When Mycroft finally got back into Lizzie's car, he was exhausted. The second they got inside the house, he went upstairs and collapsed on his bed. It had been a good day. He'd felt free, felt able to chose what was happening to him. He had been in control. It had been wonderful. But he still felt tears trickle down his face. His stomach twisted in sickening guilt. He was happy away from home. Happy without his parents. Mother was still there, with his father. Who knew what she would have to put up with now he and Sherlock weren't there to take the brunt of father's anger? He had no right to be happy. He had no right to feel anything he wasn't told to feel. That had been battered into him since before he could read. He thought of his father. Maybe he missed his son? Maybe he realised he'd gone too far, and he was just wishing they were home. Maybe he had realised how much he loved them. Maybe he was sorry. But he didn't need to be sorry. Mycroft forgave him for every blow as it happened. Mycroft stood up, turning manically, pacing around the room, clutching the sides of his head. He was not allowed to be happy. He did not deserve it. He should be at home, atoning for his sins, not here, in this bright, sunny house, with these kind people and at this beautiful school. Even if he stayed, his life was meaningless now. Now that Sherlock was safe, he had no purpose. It had always been his mission to protect the boy, to make sure he was never at risk. He had done everything he could to save him. And he wasn't needed anymore. It was pointless. Mycroft groaned, pulling at his hair, still turning frenziedly around the room. He was worthless, just like his father had always said. His only uses were as father's punching bag and toy, and as Sherlock's protector. And now father couldn't have him, and Sherlock was safe. His meaning was lost. No one would care if he died. No one would notice. Mycroft dived suddenly for the backpack he had packed with clothes for him and Sherlock the night they left home. He leant against the wardrobe door, remembering in flashes the things he had seen from within his father's wardrobe. He reached into the front pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. His hands shook as he flipped out the blade. He held his breath, biting hard on his lip, as he pushed it into his forearm. Blood beaded out from under the knife, releasing the bitter taste of self disgust and worthlessness from him. He pushed deeper, forcing out more blood, and as it began to run down his arm, he withdrew the knife. Mycroft's head lolled back against the wardrobe door, and he smiled. He felt his body relax. He had paid in pain for his worthlessness, just as he had done so many times at others' hands. He was breathing heavily, soft laughter shaking his chest as he stared blankly at the ceiling, ignoring the blood rushing out of his arm in rhythm with his pulse.
It was half an hour before anyone missed him. Lizzie called up the stairs to get him down for dinner. When there was no answer, she shrugged, figuring he'd come when he smelt the bacon. But he didn't. She sent Sherlock upstairs to fetch him. Within seconds, she wished she had gone instead, as she heard the little boy scream in terror. She sprinted up the stairs, Kevin a step behind her, John staring bemusedly at his parent's pale faces, Harry peering out of her bedroom. Lizzie flung open the boy's door and immediately covered her eyes, letting out a whimper of despair. Sherlock careered into her, flinging his arms around her and burying his face into her stomach, tears soaking into her skirt. Kevin dove down next to the twelve year old and felt his neck.
"There's still a pulse. Call the ambulance, Lizzie," when she didn't move, he raised his voice, "NOW!"
Lizzie let out a choked sob and pulled a shaking Sherlock out of the room. She called the ambulance, and within minutes, they were outside the door, just as Kevin had tied off a tourniquet around the boy's arm and begin CPR, muttering swear words under his breath with every push. The paramedics pushed him gently out of the way and began their own work on him. Kevin pushed his family out of the room, and they gathered with Sherlock at Mycroft's door. Lizzie and Sherlock were crying, Harry looking stunned, Kevin shaking and covered in blood, John staring at the paramedics with fascination and slight horror. Only minutes passed, but it felt like a life time, before Mycroft was strapped into the back of the van, Lizzie and Sherlock sitting beside his stretcher, on their way to the hospital. Before they even reached its doors, Mycroft's heart rate monitor flatlined, and Sherlock screamed again.
