it, the faster he walked until he was nearly sprinting down the sidewalk, ignoring the pedestrian signs. He had no idea why but it was bothering him that he had somehow managed to build some fat. That's what it had to be though, right? Fat. Not muscle as John had suggested. Sherlock could see the extra skin on his stomach where he had once been very skinny.

As he continued to run through the streets in London, his mind raced. Why is this bothering me now? Maybe because I haven't actually been focused on it until the case was finished. But then how long had I been in this physical state? Why had no one said anything about it to him?

In order to chase the criminals, he needed to be fast, as a fox. Fat would slow him down. No, he couldn't afford the extra weight. He needed to lose it somehow. He finally stopped running when he heard the screeching of tires and then felt an object forcefully touch his legs, causing him slight unbalance. He looked over and noticed a dark colored car had bumped him and the driver was leaning out his window, shouting and cursing at him.

Sherlock blinked a few times and then suddenly heard the phone he hadn't bothered to take out in his pants pocket chime with a text. He moved back onto the sidewalk where he was safe again and checked his messages.

If you're not too busy solving crimes and convicting murderous mistresses, do try to make time to see me today, Sherlock. I'll be waiting eagerly for your visit. – MH

Of course he signed his messages the same way Sherlock did, minus the first initial obviously. His brother and him shared more than DNA, they shared little mannerisms as well. He sighed heavily and angrily pocketed his mobile before he looked around him. His brother wasn't too far away; he might as well go see him right now. He hailed a cab and then directed the driver to where he knew Mycroft could be found. He dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, trying to catch his breath before the meeting with his brother.

Once the drive arrived at the place where Mycroft was staying at, Sherlock thanked the driver and quickly exited the cab. He walked inside, straightening himself along the way. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows, masking the evidence of sweat he had wiped from his forehead. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, trying to calm himself. His breathing stopped short when Mycroft opened the door and smirked, stepping aside to let his younger brother come inside the room.

"Out for a morning jog, Sherlock?"

"No, actually," he lied instinctively. "I was in the middle of something. What is it you summoned me for exactly, Mycroft?"

His brother shook his head and walked around him. "Can't I invite my only brother over for a cup of tea and biscuits? "

Sherlock pursed his lips and tongued his cheek. "Well considering there's no tea or biscuits in this room, I can only assume you have an errand for me. Unfortunately for you, I'm quite busy at the moment so do make this visit short."

"Have you gained a bit of weight, brother?"

Sherlock felt his stomach sink and he bit back the words that were lingering on his tongue. Even his brother had noticed. "What is it you want?"

Mycroft sighed and then turned to his brother. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, dear brother mine, but I did indeed only invite you over for a chat and tea. The tea's on its way. You've arrived much more prematurely than I anticipated. Please, Sherlock, do have a seat."

"I prefer to stand. What is it you want to discuss?" Sherlock didn't want to admit to his brother that he just wanted to go back outside and run some more.

Mycroft searched Sherlock's eyes for something, but there was sadness in them. "Sit down, Sherlock. We need to talk about something." There was a sternness in his voice that made Sherlock finally obey his brother.

At that moment, the tea arrived on an elegant silver platter and Mycroft was silent as he poured cups for both of them. Once he sat down across from his brother, he took a sip.

Sherlock wasn't liking where this was heading. Mycroft was a drama queen but he usually wasn't this dramatic about something if it wasn't dire. He held the warm cup in his hands, waiting. "Oh come now, out with it, Mycroft."

"Our dear mother has died, Sherlock." Mycroft finally spoke, in an almost inaudible voice that surprised Sherlock.

"W-What…? But how? When?" He asked, setting his tea down and looking at Mycroft in shock. He could feel his blood freezing in his veins.

Mycroft only moved to take another drink from his tea, apparently calm, too calm for Sherlock to feel calm himself though. "Brain aneurysm, it would seem. She had a severe seizure and there was no way for anyone to save her."

Sherlock sat back in his chair and looked out the window in thought. "Damn it. Damn it! Why didn't you tell me this sooner? When did she die?" he demanded, hitting his chair angrily.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and did a shrugging motion with his shoulders. "It happened the other day. I attempted to call you, three times, I believe it was, but you didn't pick up. Did my dear brother mine decide to have another trip to the morphine fairy?"

Sherlock felt the tears build up in his eyes now, hating that his brother was right. When he and John had settled in for the night, he had been so frustrated with the case that he had been driven towards his crutch, or at least one of his crutches. He could feel his hands shaking now. Sherlock stood up quickly and started towards the door, his stomach feeling sick with nausea and his legs feeling like they were about to give out.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I did try to call you though. It's not my fault that you let your addictions get the best of you."

"Just shut up, Mycroft!" Sherlock whipped around and screamed at him. He took a shaky breath and glared at his brother, shaking his head. "You should've tried harder! This isn't one of those things you try once and then give up when you get no response! She was family! You should've tried harder to contact me, stop by the flat, something!"

Mycroft stood up now and set his tea down at the table before he looked at his brother with searching eyes. "I don't believe I've ever seen you so worked up before, Sherlock! I understand it was our mother and all but why all this emotion now? Why did you not react like this when she was brought into the hospital months ago when she had her first brain aneurysm? You were still as a statue, not even tears…"

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. "Well she wasn't dead then, was she?!" He couldn't stay here any longer. He had to get away from his brother, from the whole situation. Without a goodbye, Sherlock stormed out of the building and didn't bother to hail a cab this time.

He ran. He ran until his legs burned battery acid, pumping away. He let the tears finally escape his eyes now, everything a blur in his vision. This wasn't happening; it couldn't be happening. Sure, people died and life went on but his mother had been the closest thing he had to feeling love. Now that was all dead with her. Sherlock was feeling things he hadn't felt since he was a child. He felt pain, agony, hurt. He was feeling like someone had reached into his body and ripped out his heart, leaving him cold and frozen.

He didn't stop running until he had finally reached 221B. He doubled over from the cramp he was feeling in his side and resisted from punching the door. He wiped away his tears and then walked inside the flat, half expecting to see a curious John awaiting him when he walked in the door but to his slight disappointment, he only saw his skull that was sitting on his fireplace mantel. Once he was sure he was alone, Sherlock grabbed his violin and began to play the most mournful song he knew, silently dedicating it to his mother. Once it ended, he put down the violin and then walked over to the fireplace and reached in.

He felt around until he felt his package of cigarettes that was taped on the inside, ripping it off the stone and taking one out before he lit it. He sunk down on his brown leather couch and closed his eyes as he took occasional deep drags from his cigarette, wishing he could wake up in the morning and the only person he ever truly loved and felt any emotion towards be still alive and breathing. He felt like it was the beginning of the end as he knew it. Sherlock forgot about himself as he let the nicotine fill his system, willing it to kill him. His wishes went unfulfilled and he only felt cold, numb, and hatred towards the world once again.