I ran. I ran as fast as I could through the streets of London, not caring if anyone saw me or if I got drenched from the rain. Thunder rumbled and I almost stumbled to the ground, trying to keep balance. A wave of nausea hit me and I doubled over, panting and holding my stomach.

This is not the first time that I wanted to die. But it is first time that I wanted to separate myself from this horrid body of mine.

A shadow loomed over me. I didn't look and I did not care to see who it was; let them kill me, I want to be free.

"Sherlock," the man said in a familiar, stern voice. I looked up to see who it was, then vomited on his shoes.

"Why must I be like this," I whispered, tears spilling out of my dull, black eyes. I was hugging my arms on the ground, sitting at Mycroft's feet.

"Sherlock, why do you hate yourself for this?" he asked soothingly.

"SHUT UP!" I cried, turning my head away. "Why do you act this way toward me?"

"I am your brother."

"NO YOU'RE NOT. Are you like me? No!"

I sobbed, my throat tightening and my heart soft and vulnerable.

"Why did you run away?" Mycroft whispered, kneeling in front of me.

"B-because," I stuttered in between hiccups, "of my condition. You kn-know what it is."

"It got worse?" I don't know why, but he actually looked worried.

"Yes." After a few deep calming breaths, I was still shaking, but asked, "Mycroft?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Wh-why am I like this?"

"Oh, Sherlock." As uncomfortable as it seemed, he hugged my head to his chest. "I don't know. You were born with the ability to think faster than others, to be more intelligent."

"But it came with the curse to slowly die. To rot away, until nothing of my soul is left in my body. It hurts, Mycroft, it hurts like hell," I cried. This is not like me at all, but I don't care anymore. I'm dying, nobody cares for me or has any sympathy for me, and no one loves me like they love others. I don't care.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. "You might be born with a gift and a curse and I'm not, but I am still your brother, and you have to accept that fact. Live your life, and we'll try to find a cure."

"There. Is. No. Cure!" I growled.

"That's what it seems to you."

"That's what it IS. It's the truth, Mycroft, it's the ugly truth, and if we believe it or not, it will stay like that." I challenged him with a cold stare, and he glared back at me.

"You live. I'll search."

I huffed, standing up and turning away, wiping my mouth and straightening my clothes. "NO word of this, Mycroft. NO word of this."

The corners of his mouth curved up into a smirk and he didn't say anything.

"Search if you want," I muttered. He started to walk away. I considered going after him, but decided not to.

I walked straight back to my flat, ignoring the stares of the people I walked past. When I reached it, I ran up the stairs and straight into my room, ignoring the questions John flew at me from his desk. I slammed the door and sat behind it, listening carefully for any noise. I heard Mrs. Hudson walking out of her room and into the sitting room where John was probably checking the blog on his computer.

"What happened to Sherlock?" she asked, surprise in her voice.

John most likely shrugged. "Who knows?"

A/N: Probably not the best story I have planned; I only came up with the idea from a picture that I saw. I'll try to find it again, it was really good. It was Sherlock on his knees, begging John to help him. On his back were broken wings, real or imaginary, I'm not sure.