Mycroft had halted just inside the door of 221B, his eyes resting on his brother's form. Sherlock was sitting in his leather chair, his head tilted back and eyes closed. Resting across his knees was his violin, the bow was nowhere in sight. Even though Mycroft had been warned by John, the physical changes in Sherlock were startling. His brother was heavier than he had ever before been and his face was puffy and rounded. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to acknowledge Mycroft's presence with a cutting remark.
Sherlock started when the older Holmes brother called his name. "Mycroft." His voice sounded two-dimensional and lacked its customary richness.
Mycroft made his way to his brother's side. He reached out and gently removed the violin from its resting place and carefully returned it to its case. "You shouldn't torture yourself this way, brother mine." He was actually relieved when Sherlock shot him a sullen glare – it was a brief glimpse of the brother for whom he cared so deeply.
Sherlock wanted nothing more than to leap to his feet and turn his back on his brother's observant eyes, but he hurt too badly for such dramatics. He waved his hand in his brother's general direction. "I don't feel like doing this, Mycroft. Just go away."
Sitting in John's chair, Mycroft rubbed his temple but otherwise demonstrated no other sign of distress. "I merely wish to know how you are faring. John is concerned."
As if conjured by the use of his name, the doctor entered the flat. Sherlock's eyes shot in his direction then found their way back to his brother. "Yesss, you are both so worried about my welfare."
John noted the coldness of his voice and the viciousness of his snarl. He hadn't seen the man act in such a manner since the incident at Baskerville. The loathing in the man's voice had been directed at himself on that occasion. It was no different this time.
"I'll tell you exactly how I'm faring, Mycroft." Now Sherlock's words came rapid-fire. "I hurt all of the time. If I move, stabbing jolts of pain shoot through my joints. If I don't move, I grow stiff and the aching seeps into each joint, driving me mad! I can't play. I can't type. I can't even pursue The Work. So, what is the point of me? What do the doctors do? They shove pills at me. Little white pills that make me eat and eat and eat until I don't know myself when I look into a mirror. They make me feel like my skin is crawling with anxiety. I'm depressed. Yes, I admit it! And the answer? Another bloody pill! Toying with my mind, changing the way I think. But wait! There's more! Once a week, I take the yellow pills. They make my hair fall out and my legs cramp at night. The doctors push here with their medicine and another symptom comes out there." He was breathing hard and showed no signs of stopping. "So, yet another pill for that. Then there's the pointless shots. They're not working! I get worse every day. So, if I am going to feel this way for the rest of my life, then what's the point? Why not end the pain now!? Tell me, Mycroft!"
Sherlock was standing in from of his brother, gaping in horror at what he had just revealed. The other two men were frozen with shock.
The detective began moving toward his bedroom. This broke the momentary spell that had fallen over Mycroft and John. The doctor moved faster than Mycroft and grasped Sherlock by the arm. The tall man shook him off just at the threshold to his room. Taking a few more steps, he collapsed painfully onto his bed and curled into the foetal position.
John knelt down beside the bed. He tried not to be hurt by all that Sherlock had said – he knew that the man was in pain and was lashing out blindly. Mycroft had followed and was standing in the doorway. "Sherlock…" Mycroft began. The detective pulled a pillow over his head. His brother reached and ripped it away.
Making a swift decision, Mycroft spoke. "You will be receiving therapy." Sherlock already resented him for so much, he reasoned, so what did it matter if his brother hated him for this as well so long as Sherlock was kept alive.
As the detective huffed out an angry sound, John turned a frustrated look on Mycroft. "Easy. Don't push."
"Where my brother's life is concerned, I will gladly 'push' as you say." Mycroft's tone was hard and uncompromising.
The doctor shot to his feet. "I am just as concerned about Sherlock as you are. Just show a bit of compassion." John's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
Sherlock spoke, his voice full of disdain. "Mycroft doesn't know the meaning of the word. He's nothing more than a bully."
Not showing how much the words hurt, Mycroft pressed on with the remainder of his ultimatum. "You have a simple choice to make. You will either be checked into a mental health facility for treatment or I will arrange for a therapist to come here to 221B."
Sherlock uncurled stiffly from where he lay. He had expected to be whisked away within the day as he had been when taken to rehab. "What do you mean?"
A small, sad smile made its way onto Mycroft's face. "It's quite simple. If you can look me in the eyes… No. If you can look John in the eyes and swear that you will not take your own life, then you can remain here. Provided, of course, that you cooperate with the therapist that I select."
Sherlock simply stared at his brother for several long moments. He had no intention of killing himself, not really. It was just that the thought flitted through his mind when the pain was at its worst. The detective shifted his gaze to John's face. "John, I promise you, I won't kill myself. I would never do that."
John watched his friend with intensity, taking in his every word. "I believe you mean that right now. But what about later? Bloody hell!" The doctor ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "I won't leave you by yourself, you understand that."
Sherlock made a sound of assent.
Seemingly as cool as ever, Mycroft spoke. "I will arrange for a therapist to see to Sherlock starting tomorrow. In addition, there will be a genetic test performed to determine the optimal medications to treat his depression and anxiety."
John interrupted. "They can do that?"
"Yes, John. You should keep up with medical advances." Mycroft's expression shifted into a smirk. "I also suggest that Sherlock see Doctor Howitzer. The injectable is an amazing medication, but it is clearly not working in Sherlock's case.
John let out a long sigh. "I was going to suggest that anyway."
Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust. "I am still in the room."
The expression on Mycroft's face was bleak. "Yes… So, are we agreed?"
John was worried. He didn't want this responsibility. He didn't want to hold Sherlock's life in his hands, but who else was there, he wondered – no one. "Yes."
As for Sherlock, he felt trapped. He had revealed his darkest thoughts in an unguarded, unreasoned outburst. Now he had to live with the consequences. "Yes."
Their agreement sat uneasy in the room, but it was there. They would face the future together, one day at a time.