"No, no, no, no!" Sherlock threw yet another crumpled piece of writing into the garbage. It landed on the top, and then rolled onto the ground, where several other papers had ended up. He sat back onto the couch, staring at the Word page that too remained empty. Sherlock had gotten a job writing articles about science for a local magazine under the name Alexander Baylock. The pay was little, but Sherlock needed what money he could get without being recognized.

"Nothing, Sherlock?" Molly grabbed her purse and her jacket, headed for the door. "I'm sure you'll get some inspiration soon. Well, I'm off. Body just dropped into Bart's and I'm needed. There's some leftover food in the fridge." Molly smiled and turned the door handle.

"Wait! I'll come with you!" Sherlock jumped up, excited to have something to do. Molly simply laughed and waved him off.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I know you miss this, but can't risk you being seen. Remember, if you're going out, try and stay in disguise. It had only been a week ago, Sherlock headed out to mail something and was recognized by a man in the street, claiming he was the dead fake England had come to know him as. Sherlock had laughed, waving him off, claiming to be his cousin, here to do some business with Mycroft. Sherlock had warded the man off, but inside he felt his shell crack. Many times he had to dress differently, act differently and go to places he hadn't been bothered to go to, mostly because they were below his standard or just not the sort of thing he fancied.

It had nearly been a month since his 'suicide' and he hadn't been able to find a flat he could afford on his own, so he moved in with Molly, paying for half the rent and supplying the house with food and cleaning when bored. And his job often bored him, as he had almost nothing to write about. Sherlock sighed, and closed the lid on the laptop, decided that he would go down to the pub he was regularly spotted at. Changing out of his robes and into more suitable clothing, he grabbed a tweed jacket that he had a certain distaste for, first because it was the sort of thing his real self would not be caught dead in, and second because he had pinched it from John. He could imagine John now, sitting back at the apartment, sipping tea from bone china cups and staring into the fireplace. Possibly he'd have one of his many girlfriends over, and wouldn't be lonesome for Sherlock's annoying and cold company at all. The thought of this saddened and brightened Sherlock in a confusing way as he walked out the door and down into the rainy streets of London.

Sherlock breathed in the heavy scent of whiskey and salt as he entered the noisy, crowded pub. He made his way through crowds of drunkards, crinkling his nose in distaste at them.

"Ah, Keith! The usual, I presume?" A tan man dried a glass behind the counter, addressing Sherlock as he sat down at the bar. Sherlock looked up at him, and read him as clearly as a book for the poor sighted. Fight with the girlfriend, agitated, annoyed. All of these signs were too clear to him. "Sure, Adam."

"Adam, you're finest vodka, please. Bad week at the office, and I'm the mood for a little break." A posh familiar voice spoke behind him.

"'Course, Mr. 'olmes. Be right with you." Adam strolled along to the other end of the bar, placing glass and selecting brightly colored liquids for assorted drinks.

As Sherlock's beer was handed to him, he froze. The name. The bartender hadn't been talking to him, he wasn't known by that name anymore. The man slid into the barstool next to him, smelling of expensive aftershave and cigarette smoke. The man wore an expensive suit, at least 700 pounds, and he walked and spoke of a man of high power. Sherlock didn't dare look at him, scared that his brother would recognize him. Sherlock only knew one thing; he had to leave unnoticed and incognito.

"Thanks, Adam." Sherlock spoke softly, grabbed the beer bottle and turned to go, but him being left alone was something that was unlikely to happen, and it didn't.

"Keith! You forgot you're wallet, mate!" Sherlock heard but didn't care, and he kept walking through the heated crowds of people. He would have kept walking, out onto the London streets had a person not grabbed his jacket and pulled it back.

"Sir, your wallet." The man that smelled of whiskey and smoke had taken his jacket cloth into his hands, pulling him back and handing him the leather bound wallet.

"Thank you." Sherlock didn't turn his head, scared and trembling now that he might be found.

"Could I get a name?"

"Keith Ruben."

"Ah. I'm Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft looked at him peculiarly, surveying what little he could of the man.

"Pleasure." Sherlock extended his arm and shook quietly, while doing his best to keep behind is coat and hat. But to Sherlock's luck, a drunkard that was in a fight, sprawled back and hit Sherlock, knocking him over.

Sherlock turned over as quick as he could, searching for his cap that had been taken off his head when he fell and still trying to remain hidden from Mycroft. But the voice that spoke behind assured Sherlock that remaining hidden was futile.

"Sherlock? I – Is that you?" Mycroft's eyes widened and his voice shook when he spoke. With haste, Sherlock grabbed his cap, forced it back on and walked out, before Mycroft could figure out what happened and follow Sherlock to Molly's.

A block away from the crowded pub, Sherlock broke into a sprint. He flew past closing shops and down alleyways until he reached the small back alley car park behind Molly's apartment. He slowed down to a halt and panted, catching his breath. Peering out from behind the building, he walked forward. He saw a car pull up and saw Mycroft Holmes exit the vehicle. Sherlock pressed himself against the building, praying that he wouldn't be seen in what dim light lit the alley. After surveying the area, Mycroft returned into the safety of his car, and with a start, drove away.

Sighing with relief, Sherlock walked up the steps to Molly's apartment and walked up to the 5th floor. Turning the key and hearing the silence inside, he assumed Molly hadn't returned or possibly went out for dinner or drinks with a friend of hers. Taking his coat off, he felt his a vibration in his right pocket and he reached and took his phone out. He'd acquired a new phone number in order to stay hidden, as it was possible that his old number could be recognized by anybody because it was on his website 'The Science of Deduction." He hadn't had the heart to take it down, as it held many memories. Every day, he checked John's blog. The viewership had reached 4000 followers and this filled Sherlock with a bittersweet feeling. The blog was a documentary of their cases together, of their time together. Courtesy of the blog, Sherlock was up-to-date with the on goings in John's life. Back in therapy, he was forced to continue writing it, as the John he knew would have abandoned the blog immediately after Sherlock's death.

Turning his attention the phone, he noticed he had a new message. I got your number from Adam. Get in the car. This needs to be dealt with. – MH.

Sherlock sighed, and put the phone back into his pants pocket. If he didn't follow suit, men would come in and force him into the car, and Sherlock didn't want to cause Molly the trouble.

Out on the streets, in front of the paved road where Molly lived, a black car with tinted windows waited. A large man in an expensive suit stood there, checking his watch. When he raised his head, his gaze fixed on Sherlock, and he opened the car door. "Please, sir. Mr. Holmes waits your acquaintance." The man had said when Sherlock had hesitated into getting into the car, but seeing no other solution, Sherlock got into the car and closed the door behind him.

The ride to the office took 20 minutes. To Sherlock's incredulity, Mycroft wasn't with him. Possibly took another car back to his work. Guarded by two of Mycroft's trusted employees, whom he recognized from when they took him out of his when he was still dressed in his robe and led him to the Irene Adler case.

Sherlock walked through the cold marble hallways until he reached the dark oak door marked Mycroft Holmes. He opened the door slowly. The room was cold and smelt of ginger and whiskey. Mycroft stood at the back, carefully selecting a crystal bottle of musty smelling spirits and pouring an ounce for himself. Sherlock stopped before the large desk that was covered in assorted papers, bits of code and files with names even Sherlock had trouble pronouncing.

"Mycroft-"

"Just sit." Sherlock listened to Mycroft's tired and pained voice and obeyed, sitting down at the char in front of his desk. Mycroft joined him, carrying what now looked like more of an ounce of vodka.

"A month. That's how long I've been reconsidering and regretting every terrible thing I've ever done to you. I was reliving child hood memories and realizing that I was such a terrible older brother. And you're alive? Why did you lie, Sherlock? Do you not know how much this has pained me?"

Knowing that this was more of a statement than a question, Sherlock remained quiet, with his hands folded on his lap and looking straight into Mycroft's eyes.

"Honestly Mycroft, it wasn't you that I had really cared about after my death. I had other, more important things on my mind."

Mycroft leaned back into his chair, resting his hands on his protruding stomach. "Like what, Sherlock? What could be more important than family?"

Sherlock looked around at the room. The walls were white and decorated with bookshelves and old paintings, while the carpet was a deep navy. Dull.

"Please, Mycroft. Have you ever cared about family?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "And besides, even if you had, you never cared about me."

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sherlock. Not everything needs your dumb wit and innuendo."

"How's the diet?" Sherlock looked at the desk, and saw the cake crumbs etched into the keyboard. "Coming along well?"

"That's not of concern right now."

"Oh? You've been binge eating again, Mycroft. I can tell."

"As I said before, not of concern."

Sherlock rested his fingertips against his chapped lips, and his thumbs under his chin. "And what is?"

"This situation. You're 'suicide'. Why?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Sherlock, why?"

Sherlock whipped his head around to face Mycroft. "You know bloody well why," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes. "Sherlock, I had no idea – "
"Save your words on someone who cares, Mycroft. You told a criminally insane man who had an obsession with me every little detail about me." Sherlock leaned as far forward as possible, and spoke in a barely audible whisper. "What did you expect him to do? Leave as if nothing had happened and do no wrong? You, Mycroft. You're the reason I'm hiding away in a loft all day, scared to show my face too often. Because of you, Moriarty threatened the only people I cared about. My death was the only way to stop them from getting hurt."

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, already tired of his insufferable brothers company.

"Sherlock, you jumped off a building, you pretended to disappear, for me?"

"Please, Mycroft. Moriarty wasn't threatening your existence. Don't even be flattered in any way. It was Mrs. Hudson, Detective LeStrade and John's life I was scared for."

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his temples, trying to rid himself of a headache, which he'd had for at least 6 months. Their mother had come after the funeral and had stayed with Mycroft. She hadn't cared about what had happened, only if Mycroft was okay. It sickened him now, realizing that it was his fault why Sherlock was no longer the favorite Holmes son.

Sherlock sighed. "Honestly, Mycroft. You're easier to read than a book for the sight impaired. I know mummy came, I saw her in the train station. What, she couldn't spare the time to show up to her own son's funeral? Was she too busy framing every single award and polishing every trophy her favorite son won?"

"Don't talk about her like that."

"I have every right."

"No you don't."

Sherlock stood up in a rage. "I have every right to say what I want about our mother! Because of what you started is why she disowned me, Mycroft! Stop your stupid noble talk and face it! This stupid childish feud, it was your entire fault. Everything. Everything was your fault!" Sherlock screamed as he spoke, his knuckles turned white as they clenched into fists. Noticing his labored breathing and anger, Sherlock relaxed. Regaining his composure, he sat back down, refusing to look at his brother who seemed to exacerbate situations with every breath he took.

"Who are you staying with, Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was despondent when he spoke.

"Molly Hooper."

"Smart choice. I presume it was her who made your disappearance so easy?"

"Yes."

"Well, it all makes sense. Go home and pack your stuff. You're moving in with me."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh, dear brother, it's going to take a lot more than the king and a couple of his knights to make me move." Sherlock stood up and straightened his jacket, and nodded to Mycroft. "Good evening, Mycroft. And do remember to keep the countries happy, if not it causes such bad traffic."

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's sleeve. "Please, Sherlock. Let me make things right."

"You won't leave me alone until I agree, will you?"

"You're right, as always. I won't."

Sherlock sighed, tired and annoyed. "I'm not staying, Mycroft. Ask your questions and be done so I can continue my quiet life in Molly's apartment."

Mycroft released the cloth between his hands and leaned back into his chair. He stared quizzically at Sherlock, which just seemed to irritate Sherlock's already foul mood.

"You've got a question, Mycroft. Just ask it, already. I'm staying the night, anyway." Sherlock snapped, sitting back down into his chair.

"How did you do it?"

"It was one of the assassins. I think Molly asked one of them to drive a garbage truck and intend for me to land on it. Also, that biker that knocked over John? I think that was intended so John wouldn't see. A piece of glass still cut my head in the truck, that's why there was so much blood."

Mycroft stayed silent at this. "Have you seen John?"

"That is not of concern, Mycroft. I don't need to explain my feelings to you."

"It's a start to improving our relationship. And besides, if you don't want to answer, you could just leave. However it is absolutely pouring outside."

"And since I was eight I haven't had much a taste for water. I find it a bit, suffocating, don't you?" Sherlock's head swiveled around to face Mycroft, eyes blazing with hostility.

"Again, Sherlock. You always dwell on things that should have been forgiven and forgotten."

"Forgiven and forgotten? You were my brother."

"And it was a stupid childish feud about who was mummy's favorite."

"A stupid childish feud? If it was stupid, you seemed too serious about it, the ways you provoked me and the ways you strived to be the favorite."

"Just answer the question, Sherlock. Have you seen him?"

"No."

A long silence entered the room like a poisonous gas. Sherlock had closed his eyes, locked up in some happy memory, which would bring him to tears if he kept thinking on it, and Sherlock never dwelled on things that would crack his unemotional mask.

"How… is he, um… Is he ok?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, sighing. He had kept up with John's on goings after Sherlock's death, scared that one wrong move could tip him over the edge. From what Mycroft had observed, the Doctor hadn't been doing his best. The cameras that he had installed in 221B Baker St. showed the effects of Sherlock's suicide. Now living on his own and Mrs. Hudson allowing him to stay with no fee, John had turned for the worse. What cabinets used to be filled with old porcelain and cans of food were now covered in liquor bottles, both full and empty. When Mycroft had come around for a most unwelcome visit, Mycroft only had one thing to say. "You're becoming like Harriet." And for that comment, Mycroft was punched in the face, and was sent off with insulting jibes, and a bleeding nose. Mycroft had exited the door and turned around to say one final thing, but saw John collapsed on the floor in tears, whispering secrets to an unknown god and praying for Sherlock's existence.

"He's fine."

Ok, not my best. Was a little uninspired. Sorry the Mycroft scene was a little long. Anywhoo review please (: any feedback is a great help!