Chapter Eleven: Dear Brother Mine

.o.o.

.o.

And I will run with you

And sunlight will break into my eyes

And it seems you plugged in the world in

'Cause sunlight is streaming from your eyes

Athlete – Yesterday Threw Everything at Me

.o.o.

.o.

Two and a half weeks passed in 221B and Sherlock's condition still hadn't improved. John had to watch on as his best friend, flat mate, and lover endured nausea, dizziness, and seemingly never ending exhaustion, amongst many other side effects. The doctor secretly made Sherlock stick it out one week long, just so they could honestly say that they gave the antidepressant time to work.

Once the week was through, John walked over to the detective's side as he lay on the couch, his eyes closed but only in an attempt to cease his throbbing headache that didn't seem to be going anyway. He cleared his throat to make his presence known and then took Sherlock's long fingers into his own.

"How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed softly and regardless of the annoyed expression that was visibly written on his face, he gently caressed John's hand affectionately. "Like death warmed over. I've been eating and taking my medication, John. It isn't working…"

"I agree," John nodded. "That's why I think you should try this other antidepressant. It's something that the hospital just got in. I've got enough free samples for you to last about another two and a half weeks."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John with curious eyes, two fingers gently massaging his temples. "Really? Well, that's good then, I suppose. Where is it? Let's start me on this new antidepressant you've got."

John wet his lips nervously before he gave him a weak smile. "I want to try and withdraw you from the last one first before I start this new one. Just for twenty-four hours, okay?"

Sherlock nodded understandingly, aware of the experimentation process. It wasn't that different between plants, animals, and humans really. It made perfect sense to get the chemicals out of the subject before putting new and different chemicals in.

"So, any new cases then?" Sherlock asked John, eager to change the subject off of himself.

John leaned forward ran his fingers down the back of Sherlock's hand. "Not unless they're in our email. I haven't talked to Greg lately. What about the other two cold cases? Have you figured them out yet?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, and I've already sent my findings to Lestrade last week. Easy enough, I didn't even have to leave the flat." He suddenly became quiet and John watched as his demeanor tensed up a bit. "I… err… solved that other cold case, the… uhh…not-suicide…"

John straightened up and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, umm… how did you find out about that one, Sherlock?"

The detective searched John's face, noticing that he was just as uneasy about discussing it as he was himself. "You think you hid it well underneath your armchair, but I found it one day when I dropped my pen. It rolled underneath your chair and I saw the file folder. Anyway… I solved it, and… it's done. I… gave Lestrade the results from that one as well."

John nodded in acknowledgement, conflicted as to whether he should scold Sherlock or congratulate him. He searched his companion's eyes for the answers. "And… you were okay? I mean, that one didn't trigger you or anything, did it?"

Sherlock released John's hand and then sat upright. He brought his legs into him so he was sitting Indian-style on the couch, facing the doctor. "It did at first, to be honest. I just… approached it subjectively and I suppose you could say, mechanically as well. I couldn't let my emotions get involved in that case or else it was going to trigger my depression."

John nodded again. "R-Right… right, good! So… umm… what were your results from that one? Was it actually a suicide?"

Sherlock shook his head, looking down at his fingers. "No, obviously. The young man was murdered. There was no logical way he could commit suicide in the matter that he did. It was just made to look like he did it, though."

John nodded and sniffed softly. The two of them sat in reasonably awkward silence, the other one waiting anxiously for the other to say something to break the tension. Finally, Sherlock decided he should be the one.

"John, I know… I know it's difficult to talk about these things with me and I know you're afraid you're going to trigger me if we talk about it – "

"Well, won't I?" John asked, genuinely concerned about Sherlock's well-being. He loved him, and the last thing he wanted to do was set him off.

"Not necessarily," Sherlock continued, ignoring the fact that John had interrupted him. He remained oddly calm. "I don't fully understand it myself but as far as I can see, talking about it doesn't always trigger me, and even if I do get triggered, my first impulse isn't going to go in the bathroom and… off myself. I might be quiet or just decide I want to be alone or something along those lines but my first thought isn't going to be to end my life in the case that I do get triggered."

"I… think it's important that we talk about your feelings, Sherlock. If you won't talk to a psychiatrist about how you're feeling, then why not talk to me? I think talking could help you open up about these sort of things."

Sherlock smirked now and chuckled. "Spoken like a true doctor."

John sighed and gave him a firm look. "I'm only trying to help you… I don't like to see you in a low state just as much as you despise being in one."

"Yes, John. I know. I'm just not one for opening up about these sorts of things…"

The doctor suddenly got an idea. It was ridiculous but it seemed ridiculous enough to work. He moved over and sat down next to Sherlock, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. "Okay, I get why you can't open up to me about your depression, but what about if you opened up to your brother? Do you think that would be easier?"

Sherlock pondered this. A part of him had to resist laughing but the other half of him wondered if this was a realistic possibility. His brother knew about his depression. Mycroft had diagnosed his brother with it as soon as he had noticed the signs; withdrawal from activities that once pleased his little brother, isolation, talking about death and dying, feelings of worthlessness. They were both fairly young still so neither could really do much about it, and telling their parents was out of the question entirely. John had gone to Mycroft a few weeks ago, though, and he appeared to have been of some help, even if Sherlock wasn't totally sure what he had told John.

"Do you want to text him or shall I?" Sherlock asked him, hoping he wouldn't regret this decision.

John took out his phone and then searched his face. "Are you sure about this? I don't want you to hate me for doing this. I know Mycroft and you don't always get along."

Sherlock sighed and gave a wave. "Just send him the message. I'm not going out anywhere so he's going to have to come here."

John shook his head but was smiling to himself, just grateful that Sherlock had agreed to talk to his brother. He looked down at his phone as he typed the message:

Mycroft, Sherlock wishes to discuss something with you. Please come as soon as you are able today. –JW

After sending it, he looked up at Sherlock. "Always bending over backwards for your brother. It's touching, really," John replied sarcastically, still smiling. "Do your parents know about your condition?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back on the couch. "Do they know about their youngest son's strongly stigmatized mental illness? Please. They won't ever know about it, if I have any say in the matter. Has he replied back yet?"

John glanced down at the phone and then back at Sherlock. "No, not yet. A bit early anyway. I just sent it to him…"

The detective gave him a knowing look. "He's either talking to very important people or he's ignoring you. I'm sure it's the former. He might say he can't stand me but he still finds the time to make some smart crack about how I can't take care of myself."

"You know, it's really a miracle you two didn't kill each other when you were younger."

They heard the door to the flat open and saw Mycroft walk inside, smiling cheekily at John. "I assure you, John, it wasn't for lack of trying…"

John looked down at his watch and then back at Mycroft. "Wow, well… you made good time. I'll just… pop out for some groceries and I'll be back later." He stood up and then walked towards the desk before he stopped and started to pat his pants down.

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again before he looked over at John. "They're in the bedroom. Remember? I complained that they were digging into my leg?"

"Oh! Right…" He blushed slightly before he disappeared into the bedroom. He came out a few moments later and looked at both the brothers before he nodded to Mycroft and smiled lovingly at Sherlock. "Be back soon."

Mycroft waited until the doctor had disappeared before he finally spoke to his brother. "It must be so nice to be in love…"

Sherlock could sense the teasing in Mycroft's voice and stood up. "It is, not that you would know that much about how it feels to have someone not only tolerate you, but love to tolerate you every minute of every day. Even our own parents had their limits. Tea?"

Mycroft nodded once as his answer. "Oh yes, I do remember. Tell me, dear brother, do you miss the days when such things as love didn't interfere in your decision makings and your cases? I thought I had made it clear to you that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side…"

The detective lit the fire underneath the kettle and took out two cups before he threw a teabag into each mug. "I find that being in a relationship with John doesn't stop me from making correct deductions or nonsensical decisions. In fact, believe it or not dear brother, being in one has evolved my skills. Maybe one day you'll see what I mean when you find a… goldfish you can love."

His brother showed no sign of irritation, merely grimacing, as if the idea of allowing another human being to love him physically pained him. For all Sherlock knew, maybe it did. "I find discussing your love life and my lack of one fairly exhausting. What is it exactly you wished to actually discuss? Please tell me I didn't waste my time cancelling lunch dates with important people to come over here and chat about love lives?"

Sherlock poured the boiling water into the cups and handed Mycroft his own before he motioned back towards the living room and sat down in his chair across from John's armchair. He looked up at his brother. "Come and sit. I promise I don't wish to drawl on and on about how happy I am living in domestic bliss. Quite the opposite, actually."

Mycroft looked at his little brother curiously before he sat down across from Sherlock. He took a sip of his tea and then relaxed his body in the chair. "Oh? Please do go on…"

It took the consulting detective a bit to compose his thoughts, killing time by sipping his own tea. He searched his brother's face. "I… I'm having difficulty coping with my depression. The antidepressants I was on these past couple weeks haven't been working and John believes that putting me on a new antidepressant might help me."

"What do you think, Sherlock?"

"I have no reason to think differently. It makes sense to change the variable in an experiment if the subject isn't experiencing the effects they're aiming for, is it not?" Sherlock knew he was being a bit cold and definitely calculating but that was his first instinct, especially in front of his equally cold and calculating brother.

Mycroft nodded slowly, obviously thinking. "It is, and if you believe that putting yourself on a new medication will help with your illness, then by all means do so, Sherlock. God knows the nation can't afford for your mind to be like broken shards of glass, bouncing around inside that skull of yours."

"I intend to let John give me new antidepressants. That's not what I wanted to talk to you about though, Mycroft. I was merely briefing you on the status of my condition," Sherlock looked up at his brother who nodded in acknowledgement and then motioned for him to continue. He wet his lips anxiously. "I've… I've been thinking about my own demise a lot lately. Because the antidepressants haven't been working for me, my thoughts have been going to… dark places."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but this time, his face contorted into a look of concern. He set tea down and placed his arms on the arms of the chair before he looked at Sherlock again. "Err… have you told John about this?"

Sherlock set his jaw, trying to ignore the pain he was feeling in his chest. "I've only told him about my past attempts. I've… vaguely, very vaguely actually, told him about the ones I've been thinking about recently. I promised him I wouldn't go through with it but… they're worse than I've let on."

His brother looked visibly tense. The eyes that were usually hard and cold showed sympathy and worry now. "Have you… talked to Greg Lestrade about these thoughts?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "No, he's blissfully unaware of them. I'm hoping that once I'm on these new antidepressants, the thoughts will disappear. I just… need to make it until then." He took a deep breath and sighed before he stood up and walked over to his dressing gown and grabbed the half empty carton of cigarettes before sitting back down.

"You know you're not supposed to smoke while you're taking the antidepressants, right, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked him with apprehension in his voice as his eyes followed Sherlock's fingers as he lit the end of one of the cigarettes.

"I am aware of that, Mycroft. Anyway," he went on after taking a drag. "John has me withdrawing from the old medication for twenty-four hours and on average, antidepressants don't usually get thoroughly absorbed into the brain and bloodstream for about two to two and a half weeks."

His brother nodded and searched Sherlock's eyes. "So, when will we know if they're working or not, then?"

"Most likely within two weeks, give or take two days. We haven't had hardly any cases, besides the cold ones that Lestrade had given me. I don't have any proper distractions to help me take my thoughts off of doing… drastic and dangerous self-destructive things to myself," Sherlock admitted as he took another drag.

"Where do I come into play? I don't understand…"

Sherlock swallowed hard. "I just need someone to talk to about these things, and I don't feel like I can properly discuss them with John – "

" – conflict of interest…" his brother deducted softly.

"Exactly. I figured maybe I could talk to you about anything I'm thinking about doing or… I don't know, exactly. John just suggested I talk to someone about these types of things."

Mycroft let out a weak chuckle. "Sherlock, I'm not a psychiatrist. I don't know if I can be the one who helps you. Knowing you, I'm assuming you're not willing to see a psychiatrist though."

"You'd assume correctly," Sherlock nodded, flicking the growing ash on the end of his cigarette before he took another drag.

"If money's the issue, I'll pay however much it is for you to get the help you need, Sherlock. I'm not above doing that for you. Love you or hate you, you're still family," Mycroft remarked.

"That's very touching, Mycroft, but money isn't the reason I don't want to see a psychiatrist. They're simple minded people who just gets paid a massive amount of money to listen to other people complain about their mediocre lives. I refuse to see someone I have to pay when I can just have you listen to me instead, for free," Sherlock replied, sighing.

Mycroft eyed his brother with uncertainty. "What do you want me to do for you, Sherlock? I'm not qualified to give you professional opinions. I can barely give you familial compliments or adoration."

"I realize that, Mycroft. I only ask that you come here to the flat maybe twice a week, listen to whatever it is I have to say, tell me what you can deduce from my statements, and then you can return back to Pall Mall."

Sherlock met his brother's eyes, trying to figure out what he must be thinking. All that he could come up with were his own deductions of himself: pathetic. Disgusting. Mentally disturbed. Bothersome. He began to rub his temples where another headache was forming. He took another drag before he forced himself to put it out into an ashtray.

"I'll do it; I'll do as you request of me. What days do you wish for me to come and visit?"

Sherlock felt taken aback. He hadn't expected Mycroft to agree to any of it and was thoroughly surprised when he had, as well as given him the choice of days. "Err… what days are best for you?"

He waited patiently as Mycroft took out his phone and began to go through his calendar. "Let's see… today is Wednesday? I am available Fridays and Tuesdays, from about four in the evening until eight. Will that suffice?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I believe that'll work. Might I ask you something, Mycroft?" When his brother nodded and tucked his phone away again, he continued. "Why on earth are you agreeing to help me? Are you expecting anything in return?"

His brother thought for a minute or two before he placed his hands on his knee. "Tempting, but I've agreed to help because you're my younger brother as well as my only one that I have. I told you before that your loss would break my heart, Sherlock. Well, I meant it, truly. Now, do you wish to begin talking right now or would you like me to leave now and return on Friday?"

He glanced at the clock. He knew that Mycroft's expensive car was probably waiting for him outside, and John wouldn't come back inside 221B until the car was gone. "You can come back on Friday, I suppose…"

"Very well, then. As always, it's been a pleasure to see you, dear brother mine," Mycroft stood up and started for the door.

Sherlock stayed in his spot in the chair, glancing over at him. "You don't need to lie, Mycroft. This couldn't have been pleasant for you."

Mycroft opened the door and then turned to face his brother. He smiled softly, but it looked more like a smirk. "Any day that you're still alive and talking is pleasant for me. I see no reason for our rivalry in the criminal world to disrupt our familial obligations to each other. I shall see you on Friday, Sherlock."

The detective watched as he disappeared out the door and then looked down at the crackling fire. He wanted to believe that his brother was doing this out of the kindness of his own cold and bitter black heart but he was also slightly worried that Mycroft had agreed to help him for other reasons, such as to have blackmail he could pin on him in the future between dealings with his enemies. He let the thought dissipate from his thoughts for now when John walked in.

He smiled to himself, having correctly predicted the arrival of his companion. He looked up at John who was carrying a large brown paper bag. "Do you need help unloading the groceries?"

John gave him a small smile. "Nope, thank you anyway, Sherlock. I can do it. How did it go, then? With Mycroft…"

"I would say it was successful," Sherlock answered, looking back at the flames of the fire. "He's coming by on Fridays and Tuesdays. It seems like he's genuinely concerned about my well-being."

John put away some of the cold things before glancing at Sherlock. "We all are… we only want you to be healthy, or at least as healthy as you can be. Anyway, he's your brother. He's sort of obligated to care about you, isn't he?"

Sherlock reached over and took a sip of his tea. "I suppose so, but I didn't expect Mycroft to act and look the way he did while we discussed me. He seemed worried about me. He hardly ever seems worried about me, even when I was taking morphine. After all these years, he's still able to surprise me…"

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock eagerly awaited the twenty-four hours that was required of him until the morning came. He was already awake by four and passed time by reading one of his science books. Once five-thirty rolled around, he made coffee for John and himself before he closed his book and stood up, pacing.

"Jesus, Sherlock… how long have you been up for?" a tired voice yawned as John walked into the kitchen and poured himself coffee.

"About an hour and a half. I need my new antidepressants, John. Please give me them," Sherlock half-demanded, half-begged as he walked into the kitchen as well.

The doctor blinked a couple times. "You know that they're not going to work instantaneously, right? You know that it'll take a few weeks. Why don't you just have some coffee instead?"

Sherlock followed John into the living room, shaking his head. "I don't want coffee, John! I want the antidepressants you promised me! I need them to work as soon as possible and I think I've waited long enough to get better. Please, John… please just give me them right now. The sooner I can take them, the sooner they'll work, even if it's just a few hours sooner. It makes all the difference to me."

John looked at his partner sadly and set his coffee down on the table beside the chair before he stood up, making his way towards his briefcase. He opened it up on the coffee table and then gave Sherlock two plastic packs. "Here, Sherlock. There's four there; two each day. Take them in the morning, with food."

Sherlock looked at the packages and reluctantly opened one of them before he swallowed them with water. "What should I eat?"

John sighed before he walked back into the kitchen and popped toast into the toaster. He buttered the slices and then handed them off to Sherlock on a paper towel. He watched as the detective began to gingerly bite off each piece, seeing the partial confusion written on his face. "What is it? What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock swallowed the bites he had been chewing before he looked at John. "Why only give me enough for two days?"

John searched his eyes. "Make a deduction about it, Sherlock. Why do you think I'd only give enough for two days? Well, one more now…"

Sherlock pondered this for about thirty seconds before he answered. "It seems to me you either stole only two days' worth of antidepressants, afraid of being found out possibly, or… you are afraid I'm going to overdose on them if you give them to me all at once. I suspect the latter."

"You're right," John nodded, somewhat nervously. "I am afraid of you doing that. I'm not… trying to do this because I don't love you. You know that, right, Sherlock? I'm giving them to you in small doses because I want you around longer. I want you to stay alive and… I want to trust you."

Sherlock took another bite of his toast, although it was more forced than him actually being willing. "You don't trust me anymore, John? Is it because I told you about my past suicide attempts?"

John shifted uneasily and cleared his throat before he nodded. "Yeah, err… yes. I mean, I knew you were depressed but I guess I didn't ever want to consider the possibility that you would… purposely end your life, and not even just once. You tried it five times…"

Sherlock wanted to yell at him. He wanted to scream and cry and punch something. He swallowed hard and set his toast down, no longer having an appetite. He knew it was his own fault. John's lack of trust was his own undoing, but he was already regretting having confessed it to him. He wished he could take his secret back and hide it somewhere within him.

"I already promised you I wasn't going to do it again. I don't understand, John. Why is that not enough for me to earn your trust?"

John reached up and cupped his cheek softly, maybe even apologetically. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Saying it and doing it are two different things. I promise I can trust you more once you've taken this antidepressant for at least two weeks. Then I'll give you them in larger doses."

The detective shook his head, unable to contain his distaste for this plan. "For God's sake, John! I'm not a child!"

John sighed, seemingly unsurprised at Sherlock's outburst. "I know you're not a child, Sherlock…"

"So stop treating me like one! We're in a proper relationship now and you're still talking to me like we're only flatmates instead of being romantically involved!" Sherlock exclaimed, already regretting his not entirely truthful words.

John narrowed his eyes. "Well if that's not the pot calling the kettle black, then I don't know what is! You're distant to me, Sherlock… you won't even open up to me all the way. You know everything about me and I feel like you're still a stranger! I love you but you won't tell me your secrets that you have no problem telling Mycroft!"

"I thought you were all right with the Mycroft idea! You're the one who suggested I talk to him! It was your idea… how can you suddenly not be okay with me doing this? I may be the king of hypocrisy but you're the one who's hiding secrets, John! Don't tell me things are okay if they're not. That's not fair to either of us," Sherlock tried to explain while he pushed down the anger he felt.

John sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, looking back up at Sherlock with soft eyes. "You're right. You're… absolutely right. I'll try to be more honest with you if you're more honest with me. I still don't think I'm going to give you the whole supply of antidepressants though. It doesn't make sense to do that, anyway. I'll give you enough to last three days but… after three days, ask me for them, all right, Sherlock?"

The detective had calmed down considerably as he thought about John's proposition. He had claimed fault without really telling Sherlock he had been in the wrong as well, which somehow fed Sherlock's ego. He relaxed a bit and nodded in answer.

"Good," John nodded. He smiled up at Sherlock and leaned up on his toes before he kissed his jaw gently. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock took John's face in his hands before he kissed his lips and then wrapped his arms around him. "I love you too, John." After a while in the embrace, he added, "I know I can be difficult and hard-headed, and I know it's unfair of me to ask, but please… don't ever leave me."

John hugged him tightly back, breathing in his scent of cigarettes and coffee. "I won't if you don't leave me either…"

Sherlock chuckled softly into John's shoulder and then gently pressed his lips against the doctor's neck. "Deal…"