No excuses for the delay, but endless apologies for it! I'm really really very sorry!


Mycroft calls Sherlock down to dinner an hour after that. Sherlock can smell fish. Mycroft is still mad at him, then – Mycroft knows Sherlock hates fish.

Sherlock won't make it easy for him. Greg still hasn't left, so Sherlock will be forced to eat at the table like every time they have people over to eat supper, but Mycroft will have to come up and get him first.

"Sherlock, for the last time, get down here!" There's a three minute pause between Mycroft shouting that and Sherlock hearing his footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock lies on his bed and lets his muscles loosen, so he's droopy and boneless. Then his door flies open.

"Sherlock. Get downstairs. Dinner will get cold."

"Doesn't matter to me." Sherlock sticks his tongue out. "I'm not going to eat it anyway."

"Come. Downstairs."

"Make me."

Mycroft draws himself up a tiny bit taller. "Fine."

He walks over to the edge of the bed and picks Sherlock up under his armpits. Sherlock stays boneless, one foot dragging behind him on the ground as Mycroft lugs him inch by inch out of his room. Beads of sweat are starting to appear on Mycroft's forehead by the time they get to the stairs. Sherlock starts getting scared.

"Put me down Croft, I'll walk."

"No, you'll run away. I'm not stupid." He takes one step down.

Sherlock starts twisting, reaching around to try to grab Mycroft's hands. "You'll drop me!"

"Well, if you keep squirming like that- Sherlock-"

And then Sherlock is falling, thumping his way down the staircase and sliding across the floor at the bottom. Greg is there first, while Mycroft is still frozen at the top of the staircase.

"Hey, squirt, are you okay?" He says. "You're bleeding a bit." Sherlock knows. He can feel the split skin on the back of his head, and there's blood on one of the stairs. He punches Greg in the chin.

"Sherlock! What's the matter with you?" Mycroft is yelling at him as he runs down the stairs. Sherlock's eyes are doing that weird burning thing again. It's not fair, it's not fair that Greg should get to take Mycroft, Mycroft is Sherlock's person. Greg doesn't even need Mycroft, he probably has lots of people.

Greg stands up and goes into the kitchen. Mycroft is still yelling. He's shaking, too, and his eyes look wide and scared. He's all red and pale and blotchy, all at the same time.

"Why did you have to start squirming like that, Sherlock? Of course I was going to drop you, what did you think would happen? You should have thought about it better than that, Sherlock, honestly, what's the matter with you?"

The problem with that question is that Sherlock doesn't know. All he knows is that if he knew what the matter with him was, he would fix it.

Greg comes back with some ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel and holds them against Sherlock's head, where the cut is. It stings, and Sherlock's vision goes a little more blurry. Mycroft still doesn't move, just stands there with wide eyes and tremors.

Greg looks at Sherlock. "Hey didn't you have some good news for your brother when you got home? Do you want to tell him now?"

Sherlock glares up at Mycroft. "Not really. It won't make me stop thinking about my head, either. I know that's what you were doing."

"Wow, you're sure clever!"

"That won't work either." Sherlock folds his arms across his chest. "Still thinking about my head."

Greg sighs. "Look, just tell your brother your news, okay?"

Sherlock presses his lips together. He doesn't open them again that night, not to tell Mycroft about John or to eat dinner. The next morning, while their parents are still sleeping, Mycroft makes Sherlock some toast and eggs. Sherlock doesn't eat that either.


"Whoa!" John's eyes are wide when he plops down next to Sherlock at lunch. "What happened to your arms?"

Sherlock looks down at his arms, resting on the table. They're dotted with purple patches. "I fell down the stairs. I hit my head, too. It bled."

John's eyes widen. "Are you okay? Can I see?" He stands up on the bench and flaps his hands, motioning for Sherlock to turn around. Sherlock twists a bit and pulls his hair away from the cut.

"Wow, gross!" Says John. He sounds impressed, and it makes Sherlock smile. "It must have hurt. How did you fall down the stairs?"

"My brother dropped me." Sherlock fidgets a bit. "He was mad at me yesterday. I don't know why. He's never mad at me like that."

John glances at the empty stretch of table in front of Sherlock. "Is that why he took your lunch?"

"He didn't take my lunch, he packed it for me. I left it on the counter, I don't want to eat it."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm mad at him now!"

John frowns. "He probably didn't mean to drop you. Besides, aren't you hungry?"

Sherlock is. He's starving. He doesn't know why John cares, though. John shouldn't care, he has a paper bag and he's pulled a sliced orange, a bottle of water, three biscuits and a sandwich out of it. Sherlock folds his arms across his stomach.

"No," he says.

John giggles a little. "Liar. Here." He holds half his sandwich out to Sherlock. It's chicken. Sherlock looks at it suspiciously.

"What are you doing?"

"Sharing my lunch."

Sherlock is baffled. "Why?"

"Because you can't just not eat lunch!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's lunch!" John really is laughing now. "Here, just take it."

Sherlock does. The bread is a little dry and there isn't enough butter. He eats three slices of orange and a biscuit, too – it's the best lunch he's ever had.


To be continued, hopefully within the next week!