A/N: So much love and feedback from you guys! Thank you!
Sherlock was not okay. He knew this. Despite what John said, things weren't going to get better. He was changed and it was for the worse. He hardly slept because of the nightmares. They had only become worse. Even with sleeping pills and medication, they didn't go away. He didn't want to be alone because he was too scared. When John was at work he would have Mrs. Hudson upstairs with him, or Molly, or even Lestrade. He would call anyone, just to make sure he wasn't alone. He didn't really eat either. He didn't want to.
He was worried his eating disorders were coming back. He had developed them in high school when kids starting bullying him and he couldn't deal with the stress. He had also cut himself the other day. He was just so alone and needed to feel something besides fear and he couldn't be happy, so he had shot for pain. He had regretted it immediately after, but that wasn't the point.
He still hasn't said anything to John. He almost considered using again, but he didn't want to make his physical state worse than it was at the moment. Maybe later when his body healed a little bit more. He would have to wait and see.
Sherlock hadn't gone to crime scene in a while as well. He didn't want to. That's the reason he had been attacked. Because he had gotten the leader of a gang (quite easily, in fact) and the members had become angry. Then they went after Sherlock. It was that simple. Well no, not exactly. Their was a bit more to the attack than that, but that was as far as he wanted his mind to dwell on to it. It hurt too much. He knew he would need to make a claim. He heard Greg and John speaking about a date in April, but he wasn't really paying attention. He had been too exhausted that day.
He was exhausted most days. Physically and mentally. He hadn't played violin in weeks, his fingers still healing. Plus his hands were so shaky. He was suffering from PTSD and it was bad. He was on so many medications of so many different colors. This one was for his skin, this one healed his bones, this one helped him sleep, this one helped him keep his head clear, this one minimized the shaking, the one helped with the depression, this one prevented infection, and so on. The pills took away what little bit of appetite he had.
He only ate when John came in mid-morning and brought him breakfast. John would smile and tell him stories about his childhood, some of his favorite cases, the weather, anything pleasant to keep Sherlock's overstimulated and nervous mind off of things for about twenty minutes. It was the best part of the broken man's day. Sometimes the blond man would slide into his room and they would watch telly or just stare at the ceiling and talk about anything.
John made Sherlock feel a little bit safer.
But he still wasn't okay.
"Sherlock, come here!" John calls from the living. The detective knits his eyebrows together. John never called him out at this time. It was too early for dinner. It was only three in the afternoon. He puts him computer down and gets up. Sherlock was in his pajamas. He rarely got dressed anymore. Their was no point to get dressed. Greg didn't call him to crime scenes, but to be fair he didn't want to leave home to go to crime scenes. Most cases were emailed to him and he would solve them when he felt like it.
He opens his bedroom door and peeks out. "Yes?" He asks. John goes over to him.
"Your uh, brother is here to see you."He looks at John in shock. Mycroft was here? But why? To see him? Perhaps, but that was so unlike him. But Sherlock had been through something pretty traumatic. He exits his room and goes to see his older brother. He was standing in the living room with his umbrella in his hand and a perfect poker face on.
"Hello, brother dear." He says to Sherlock with a smile. He rolls his eyes.
"What is it, Mycroft?" John hands him a cup of tea. How did he know Sherlock had wanted one? Sometimes he underestimated John's ability to read and understand what he wanted and needed.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing." The elder Holmes replies and Sherlock nearly drops his tea.
"Are you serious?"
"Of course I am." Sherlock was shocked by this, but he had gone through a very traumatizing experience so it did seem appropriate. Mycroft still was his big brother no matter how much him and Sherlock butted heads. "So how are you?" Sherlock smirks a bit because he could see how unsure and uncomfortable his brother was. But then he realizes that he was here because he was worried about the detective's well being.
"I've been better." He replies honestly, sitting in his chair. Mycroft sits in John's chair. John begins making dinner for later. Mycroft nods, twirling his umbrella in his fingers. "You have news. I can tell. What is it?" He looks at Sherlock and smiles, impressed. Very few people could read Mycroft Holmes. He was surprised that sleep deprived, exhausted, half-drugged, malnourished, and miserable Sherlock could read him so easily.
"I have hired you a therapist."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't need help, Mycroft." He can't help but scoff.
"Look at you! Don't tell me you don't need help!"
"I already have help." He raises an eyebrow to his brother's answer. "I have John."
"John is a medical doctor, not a therapist." Sherlock sighs heavily.
"But I don't want a therapist!" He half-whines.
"Fine, but you need to get better somehow."
"I'm trying, but it isn't exactly easy."
"I know." Mycroft glances at his watch. "I must go. I have some… things to attend to."
"You mean the Korean election." Sherlock snaps back, with a satisfying grin. Mycroft rolls his eyes.
"Goodbye, Sherlock." And with that, he was gone. Sherlock's grin drops though. His brother was right. He did need to get better and fast.
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