Hi guys :D
Thanks so much for the couple of people that followed and favourited this story. You seriously have no idea how much of a confidence boost it gave me that people were actually interested in the junk that comes out of my head.
It would be really amazing if you could review this though, just a quick couple of words letting me know what you think would seriously make my day.

This is only a short chapter and not too eventful (and up a little later than I planned because I've been busy with a new job and all) but I hope you like it anyway. New chapters will be coming a lot more frequently now that I'm settled and have a solid plan :D

Disclaimer: not even a little bit.

It was dull outside; the sun was setting, judging by the barely there shapes sprawling lazily through the crack in the curtains.

Sherlock groaned and pushed himself up into an uncomfortable sitting position. His mind was foggy, hanging somewhere in the balance between awake and the drowsy, post-morphine stupor. He knew he should be ashamed of himself for undoing what had taken him years to achieve, but he didn't feel anything other than the grogginess and dry mouth, which he greeted like an old friend. Standing stiffly, he pealed yesterday's shirt from his sweat stained skin and threw on his bullet hole infested dressing gown. He gathered the dirty needle and empty glass bottle back into their designated container with a sigh, putting the fresh, still packaged syringe under his pillow- just in case. Today was going to be hell.

Sherlock shuffled groggily into the kitchen and replaced the small silver box, minus the dust, in its designated space above the fridge. He made a mental note to re-stock, a frown tugging delicately at the corners of his mouth at the thought of self-medicating again. He felt like a child, unable to control his emotions for long enough to think logically around them. Did he want to, though? Did he want to think around his emotions and squash them down until they were nothing more than a dull sensation in the back of his mind? John meant more to him than that. So much more than any of those other pedestrian members of society it had been his misfortune to come into contact with- the kind of people he'd later chosen to permanently delete from memory. The thought of forgetting John made Sherlock's chest ache.
A flicker of black in the corner of his eye caught the detective's attention.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this little visit?" Sherlock turned into the living room, facing the man with as much indifference as he could muster.
Mycroft looked his brother over, raking his eyes from dark curls to pale bare feet. A look of distaste ghosted his features momentarily before returning to his usual unreadable mask.

"Let's not play games, dear brother, you know why I'm here. Now is not the time for drug addled antics. You were out cold for almost 2 days." He sat stiffly on the sofa, one long leg folded gracefully over the other, fingers wrapped possessively over the handle of a black umbrella.

Sherlock took to his chair and crossed his arms stubbornly, trying unsuccessfully not to flinch at the ache spreading from the faint purple bruising in the crook of his elbow. It hadn't been his intention to pass out for more than a few hours. He must have taken a bigger dose than planned. The fact that he'd misjudged on something so important should have caused the man concern, but he didn't care.

"I turned a blind eye last night to allow you a moment to grieve in peace, Sherlock, but I thought you better than this. Obviously I awarded you far too much credit." Mycroft almost spat.

"Let's drop the facade, Mycroft. As much as I enjoy picking apart the falsity of your claims of sentiment, I'd much prefer it if we just got on with this," Sherlock mimicked his brother's tone, enjoying the exasperated sigh it caused. "What do you want?"

"I can assure you that my concern is most definitely genuine. He was your friend and now he is no longer with us. I can't imagine how you must be feeling-"

"I don't feel. You of all people know that." Mycroft let out another sigh.

"Oh, but we both know that isn't true. Not in John Watson's case, anyway."

Sherlock stopped listening, choosing to look through the man and focus on an extremely interesting patch of wallpaper instead. When Mycroft spoke again, his voice was small, hesitant. It sounded almost sympathetic.

"I know, Sherlock. I know that you loved him-" the glare this received was enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Have you recently suffered a significant blow to the head, dear brother, or are you simply becoming prematurely senile? It was you yourself that deemed me without a heart, and by default incapable of frivolous things like love."

"Yes, I had spent the last 34 years completely convinced of this. Nothing- no one- had ever come even close to testing my little theory. And if it hadn't been for a certain army doctor, I am fairly certain that my beliefs would have stood strong."

Sherlock chose again to ignore his brother. There was no point in pretending, Mycroft could see straight through him. And if he was completely honest with himself, Sherlock simply couldn't be bothered to put up a fight anymore. So what if the man knew? So what if the entirety of London knew? It didn't matter. John would never know, and he was the only one it would have ever mattered to.
Sherlock's eyes prickled painfully. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Mycroft gave up.

"I informed Gregory Lestrade last night as you were too engrossed in your little...indiscretion, and he in turn informed Harriet Watson. I have offered my financial assistance and she has accepted. All will be taken care of." Sherlock nodded once, trying to swallow away the lump in his throat but it dug in its claws.

"Is that all?" he was aiming for boredom, but fell short. He could hear the exhaustion dripping from every syllable, and knew the other man wouldn't miss it.

Mycroft unfolded himself from the sofa and nodded, uttering a quick "goodbye, Sherlock" before closing the door quietly behind him.

Sherlock didn't move. He sat and watched the dust motes floating delicately in the fading light of the living room, sighing every so often and watching them run and dive from his breath.

John. It wasn't until the man laid blood soaked and paling with Sherlock clinging on to his wrist, fingers squeezing desperately at the light fluttery thrum under his skin that he'd realised he'd loved him. He had a feeling, though, that Mycroft had known long before he had. And now, here he was, faced with an unacceptably empty arm chair and no excruciatingly slow tap-tap of laptop keys to fill the quiet. John's ridiculously slow two finger typing had always annoyed Sherlock to the point of distraction, but now he found himself craving the sound.

It's too empty.

He stood quickly and pulled his coat on over dressing gown and left his expensive leather shoes unlaced. He didn't care what he looked like or what his brother would think. He didn't even care that he'd have to suffer through another drugs bust and watch Anderson rip apart whatever he could get those dirty, adulterous hands on. He needed to find something- anything- to help himself cope. Just for now.