The door was slammed shut solidly, roughly enough to shake the walls of 221b Baker Street, in a way that, were Mrs Hudson present, would probably cause complaint. The phone was unplugged in a hurry, computers shut down, and finally, Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket, drew back a long, pale arm, and thrust it through the window, smashing the glass, and sending it flying down into the street, where upon it's landing, it was crushed by a passing taxicab (this being London, it was, of course, inevitable, that a taxicab would be the nearest vehicle). Every window was then locked, and he grabbed the Union Jack pillow from the armchair, and rammed it through the hole made by his phone.

Satisfied that the whole world was shut out, Sherlock sank into the sofa, and with a sigh, he let the tears flow. And boy, did they flow. He felt no need to hold back now, here in his bubble, nobody would find him, nobody would need to see this. Curling into a ball, gripping his knees, his knuckles white, he let out a wail of anguish, that tore through him, ripping at the walls of his throat until they were raw, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Face tense, eyebrows sloping down, with his mouth open and twisted in pain, squinting from the tears raining endlessley down his face- Sherlock knew that his features were set in a grotesque picture of anguish and agony. Sobs rocking through him sent his body into violent convulsions, and a cold, shivering, wreck was all that the consultant detective was reduced to.

Somewhere, through the agony, Sherlock heard a knock.

This was only to be expected. People were stupid- they weren't idiots. He ignored it, pointedly, and went back to his crying.

The knock was persistent- it's provider now opened the letterbox, clumsily and loudly, in order to shout to the sufferer within. It was irritating, yes, but it was of no significance. It could still be ignored.

"Sherlock- give it up. I know you're in there!"

Oh.

That did change things. It was not just any voice shouting through the letterbox. It was John's voice.

"John- I told you- I don't need you! Go away, I am fine on my own!"

"Sherlock-"
"I said AWAY, John."

That dealt with things nicely. Silence.

"Sherlock!"

Or not.

"WHAT, John!"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

" Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock. You can't play that card when you're an arrogant, self confessed genius. Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not."

" Look, Sherlock... You're scared. I know that. I can deal with that. It's fine. You were there for me, I want to be there for you too, and I can help you, but only if you let me. Maybe you think that you don't care about your Brother. You can kid yourself, but you can't kid me. Sooner or later, you're going to get that red hot pang, twisting across your heart- just like I did, and I know you're going to want somebody there when you do. I know it.

Now, I don't know why it is you're trying so hard to run from this, but there's obviously a problem, and whatever it is, I can help make it go away. But you have to tell me what it is. Why are you sealing yourself off like this? Why don't you want the world to see you?"

Sherlock thought about this for a while.

"I- I don't know!" He said. That was lie. Of course he knew.

He was doing it because, maybe, just maybe, if the world couldn't reach him, Mycroft couldn't die.

If nobody could tell him, if nobody could make him hear- if he never knew- then Mycroft would never be dead. When somebody dies, they don't die only once. They die every time that somebody finds out that they die. Every time that a friend or a relative or an enemy or a rival finds out- that person dies a little bit more, until, eventually, they die altogether.

If Sherlock never knew, then he could just sit here, and stay here, looking at the door, and waiting for Mycroft to come home.

If Sherlock never knew, then the hope would always remain. Mycroft could always come home.

Of course Shelock knew that- he was just glad that John didn't.

"Come on, Sherlock." Said John. "Let's go and find Mycroft already."

And this time, Sherlock knew what to say.

"Okay, John." He said.