John had been staring at his computer without moving for nearly 40 minutes when Mary walked into their tent. He had been struggling with updating his medical journal, and he had got as far as writing about the children but then stopped.

"The children are dying at more than twice the rate internationally recognised as an emergency. About four children under the age of five die here every day."

Now he sat, staring at his screen with his head in his hand. The children who had come into the camp just the day before had been walking for seven hours and were in very bad shape. John was exhausted from working for 16 hours that day trying to address the most severely dehydrated, but the work was endless. There were too many people who needed help and not enough doctors. People were living in make-shift camps besides open ponds, drinking contaminated water, but the water was drying up. Soon, the thousands of fleeing refugees would not even have that.

John rubbed his face and turned to Mary, who had flopped down exhausted on the large cot in the corner. He walked over, took off his shoes and laid down next to her. She clasped his hand, and the small gesture of intimacy made him take in a sharp breath. He put his other arm above his head and covered his eyes with his hand.

Mary turned over and propped herself up on her elbow.

"How are you holding up?" she asked gently.

John cleared his throat. "It's ok. Been a long day."

She leaned forward and rested her chin on John's shoulder. "I just talked with Peter. He got back from the hospital about an hour ago. They told him that two doctors are missing from a clinic in Pibor."

This had been the third report of doctors missing in South Sudan in the past month. John shook his head.

"We need to be more careful when we go out. I don't know how, but..."

Mary reached up to stroke John's hair and he involuntarily flinched away before she could touch him. She slowly withdrew her hand and put it down on his chest instead. John could feel her looking at him, searching his face with her steady, wise brown eyes. He was hoping the moment would pass unremarked, and like the other times she would just move on.

This time he wasn't so lucky.

"Why do you do that, John?"

John turned his head away from her so his face wouldn't betray him, but he could tell Mary wouldn't let it go that easily. She let her hand flow down his arm and rub gently back and forth over his fading scars.

"You know, we see children dying every day. We see women who have been raped and shot, men who have seen and done terrible things. And you carry on, you work through. None of it really seems to get to you. But then I reach to touch you... and it's as if I'm going to burn you..."

She gently laid her fingers on his chin and turned his head towards her. He knew she would see the tears, but he could not fight it.

"What happened to you?"

He looked her in the eye but didn't respond. He didn't know what to say.

"Was it a woman?" she asked. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Was it a friend?"

When she said the word "friend," the stream came rushing in uninvited. Thumbs plucking strings on the violin. Dark hair flying as he shot John's gun at their wall. Him jumping on his chair like an idiot and yelling at the television. His smile as he laughed at something John had said. The smell of him on the pillow. The feel of his fingers in John's hair.

John felt the tear make a path down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't."

Her lips were so soft on his that it almost made him forget. Even though he hadn't said a word, that was the only time they ever talked about Sherlock.


When Mycroft answered his phone, he knew immediately that something was terribly wrong.

"Mycroft - I don't know what to do," Molly said, her voice sounding small and terrified. "He won't come out of his room and I'm afraid he's... I don't know what he's done, but this house... Mycroft, have you seen his flat?"

"I'm on my way. Stay there and don't talk to him. Just wait until I get there."

Mycroft ended the call and immediately had his driver take him to Sherlock's flat. Molly was the only other person who knew that Sherlock was still alive, and she was stuck with the burden of helping to care for him. She often ran errands and brought him food, but it had taken a heavy toll on the poor girl. Sherlock was not easy to deal with at the best of times, but Mycroft had no idea how bad it was until he entered Sherlock's flat. When he reached the door on the third floor and opened it, he was unprepared for what he found. He hadn't actually been inside the flat for months, and the last time he was here it was disorderly but nothing outside the norm for his brother.

But this time was different. This place was the home of a madman. One entire wall was covered with photos and strings, scribbled notes held up with pins and knives, all spread out in the shape of a web. At the center of the web was a photo of Moriarty.

Mycroft was in shock; he had no idea that Sherlock's research had discovered such a complicated web. As he walked over and looked closely, his alarm mounted. Photo after photo had a big black "X" through it.

"Oh my God, Sherlock," he whispered. "How many people have you killed?"

And then there, right near the center of the web close to Moriarty, was a photo of John. Immediately to its right was a blank piece of paper with a large question mark on it, circled over and over in red. The missing piece. Sherlock had still not found the assassin assigned to John.

He heard Molly make a small noise, and Mycroft turned to look at the rest of the flat. It looked as if Sherlock had not left in weeks. There were books and clothes piled among broken glass and crumpled pieces of paper. He looked at Molly, who was standing awkwardly looking around the room with wide eyes.

"Did you see any needles?" Mycroft asked her, and she winced at the question.

"I... erm... I'm pretty sure he's got some in his bedroom," she said in a trembling voice. "Mycroft, he looks like he hasn't eaten in days, maybe weeks. We have to do something. He's going to kill himself."

Mycroft steeled himself and painted his most practiced elderly brother look onto his face. He walked to the bedroom door and opened it.

The room was completely dark, but after his eyes adjusted he could see a form sitting in the corner. He turned on the light and Sherlock immediately groaned and covered his face with his arms.

"Turn that damn thing off," Sherlock's voice rasped.

"But your flat is such a lovely shade of disaster that I wouldn't want to miss a single thing," Mycroft said dryly. The bed had been stripped of all the blankets and sheets, which were lying in a pile on the floor. On the nightstand was a long needle. He walked over and picked it up gingerly between a finger and thumb, examining it like it was a bug. "And I see you've taken to the needle again."

Sherlock sprang from the corner like a cat, grabbed his paraphernalia out of Mycroft's hands and shoved it into a drawer.

"Don't lecture me about drug addiction Mycroft I know all about it," Sherlock nearly shouted, running all his words together. He then swept out of the room and started roughly rummaging through his books next to the Moriarty wall. Mycroft followed him in and stood watching his brother devolve before him.

"Ah yes, let's discuss drug addiction, shall we? Let me guess. You don't have a problem because it helps you to focus."

Sherlock spun around, held up his hand and started counting on his fingers, becoming increasingly mocking and angry as he ranted. "Risk factors: male, family history, trauma as a child, trauma as an adult, mental disorders such as hyperactivity, lack of family involvement, earlier use of drugs. Having trouble with relationships. Feeling isolated. Anxiety, depression, loneliness. Coping with chronic pain! Helps me focus! Denial of the problem!"

He grabbed a glass on the table and threw it against the wall, sending more shards of glass shooting around the room. Molly let out a small scream and then whimpered in the corner. Mycroft stood unflinching, an immoveable statue with his hands in his pockets. Sherlock stood there breathing hard and then tangled his hands in his hair.

After a few moments, when it appeared this may be a break in the storm, Mycroft spoke again quietly.

"Would you want John to see you like this, Sherlock?"

At that, Sherlock buckled over as if in pain and then crouched to his knees.

"Yes! Yes, I want him to know! I want him to know that I am alive and that I can't think when he's not here! I want him to know that he's safe, that everyone is dead and he can come home. I want him to know that I miss him and it's over, that we can get on with … our lives..." Sherlock's hands covered his face and he curled up on the rug.

"But that's a lie," he whimpered, "because they're not all dead. I still have one more, one I can't find, and I can't think, John..."

Mycroft brought out his phone and sent a very brief text. He then walked over to Sherlock, knelt down and spoke softly into his ear.

"I'm going to get you some help, Sherlock," he said and rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. It was going to be hard. It was always hard.

"Did you read the papers, Mycroft?" he whispered through his fingers. "Two doctors are missing from a clinic in Sudan."

"It isn't John," Mycroft said immediately. "My contact at Médecins Sans Frontières called me, and it wasn't him."

Sherlock hugged himself with his arms and rocked slightly back and forth, his face turned to the rug.

"I'm not who I am, Mycroft," he said, and his voice was so muffled that Mycroft had to bend down to hear him. "This isn't who I am. I want me back."

Mycroft just sighed. This year couldn't end quickly enough.