It was not a pleasant experience. Of course it wasn't, throwing up was the unwilling convulsions of the digestive system to dispense some substances unwanted by the human body. It had been easy enough for Mycroft to trigger the natural reaction of throwing up, having a very advanced knowledge in the biology of the human body. The problem was getting it to stop. He could feel the acidic liquid rising in his throat, burning his mouth. He could taste the vile mixture of bodily fluids and food. The liquid expelled itself out of his mouth and it was all he could do to keep himself upright and aimed at the toilet bowl.

It felt horrible and completely out of Mycroft's control. Once it had started it wouldn't stop. All of the contents of his stomach escaped his body in a mess of bitter, acidic liquid. He couldn't stop it. It wasn't going to stop. More kept on coming up, the sight and smell of the sick made him gag even more, causing his body to reject even more food. It was a vicious circle that he couldn't stop.

Mycroft felt all of his energy dissipating and he suddenly regretted the fact he had not had a proper rest in a while. Mycroft just grabbed the toilet like it was a life jacket, submitting to the situation and letting everything happen, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was no point in regretting his decision to purge himself of food, he had and there was nothing he could do in the moment to stop it.

And so he gripped the porcelain sides of the toilet until his knuckles turned white, trying to keep himself from completely collapsing on the floor with exhaustion. He tried to numb himself to the burn and the retched taste. It was all for a good reason. It was worth it. This was better for him than if he had let the food digest, there was nothing healthy about heart disease or clogged arteries. No one said it was going to be easy to get healthy and fit again. It was going to be challenging. This was just one of those challenges.

After what could have been minutes or hours it finally stopped. Mycroft gratefully collapsed to the floor. He gasped and panted, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs, every breath burning his raw throat. Mycroft felt fuzzy and light and some surprising positive feeling, it wasn't happiness but it was something along those lines. But most of all he felt tired. Too tired to do anything other than curl up on the floor and fall asleep, sticky with sweat and bile. He didn't know when it was he'd started crying but his cheeks were wet with tears.

Mycroft curled up, his fingers tangled into his hair and his legs pulled tightly up to his chest. He was so tired. The weird high he'd gotten faded giving way to pure exhaustion and misery. Nothing mattered. He didn't remember why he was there, who he was, what brought him to be there. He felt to foggy to think. All he knew was tiredness. The need to sleep. Mycroft's eyes fell closed.

Sherlock sat in his apartment, reclined in the comfort and familiarity of his chair. This was his home. The quaint little apartment at 221B Baker Street. Every inch of the place was filled with memories and the imprints they left behind, possessions, marks, empty space; everything about the whole place made it home. The first place Sherlock had ever truly been able to say that word about and mean it. This was his home. And yet, it felt wrong.

Right now, in the darkness of a flat no one had bothered to turn the lights on in this was not his home. It was just a little apartment, a roof to shelter him from rain and to protect shield him from the cold. It was the memory of a home that had once been his. And each thing inside was a ghost of happy times that Sherlock held close to his heart so desperately yet had taken on a bitter, mournful shade. Because there was one key thing that separated this apartment from every other place he had stayed. One thing that made everything shine like the brightest, most precious treasure, just one. John Watson.

Doctor John Hamish Watson, Sherlock Holmes's best friend. Without him Sherlock was nothing. He had tried so hard to build up a wall of cold, impenetrable indifference but John had came into his life so suddenly, smashing it irretrievably down. He could never go back to heartlessly walking around crime scenes when every moment he would be reminded the amazing feeling of laughing indecently at the side of a body after a inappropriately timed joke to lighten the mood. He could not contemplate the information of a case without talking aloud to the ears that used to be there listening, chiding him for being a show off but he could glimpse the amazement in those weary yet sharp but still kind eyes. And he could not pump his veins with cocaine when he could imagine so realistically the sound of his best friends voice telling him not to.

And so Sherlock dropped the syringe back to the floor, running his hands over his face. He couldn't do it. Even though it was just another little fix amongst hundreds. He could not do it in honour of the John who still cared. He knew that was unfair, he knew deep down John did care. But he couldn't help but wonder. He had never really been able to believe that John cared about him, an 'unlovable sociopath'. He didn't think he did enough to deserve to be gifted with someone as amazing as John Watson.

But then now it made sense. It wasn't a gift it was a punishment for every wrong thing he'd done, and he had done many. To have such an amazing person in his life, live with him, be best friends with him, better still be his best friend. Then have to let it all go because of a situation there was no good way out of, and it was only he who could be blamed for being in that situation. 'The reichenbach fall' 'suicide of a fake genius' whatever people decided to call it, everything led back to that. Sherlock had on many occasions wished that he had just killed himself like he was supposed to. His friends had all grieved anyway, and now he couldn't kill himself because that would condemn them to grieve again.

If he had killed himself then John would be married to a beautiful woman with an absolutely stunning baby, living in a house contently with them both. But instead John was sitting in an empty house, probably unable to sleep despite any exhaustion he felt because his dreams were too horrid to face. That beautiful baby would have a mother rather than being juggled between an assortment of strangers' faces.

It was his fault. Completely his fault. So many times had John Watson gone through shit but had managed to start building a life for himself again and every single time Sherlock had wrecked it. Every single damn time. It was his fault and he could not live with that. But he could not kill himself because his friends had already grieved enough for him. He just didn't know what to do. He couldn't even escape this emotional madness because every time he reached for the syringe, filled with the perfect dosage to make him free for a while, he heard John's voice, his best friends voice, telling him not to.

And that made it hurt more than ever because John didn't care about him enough to give a shit when he drugged up. Whether it was that he thought Sherlock was just doing it for attention, as he did many other things, or whether John simply didn't care, it hurt. Sherlock didn't know which hurt more. But both burned so much. Inside his head Sherlock knew that this was ridiculous, John was a grieving man who had just lost his wife, he would be sad and angry and in general emotional turmoil. Now he had been working though that, because it wasn't who he was. Sherlock knew that the John he had been talking to in the restaurant that evening was the real John, he didn't hate Sherlock, he loved him, he was his best friend. And Sherlock could accept that in the moment.

But as soon as he was alone those happy memories distorted and faded, John Watson was a good man, that much could not be unclear to Sherlock no matter what the situation. But good men hated evil ones. And all he could think about was John standing above him, kicking him, punching him. He had never felt more disgusting and evil in his life. He would never, could never, forget the way he had looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. There was no guilt there, no hint that he thought what he was doing was wrong, just anger and emptiness.

Sherlock had spoken, said John had the right to hurt him because he had killed his wife. He had said it with the silent plea that John would counter it, say it wasn't true, comfort him and tell him it wasn't his fault. Say those words that Sherlock desperately needed to hear but no one had said. No one said it because it wasn't true. It was his fault. Completely his fault. He knew that from the moment it had happened, the self hatred stronger than any he had ever felt before. He was more despicable than Culverton Smith, he was more disgusting than Magnessun. He was a monster. Every blow John gave him he deserve. No. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve the kindness. Because every hit had not been enough, the blood spilling from his body to the ground would never be enough. How could John have forgiven him? He didn't even forgive himself.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, pulling his hair. He was starting to regret not inviting Mycroft around. And not just for Mycroft's sake.