A.N. - This takes inspiration from the scary-as-Hell hallucination sequences from 'Young Sherlock Holmes' - I wanted to think about what the BBC Sherlock & John would see if they were hit by the Ramehtep Cult's blowdarts. And I threw Mycroft in to the situation as well, because Mycroft makes everything better. Enjoy!

-x-

This Isn't Happening

-x-

John's world exploded.

One part of his mind said 'Moriarty', but another, far more insistent one said 'Taliban', and in the confusion of those first few, bright, noisy moments, the memories of a faint jingling and a sharp scratch in the back of his neck were lost – as important as he'd just been telling himself that it was he should remember.

He was in Afghanistan. A roadside bomb had just gone off. Wounded, dead and dying all around him. And he was supposed to fix this. He was supposed to claw life back out of the carnage.

The carnage. The carnage. The…

He tried to snap himself out of it, tried to stand, but found that he couldn't. He wasn't hit – didn't have so much as a bruise – but his legs were too weak. His hands trembled.

Useless. Useless. Fucking useless. What was the point of having an Army Medic who couldn't walk, couldn't hold a scalpel?

There was a low groan from beneath a pile of rubble to his side.

Rubble? Rubble. A building had been blown up. For some reason, he didn't question what a London townhouse was doing on an Afghan roadside. He shoved the crumbled bricks and mortar away, and almost threw up at the sight underneath. There was nothing salvageable left of Mycroft Holmes. Not the first time he'd seen a fellow soldier literally blown to pieces, but it never got any easier. The other soldier – his best friend for almost a year, now – lay unmoving, slick with blood and the spattered remains of his brother.

'Sherlock.'

He felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak. 'This isn't happening.'

He checked for breathing, but detected none.

Mouth to mouth, then. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's and breathed for him. He paused for a moment, checking for breathing again.

'Come on, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. A hand shot up to grab John's wrist. 'No.'

-x-

The jingling sound was important. He had to remember that. Had to remember. Had to keep the sound in his head.

Only, the more he heard it, the more it became apparent that the sound was, in fact, a ringing telephone. He walked down the dark corridor to the phone on the desk, and answered it.

'Hello?'

A woman, on the other end of the line, sobbing. 'Mycroft,' she managed.

Mycroft felt a familiar sinking sensation, coupled with a tightening of his gut. How many times had Mummy telephoned him in this terrible state throughout his later years of school, and all of university? Far too many.

'Mummy,' he said, 'please don't cry,' although the thought that consumed him internally was oh no, not again.

'Mycroft,' wept his mother down the line, 'you need to come home.'

'What happened?' The words felt hollow. He already knew what had happened.

'Your brother's been stealing again.'

'Oh, Sherlock,' he sighed.

'And your father…' Mummy choked. 'When he found out… he wouldn't stop. I couldn't stop him.'

And now he was walking along the landing towards Sherlock's old bedroom, the phone still in his hand. He knew how this conversation went. He would ask if Sherlock was all right, and his mother wouldn't answer.

He gently pushed open the bedroom door. In the gloom, his little brother was hunched on the bed, curled in a ball, hugging his knees. Black eye. Split lip. Mottled with bruises. Twelve years old. Twelve years old. Sherlock didn't meet his eye. Twelve years old. Impotent anger twisted a new knot in his stomach, and he closed the door again quietly, leaving his brother to his thoughts.

'They say he's a danger, Mycroft,' continued his crying mother, down the phone. 'To Sherlock, to me… to himself. They want me to… They think he should be committed. But I… how can I do that to him? I can't!'

Mycroft closed his eyes, sadly. 'But I can.'

He hung up the phone, but his mother's voice still continued.

'But your father, Mycroft. Your father! You know what being sent to one of those places would do to him.'

'He's lost all sense of reason,' Mycroft told the grand, empty, echoing house, quietly. 'All sense of restraint. It's not a safe environment for a child. I'll do it. I sign the papers. I'll…'

'You'll kill me,' came the voice from behind him.

Mycroft didn't move – didn't turn. He knew the image that was behind him, sending prickles up his back.

'I did no such thing, Father.'

'You killed me, Mycroft. Signed the papers that you knew would murder your own father.'

Still, Mycroft didn't turn. Behind him, right up against his ear, came the creak, creak, creak that he had never really heard, but that his dreams had summoned up for him for years afterwards.

'Look at me,' said the voice. 'Have the courage at least to look at what you've done.'

Slowly, Mycroft turned. His father hung from a noose tied together out of shredded bed linen, suspended so that his toes dangled a foot and a half above the floor, just as he had made the duty nurse describe it. His eyes were focused furiously on Mycroft.

'Look what you've done,' said his father. 'Was it worth it? Usurping my place – did that satisfy you, Mycroft? Man of the house, making a simpering little wife of your mother and a son of your brother? Are you happy, now?'

'It wasn't like that…' began Mycroft, but was cut off by a scream – a tornado that knocked him off his feet. And now his father wasn't just dangling above the floor – he towered over Mycroft, and Mycroft was a six year old child, terrified of this stranger who had come back to live with Mummy again, and Mummy and Daddy were going to have another baby and that was going to make everything all right again, and wasn't it just wonderful that they were back to being a family once more.

'Look what you've done, Mycroft! Look what you've done!'

-x-

'Look what you've done.'

Sherlock looked, and his father loomed over him, hanging. And he was a twelve year old boy being told how his father had died, and he was a five year old boy so frightened, so very frightened of this man, and he was a ten year old boy to whom punishment meant little any more, who almost made a sport of finding out what rules he could break without being caught. And he was twelve again, that time he did get caught and Father wouldn't stop, he just wouldn't stop, and he honestly thought that he would be killed.

'You drove me to this,' boomed his father. 'Do you have any idea how maddening you were to put up with? You did this to me, Sherlock.'

'I…' Sherlock paused. Something was wrong. There was something that he was supposed to remember. The jingle of a charm bracelet outside the window. Sudden, sharp pain. Ah. Yes, that was it.

'No,' said Sherlock.

His father's face twisted into a grotesque mask of rage. '"No"?'

'This isn't real,' Sherlock told his father, the house at large and, particularly, himself. 'This is an hallucination designed to invoke despair, fear and suicidal emotions.

'No!' cried his father again in frustration, but he was more distant now – just a shadow. Just a memory.

'The Ramehtep cult,' added Sherlock, clinging to all the data from the few days that had gone before that he could pull from his mind. 'They know we're getting close. We've got them rattled. They sent their assassin after us.'

'No!' cried his father, again.

'You're dead, Father. Goodbye.'

His father paused, just on the edges of his vision, and grinned sharply, face twisting and contorting into another unreal mask.

'Daddy's had enough, now,' he cooed, and faded completely.

'Yes, well. You can piss off, too.' Sherlock tried to prop himself up, but the drugs that the blowdart had been tipped with had left him terribly weak. He slumped onto his back again.

'Sherlock?' came a faint voice – distant but familiar and utterly welcome.

'John?'

John heaved his way to Sherlock's side, dragging himself along on his elbows, as if his legs were utterly paralysed. He would have been hit with a dart too, Sherlock reasoned. He would be physically weakened, possibly hallucinating still, too.

John pulled himself up onto all fours as best he could, kneeling over Sherlock, cradling his face. His eyes were full of fear and horror.

'You're hallucinating,' Sherlock told him. 'Whatever you're seeing right now isn't really happening. We're at 221b and we're safe. We were hit with hallucinagen-tipped thorns, but the visions will soon pass. As long as we don't react to them, we'll be fine. OK?'

John took a deep breath, some unseen terror still visibly gripping him.

'OK, John?'

John exhaled, and it was as if he had forced the fear from himself. He calmed, and focused. 'OK.'

Sherlock managed a small smile. 'It's going to be all right.'

Still cradling Sherlock's face, John nodded. 'I know.'

And then, he kissed him.

Not just a kiss – there was nothing tender or caring about it. He crammed his mouth onto Sherlock's, forcing his lips open, shoving his tongue down his throat, holding Sherlock's nose so that he couldn't breathe.

Sherlock grunted, and scrabbled, and managed to wriggle his head free.

'John. Stop. It's me. It's Sherlock.'

'I know,' replied John, with a cheery matter-of-factness, before going in for another kiss.

'No, John! Whatever those darts are making you think about us, it's not real. We're friends. Good friends. We don't do this.'

John stroked at his face. 'Come on, Sherlock,' he said – part plea, part command.

'John, we don't. I've never enjoyed… I don't do that.'

'I don't care. Come on, Sherlock.'

He leaned in to kiss him again. Sherlock found the strength to lash out a hand and grab his wrist.

'No!'

For a moment, John looked surprised - hurt, almost – before his features fell back into a blank, soft smile.

'It would ruin everything,' attempted Sherlock.

'Spare me the speech, Sherlock,' replied John, with a bland smile.

'Speech? There is no speech. I wasn't aware that there needed to be a speech. Not between us, anyway.'

John snorted a laugh. 'Yeah, right. "It would ruin everything, things are perfect as they are, you like me too much to engage in that sort of behaviour with"… you've been mulling that speech over in your head for months, now, haven't you?'

Sherlock didn't answer that.

'Because,' John continued, 'you know what people are like. We're self serving, petty, shallow creatures, who are generally only put themselves out for what they can get back in return. And you know that there must be some bloody good incentive for all the shit I put up with from you, and that temporary relief from a gammy leg and a trembling hand just doesn't tally up. You're not stupid. You know that you're appealing, especially with that vestal virgin act you put on. Make everyone think they can't have you, so they'll all want you…?'

'It isn't like that.' Sherlock dropped his gaze away from John's. I don't want to have this conversation with you, John. I shouldn't have to.'

'Well, of course,' John smiled. 'After all, you've had this conversation before, haven't you? You not above stooping to base acts when it's necessary, are you? So, here's the thing – I won't force you. I don't want to – shouldn't have to.' He leaned right into Sherlock, brushing his lips against a sensitive spot beneath his ear as he spoke. 'But there's a reason why I'm still here. And if I don't get what I'm waiting for, right now… I'll leave.'

-x-

'No,' Sherlock snarled, still clutching John's wrist. 'Don't you touch me.'

'Sherlock,' John gasped. 'You're alive. I have to get you out of here…'

'Get me out of here?' John had never seen Sherlock's sneer so cold before, or his eyes so hard. He'd seen Sherlock's expression full of contempt of course, but never like this. This wasn't just haughtiness, this was hatred. 'How do you intend to manage that, John? You can't even walk.'

'You can't stay here, Sherlock. You'll be killed.'

'So? People die. That's what people do – remember? You think you can stop that? Think you can help me? Look at yourself!'

'I'm getting you out of here,' John told him, desperation forming a sickening knot in his stomach. 'I can save you. I can. I can help you.'

'Oh, John.' Sherlock shook his head with a faint, coughed laugh that he always used when John failed to pick up on what he insisted was a simple clue. 'Of course you can't. You're useless. You're completely useless.'

'Sherlock. I…'

'Sometimes I wonder what the point of having you around is. Even when you do try to help, you end up needing to be rescued or as bait in Moriarty's latest trap.'

John cast his eyes down for a moment. That was when he noticed the wound on Sherlock's left shoulder. Shit. How had he missed that? Well… because he missed everything, obviously. It was a bullet wound – deep, ragged and gushing blood. Lacerations on his right arm, as well – likely from shielding himself from gunfire or the explosion. So much blood. Sherlock had been bleeding out and John had just knelt there, talking to him.

'Oh God, Sherlock.'

He whipped off his belt and made a tourniquet around Sherlock's right arm.

'No,' raged Sherlock again, clawing at the belt. 'No, get off me!'

'You'll die!' He inspected the wound on Sherlock's shoulder. The bullet was still in there. John was sure he had a pocket knife somewhere… ah. There it was.

'I don't want your help, John! I'm so sick of your interfering. Your meddling. It doesn't do me the slightest bit of good – it just makes everything worse!'

Had to get the bullet out. Had to get the bullet out and then Sherlock would be OK, and he'd see that he could, at least, rely on him to help… some of the time.

He pushed Sherlock's left arm down, readying the blade of his knife. 'Hold still.'

'No!' Sherlock was starting to panic.

'Sherlock, trust me. Please, trust me.'

Sherlock grabbed the knife, trying to push it back. 'I don't. I can't. You're hopeless. You're a pathetic, stupid cripple and I do not trust you. Understand? Do you understand, John?'

John just shook his head. 'You forgot "stubborn". This is happening, Sherlock. I'm going to do this. '

-x-

'I'll leave,' said John, still with that sickening serenity, 'and when I leave, I won't say it's because of how impossible you are to live with, or how you seem to go out of your way to belittle and insult me just for being normal – although you'll know bloody well that will have been a pretty major factor – I'll tell you it's because I love you, and that I know that that's a really bad idea.'

'I…' started Sherlock, but fell silent with panic when John, still crouching over him, began to remove his belt.

'And you'll get angry, and you'll smash things, and you'll rail at how stupid I was to expect so much of you, and you'll spend the next couple of months veering between trying to carry on without me and trying to manipulate me into having everything back the way it was before,' continued John.

'John? What are you doing?'

John ignored him. 'But every time that fails to work – and it'll fail to work a lot – you'll need me back in your life that little bit more. And, the flat will be too big, and too silent, and the world too empty. Those blank spaces between cases will get longer, and longer, and longer, and you know what you'll turn to to fill the void, don't you?'

Sherlock turned his head slightly, and saw John's belt fastened as a tourniquet around his bicep.

'No!' he tried to pull it away, but John was able to hold him down, with a hand on his chest.

'Oh God, Sherlock.'

'No.' Sherlock tried to fight back, but he was so weak. Why was he so weak? He couldn't even remember, now. 'No! Get off me!'

'Don't fight it,' breathed John. 'The more you'll fight, the worse it'll be, because you know you'll relent, eventually. It's not like it'll be the first time you'll have resorted to such a base transaction to get something you need, and you do need me around – you really do. John started to plant light mockeries of chaste kisses on Sherlock's cheek to emphasise his points. 'You'll find me.' A kiss. 'And you'll apologise.' Another kiss. 'And then I'll apologise.' A third kiss. 'And then we'll fall into each others' arms, and you'll make it look like you've wanted it all along.' Another kiss, and a patient smile. 'Won't you, Sherlock? Because you think about these things logically, and you know that lying back and thinking of England once or twice a week is a preferable outcome to the state you'd be left in without me.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't want to do it.'

'You never do. Doesn't stop you.'

'But this isn't us. This isn't…' Sherlock stared at John. 'This isn't you. You're not John. You aren't real. I'm hallucinating, still.'

'OK,' replied John, 'you're hallucinating.' He pulled out a pocket knife, opened it and held the blade above Sherlock's chest. 'So, it doesn't matter what happens, does it?'

With one hand holding the knife and the other pushing him down to the floor, John shouldn't have been able to fiddle with Sherlock's clothing, but he managed it somehow. It was as if John suddenly had four hands… more than that, maybe. Sherlock tried to struggle, but it was hopeless. Utterly hopeless. All that he could do was make a grab for the knife, to stop it slipping any further towards his skin.

'This is happening, Sherlock,' muttered John into Sherlock's ear. 'I'm going to do this. '

-x-

'Look what you've done, Mycroft.'

Mycroft tried to pull himself up, but his limbs didn't have the strength to support his body. Emotions that he thought he'd long since grown out of muddied his mind – hopelessness, helplessness, panic. And fear, of course. Fear still affected him in his day-to-day, but he'd learnt how to focus it, how to turn it to his advantage. It was nothing like this fear. This was a very old, very particular terror.

His father loomed over him still, gently swinging above the ground with that sickening creak-creak-creak, the way he did in every nightmare…

Every nightmare.

Something tugged at his memory – something about a jingling noise at the window and a sharp pain in the side of his neck. The image of a small, cluttered living room blinked into his mind for a moment but was gone again before he was able to process it in any real detail. All that he was able to take from it was that it wasn't the old house. Not his childhood home. No - he wasn't a child any more.

He gazed up at his father. 'You did this to yourself.'

'What?' His father's face was animalistic with rage.

'I said,' replied Mycroft in calm tones, 'you did this to yourself. You were sick, so I sent you to an appropriate hospital. I might not have been so willing to do so had your sickness not manifested itself on the body of my 12 year old brother. That you chose to terminate your treatment so conclusively is nobody's concern but your own.'

'Oh, of course,' snarled his father, 'it would come down to this – Mycroft the champion of poor little Sherlock. Mycroft, who fought one of his battles too many, and meddled in one too many of his affairs, and demanded to know what he was taking one too many times and was pushed away before you could lock him up in a madhouse too. And, didn't that go well for him?'

Mycroft felt his attention being tugged away to something beyond his left shoulder. He looked. Sherlock lay on the floor, his expression glazed, a belt as a tourniquet around his right arm.

Mycroft took a deep breath; held it, controlled it.

'He's clean, now.'

'But for how long?' asked his father. 'Long enough for his self professed "work" to kill him, instead? The time will come when you don't quite keep as close an eye on him as you should have done – when you're not quite there in time. You will fail at this role of father figure to him that you've bestowed upon yourself, sooner or later.'

Mycroft thought about this. 'But, at least I'm trying. I am always careful to show my brother patience and understanding – qualities that I don't think you ever had. And, unlike you, I will always be there.' He met eyes with his father. 'You were a terrible parent.'

'What are you doing?' His father's expression was still furious, but he seemed to be getting smaller - that, or Mycroft was getting bigger.

'You bullied your sons and belittled your wife,' Mycroft continued, 'when you weren't off with a mistress. I didn't kill you, but you were more use to us dead than alive.'

Perhaps it was that his father was moving off into the distance. Yes, perhaps that was it, because Mycroft could no longer hear his voice.

'I'm glad that you're gone,' said Mycroft.

And his father was, indeed, gone.

He became aware of a presence beyond his left shoulder again – movement – a struggle. He looked.

His brother was still on the floor, a belt strapped around his arm, but now Mycroft could see that John Watson was on top of him. Both men were grappling over a penknife that wavered dangerously over Sherlock's chest. Both Sherlock and John's expressions were full of fear. It was clear that they were both away far, far from reality.

Mycroft tried to pick himself up, but found that he couldn't. Clearly, the effects of whatever it was that had been shot into his system had yet to wear off on his balance or motor system. He was able to pull himself the few feet over to his brother and Dr Watson using his hands and knees.

'Sherlock…' John's voice sounded as though it were being played through a radio at first, though Mycroft found it lost this unreal edge if he concentrated. 'Sherlock, please.'

Mycroft hadn't seen Sherlock appear so close to genuine tears in a long time.

'No,' was the only thing that Sherlock said, repeated over and over again in an increasingly panicked mantra.

'Please,' said John, the knife slipping down to touch Sherlock's skin, 'I've got to do this.'

In his haze, Mycroft wondered for a moment whether, when he made a grab for John, his hand would pass straight through his, like a ghost – another illusion. He found, however, that when he reached out, his hand closed around a wrist that was warm and solid and very real.

'John,' said Mycroft, pulling John's hand, and the knife clutched in it, away from Sherlock.

'No!' John cried – desperate and terrified – although physically, the doctor was able to put up little resistance when Mycroft wrenched the knife away and grabbed at his shoulder.

'Your name is John Watson,' Mycroft told him. John refused to meet his gaze, so Mycroft grabbed the other man's chin and glared him in the eye. 'Do you hear me? The man you were attacking isn't your enemy, he's your housemate – your friend.'

'My best friend,' replied John, emphatically. 'I wasn't attacking him. They attacked. I'm trying to save his life!'

'He isn't hurt, John.' Mycroft did his best to ignore Sherlock's terrified moan beside him – his brother was safe for now. Instead, he concentrated on what John might have thought he was saving Sherlock from. 'You're not at the pool any more. That's over, now.'

'Pool…?' John looked confused. 'The war…'

'And, you're not in Afghanistan,' added Mycroft. 'You're in London. 221b Baker Street. Your home.'

John shook his head faintly, and glanced back down at Sherlock.

'John! Look at me. Do you know what my name is?'

'Captain Holmes,' John replied, bewildered. 'But you're dead…'

iCaptain/i. Mycroft managed a little smile at that. 'Try again, Doctor.'

'Mycroft Holmes,' said John. 'Mycroft. You came around to offer some advice regarding the Ramehtep cult case.' A faint curl played on John's mouth. 'Sherlock told you he hadn't asked for any advice and didn't want any advice and that you were to piss off. I made you a cup of tea. And then…' John frowned. 'There there was this noise…'

'A faint jingle,' Mycroft recalled. 'Like that of a charm bracelet.'

'Just like the one Waxflatter described hearing before… before he killed himself.'

'Before he was hit with an hallucinogenic dart,' corrected Mycroft.

John deflated suddenly, sitting back and letting the knife clatter from his hand. 'An hallucination. God, it was so real. I almost… shit, I could have killed him.'

Mycroft turned to Sherlock, taking his brother by the shoulders. Sherlock's arms and legs were folded in, foetally - a defensive stance that Mycroft had not seen Sherlock adopt for decades.

'Sherlock,' said Mycroft in as neutral a tone as possible.

Sherlock met eyes momentarily with Mycroft, then glanced away again.

'You're not real, Father. This isn't real. You're dead.'

Mycroft didn't need a reminder of his physical resemblance to his father. The likeness was regularly commented on by extended family members, and always bewildered an elderly aunt of theirs who suffered from senile dementia. He might have known that hallucanigens would muddle the two men in Sherlock's mind.

'It's me, Sherlock. It's Mycroft. Your brother. And I would prefer it if people didn't keep telling me I'm dead.' He gave Sherlock a light smile. 'It's rather offputting.'

Rather than cementing the fact that it wasn't their father talking in Sherlock's mind, the attempt at humour seemed only to confuse him more.

'Father is dead,' continued Mycroft. 'He died when you were a boy – remember? That was a long time ago. You are 35 years old. You live in London. You share a flat with your good friend John…'

'John…' muttered Sherlock.

'Yes, that's right,' replied Mycroft, brightly. 'Are you starting to remember?'

Sherlock looked back at Mycroft, his eyes focusing, his expression growing more controlled. 'John. He… he wanted to…'

'I'm so sorry,' said John, from behind Mycroft. 'I thought I had to get a bullet out of you…'

'The Ramehtep cult's mysterious assassin decided to pay us a visit, it seems,' Mycroft explained. 'Their hallucinogenic darts caused Dr Watson to believe both you and he were still in Afghanistan.' Mycroft paused. 'I saw Father.'

Sherlock nodded, finding the arm of a chair and tugging himself up against it. 'So did I.'

Mycroft knew his brother well enough to be aware of when he wasn't telling the whole truth. He noticed that Sherlock wasn't making eye contact with John whatsoever, which wasn't like him. From John's expression, the doctor had noticed this too.

Sherlock slumped in the chair, wriggling his fingers as if to relieve pins and needles. 'At least now we all have a better understanding of the sensations that the hallucinogens they use creates. Terror and hopelessness. No wonder they killed themselves as soon as they were able to drag themselves up off the floor.'

There was a shuffle behind Mycroft as John too was able to use a chair to heavily haul himself up onto his knees. The doctor still hadn't stopped offering sotto voce apologies to Sherlock. The poor man looked wretched.

Sherlock shook his head. 'It's all right, John. I can't imagine I'm the only one who feels like utter crap right now. The hallucinations at least have passed. We'll just have to wait for the sensations of despair to pass.'

They waited. After around five minutes had passed, their mobility had returned enough for John to rise and set about making the promised cup of tea. Mycroft had had no intention of inelegantly hauling himself up off the floor as the other two had done, and so only moved when he was certain that he could get to his feet without toppling. As he had expected, as soon as Sherlock was able to move, he took the thorn that he had pulled from his neck over to his microscope. Mycroft followed him.

'Whatever your "advice" on this matter was,' Sherlock told him, quietly, 'I'm sure you realise that it is neither required nor appreciated.'

'Your hallucination,' said Mycroft, quietly. 'It was just Father you saw, wasn't it?'

Sherlock turned, and looked Mycroft in the eye. 'Yes.'

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off with an overly cheery cry of 'tea!' from the direction of the kitchen.

Sherlock smiled suddenly at his housemate. There was something far too bright about his smile. 'Thank you, John.'

John walked over with the tea. 'Are we all OK, now?'

'Yes, John,' replied Sherlock, levelly. 'We're all perfectly fine.'