This has been written but unbeta'd for a very long time. Many thanks to my wonderful beta Akiame9 for taking time out of her busy schedule to give this a look-over for me, as well as betaing the next chapter! That should be up in about a week or so. :3

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Never have, never will.

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It was his forty-seven-second death that finally pushed Sherlock into rehab.

Going through withdrawal, all things considered, was the easiest part. Sure, all the aches and shakes were miserable to experience at the onset, but it only took about a week and a half for the physical symptoms to subside. The rest of the time, Sherlock mostly slept through it. With all he'd put his body through, the thing he labeled as "merely transport" was exhausted.

What affected him the most during his detox was the state of his mind. Staying cooped up in the rehabilitation clinic was driving him mad. He couldn't focus on anything, and his anxiety levels hit all new highs. His daily meetings with his assigned counselor and the group therapy sessions did little to help his addled brain, and so he spent most of his time inside his own head trying to sort everything out.

It killed Sherlock when he discovered he couldn't recall what his soul mate looked like. He knew he'd seen him that one night over a month ago, but he couldn't bring a face to mind. He remembered nothing of his physical features—his hair, his eyes, his height, his build. Not a bloody thing.

It was then that Sherlock decided that he would create a place inside his head where he could store away information. Important information, not useless trivia that he wouldn't ever need to recall. What started out as a small room of knowledge slowly grew and expanded the further he retreated into his mind. It was like his own self-imposed therapy, since none of the coping techniques taught to him by the actual professionals were working for him.

In building this mental castle of sorts for himself and his thoughts, Sherlock swore he would never forget anything important ever again. He just hoped to some indistinct deity that he hadn't ruined his only chance at ever meeting his soul mate.

The day before his release from rehab, Sherlock's thread pulled taut and strained.

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Mycroft was waiting for him in that infernal black car of his, parked right outside the clinic as if it had every right to be there.

Quite possibly for the first time in his life, Sherlock just didn't have the energy to put up a fight against his brother. He listlessly gripped the door handle and pulled, sliding himself into the back seat where the elder Holmes was already perched.

"Welcome back, Sherlock," Mycroft greeted calmly, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

Sherlock gave a little grunt in acknowledgement, not bothering to dignify that with a proper response.

The drive was mostly silent, both brothers lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock watched London pass by outside the tinted windows of the car, his ever-observant eyes carefully catching every detail possible. Details that could be stored in his new mental construct. He even had a special place in this hard drive of sorts labeled "London." Organization was key after all, seeing as Sherlock planned on storing as much relevant information as he possibly could.

He did briefly access the folder he labeled as "Mycroft" about forty-five minutes into the drive. Still neither of them had said a word to one another, and Sherlock certainly wasn't in a hurry to change that. Even so, he was still disturbed by one single bit of information he'd kept after all these years. Mycroft once told him that he hadn't had a thread. Told Sherlock he was lucky to have his. He wondered if it was different now—they hadn't spoken about it at all since that day so many years ago. Yet he had the sudden urge to talk about it now, right at this very moment.

Keeping his eyes trained on the sights outside, Sherlock decided to finally break the silence. "I think I lost him, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes inclined his head towards his younger brother, eyeing him suspiciously. "So you've mentioned," he said coolly, tapping the end of his umbrella against the floor of the car. "Hence your request that I find him."

At that, Sherlock scoffed. "I don't mean like that. I mean, my thread's pulled tight. He's gone now, out of the country somewhere. I have little chance of finding him now."

Mycroft let out a small, "ah," at this declaration, averting his attention outside just as Sherlock turned to look at him. "He's not gone, Sherlock. Only if your thread vanishes will he truly be gone." A frown then settled on his usually impassive features, and he let out a long sigh. Sherlock stared at his brother, studying him. Analyzing every minute movement, the way Mycroft suddenly tensed when he realized exactly what he'd just let slip without the use of words.

"Yours is gone," he said simply, quietly, the statement completely lacking the venom he normally spoke to Mycroft with.

"…Yes."

And they were silent for the rest of the drive to Mycroft's home.

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So much Mycroft angst. He deserves his own fic in this universe.

Until next time,
Chibi