This is eating him alive. That's one way of saying it. It feels like something is biting on every part of his skin, ripping his body apart, and being shredded with him still feeling it. Wait, he is being bitten by something.. Guilt. He, John Watson is guilty. And he doesn't even know why. He hadn't seen Sherlock in three months. Three months! That's long, considering that this is Sherlock we are talking about. The bloke won't stay away for more than ten hours away from him... before..

Three months.

He's getting depressed. He's lost his best friend, hasn't he? 'Jesus no. God no.' He hasn't had this much friendship with anyone other than Sherlock. Sherlock isn't just his best friend, he is the best man that he's ever known.

'What is he's dead? OH GOD?! WHAT IF HE'S DEAD?!'

Sherlock leaving him has already killed him inside. And he's feeling guilty for it. Because he knows it something that he said - for once - and he probably said something he cannot take back... The worst of it all - he can't remember what it was.

He left his own place under the bridge already. He kept going to places where there is shelter, and food - hopefully. No one seems to judge him when he's with the other homeless. 'I wonder what my parents are thinking right now? Happy that I'm gone in their lives? Or furious because they'd have to lie when someone asks them where their younger son is. Mycroft's probably happy he doesn't have his stupid brother anymore. John's probably happy, too. He did say he wanted to leave me.'

He thought bitterly as he lies down on the cold ground, trying hard to sleep. But his mind won't stop thinking. He misses them.

'You shouldn't miss anything or anyone. No one misses you in that life. Deal with the facts.'

He shakes his head to clear his thought of his old life. He even left his violin.

'Stop thinking of your past life.'

Spoken as if he's dead.

"John, you alright?" Greg asks him as he sits on the bench near the school. He looks up at him. Greg has his concerned eyes on him. "John?"

He blinks, "Yeah, yeah... I'm fine..."

Greg sits beside him. "We can always go to a pub, you know?"

"Yeah, I know... But... I don't want to drink... I know what you're trying to do, Greg. I appreciate it but I don't think I want to talk."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help," before he responds, Greg raises his hand to keep him quiet, "I know you know. I just want to remind you. In case you need it in the future."

"Thanks, mate," John tells him.

Greg pats him on the shoulder once and leaves him alone with the thought of a dead bloody Sherlock on the pavement.

Mary has been very patient with him. She listens to him as he talks about his sadness about Sherlock. They're both in his bedroom. He's sitting on the bed. She's kneeling behind him, rubbing his back as she listens to him, giving words of encouragement, telling him it's okay. He has been grateful. She's the best girlfriend he could ever hope for.

"London's streets aren't exactly safe, you know?"

"It's okay. He's alive, John. He's probably alive."

"Probably?"

"Definitely."

"Definitely?"

"Definitely alive. You shouldn't worry. He'd come back again with that smug grin you keep talking about and then you'd get angry at him and all that..." she reassures him.

He turns his head to look at her and he smiles at her. She gives him the same smile and she leans forward to kiss him.

He's shooting up again. He should stop but this is the only way to keep his mind off his old life, the pain, the hurt, the suffering.

Maybe he should end it all together?

No, he's being stupid.

He shouldn't end it, not yet. He can still survive this, hopefully.

It's been six months.

Sally sees him and walks towards him. "Oi John."

He turns to look at her. "Yes?"

"Got rid of the Freak, at last, huh?" she asks.

He gives him his most threatening look. Sally swallows and steps back. "No."

"Where is he, then?" she raises her brow.

"Off somewhere."

He just turns to leave without saying anything. He doesn't want to hear anything from her.

"Hello?" she asks through his phone.

"New name?"

"Anthea."

"Well, Anthea, I wish to speak with him. Now. Right now. Fast. Do it Quickly. Now. This minute."

"Right."

He hears her walk, her heels aren't exactly quiet. The door opens.

"Phone call for you..." ... "Not now, I'm busy." ... "It's your brother."

He hears documents fall.

"Phone," he hears Mycroft.

He hears Anthea walk over to him and give him his phone. He hears the door open and close.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

He hears Mycroft sigh and he's probably rolling his eyes. "I know where you've been for the past six months..."

"And you didn't kidnap me? Why Mycroft Why?"

"Well, reports show that you're entertained with the course of events. And we saw your cipher. Pigpen cipher isn't exactly hard to decipher, brother."

(It was a cipher saying, "Mycroft I am fine. Don't bother to find me. I'm happier alone or else I'll show the world the Christmas Fiasco 1993. You know I have the photographs.")

"It shut you up."

"And why do you call now?"

"It took me six months to get my mind straight."

"And?"

"I'm coming back, duh."

"Then why are you calling me?"

"Because you've a car. Cars... Yes cars..."

He hears Mycroft sigh. "Where?"

"You know already, seriously!"

Mycroft's sigh confirms it.

"Could you do it quickly?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm stupid."

And he hangs up as his body starts to convulse. He overdosed.

He went with the driver to fetch Sherlock. Immediately. They're only five minutes away with the speed the driver is using. He already called 999 to get to Sherlock as quickly as possible but he brought his own medical team - currently on the ambulance behind him. He knows something is wrong since the beginning of his conversation with him. He deduced that he's on the floor and did something extremely stupid indeed. 'God, Sherlock. Why would you do this to yourself?' He thinks of a Little Sherlock climbing up a tree, knowing perfectly well that he'd get hurt. Didn't take him by surprise when he fell.

"Hurry. Now." He tells the driver.

They reach just in time as the medics are about to put Sherlock in their ambulance. He takes over and orders his private medics to bring him.

They get to the hospital.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

He opens his eyes. Hospital room. What happened? IV drip. Dark night. Shadow beside his bed.

He blinks a few more times and opens his eyes to see a very tired looking Mycroft, sleeping on the chair beside him.

He tries to remember but his brain is still fuzzy and he's so dizzy. He falls asleep.

He opens his eyes again and sees Mycroft talking to a doctor on the doorway in hushed tones. "My-" he starts but his voice is just a hoarse whisper.

Mycroft seems to hear because his head snaps to look at Sherlock.

Now to the annoying medical doctor-patient-relative thing.

"Rehab," Mycroft tells him.

"No."

"It's not a question. You are going to rehab whether you want it or not."

"No."

"It's either Rehab or the manor."

His blood goes cold. 'What to do? What to say? If I answer with the manor, I'd get stuck with my parents and Mycroft will be there. The two of them would fake getting concerned with me and it would be wrong to see their murderous eyes with the fake kind smile. If I answer with rehab, he'll be suspicious.'

"I can stop myself."

"And look where that got you."

"I didn't know it was that much in the syringe!"

"Why? Too high to notice?" Sherlock growls at him. Mycroft tuts. "Temper, brother mine."

"Shut up, fatty."

"Shut up, stupid."

"Shut up, arsehole."

"Now, now." ... ... ... "Rehab."

"NO!"

"FINE! We'll settle with the manor then!"

If he is seen, he looks annoyed. If he is understood, he's terrified.