A/N: This chapter made me almost cry a little first time around, still makes me sad when I edit it. But you guys need to know what happens next, regardless of my own feels. And just so you guys remember, I only used a couple of Google searches for like, the entire fic. My research skills are okay, but I don't know enough to say much of anything with certainty, k? My word isn't to be trusted for how it actually works in these situations. Thanks to cornishrexmomma, TheShallowGamer, Van39MaxKatAlex4, and my Guest reviewer for reminding me every time I went to check on other stories, people read this one and are waiting for the next part.
John Watson knocked on the door to Sherlock's flat and sighed, checking his watch. It was 8:00. Why he couldn't be just opening his office now and was instead standing outside his most difficult patient's brother's flat, he couldn't wrap his head around. He got a call at 12:20 last night telling him Mycroft had gotten considerably worse, and he needed help right away. He knocked on the door again. This time he heard footsteps, and a door opened as far as the chain on the inside would allow. "Wha'd you want?" a voice slurred with sleep said from the other side.
"Mycroft, it's Doctor Watson. Can you let me in? Your brother wanted me to come."
"No."
"Sorry?"
"Nothing against you, John, but if Sherlock has called you over here he doesn't believe a word I said last night and is convinced I'm paranoid and delusional, even though I'm taking my medication every day." He stressed the last part.
John sighed. Not only because it was futile to get Mycroft to address him formally, but if Mycroft was stressing his taking his meds, he must have skipped a couple of days quite recently. "Well, we can talk through the door or we can talk inside, or we can take a walk and talk if it's okay with Sherlock, but I need to know what you said last night to make him so worried."
Mycroft stared at him a moment, then shut the door. John groaned, until he heard some rattling with the chain and realized Mycroft was just having a hard time unlocking the door. Which he supposed was a good thing if Sherlock expected him to stay inside for the night. Another moment and he could hear the chain sliding away and Sherlock opened the door. "I was about to get it," Mycroft sulked and walked away into the living room. Sherlock invited John in and offered him tea, which he gladly accepted. Then, tea in hand, he walked into the living room to find Mycroft sitting on the couch and sulking. "There's nothing wrong with me!" he spat. "Well, nothing more than normal…"
John inwardly sighed that at least this session was starting similarly to all the other sessions they've had. "Mycroft, no one is saying anything is wrong with you other than what normally is."
Mycroft looked up. "So everyone thinks I'm getting worse?"
John sighed audibly this time.
"I'm not getting worse!"
"I never said you were, Mycroft. Could you tell me why everyone thinks that?"
Mycroft curled up into a ball and stared at his shoes. "It's 'cause of Molly," he mumbled.
"Sorry? Who's Molly?"
"She's a girl I met about two weeks ago. At the book store." John nodded his head to show he understood, Mycroft sometimes had trouble interpreting the less obvious body language signals when he got really confused. "Anyway, she and I got kind of…off on the wrong foot, but we were learning kind of how to act around each other, you know? And then…" Mycroft broke off.
"And then?" John prompted.
Mycroft shifted.
"You skipped your medication, didn't you?"
He nodded reluctantly. "That's why I'm here and not at home. But I wasn't thinking right and followed her to her house…" John nearly choked on his tea, but kept a straight face so Mycroft wouldn't notice and could finish the story. "And Sherlock came and picked me up, and I've been on my medication since! And I went to her at the store and apologized, and we made up quickly, she even recommended a book to me," he pulled a book off the table, "And I finished it in one day it was so good, and I went back to the store two days ago by myself (Sherlock was there the first time,) and we were talking about how the book was actually a series and one thing led to another and we…kissed."
John really choked on his tea this time. Mycroft looked over with concern but John waved him off and cleared his throat, cueing Mycroft to continue. "Then we talked a little while longer, exchanged phone numbers and set up a lunch date for yesterday. We texted a little first thing in the morning, had lunch, talked for at least an hour, and I thought it went well…But then she wasn't at the store last night. I asked Mr. Kazembe (the owner of the store) where she was, because I thought I'd return the favor of the book recommendation, except she wasn't there, and she wasn't answering her phone at home, or her cell phone, so I went to her flat to see if she was okay-and I waited outside to see her, I'm not about to break into her house!-and she wasn't there. So I left a note on the off-chance everything was all right and there was just an emergency that popped up-even though I doubt it-and then Sherlock came and we fought because he couldn't see something was wrong, but I know something isn't right. See, I still haven't gotten a call or text from her, she hasn't been home, can't you see-"
"Mycroft, calm down, you're going to hyperventilate." John tried to get the taller man to stay sitting down, to no avail. He got up and started pacing and muttering to himself in a frenzy, forgetting anyone else was in the room. John stood in front of him and he froze like a deer in headlights. John gently steered him toward the couch, and Mycroft curled up in a ball again, muttering to himself about all kinds of different reasons why the girl he talked about could be missing. John knew this was Mycroft's way of thinking things through, but the way he was talking so fast and so passionately lead John to worry there was something else fueling Mycroft besides his tendency towards curiosity. He motioned for Sherlock to come with him into the kitchen so they could talk. "Well, he's either telling the truth, or his delusions have strengthened to an extent I've never seen with him before."
Sherlock seemed paler than he normally did. "You can't tell the difference?"
"Usually Mycroft has at least a little bit of doubt that his delusions could be just that, as well as other indicators, like him behaving a little more childish, as we've both seen often enough. But this time, he's convinced of his opinions and only shows great concern-I can't even tell if he's feeling anything else or if this is consuming all of his thoughts."
Sherlock's head fell. He knew what this meant, and he was hoping it wouldn't come to this. "It's time, isn't it?"
John swallowed. "Sherlock-"
Sherlock waved him off, though John could tell it was taking all of his strength to stay strong. "We've been friends since before Mycroft started coming to see you. You know I won't want any pity." He looked back through the doorway to the kitchen. "It's just…I always held out hope, no matter how small, that he wouldn't have to give his life up because of some stupid mental disorder."
John grabbed his shoulder and nodded. "Do you want me to tell him, or do you want to tell him?"
"No, you tell him. I'm going to have to tell the rest of the family, I don't want one more person's guilt on my shoulders."
John just nodded numbly again.
Sherlock excused himself to his room, muttering, "I need to call them." As John walked back out to Mycroft. He had stopped muttering, but was still fixated on his shoes. "You're going to take me away, aren't you?"
"I…yes, Mycroft, I just can't trust you to be safe around others anymore."
Mycroft sighed and hid his head behind his knees. "Could you at least look at my phone to see that Molly is real and she really texted me? I'm not making this all up."
John swallowed thickly and did as he was asked. At least that part of Mycroft's story was true; he hadn't gotten a message from a Molly Hooper since early yesterday morning. John looked over at Mycroft and back at the phone. "I can give the police a call, if you want. They'll have to know about your…condition," Mycroft snorted, "But if she's not back at work and the owner gets concerned and he calls in, they might at least start a search, does that make you feel better?"
Mycroft nodded, not lifting head above his knees. "The medication isn't working…" he said.
"Sorry?"
Mycroft looked up, and John could see he was crying. "I'm not delusional, I'm not talking about that, I can't…I mean…"
John knew what he was trying to say. The child that seemed to take over part of Mycroft's head when he didn't take his medicine was clearly out now. "Nothing works with you for long, does it?"
Mycroft didn't respond. John grabbed his hand and said softly, "Come on, let's go."
Sherlock walked out of his room as he heard footsteps, and saw Mycroft with tears in his eyes waving good-bye to him as he walked out of the flat with John and into a black car waiting outside, and Sherlock watched as his brother left Baker Street and went to the psychiatric hospital he and John had talked about many times before. He could still hear his mother crying on the phone line as she realized exactly why Sherlock was calling. He closed the door to 221B leaving a note on the door letting Mrs. Hudson know not to come in for the rest of the day, as he composed a melody on the violin for Mycroft, knowing that at this point, about all he could do for his brother at this point was find different ways to lessen the culture shock at the hospital when he steeled his nerve enough to visit.
