Mycroft looked unwillingly up from his papers as his brother swept into the room.

It had been months since he had last seen Sherlock and, although he looked painfully thin and sallow, Mycroft couldn't remember a time when his brother looked happier.

"Make this quick Mycroft, I have more important places to be" Sherlock snapped, fidgeting, obviously looking forward to revealing his greatest magic trick yet.

At least that's what he wanted Mycroft to think.

Unfortunately his brother knew him too well, "Sherlock, about John… I'm afraid there are some things I didn't tell you during your hiatus." Sherlock froze, his impatience dissipating only to make way for dread. He waited impatiently for his brother to continue. Mycroft sighed "Unfortunately your… absence caused the doctor to break down. His mental state is… fragile at best."

The world began to crash around Sherlock's ears.

No- this couldn't happen! Not when he'd been so close.

"How could you let this happen?" Sherlock accused, keeping his calm façade intact, with only a hint of pure anger escaping him. "How could you not tell me?!" Sherlock rose and began pacing.

Mycroft returned his brother's steely gaze and answered frankly "It was not safe for your return when he began to deteriorate and, besides that, it would only unnecessarily agitate you and distract you from your mission. Likely you would have taken even longer."

Sherlock had had enough of this, he stopped short in front of his brother's desk. "Take me to him" his eyes snapped back to Mycroft's face furiously "now."

He was worse than Sherlock expected.

Sherlock peered through the small window of the door to John's room in the psychiatric hospital. The doct-patient was lying restlessly in a padded bed in the middle of a bare room with no window lest the light agitates him… or he attempted an escape.

There were long scratches down his face and arms, scars littered the parts of John's body where the hospital gown allowed Sherlock to see.

Mycroft stood beside him and, without turning to look at his brother; Sherlock asked tersely, "Why is he restrained?"

"He became a danger to himself and others," Mycroft replied carefully, also not looking at his brother.

Without another word, Sherlock entered the room, positive he could fix John, and if anyone could he could, after all he had fixed his flatmate's limp, how much harder could this be? He approached the bed cautiously, reaching the side as John rolled a lazy eye over him.

Drugged. That much was obvious.

His blood boiled, John would have hated not having control of himself.

Sherlock reached for the restraints, intent on releasing his blogger when John started thrashing, trying to claw and snatch at Sherlock, not a sound escaping him except feral growls.

Sherlock took a step back, feeling as though his heart was being clenched painfully. Horror and loss and guilt beginning to take effect as he watched his best friend helplessly while he chafed his wrists trying to get to him.

His John would never really hurt him, Sherlock knew that, and he also knew, without a doubt, that the man restrained to the bed was not John Watson.

Sherlock couldn't understand the feeling seeping venomously into him as he watched John. It felt like mourning, as if John had died, but so much worse because he could still see his blogger… he was just powerless to help him.

He took an uncertain step towards John, deep sadness cracking his icy features for once as he laid a hand on one of his friends and simply said "I'm sorry, John."

Sherlock turned to sweep out of the room but when he got to the door a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"You know you're a complete git right?"

Sherlock whipped around to find John sitting up on the bed, serenely pulling his hands out of the restraints, then his feet before looking expectantly at the detective. "John-? I-?What-?"

John got to his feet and walked over to appraise Sherlock serenely "Aaaaaand that's what you get for making me believe you killed yourself for three years." He said, crossing his arms before seizing a pair of jeans from the closet next to Sherlock and pulling them on. "You know I hate hospital gowns" John added cheerfully.

Sherlock blinked in confusion, his brilliant mind still not able to comprehend what had just happened. He would forever hate himself for being unable, in that moment to come up with anything better to say than a stupid "What?"

John smirked as he wiggled out of the hospital gown and pulled on a jumper "Mycroft warned me you were coming back," Sherlock scowled, of course, "something about letting me down easy, so I blackmailed him into setting this all up, you're lucky I didn't keep it up for three years you free-falling twat."

Sherlock couldn't help but feel ever so slightly impressed, his brain finally working at capacity "didn't think you'd be the blackmailing type." He said conversationally as John peeled off his prosthetic scars and scratches, wincing as they pulled at his skin.

"You'll be surprised at what I'm capable of" John said, grinning wolfishly. "Tea?" he asked, in the greatest impression Sherlock had ever seen of John acting normally.

"Don't you want to-?"

"Not particularly, no" John answered Sherlock's unasked question "maybe later, after we get home and grab a nice hot cuppa."

John reached for the door handle and exited the ward with Sherlock, for once, following him.

He didn't fail to notice a lack of Mycroft in the hallway either.

Fat git.

"You know Mrs Hudson has rented out 221B, right?" Sherlock asked calmly, fighting to keep the confusing combination of emotions, which made a somewhat petulant grin, off of his face at his flatmates short lived but brilliant façade.

He decided to blame John fooling him on sleep deprivation, starvation and, most irritatingly, Mycroft

John just shrugged "Eh, I'm sure Mrs Hudson isn't above kicking a small family out of house and home for us."

Sherlock couldn't help it, he grinned.

"Brilliant."

A/N: So I wanted to get this one done before season three (yay!) so I hope it turned out ok. Thanks for reading!