A/N: As promised, my lovies, a sequel. All the credit shall be given to stardiva for giving me awesome ideas, encouraging me to write a sequel, and brainstorming.
-Prologue-
Sherlock sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, panting heavily. He'd had a nightmare- again. Third time this week. He couldn't remember what had happened, but he knew what it would have been about. All his nightmares had been the same recently.
He saw the door open, and Mycroft slipped into the room. He sat next to his brother, and put an arm around him. For once, Sherlock didn't protest. He melted into his brothers arms, and didn't hold back he tears as he sobbed into his top.
Mycroft rubbed his hair, "If you keep up that crying, you'll throw up, and I am not cleaning it up again," He smiled sadly, knowing his baby brother wouldn't be able to hear him.
"I want John," Sherlock hiccupped. His pronunciation was off, and "John" sound more like, "Jo-han,"
Sherlock sat up, and rubbed his nose. Any other day, he'd have never let his brother see him like that. But that was before. Before the accidents.
I know you do. Mycroft signed. He'd caught on quite quickly with the sign language, but we can't bring him over at two in the morning. Remember he stayed for two months. I think he'd be fed up with us.
Yeah, I guess. Sherlock signed. He paused, I miss your voice.
Mycroft smiled sadly for the second time that night. He missed Sherlock. Before the accidents, he's been a pest. Doing experiments, inviting John to sleepover without Mycroft knowing (He walked into Sherlock's room in a towel and nothing else after a shower to find his hair gel, and walked in on him and John sitting on the bed trying to draw each other. Needless to say, Mycroft was a bit peed off), arguing with him and getting into trouble at school. Now he was a ghost of his former self. He barely spoke, he broke down every night after having horrible nightmares, and he hardly ever ate. He didn't eat much before, unless John nagged at him, but now it was getting critical. He was so skinny, Mycroft felt he would snap under him if he dared touched him.
Mycroft sat there until Sherlock slipped into an uneasy sleep again. He left, and stood outside the door for a while, running his hand through his hair. Although Sherlock barely spoke anymore (Why should he? He wouldn't be able to hear his own voice), Mycroft always seemed to know when he'd woken up.
When he was content that Sherlock wouldn't wake again that night, he crept into his own bedroom, and lay on the bed, staring into the darkness.
A/N: OMG ACCIDENTS?! WHAT HAPPENED? Well, I know, and Stardiva knows one of them XD Muahhaaha