A/N: First of all, I want to apologize for the long wait. I had no intention of letting it go this long, and I'm sorry I left you hanging. Thank you all for your absolutely wonderful reviews. Each and every one inspired me to keep writing.
This chapter takes place in the past, and it will continue to do so for probably one more chapter.
I keep forgetting to mention, the main story takes place After the Hound of Baskerville, but Before the Reichenbach Fall. Merlin is 22, and Sherlock is 32. I am going to try my best to keep major events canon to Sherlock.
Warnings: Descriptions of blood and mentions of suicide.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or Sherlock.
Two and a half months after Merlin graduated college.
Sherlock walked up to the front door of Merlin's flat and knocked briskly. He wondered for the thousandth time why he was even here. He tried to convince himself that the funny feeling that compelled him to pay his younger brother a visit was nothing more than indigestion from the pure idiocy he had been subject to recently. But he still couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding that had settled into his bones.
It all started a little under an hour ago when he had received a call from Merlin. He had been busy checking the biometric compounds in a toenail clipping (for a case of course), so he let it go to voicemail. A highly annoying nagging at the base of his head had led him to listen to it a few minutes later.
He wouldn't be able to explain why the message from his brother had filled him with such dread. By all accounts Merlin had seemed perfectly fine. The call may have been a bit sudden, but then Merlin always had been a little more spontaneous than his brothers. Plus, Merlin was one of those 'keep-in-touch' kinds of people. So all in all, the entire message was completely innocuous… or so it would seem.
Five minutes after he had listened to the voicemail, Sherlock gave up attempting to concentrate on his work in favor of pacing. Why wouldn't this stupid irrational feeling leave him alone!? By now his annoyance was brimming on the edge of pure frustration. Eventually, he just gave up and resigned himself to the horribly tiresome task of a 'social' visit.
So here he was, waiting for Merlin to come to the door so that Sherlock could finally get some peace and get on with more important things. The only problem was that Merlin wasn't coming to the door.
Sherlock knocked again, the anxiety creeping through his veins strengthening in intensity. When there was again no response, he pounded on the door urgently once more, and then started pacing in small circles.
He knew that Merlin was home. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he trusted his instincts, and right now his instincts were telling him that his brother was home and that something was wrong.
Sherlock dug the key to Merlin's flat out of his pocket, having taken it with him on a whim. He had stolen the key from his brother years ago and made a copy (not that Merlin didn't know). Merlin knew he had it, and Sherlock knew that Merlin knew he had it. Neither mentioned this fact for the sake of peace.
His fingers trembled as he slotted the key into the lock and turned; it unlocked with a click. He quickly let himself into the flat and closed the door behind him. It was eerily silent, and almost completely dark, the shades drawn and the lights off. But it wasn't those things that turned the pit of dread in his stomach into fear, it was the smell. A smell Sherlock knew all too well; the smell of blood.
Immediately, Sherlock quickly followed the smell. Through the living room, past the kitchen (where he subconsciously stored the fact of a missing knife), into Merlin's bedroom, he followed the smell all the way to the master bath; where he found Merlin, and blood.
Now the fear and progressed even further into an icy cold feeling that couldn't be described. Shock might be a close word, but it probably didn't fully encompass the horror that had flooded his being. Sherlock was not unfamiliar with blood; he dealt with it on a day to day basis. But he had never before dealt with it in this way, on such a personal level, and he was sure the image before him would be forever seared onto his memory.
Merlin was slumped in his bathtub, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his legs crossed. There were tear tracks running down his face. He was unconscious… and sitting in a pool of blood. It was flowing steadily from the angry slits in his wrists, and a knife had fallen just outside the fingertips of Merlin's left hand. The blood, Merlin's blood, was pooled around his limp form, soaking into his clothes and painting his arms and hands a sickening shade of red.
Sherlock couldn't breathe. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't possible. He would have seen this! The thoughts swirled through his head, paralyzing him with a deep feeling of shock and horror.
The knife sat by his brother's hands, taunting him, showing him what he hadn't noticed. Why!? His mind screamed, why would Merlin do this? He frantically searched for an explanation, but soon realized that only Merlin would know. Is he even alive?
It was this thought more than anything that spurred him into action. He lunged forward and knelt by the bathtub, pressing two shaking fingers to Merlin's neck. A weak, thready beat echoed against his skin.
His vision started to fade at the edges, and Sherlock distantly realized that he was hyperventilating. He forced his emotions back; this was not a time to panic.
Sherlock pulled out his phone and started dialing the number for an ambulance. No, he couldn't do that. He stopped dialing. He knew for a fact that Merlin had blood like no one else's. His brother would become an experiment. There was only one person Sherlock could call.
"Sherlock, what do you want?" Mycroft picked up on the third ring.
Sherlock was a little disgusted at the wave of relief that washed over him at the sound of his brother's voice. "It's Merlin," he said.
Mycroft's tone changed in an instant, "What happened?" He asked seriously.
"He's…" Sherlock couldn't say it, the words refused to move past the thing in his throat. "He's hurt."
"What happened?" Mycroft repeated.
Sherlock glanced at the knife and breathed out shakily, "He's unconscious and bleeding heavily. He's alive but needs medical attention now. Someone you can trust to keep a secret." At the thought of secrets a bud of anger started to blossom in Sherlock's chest. But he forced it back down, he could be angry later.
There was a pause on Mycroft's end, Sherlock waited impatiently.
"They're on their way."
Sherlock gave a sigh of relief, but he knew it wasn't over yet. A sudden thought crossed his mind. "Mycroft, don't tell mum and dad until you see him first."
"Sherlock, what happened?" Mycroft's voice was demanding, and the very real concern had made itself known.
A choking sound made its way out of Sherlock's throat. "Just get here soon," was all he could say. Then he hung up.
To Be Continued...
A/N: Please please review! I need inspiration for the next chapter, and the longer your review the faster I write!
