He calmed himself by taking several deep breaths, attempting to figure out a rational explanation. When he couldn't think of one, he only became more frustrated. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see what he couldn't feel, and felt around for a towel. He stepped in the direction of the towel rack on the wall, his groping hand closing around the plush fibers for a dry towel. The feel of the warm, soft fabric bunched in his palm was almost enough to force a sigh of relief. The sound was pushed back down and replaced by a visible shift, his muscles relaxing, as he dragged the towel from the rack and dried himself off with it. It felt strange, drying off when he already felt dry, but the towel soaked through from the water it collected. It had to exist. The water had to be there. The problem was him.
He raked the supposedly damp towel through his hair, catching the stray droplets, before wrapping around his waist. Sherlock grabbed the dog tags from the counter, slipping them over his head as he walked toward the door, hand outstretched. His fingertips had just brushed the metal of the doorknob when sadness and a disjointed feeling hit him with the power of a fifteen foot wave. He missed the doorknob and hit the door, sliding to the ground as his vision blurred and his thoughts turned incoherent. He stomach churned from the overwhelming misery, a deep-seeded depression burning through him like a rampant flame. He didn't think he could feel any worse until the whispers started again.
The noise warped nightmarishly in his head as it attempted to communicate through the haze. He held his head, rocking back and forth, willing everything to stop. Tears were streaming down his face because his whole body hurt, but he couldn't feel them. The voice attempted to grab control of his mind; it wanted him to do something but it was saying nothing.
He tugged at fistfuls of his hair, scratching at his scalp until he screamed loud enough for the whole building to hear his agony. Within the next second, the door he was leaning against opened, causing him topple to the floor through the threshold. He curled into the fetal position, his towel managing to stay in place. He looked up, shaking a little from hard sobs, to see Mycroft looking ill with worry.
"Sherlock, are you all right?" he asked, voice wavering.
He tried to open his mouth to respond but no sound left him. It was hard to move, his body felt heavy. Darkness pulsated at the edge of his vision. He was about to black out.
"Sherlock," Mycroft tried again.
Sherlock could still move his eyes and looked up at his brother, to show he could hear and understand but not respond. Mycroft picked up on his message, immediately scooping his little brother into his arms and carrying him to the couch. Mycroft strained to hold up his weight but his adrenaline was doing most of the heavy lifting. He rested Sherlock's limp body on the cushions and knelt next to him, trying to provoke a vocal response.
"What happened? What did you do?"
Sherlock strained to hear. It was so hard to hear through the whispering.
"You have to stay conscious, Sherlock," Mycroft demanded, as if his consciousness could obey orders. Sherlock's mind quieted as his vision fizzled to blackness.
"Stay with me!" Mycroft shouted, sounding like just another whisper to Sherlock.
Sherlock knew he couldn't fight it. He relaxed his body and let the darkness take him. Anything to quiet the voices and numb the pain, he thought just before unconsciousness captured him.
A sharp, cold pain shocked Sherlock into consciousness. His breath was stolen from his lungs for a second and he gasped like a fish on land to get it back. He glanced down to see his mostly naked body covered in ice cubes fresh from the freezer, then up to see Mycroft holding the empty trays. He would've glared if he could've moved his face at all. The shock momentarily paralyzed him.
"What… was that… for?" Sherlock eventually sputtered, teeth chattering from the chill.
"I couldn't let you fall unconscious. Not in that state," Mycroft replied, setting the trays on the coffee table.
"Did… you have to… use ice?" He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.
"Nothing else was working. This was the last resort before I drove you to the hospital.
Sherlock shuddered, and not from the cold. He used to be indifferent to hospitals until he was shot, then he hated them. When John's death was added onto that, hospitals were just a depressing place for him.
"What happened to me?" he asked, his body numbing to the cold.
"That's what I'd like to know," Mycroft replied, pulling a chair up to sit beside the couch.
"I don't kn-"
Sherlock paused mid-sentence and looked down at the ice cubes on his chest. They started to melt from the body heat and he could feel it. He could feel the cold water sliding across his skin to the pool forming beneath him on the couch. His mouth remained open as if he were going to finish his sentence at any moment. He touched it to make sure he wasn't imagining it. The water coated his fingers, causing them to glisten in the light. He could feel it. He could feel again. What is wrong with me?
"Sherlock, are you feeling okay?"
He stared at his brother, about to lie and say yes but he stopped himself. Tears formed again, eyes aching from the crying he'd done earlier. He tried to compose himself; he didn't want to cry in front of his brother. He needed to be composed in front of him, to prove himself to him. He swallowed back his tears, the pressure of them still close to the surface.
"Have you been using again?" Mycroft asked bluntly.
That comment helped Sherlock to disguise his sadness with anger. "What kind of a question is that?"
"It seemed like you had taken something. Perhaps, while you were in the bathroom, you might've…"
"I can't say that I haven't thought about it, especially now, but I haven't. I wouldn't put myself through that again… or you," he added in a small voice.
Mycroft studied him carefully.
"Then what, Sherlock?" he asked desperately. "Something happened. I've never seen you so… scared."
Sherlock looked at Mycroft, feeling so vulnerable. "I think… I think I'm losing my mind."
The tension broke in his tears, allowing a few to escape. He quickly wiped them away, standing up from the couch while holding the towel to him. Before Mycroft had the chance to respond, Sherlock scrambled to his room and shut the door. He didn't feel sad anymore, just embarrassed and scared. As soon as those words left his mouth, he knew it was his worst fear come true. He lost everything else in his life; his mind was all he had left.
He could hear Mycroft slowly approaching the door as if Sherlock were a skittish animal that would run off if he made a wrong move. Sherlock walked away from the door, using the towel to mop up the ice water before pulling on a clean set of clothes. He wore the first thing he grabbed, a pair of jeans and one of his cotton t-shirts.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said when he was close enough to be heard. "What did you mean by that?"
He didn't want to reply but he knew how persistent Mycroft could be. "I meant what I said."
"I still don't understand, I-"
Sherlock marched to the door, speaking to it as if it were Mycroft. "I have sufficient evidence to believe that I am losing my mind, Mycroft. The only thing I have left."
"What makes you believe that?"
"I've…" he struggled to admit his problem. "I've started hearing voices. It started the day of."
There was a pause on the other side of the door. "Do they say anything?" His voice was soft and pregnant with concern.
Sherlock was taken aback by his level of sensitivity. "…No. I can't understand them," he replied, leaning against the door. "It's just a lot of whispering in my head and it gets so loud!" "That can be attributed to depression, you know."
"It's not depression!" he shouted, slamming a fist against the door. "While, admittedly, I probably am depressed, that's not what this is. This is something different and not the only symptom."
"What more is there?"
"When I was in the shower, I couldn't feel the water. I could feel everything else but not the water. However, when you threw the ice on me I could feel it melting. I don't understand."
"That's a first for you, little brother."
"And the sickness I felt afterward, the fuzzy, disconnected feeling, I don't know what prompted that. I'm losing control of everything. My life used to be so organized and now look at it!" Anger surged through him as he started to pace in front of the door. "I blame John. I had everything figured out before he came along. Now I'm a mess with feelings I never wanted and an emotional cascade of sadness and pain that's sending me 'round the bend. I wish I had never met him!"
Those last words hung in the air, settling around Sherlock. He walked away and sat down on John's side of the bed, dropping his head in his hands. The doorknob to his bedroom turned delicately before the door was pushed open. Mycroft stood in the doorway for a moment, studying his brother as he walked into the room. He sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, draping an arm over his shoulders in a rare display of affection.
"We both know that's not true. You're a better man for knowing him."
"So why couldn't I keep him?" Sherlock asked, his voice so low it was barely a whisper.
"Who says he's lost to you?"
Sherlock froze under Mycroft's hold, turning to look his brother in the eye. Mycroft appeared as though he'd said nothing wrong, as if he didn't realize what he'd said. The words processed through Sherlock's mind, making a connection to similar things said to him before. Dream John's last words, Lestrade's comment about pretending it never happened, even John's dying words. How far back did I start to lose my mind?
"Why does everyone keep saying things like that to me?" Sherlock asked as he turned on the bed to face his brother.
"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked, his brow creased with confusion.
"What you just said. 'Who says he's lost to you?' What do you know that I don't?"
"It was a harmless comment that meant nothing. You need to focus on the bigger problem here."
Mycroft wore the same blank look Lestrade had, like he knew he'd said it but he didn't know why. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was him or them that caused this so he didn't push it. He knew Mycroft didn't know and Sherlock wasn't sure which way he wanted to be right.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked absently, only just hearing Mycroft's comment.
"I understand that you're hurting, little brother."
"I don't think you understand how much."
"Maybe not, but I don't think you're handling all of this very well."
"I'd like to see how you would handle it."
"Sherlock, you're ignoring the real problem here. You're focusing so much on John and your sadness that you don't see where the problem lies. If you don't face it, you'll never feel better."
"Since when did you become a psych-"
Sherlock stopped before he finished his sentence. He realized that Mycroft was right, not that he would ever tell him. He was ignoring the problem and if he didn't deal with it, he would never be able to heal. The problem was Jim Moriarty and he was going to fix it.
