A/N: Phew! I'm officially back from a great, FANTASTIC adventure and now it's time to update. Yay! First, though…

GOSH! You guys keep baffling me. So many of you have befriended this lil' story of mine! THANK YOU, times million, for you incredible reviews, listings and affection. You sure know how to pamper an author! (HUGS)

Awkay, because I'm afraid that time's limited… Let's rock! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

How to Treat Open Wounds

/ When Sherlock finally woke up after his overdose the first thing he felt was a immense, all consuming headache. The beeping of the machinery around him certainly didn't make it any easier. Not to even mention what the sterile reek hanging thickly in the air did to his head and stomach. He groaned and shifted, rubbing his face roughly with one hand.

"Back in the land of the living, then?"

With far more difficulty than he'd expected Sherlock's eyes opened. At first he saw the vague outline of a person next to his hospital bed. Gradually, with him using every little bit of his stubbornness, his eyes adjusted enough to distinguish Mycroft's face. Instantly there was a sharp, electronic beep when his body reacted to what he discovered.

Mycroft was incredibly pale and the dark circles, like bruises, around his eyes told that he hadn't slept in several nights. While those did produce a stab that felt suspiciously lot like guilt in Sherlock they weren't what made his stomach twist and turn. What really struck him was that the last time he saw Mycroft appear so thin, so… frail, which was a word that should've never been connected to his big brother, was right before the older was admitted to a hospital.

Fueled by a combination of determination and alarm Sherlock attempted to push himself up. Instantly Mycroft's hand appeared to push him back down. "Slow and steady, now. You put your body through quite a strain."

Sherlock's left eyebrow twitched. "Who are you to lecture me?" he snarked in a voice that didn't sound like his. Had they intubated him? "You're no better." See, Mycroft? It's not a secret anymore. Usually the thought would've been smug. Now it was just furious. And far more scared than he would've cared to admit.

Mycroft's eyes widened marginally. On anyone else's face the flash of emotion would've been fear or at least worry. "I don't do drugs, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. There was no stopping the venom from rolling off his tongue. "No, you don't. You prefer to starve yourself to death." His voice cracked, almost broke, and it had very little to do with the fact that he just woke up. As it was he didn't care. He was too tired and achy.

There was a long, tense silence. The fact that Mycroft didn't even try to deny the accusation made it heavier still. In the end the older brother sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look… The thing is that you're still a minor. A minor who just had a drug overdose. Mommy and dad have been talking to social workers and therapists. They all agree that you need help."

Sherlock stiffened. He didn't like where this was going. "What sort of 'help' are we talking about?" he growled, even the thought making him defensive.

Well, at least Mycroft had the decency to meet his eyes upon answering. "As soon as you're well enough you'll go into a rehab. You'll get all the help that you need."

Sherlock was on the edge, overwhelmed and suffering from the dawning withdrawal. All of that brought a layer of acid on his tongue. "Oh, quit with the guilt trip!" He inhaled sharply and fixed a stern look at his brother. "Fine, I'll go through with that idiocy. But only if you get help, too."

For several seconds Mycroft looked at him as though wondering if he was serious. It was more than expected that the answer would be a firm 'no'. A complete denial of all problems and a steel hard refusal to be blackmailed in such a way. The real Mycroft certainly would've done just that. But this exhausted, ill and, heaven forbid, emotional stranger… "Fine." And that was obviously all which should be said about the matter. It was impossible to recognize the hint of something bizarre that swam in those eyes. "Now sleep. You're going to need all the rest you can get to endure the hurricane mummy will unleash upon you when she returns."

The ordeal his transport had gone through must've truly exhausted Sherlock because he indeed slipped into oblivion. Somewhere in the strange place between sleep and wakefulness he could've sworn that he felt a hand in his. He couldn't possibly know that his own returned the gesture. /

/ The time following Daniel's death was mostly full of gray hue for Spencer. The police asked everyone questions, an endless parade of strange ones. Whether he knew if anyone had been at odds with his uncle, if the man's behavior had changed… They even asked what they did together, if they ever did anything that he found uncomfortable. Spencer couldn't understand those. Out of all the adults around him he always found it the easiest to be with Daniel and he told those examining the case as much. He didn't understand the strange look they exchanged until he was an adult and the full truth finally dawned on him.

William Reid didn't come to his brother's funeral. Not even to support his son and wife. Spencer didn't quite manage to smother the additional tidal wave of hurt the absence caused.

The brief appearance of a bizarre stranger, whom he later learned to know as Erik Collins, wasn't the only unexpected encounter Spencer had that day. In the middle of the horrible ceremony he could've sworn that he felt someone looking at him. Peering over his shoulder, Spencer frowned and blinked his teary eyes several times. There, at the back of the small church, stood a boy who seemed a few years older than him. Dark hair, eyes that neared the color black… He'd never seen that child before. What was he doing at his uncle's funeral?

No one was able or perhaps willing to tell him who the boy was. As it was a few years later he found out on his own, even if by then he didn't remember the boy anymore. Spencer's eighteenth birthday had passed by about seven months earlier when he moved to a brand new dorm room. Once there he was introduced to his roommate.

"Ah, so I'm not going to get to keep this room to myself, after all! Welcome." The voice, no matter how kind the tone, delivered a jolt of inexplainable dread down to his core. Turning his head he saw a strikingly good looking young man with impossibly dark eyes. "Jim Moriarty, hi!" /

It wasn't until hours later John woke up from his light sleep. He wasn't very surprised to discover that Sherlock was still half unconscious. When the great detective gave himself the permission to sleep his entire great hard-drive of a brain crashed entirely. Pleased to discover that at least one of his charges was safe and sound John made his way towards the kitchen. Another discovery that didn't surprise him dawned a few steps from the doorway. The scent of coffee was very thick and extremely alluring.

Spencer was awake, then.

John rubbed his eyes, prepared to walk in. Only to freeze by the doorway. The sight he encountered made him blink twice.

Spencer, as it turned out, was reading while devouring his coffee as though it was a life preserving drug. What truly caught John's attention was the speed at which the young genius was reading. A page after another moved while the somewhat hazy hazel eyes scanned through the words, without a doubt never missing even a single one. On occasion Spencer's lips moved when a part of the page in question particularly caught his attention.

John must've made a sound although he wasn't aware of it. Or then he twitched. Because all of a sudden Spencer's head snapped up and a questioning gaze was directed at him. Obviously his stare wasn't a welcomed one. "Uh… Something wrong?"

John shook his head quickly, feeling a little embarrassed. "No, no, of course not. Sorry about that. I just…" He couldn't resist a tiny smile. "You just… looked a lot like Sherlock, there."

Spencer seemed surprised. It was impossible to name any other of the million emotions. "Oh." The agent then cleared his throat and shifted, clearly eager to switch topics. "I, ah… My team was called off, for a case. They should be back for the funeral but…" The rest faded out but John had no difficulties with hearing it.

The funeral arrangements… There was definitely much to be done. And if the look on Spencer's face was anything to go by the younger man wouldn't be able to handle it all on his own.

John felt his eyes soften. "I'd be glad to help you, if you let me. Maybe we can even get those two madmen to it without risking anyone's life or sanity."

Spencer appeared both embarrassed and relieved. In a few beats the latter won. "Thanks." Much more hung in the air between them.

John shrugged, eagerly pouring some coffee for himself. Maybe it would even be strong enough to wake him up a little. "During the time I've known him Sherlock's family has kept expanding aggressively. At bloody least you don't make me feel like raising a kid is going to be a child's play compared to looking after a Holmes." He frowned, then corrected himself. "Reid. Sorry."

Well, he succeeded in pulling a smile from Spencer. Small victories. After a prolonged, comfortable silence some new shadows appeared to the man's face. "John… There's… I'd like to ask you something, about what happened at the rooftop of the Bart's Hospital."

John stiffened and squeezed the mug so hard that it was a miracle it didn't break. In the matter of two seconds his entire body turned cold and a horrible taste rushed into his mouth. "I'd much rather not talk about it", he announced, trying and mostly failing not to sound too harsh.

Spencer seemed taken aback by the change of his tone and entire demeanor. The American licked his lips. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" The correct word seemed to be lost on the younger man. "It's just… Recently your name came up, connected to the Bart's. And I was wondering, if you'd like to know…"

"Is it a matter of immediate threat?"

Spencer appeared confused. Then shook his head slowly. "No." The man looked away, a strangely pained look on his face. "Or well, it definitely won't be, in a while."

"Then I don't want to hear anything about it." John took a deep breath and swallowed hard. His hands were trembling and he could almost swear that he felt some ache gnawing at his leg. "Look, Spencer…" He sighed, running one of his unsteady hands through his hair. "That day… It's the most horrible day of my entire life. I've been struggling long and hard to try and overcome it. So, I… I'd rather not be reminded. Yeah?"

Spencer nodded. Perhaps the younger man understood more than John had known to expect. Finally the discussion was directed elsewhere. "Have you heard of Mycroft?"

John sighed and shook his head. His fried nerves began to calm down slowly. "Not yet. But I have a feeling that if he doesn't want to be found he won't be. And even a cannon can't wake up Sherlock right now. So, looks like it's just the two of us for a bit." That was when his eyes spotted the brochure of a funeral home. A twinge of ache and a great deal of sympathy passed him. "Well, while we wait… Is that something I could help you with?"

Against his primary theory Sherlock did feel at least marginally better when he woke up. Better, yes, but also disoriented and groggy. He groaned and stretched, then wrapped the bedsheet around himself before beginning to saunter towards where he hoped dearly to find something that'd clear his head.

The house was, for the first time since he was dragged there by Mycroft, blissfully quiet and sparsely populated. The only traces of human inhabitance his keen ears caught were the voices of Spencer and John. He followed those and paused by the kitchen's doorway, uncharacteristically unsure how he should proceed.

The two were flipping through what looked whole a lot like brochures of a funeral home. The more his eyes observed the more chills went through him. Based on the notes that'd been made some ideas had already formed on most things. Flowers, music, who should be invited… And now pictures of far more coffins than Sherlock would've been able to stomach were on display, sneering at him.

He barely heard when Spencer spoke. Which wasn't a big surprise, considering how muffled the younger man's voice was. "… open or closed? …"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, a very odd, heavy feeling settling on his chest. His eyes narrowed while he leaned against the doorframe. Without noticing it he balled his fists so tightly that nails almost dug through skin. The words escaped before he had the slightest chance to stop them. "Closed", he announced, not liking the fact that his voice didn't sound quite right. "She's been stared at and kept an eye on most of her life. She would've preferred a closed one." He did, anyway.

Spencer… He'd had all his life with their mother in it. He had all those precious memories, all those tiny bits of information storaged into his head. The good, the bad, everything. And even Mycroft had almost a decade's worth of data.

Sherlock wouldn't have known what Diana Reid's favorite flower or song were. He wouldn't have even known her middle name. She was his mother and he didn't have enough in his Mind Palace to plan her funeral. So this, even the idea of really seeing her face now that she was dead while he couldn't really remember what she'd looked like when she was still alive…

If Mycroft was there the government official would've scoffed at such sentiment.

A sharp intake of breath from his right startled Sherlock free of those heavy thoughts. He turned his head to discover John's startled face. "Bloody hell, you scared me…!" Clearly the doctor saw something on his face that wasn't supposed to be visible because the man frowned. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock could've lied, of course. Or spat out something venomous that would've, hopefully, chased John away from him. But despite all the words storaged to his vocabulary the detective's mind was swept completely blank. So instead of even trying to speak he shook his head, once, twice, thrice.

John looked at him with what he would've called pity on anyone else. It was soon followed by something akin to alarm. "You… are wearing something underneath that sheet this time, aren't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be dull." He let the sheet fall. There was what sounded like a collective sigh of relief when he turned out to be fully clothed underneath.

"You bloody…!" And then, before either of them could see it coming, John had wrapped a stunningly firm pair of arms around him. At first Sherlock stiffened to the touch, unsure how he was supposed to answer to it. But eventually, one by one, his muscles began to relax. As much as he detested to admit it the warm, genuinely comforting embrace felt… not unpleasant.

"Right." John cleared his throat, appearing a little embarrassed, then nodded to himself with determination. "Go and wash up, yeah? In the meantime I'll fix you a breakfast. Or dinner. Or… whatever."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the thought. "I'm not hungry, John. I just ate."

"You slept for almost a full day. So, hungry or not, you are going to eat something. Then Spencer and I will show you what we've been planning on."

Almost a full day? Sherlock certainly hadn't expected that. What infuriating waste of time.

He must've been wandering around his Mind Palace. Because one moment he was chased towards the bathroom by John and the next he was already heading back to the kitchen, his hair still dripping.

He found John talking to a phone so that the man's back was turned towards him. Still the tension was very much visible. "… I'm fine, Mary. It's all… hard but I'm fine. So just focus on yourself and the baby, yeah? And tell her to stay exactly where she is until I get there."

There were a few more, quiet words of affection but Sherlock's head was too busy to catch any of them. Worry and guilt both began to stir and the mixture tasted unpleasant on his tongue. "Is Mary alright?"

If John was startled by his sudden appearance the former soldier didn't show it. There was a brief, absentminded nod and for a long time Sherlock imagined that there'd be nothing further. "She just… worries." Very quickly a pair of blue eyes swept towards him while the doctor cleared his throat. "This is the first funeral I'll go to since…" The rest faded away, which didn't make it any less loud. Since yours.

Sherlock shifted wih a great deal of discomfort. He knew that a yet another 'I'm sorry' wouldn't change a thing after all the ones that he'd uttered already. But still…

"So…" John clapped his hands together. As though out of nowhere a ridiculously large beef sandwich materialized. "Now you're going to eat this before we get going. I'll make Spencer eat one, too, if I can make him stop pacing for long enough."

Visiting the funeral home most definitely wasn't easy on Spencer. Choosing a coffin for his mother, sealing the arrangements… And all of this in the presence of two borderline strangers, of which one was supposed to be his brother. Only sheer willpower kept him from breaking down.

Sherlock didn't exactly make any of it easier. After an onslaught of cutting deductions and remarks it was a small wonder that the place's owner, a kind looking man in his late fifties, didn't fill one of the coffins with the detective. Mostly it was owing to John's apologies and impressive attention diversion techniques.

Finally, after what felt like decades although it wasn't even two hours, the ordeal was over. All three of them were exhausted and on the edge while they packed up into a car. John, the least likely to get them all killed, volunteered to do the driving. Stunningly even Sherlock voiced no objections. Instead the tall Brit folded his arms with a sulking expression and seemed to slide into a world of his own.

Spencer was so deep in thought that he jolted when his cell-phone began to ring. The moment he saw who the caller was a slash of cold crossed his entire body. He had no desire to listen to this person, especially now.

By the time the phone began to ring for the fifth time Sherlock groaned. "Two options, Spencer. Either you pick up or I throw that out the window."

Spencer sighed and glanced towards the phone's screen. 'William Reid' was still flashing there, as though taunting him. "Yeah?"

"Where were you? Never mind, never mind." Did the older man sound panicked? "Is Sherlock with you?"

Spencer frowned. Alarm bells were ringing painfully loudly in his ears. "Yes. Why?"

William sighed heavily. Like someone preparing for a marathon. "Look… You two should come to a hospital, right now. It's about Mycroft."

TBC

A/N: Oooooh, crap… (winces) It seems that things are not heading towards prettier. Or maybe this leads to something that brings the brothers at least a tiny bit closer to each other. Let's just hope that they all make it through alive and well.

Thoughts? Comments? Threats…? There's a cute box down below if you'd like to drop a line or two.

I've reeeeeeally gotta go. Until next time, folks! I really hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!

Guest: There indeed seems to be much more to that guy than would first seem. Go him, protecting his child!

Huge thank yous for the review!