Sherlock was reading, curled up on his sofa, when Mycroft knocked on the shabby basement door. After calling for Mycroft to enter, Sherlock put down the book to make a few notes on a notepad. His brother waltzed into the room, umbrella in hand as he came to stand before Sherlock. His foot patted a slow rhythm on the worn carpet.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock looked up at him, biting his lip to keep him from snapping at his big brother. Mycroft knew that Sherlock hated it when he patted his foot on the ground. It was a habit that Mycroft had developed in his youth when bossing around his younger brother. Sherlock despised him for opening old wounds and reminding him of the days in which Mycroft had total control over him… but come to think of it, nothing much had changed. After all, the only reason he was staying secret was because Mycroft had forced him to. Otherwise, Sherlock would be seeking the assassins on his own.

"What is it, Mycroft," Sherlock asked with a moan. He glared at the intruder with frustration. Mycroft might have smiled down at Sherlock's discomfort on a different day in a different time, but he didn't come visit without a serious matter in mind.

Mycroft broke his gaze and eyed his umbrella, leaning down on the handle. "We've tracked down a few minor employees in an abandoned warehouse just east outside London. My men will notify me if they find any new information on the three assassins, but for now we are trying to take down the mass amount of weaker employees…" Mycroft shifted his posture and scratched at his chin, "We're keeping surveillance concentrated on the warehouse for now, with a few secret agents hiding amongst Moriarty's employees."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, knowing that there was a better reason as to why Mycroft had come. After all, the lazy git wouldn't leave the comfort of his office or the Diogenes club for a matter like this. "What else has developed?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Mycroft cleared his throat and attempted a small knowing smile, it was completely fake and out of character, "In other news, we succeeded in moving John out of his temporary room, he's living with his sister now."

Sherlock looked away with indifference on his face, but beneath that mask, he wasn't sure if he should feel upset or relieved. Relief seemed like the better option, since John's safety was essential to this mission. One of Mycroft's agents had moved into a place near Harry's house in order to keep an eye on John in his new destination. Mycroft took a small folded envelop out of his breast pocket and laid it on the cushion beside Sherlock. "This envelop contains the necessary information for you to find the first assassin. Lestrade's assassin, in case you were interested. It would be best to remove this one before he does any more damage to Scotland Yard's reputation. As you know, Lestrade is suspended right now, since the trouble you caused. It's already very unlikely that he will still be Detective Inspector, or even get his job back, for that matter…" Sherlock picked up the envelop, avoiding Mycroft's glare. "But I will do anything and everything in my power to get Lestrade back in his office. We both know that none of this was his fault."

Sherlock felt a wave of anger rush through him as he bit back "Lestrade wanted me to work for him, and I did. He knew what he was getting into, letting me go to the crime scenes. And we both know that you don't have a clear conscience either, Mycroft!"

Mycroft said no more, he swallowed the thick lump in his throat as he walked back to the doorway. "I'm doing everything I can, Sherlock. I don't like playing these games, but it seems that I'm still the one who has to put all the toys away at the end of the day." Without another word, Mycroft closed the door behind him as his steps faded away.

Sherlock was alone again, with his thoughts, with his resentments, with his bitterness. Suddenly, the room was much colder, it crawled up his spine as he curled up on the sofa. It had been six months since his faked suicide, and he still couldn't get the hang of this lifestyle. He wasn't a dependant person, he never was, but John had become his oxygen.

Imagine that...

John had become an element,

A part of Sherlock.

Essential.

Exhaling a heavy breath, Sherlock thought that he could almost see the expelled carbon dioxide, as if it was mid-winter. His dressing gown slipped from his shoulder, revealing the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Finally standing from the sofa, Sherlock marched to his little bedroom and closed the door behind him. Basements were always cold, and being November, or course the temperature had started to drop. But the cold that Sherlock felt seemed to be rooted in the centre of his chest.

He climbed onto his mattress, under the sheets as he shivered and curled into a fetal position. The shivering didn't go away, it felt as if his bed, the floor, or even the earth was shaking with Sherlock's resentment. Everything felt unsteady, it reminded him of the years he took drugs. He squeezed his eyes shut against the overwhelming sensations running through his body, coursing through his veins.

Then, with a sudden jolt, he sat up on the mattress, his sheets tangled around him and a thin layer of sweat over his skin. He tore off his dressing gown and glided his finger tips against the delicate skin on the inside of his arms. The muscles seemed to itch, the scars from needles were still visible years later. Sherlock touched the nail of his right index finger to a particularly ugly and prominent scar. That had been his sweet spot during his youth. Every injection had given him the most satisfaction when he found that vein. Sherlock bit his lower lip, smirking at the thought of the rush through his veins, the wonders it did to his brain. Of course, Sherlock hadn't always been a Consulting Detective, but even as a young boy, his talents were of great value. He could hardly remember when or how he got his first needle, he deleted that memory a long time ago. But that itch was coming back, and if Sherlock didn't get his fix soon… he didn't know what he might do. He shook at the thought of the possibilities.

Those scars had remained for a reason, and right now, the only reason could be that those wounds had wanted to be re-opened. They were meant to be re-opened. Mycroft shouldn't know, neither should Molly. This was private, personal, if anything, it would assist Sherlock in finding the assassin.

Without getting dressed, Sherlock threw his jacket on. It was a different jacket, not long and flowing like his other one. He couldn't be recognized, and he had the perfect supplies to help him hide his identity in public.

It was already dark out, he knew where to find the right people, he knew London better than he knew his mother's house. His disguise was ready, the stubble growing on his face and the darkness under his eyes would help hide his identity while the different clothes did the rest.

Sherlock creeped out of the basement flat, making his way down the dark and busy street. The itch in his veins had subsided for now, but soon he would have release.