"'Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one!'"

"I am the smart one."

"I used to think I was an idiot." Sherlock's anger was cold now, frigid like an arctic glacier set to crack and splinter at any moment.

Mycroft sighed. "Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock."

John's eyes went from one Holmes to the other, brow furrowed in disbelief. "Okay... Come on... There's no way-" A look from Mycroft stopped him mid-sentence, and he raised his eyebrows.

Really...?

"Sherlock." Mycroft had drawn himself up to his full height, still trying to look demure in the face of rage. "You are ill again. Be well aware that this will be terminal, if you continue to do nothing about it. Should you decide to continue destroying your body, I will not hesitate to take matters into my own hands. ...You know the drill, little brother."

John half-expected Sherlock to strike his brother, the way he was looking at him-but instead he remained utterly silent. And somehow that was the most hateful thing he could have said.


"...Sherlock?"

John felt as if he were breaking some unspoken rule by being the first to say something. It had been hours since Mycroft had left, but the silence had remained, lingering there like a heavy layer of dust that covered everything in the flat and weighed down on them with some deeper meaning that everybody but John seemed to be privy to.

The consulting detective didn't answer.

John took a deep, dusty breath and tried again. "Sherlock. Can we talk?"

At long last the man stirred, as if finally moving after a century of stillness and silence. He lifted doleful eyes to glance over John, waiting.

"Uh..." John suddenly realised he wasn't quite sure what he'd been going to say. "Well... I... What happened? Between you two? You... He... Made it sound like all this was-sort of-because of... Well, because of something he did, maybe. I mean-"

"You're rambling." Sherlock's voice was low, but it sounded more tired than malicious. He sat up slowly, taking his time.

Perhaps to avoid a dizzy spell.

"So..."

"Yes. Yes, alright? Is that enough for you? It's my brother's fault. Is that what you'd like to hear?"

"I..." John paused, concerned. "No, but... If it's true...?"

Sherlock huffed moodily, considering. "In a way... Yes."

John was quiet for a moment, just trying to figure out what on earth to say. Finally he came up with the one question that kept repeating itself in his mind.

"How...?"

"How is it his fault? You really want to know? I doubt you do. It's not interesting-you won't gain anything from hearing it."

"Sherlock... That's not the point."

"Isn't it?"

John took a deep breath and let it out, shaking his head. "No... not this time. I just want to know what happened. I know he's not exactly a saint, but I can't imagine Mycroft doing anything that horrible on purpose..."

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

"Yeah? Let me be the judge of that."

Sherlock sat back, regarding him with a critical gaze. At long last he sighed in resignation, steepling his fingers and resting them against his lips, as he often did in moments of deep thought.

"...He had no idea that the effects would manifest themselves in such a way. We were young-very young, mind you. Enough that I had not yet recognised that my brother was not as important as he seemed at the time. Silly of me, but..." He stopped and shook his head, banishing the thought. "At that point, him being the older brother, he was determined to instil in me the virtues of self-control. Rigid control. I was already heading in that direction, but he intended to help me along. Which worked out rather well, except for this one little problem... Like I told you before, the way this... illness started was because of an attempt on my part to gain even better control. Obviously, you can see how wonderfully that turned out."

"But... you said it started early. Why didn't anybody say anything? I mean, surely Mycroft could tell. Both of you-you... know stuff about people."

Sherlock just shrugged. "He knew. He just... decided to leave me to it. At least, until it got bad enough that our parents realised. By that time I had to be placed in inpatient care in hospital. I hated that place..."

John pressed his lips together, not sure what to say but feeling as though there should be something. Something reassuring. Helpful.

But there was nothing.

No magic words to be said that would wash away all the mistakes and the hate and the hurt, and no simple, one-dose cure for that monster in the mind.

"Sherlock..."

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry..."