As most things do with Sherlock Holmes, the events began with an experiment. And just as predictably, it escalated until everything simply collapsed.

But first, there was a case.

Sherlock was laying with his legs splayed casually across the couch, a robe draped around him, his dark brown curls slightly matted around his head from lack of washing and three nicotine patches on his arm. He hadn't felt the need to shower in the past two days, and this fact, combined with the boredom that was constantly pressing on his brain like a jackknife were simply the causes of his body's neglected state. This need would remain unaddressed, however, as his brother came in the door of 221B Baker Street without even knocking. The audacity that Mycroft had, like he could come into his and John's flat like he owned the place made a growl come to the detective's throat, his striking blue eyes remaining closed. Mycroft simply sat down, ignoring the younger Holmes' indignant behavior, though he sighed at his disheveled appearance.

"You look busy."

"You look like a moron."

Mycroft frowned, watching as Sherlock's eyes shot open as a rush of nicotine flooded his bloodstream. "Sherlock, you've been sitting here for three days doing nothing but replacing those patches."

"No I haven't." Sherlock quickly rebutted, his eyes turning to glare at Mycroft. "I've been here less than an hour. I talked to John this morning, and he forced me to eat." He scoffed. "I hate eating. Always slows me down." He muttered.

"John's been gone nearly three days, visiting an old friend." He ignored Sherlock's claims that he'd just spoken with him and continued. "Lucky for you he's returning this evening, or you'd be dehydrated by morning." He paused, muttering more to himself than to his brother, who still wasn't listening. "Not to mention starved, considering how little you eat already." To accentuate his claims, there was a low rumble from Sherlock's stomach, to which the elder Holmes' rolled his eyes. "I'm not your babysitter, Sherlock." He grunted, rising from the chair and placing a thick stack of files on the coffee table next to Sherlock. "However, since you're my only option, you have a case." This instantly grabbed Sherlock's attention. Whether it was because of some nicotine-induced energy spurt or he really wanted to look into the case, Sherlock sat upright and flipped casually through the files, a smile raising the corners of his lips into a smile, one eyebrow raising as the smile extended across his sharp features.

"I'm your only option?" He smirked.

Mycroft withheld a smirk of his own. So that's why he's suddenly interested. Spiteful idiot. "Don't flatter yourself, Sherlock. I merely don't trust anyone else who will provide the same… insight as you do." Sherlock cackled; the result of abrupt movement after so much nicotine and continuing amusement at his brother's unintentional compliments. He looked through the files with more scrutiny this time, though he already knew he was going to take the case. It would be his first job in about two weeks besides a few deadpan, dull murders Lestrade got his input on (none of which he left the house for), but he knew Mycroft had already deduced this. He knew Sherlock would accept. But Sherlock wasn't one to waste an opportunity to torment his brother, so he set the papers down on the table, his face becoming devoid of emotion as he shrugged.

"Despite what you may think, Mycroft, I am rather busy. I'm afraid I'll have to politely decline."

"Ah yes." Mycroft said, a light tone coming to his voice. "Those second rate murders you've been solving must be very time consuming." Sherlock nodded in response, flopping back on the couch.

"Precisely. So if you'll be so kind as to leave me to my work..." Mycroft's gaze quickly turned into a glare at this.

"For God's sakes, Sherlock, you could at least act like you're going to do something other than sit there and drug yourself." Sherlock's eyebrows raised in contempt, his pupils dilating with what could be known as surprise, though most people would say that Sherlock Holmes was incapable of feeling such emotion; with his brain power it seemed like he was psychic, though he always refuted such claims with the inescapable evidence that clairvoyant abilities were impossible and clearly false. "You're deducing on evidence that has only existed for 48 hours, Mycroft. I actually have plans tonight, none of which involve you sulking like some lost dog around my flat. So…" He gave him a light nudge towards the door. "Good day, brother dear." He turned away from his older brother as he finally nudged him out the doorway, leaving it open. He barely noticed the way his brother's eyebrows raised as he left him there in the doorway. Mycroft had been making deductions, yes, but he had come to a slightly different realization than Sherlock had predicted. He spoke one simple phrase to his brother; it was this phrase, however, that was the result of nearly two years of examination (nearly all of which was spent trying to find the right way to bring it up).

"You're getting ready for John, aren't you?"

Sherlock froze. Every muscle in his body clenched in response to his brother's words; his very being felt like it was being filled with a searing, unquenchable fire from the tip of his toes to his head, his thoughts turning unintentionally irritate, the feeling of every thought floating and drifting through his mind becoming worse until he becomes aware that he's turned around to face his brother, the only complete thought spilling from his lips in a half-hearted attempt at an irritated sounding response.

"What are you trying to say, Mycroft?"

Mycroft takes a step back inside the door, considering the response his acceptance back inside. "I'm saying." He begins, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock. "That the second I said that John was coming home you seemed to all but burst with life. You have three patches on your right arm, but…" With the tip of his umbrella, Mycroft nudged up Sherlock's sleeve. "Four on the left." He tsked with contempt. "You really should consider cutting back on those things." After this simple after-thought, he continued. "You said that you had just talked to John this morning."

"Well I did." Sherlock interjected before his brother could disagree.

"Yes." Mycroft responds wearily. He really did despise elaborating. "Just like when I came over when John was gone six months ago, and four weeks after that, not to mention 10 days ago when John went out to work." An actual chuckle came through his vocal chords at this. "The man can't be gone eight hours without you acting like he's been dead a month."

Sherlock scoffed. "Get to the point, Mycroft."

"You love John Watson."

That damn name again; his name, along with the word that preceded it made Sherlock want to punch his older brother straight in the face. How dare he put all of his strange, suppressed feelings out on a plate like they were nothing but nothing but cadavers to be sliced up and examined. Getting annoyed by the conversation, Sherlock turned away abruptly, walking towards his room.

Where he was going to get dressed in real clothes.

And make sure that the kitchen wasn't a mess from his experiments like usual.

For John.

Sherlock irritably slammed his fist into the closet door, leaving but a scratch to show that he had actually punched it at all. In truth, Mycroft wasn't the only one that had noticed the signs. Sherlock had too, of course, but he'd been denying and ignoring them for so long, thrown away like all of his other feelings, that he'd never actually had to come out and faced how he truly felt. It's not like he couldn't see it, too. Hell, he had spent more than a few nights talking to John when he knew for a fact that he wasn't even there. He imagined his voice drifting through the halls constantly until he returned and he could speak to him for real. Why would Mycroft care anyway? He can't control me like the countries he uses as pawns! Sherlock's fist immediately hit the wall again. He had buried those feelings a long time ago. They were unwanted, unneeded and definitely unreturned. John had made it all but his personal mantra to say that they were nothing but acquaintances when they were asked about it. And no matter how many times Sherlock created instances where John's true feelings could come through; even if there was the slightest glimmer of hope that just maybe they could be together, John would shut it down. Always.

So what did Mycroft know what he didn't?

Sherlock put the thoughts out of his head and then got dressed, returning to the living room where Mycroft was waiting for him, his gaze no less stoic or emotional than ever. Sherlock went towards the kitchen, still intending on fixing up the trashed room before John got home. Silence passed between the two brothers for a long while, before Mycroft finally stood up from his place on the couch, crossing the short distance between them as he stood dramatically in the doorway of the area, breaking the silence with his usual simple, short statements.

"You shouldn't hate yourself for having feelings, Sherlock. It's not becoming."

"You'd be one to talk." Sherlock scowled. "What happened to caring not being an advantage?"

"You are not me, as you so eloquently love to point out, dear brother."

Sherlock knew this statement was true; he hated being compared to his brother more than anything. Yet he could feel the superiority that radiated from his brother in his voice (as it always did); though whether it was out of pure habit that he spoke like this or if he felt that he had won some sort of battle between them he wasn't sure. Sherlock sighed, turning around after a moment, his tone unwavering from a bland monotone.

"It won't work. He'll hate me, Mycroft."

Mycroft could see the trapped emotion in his brother's eyes, and for a second he felt pity for him. Both of them had decided together at a very young age that they wouldn't let such idiotic things such as love and relationships ruin the plans they had for themselves. Mycroft also knew how Sherlock had slowly attached himself to John from the very first second they'd met; his brother had been so happy with John. If he was honest with himself, Mycroft knew that he owed a lot to the man who had become his brother's first friend who'd never felt the urge to leave him. He laughed along with Sherlock and dealt with his antics no matter how many girlfriends he'd sent away, how many times he'd had to stop Sherlock from overdosing or just how much he'd had to devote to him. Friends indeed, Mycroft thought as he becomes more aware of his surroundings after getting momentarily lost in memories. He had given up on any notion of a relationship for himself long ago, but Sherlock… Sherlock was struggling. And yet Mycroft couldn't find it in himself to blame him. Besides Irene (who had virtually crushed the last of Sherlock's humanness), Sherlock had felt nothing for anyone. John was his only friend.

Perhaps that's part of it as well, Mycroft reasoned. John was the only one who'd had a normal relationship with Sherlock (or as close to normal as Sherlock himself was). Everyone else simply disregarded him as a freak or a robot, who did his job and then left, completely forgotten and unwanted until they called on him again.

Sherlock didn't want the one person who'd considered him human to disappear.

And it was the singularity of the relationship that drove Sherlock mad with even more questions and frets. Could it be that, since he'd had only one friend, he was simply throwing all of the feelings associated with a relationship onto John? His mind quickly tossed that thought away. Lestrade could possibly be considered a friend on a good day, but he certainly could go without seeing him for a few weeks, whereas if John wasn't by his side for the rest of life he would be beside himself with unwanted despair and emotion. And he hated that. Hated that he had a mental needto have his blogger in his life. Yet at the same time, his heart-rate increased whenever he thought about or was close to John. It was a feeling that had everything to do with his presence that just made Sherlock feel. His clenched stomach and the way he actually thought about what he was going to say to John instead of just blurting it out were all a result of a very volatile emotion that he wanted nothing more than to test and examine.

Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to break love down to a science.

At his little brother's continued silence, Mycroft decided to speak up again, his voice breaking through Sherlock's thought process as he made his way to the door, making only one final statement as he left the consulting detective alone in the flat.

"Just tell him."

John Watson was shocked.

The flat was clean.

And Sherlock was no where to be found.

However, John tried not to act like something was definitely wrong with this picture, and proceed with his normal 'coming in the door' routine. He took off his shoes, left his jacket on the coat rack by the door and placed his bag by his chair to get later.

He's probably just in his room and didn't hear me come in, John thought with an inward nod. Must be that. No need to-

John abruptly stopped these thoughts before a series of worst-case-scenarios could flash across his mind, which had seen too much tragedy. Before he could come up with a less morbid deduction, however, he spotted a simple white envelope in the place where Sherlock should've been. Not a manilla one, as John had become accustomed to seeing with evidence from case-files inside, but a small, plain alabaster envelope, one word inscribed on one side in rather beautiful manuscript.

-John

His eyes narrowed in curiosity as well as suspicious of the handwriting considering it took all of five seconds to know who it was from; he knew the elegant cursive that Mycroft had taught Sherlock by heart, if only because he used it for any writings he didn't want to be recognized by anyone but the intended recipient.

So why would he write in it now?

Cautiously opening the envelope so he didn't rip the parchment inside and then hurriedly taking out the letter, his eyes quickly scanned the paper to be sure that Sherlock hadn't put in any of the codes they used to alert each other when the other was in danger; once he was certain that nothing was out of the ordinary (besides the fact that he was reading a letter and not talking to the consulting detective in person), he read the letter more thoroughly.

Dear John-

You won't find me here, so you can stop worrying.

You've told me that it is always better to do things in person; to never assume anything. Obviously I listen about as well as I remember those ludicrous things that you seem to believe are so important (I will, however, never forget that the earth revolves around the sun thanks to you). I will not be here to say these things in person, John, though if you are anything like me when you're not around, you are already imagining me saying every word to you. Just remember that these words are mine when you read on. I know how idiotic this may be to you, however I can do nothing but write and believe that you will comply with this little game, just like you always do. You've done so much more for me than I ever deserved, and I know that you'll trust me now despite your confusion.

I love you, John Watson.

I can deduce no other logical explanation than that. I haven't been able to avoid this fact, and despite the bluntness of the statement I am and was hesitant to admit it. It doesn't sound right coming off of my tongue, it doesn't sound right in my brain; none of it makes sense. This wasn't suppose to happen to me. I was suppose to live alone and have a non-existent relationship with my brother. Now I talk with my brother on purpose and have more positive relationships than I've been able to conceive in my entire life.

And then there's you.

You're the most honest, noble person that I've ever known. You have brought nothing but good into my life; do you remember the first time we solved a crime together? You lost your limp that day, John. I lost myself. The shell that I had created to protect myself from the world that had always pushed me away shattered in that one simple moment when you came to 221B the day we met. I never doubted that you would come. I don't doubt you now. You saved me from the life of loneliness and abandonment that I was content to live before you came to me. I am so selfish now, John. I don't want to live day without you and the only way I want to wake up is with you at my side.

However, I am not a hopeful person.

I doubt that I will ever see you again after you read this. I doubt that you will agree to any request after what I have put you through in the last 2 minutes and 12 seconds (admittedly your reading speed may be impaired, but at you normal rate that much time has elapsed). I will still ask something of you, dear John. Please understand, however, that I will think no less of you if you turn back now. I understand that feelings are not always reciprocated, and I know how much you are looking for love that won't be tarnished because of my influence. I want you to find that love, John. I want nothing but for you to be happy and forget me if that is what you want. I can also tell you that I want to be the person that stays with you the rest of your days. I want to figure out how to deal with these emotions, and know how to truly care for you and cherish you for the person that you are, and help you become the more amazing person that you're going to become. I know you will be patient with me in getting used to these feelings. Your patience knows no bounds.

I love you, John Watson. I always will.

I am at a restaurant that my brother booked for two. I don't know exactly what to expect, as I haven't seen the restaurant yet, but I assume it's going to be extravagant, as my brother also made sure to get tailored suits for us. Yours is on your bed.

My brother can be quite helpful when convinced, it seems.

I'll wait for you until I'm forced out, so if you haven't burned this letter at this point I hope to see you soon.

Forever Yours,
-Sherlock Holmes

John was barely aware of what he was doing; how long had he been in his chair? How long had he been crying?

How long was he going to sit around?

Quickly wiping his eyes and departing for his bedroom, John gently placed the letter back where he'd found it and replaced it with his phone. He sent a text as soon as he was able to regain his senses. Only three words went to its recipient.

On my way. -JW

(A/N: Wow, that was long. x.x Sorry about this rather uneventful chapter, but I wanted to set up a few things before I got into the real plot of the story's namesake, and I want to say that the story will not be quite the same as the songs either. I tried my damnedest to keep everyone in character, and that's the only thing that will cause a delay in writing. I am writing the next chapter now, so it should not be a terrible wait, but if anything I won't discontinue this story (this was the hardest chapter, anyway). Reviews make me very happy, so please comment your thoughts on this Chapter! Thank you so much for reading my first Fanfiction, and I'll see you next time!)