Well, here's the new chapter. I'm not 100% sure about it but let me know what you think.

'Good morning!'

John turned with a raised eyebrow at the sound of his flatmate's bright, happy voice. 'Good morning.' He replied. 'You're up early.'

'I am. I thought I may as well seize the day as I have it.'

John couldn't help but smirk to himself at this uncharacteristic comment. 'You still working on that case? What was it about?'

'The murdered law clerk and the missing briefcase?'

'Yeah, that one.'

'Yes, though I think I've nearly solved it.'

John looked up from his newspaper. 'And you didn't stay up all night to finish?! That's not like you.'

'Yes, well, my doctor told me to get some sleep and for once he was right.'

'Thank you, I think.'

Sherlock crossed the kitchen, a joyful whistle playing on his lips. John placed his paper on the table in front of him, folding his arms across his chest. He watched as his gangly flatmate reached into the cupboard at his head and pulling out a mug. Flicking the kettle on, the detective swayed towards the toaster, dropping two slices of bread into it. 'Would you like some John?' he voiced amicably.

The doctor was pulled from his trance-like concentration, caught somewhat off guard by his flatmates enquiry. 'Eh-no. Thanks, Sherlock. I've… already eaten.'

The detective gave a light shrug and continued about making his breakfast, dancing around gently to an unheard music. John sat back in his chair, short legs stretched beneath the table. He watched Sherlock's swaying movements. They were slow. Not particularly furtive. If anything they were clumsy. He'd dropped the butter knife twice and nearly knocked over his empty mug with the side his arm. His co-ordination was poor. His fingers, shaky... Not something you typical see in your healthy human being. But then Sherlock has never been typical.

John narrowed his eyes before drawn in a sharp breath, leaning forward on his elbows. 'You're very jovial, Sherlock. Good night's sleep, was it?'

'Great!' the detective beamed. 'I haven't felt this good in a long time.'

'Well, in that case, perhaps you feel good enough to explain why you're lying to me?'

Sherlock stopped abruptly, flouncing hands coming to rest on the counter top. 'I'm not.' He said dejectedly glancing quickly out of the window before returning about his business.

John eyed the detective for a moment, watching him as spread his third layer of butter onto his toast. '…Sherlock?'

The detective didn't stop to look at his flatmate. 'Yes?'

John tried again. '…Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'Sherlock, look at me.'

Slowly the detective put the knife in his hand down, turning reluctantly to face the doctor. John stood up from the table, traversing the space between him and the detective. He looked up into his flatmate's face with scrutiny. He was pale. Too pale for the mid-summer. Prominent shadows lingered under his eyes. He hadn't slept. A moron could see that.

'Sherlock, I know you didn't sleep well. Greg was here last night. You had a nightmare. He told me.'

Sherlock didn't say anything to this. He just bit into his lip, looking at the floor between his planted feet. John sighed, closing his eyes. 'Why didn't you just tell me?'

'Didn't think it mattered.' The detective mumbled, picking up his tea and walking into the living room. He crouched in one of the chairs holding the mug firmly between his two hands. 'I just thought it would be easier to say that I slept.'

'Easier for who?' The doctor said quietly. 'You or me?'

Sherlock didn't reply to this.

John looked across to the ceramic white and blue patterned plate that rested on the side by the kettle, an isolated expression lingering in his features. 'What was it about – your dream?'

'I don't really remember.' Sherlock mummered.

John just nodded bleakly. 'I've got to go to work.'

The Doctor got his coat from the hallway before returning to the kitchen to pick up his keys. He looked at Sherlock as he traced an index finger slowly round the edge of his porcelain mug. He walked into the living room, slowly lowering himself down next to the detective. 'Here.' He said softly, placing the abandoned plate of toast into his friend's lap. 'Eat the food. I'll be back later.' The doctor jumped up, snatching his phone from the nearest coffee table. 'Don't trash the kitchen!' He called over his shoulder. 'I rather like the look of an empty table.'

Sherlock watched his stout friend exit the room and descend the seventeen creaky wooden stairs to flat below. The detective sat silently for a moment as he heard the sound of the front door slamming shut. He placed the plate and mug in his hands on the desk beside him. Sherlock got up and crossed to the window, moving the curtain aside. He watched John cross the road and speed off down the street in the direction of the Tube station. Sherlock frowned. The doctor must be short on cash again, but then he hadn't been to work for past couple of weeks. 'Perhaps I should buy the groceries this week….' Sherlock thought, subconsciously biting at his thumb nail. That could wait until later. First he needed to tie up the ends of this case.

The morning has passed quickly. Sherlock had spent most of his time on the floor surrounded by hundreds of sheets of crumpled paper and dozens of glossy photographs. On occasion he had got up to look at the map of the city above the sofa in finer detail or to type something on his laptop that stood open on his desk. He always returned to the floor though; flicking through endless pages of evidence with a scrutinized expression. After three and a half hours of this repeated pattern, and two more cups of tea, he'd finally come to a conclusion. The detective got up, crossing the mottled room to the mantel piece. Picking up his mobile, his fingers rapidly tapped out a message to Lestrade.

Not the defendant, the judge; love affair. Upstairs wardrobe of his flat will be the briefcase.

-SH

With a weighty sigh, Sherlock replaced his fingerprinted phone on the shelf. He looked about the room; at mess he'd made on the floor, and took another deep breath…He needed to clear his head.

He walked towards the bathroom, stepping inside before closing the door with a small click. He fell back against the soft wood, closing his eyes. He needed space, space to breath: Time away from here. Just to run. Anything to forget the world for a couple minutes...

Sherlock slowly sunk to the floor. Pulling his navy blue t-shirt over his head and dropping it to the ground, the detective stared down at his wrist. Slowly he began unpicking the bandages that John had expertly wrapped around him. Unwinding the coarse, beige material, the detective winced, feeling the once banished throbbing pain appear again in his hand. The whole area around his wristed was a deep purple, but the wrist itself wasn't too bad. It didn't look quite so disfigured anymore. Sherlock didn't always appreciate how skilled John really was. His talent really was wasted at the day surgery.

The detective slowly stood up, removed the rest of his clothes and climbed into the shower, turning the hot tap up so the room began to fill with comforting, dewy steam. Sherlock hummed feeling an ecstasy of relief swayed over him as the warm water began to saturate his head, trickling down his face and back. Taking a deep breath, the detective tried to settle himself into the quieter, less cluttered portions of his mind, wandering with abandon in and out of random rooms, he decided on what information could likely be scrapped for its disuse, and what needed to be sorted and ordered elsewhere. By the time Sherlock had walked into this room… He found it was too late to get out.

…

Beneath the heavy white covers of his bed, Sherlock watched his older brother's face contort in concern. He wanted to look away from him but knew not to and was grateful when Mycroft finally turned his gaze to the floor with a sigh.

'Sherlock, what really happened?'

The young boy paused, holding his breath. What should he say? Mycroft knew he was lying. He always knew. The child, small and unsuspecting as he was, swallowed, lowering his head until he mumbled. 'It was Dad.'

Mycroft face screwed up. The one thing he didn't want to hear. The eleven year old was accustom to Siger Holmes' wrath; often being on the receiving end of a fist whenever his rage got the better of him. He did well to hide the scars and bruises, leaving his younger brother blissfully unaware of risk his father posed. Their mother knew, but she didn't really care. She always dismissed the idea, pretending it wasn't happening.

'And this, this is the first time? The first time he's hurt you?' The child said vapidly.

Sherlock nodded glumly.

'Why did he do it?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I-I just got in his way. It was my fault.'

Mycroft was quick to shake his head. 'No, Sherlock. It's not your fault. And I don't ever want to hear you say that again. He shouldn't have hit you, even if you were in his way.'

Sherlock looked voicelessly at his feet, knotting his fingers together, face shrouded by his unruly black curls. Mycroft grasped Sherlock's hand in his, squeezing them tightly.

'Listen to me…It's not your fault.'

The four year old nodded, a single tear rolling down his pale face. 'I'm sorry.' He whispered.

Mycroft pulled his baby brother into an embrace. 'No, Sherlock. You have nothing to apologise for.'

Just like that, Sherlock collapsed sobbing into his brother's shoulder. 'It was so scary, My!'

Mycroft raised a hand, stroking the back of his head. 'I know, I know.' The eleven year old rocked his little brother ever so slightly in arms, soothing him into a less erratic breathing pace. 'Shhh. Shhh, it's okay. It's okay…I will never let him hurt you ever again, Sherlock. I promise.'

There was a sudden knock. Both boys started; Sherlock gasping; their head's snapping together towards the door.

…

Sherlock was awoken from his thoughts by the curt sound of knuckles rapping on wood. He brushed the water from his face, removing from his head from the warming jet so as to hear better. It was silent, for a moment, but then he heard it again. Switching the water off, he quickly hopped out of the bath tub, wrapping a fluffy, white towel around waist.

'John?' The detective swiped another towel from the rack, scrubbing it over his head so as to make himself appear slightly more normal; hair looking uncharacteristically long with the weight of the water. If he cared enough he probably would have got it cut by now.

Sherlock opened the bathroom door, sticking his damp, fluffy mop into corridor. 'John?' He called out again. Brushing the hair from his eyes, his face was quick to fall. 'Oh, it's you.'

'Well nice to see you too, brother dear.'

Sherlock walked straight back into the bathroom. 'What do you want, Mycroft?'

'Am I not allowed to visit my younger sibling every now and then?' Mycroft said pushing the door to the bathroom open. A smile snagged at the corners of his typically pursed lips as he saw his younger brother hopping about in his towel, trying to pull a sock on.

'Eh, do you mind!' Sherlock huffed, awkwardly slamming the door closed on his impeccably dressed brother. '-And, no, you always want something, even if that something is to lecture me which is what I feel is coming.'

Mycroft sighed. 'You know I'm surprised you didn't work out it was me at the front door; easily deducible by the weight and time duration between knocks.'

'You know Mycroft, maybe it's because I don't care enough to deuce every little thing I encounter unlike some Obsessive Compulsive harbourer in a three piece suit.' Sherlock stuck his head aggressively back out into the hallway. 'Or maybe I just assumed it couldn't possibly be you because you never knock.' The detective slammed the door again. 'That term of politeness seems to have escaped you!' He called shrewdly. He could almost hear his brother's eye roll.

'And a mild disposition you.' Mycroft responded tightly, suppressed irritation blatantly evident in his voice.

'Charmed, I'm sure.' The detective sang back.

Mycroft sighed, giving up his typical gallantry pretence. The politician resting a shoulder on the wall beside the door, folding his arms across his chest. Arguing like this wasn't going to get them anywhere. 'What's been going on, Sherlock?'

'Surely, you already know.' The detective replied bleakly.

'It's polite to ask.'

'Oh, his manners have come back!'

'Sherlock-'

'Looks like he can remember his lesson's from school.'

'Sherlock-'

'Or home…' the Chemist said quietly.

Mycroft gave another sigh. This time Sherlock was the one to roll his eyes. 'What are you doing here anyway?!' he snapped irritably.

'Checking to see if you're alright.' Mycroft breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

'Of course, I'm alright! Why wouldn't I be?!'

'Sherlock, for goodness-' Mycroft stopped as the door to the bathroom suddenly flew open. Sherlock stood before his brother clutching a pile of folded clothes to his chest with one hand and the towel at his waist in the other, wild, damp raven curls flopping forward, masking one pallid blue eye. 'Can you move? I wish to get to my room.'

The Politician held his brother's gaze, as if by look alone he could get through to him. After a moment, realizing the futility of such an act, he stood from the wall and shifted out of the way. 'I'll go and make some tea.'

'Who says you're staying that long?' muttered Sherlock, sauntering past him, walking into his room and giving the door a kick with his heal.

The detective waited for his brother's patent, leather Oxford's to pace away towards the kitchen before he began getting dressed. Putting his dirty clothes into a steadily overflowing basket, he padded across to his tall, pine wood wardrobe, pulling out a clean shirt and a pair of trouser. Swiftly dressing, he pulled on his blue satin dressing gown and gave himself a once over in the mirror. Seeing his own reflection now, Sherlock could see why the Doctor had not believed him this morning.

His under eyes were coloured a bruise like purple. His face co-ordinated with the rest of his body; looking that tiny bit too gaunt and, he was, undoubtedly pale. He knew he needed to eat. He knew he needed to sleep. But the detective just couldn't find the motivation. Sighing, he tied the edges of his over-garments together and set off towards the kitchen.

When he got there, Sherlock found Mycroft sitting in one of the chair at the table… The one John typically sat in… The detective couldn't help suddenly feel a surge of contempt fester within him. With a taut expression, Sherlock took the seat opposite his brother, pulling the tea filled cup that had been set out for him in towards his chest. 'Well?' he huffed impatiently.

Mycroft took a small sip of his tea and for the second time in the past ten minutes Sherlock found himself rolling his eyes. 'You know I haven't got all day.'

Mycroft seemed to find something in this comment comical which only made Sherlock frown. Eventually the politician put the china down, crossing one leg on top of the other. 'How would you like me to do this?' He said starkly. 'Delicately or directly?'

'For God sake, Mycroft! I'm not a child. I. Won't. Break.'

Mycroft drew in an audible breath through his nose. 'Have it your way...' The politician shuffled in his seat. 'It's about Sherringford.'

Sherlock paused, gaze, he knew, faltering momentarily. 'What about him?'

'His funeral's tomorrow.'

Sherlock blinked and Mycroft just took this as a sign to continue.

'Two o'clock. Tomorrow afternoon. St Martin's Church.'

'Fine.' The detective said sharply, barley letting his brother get to the end of his sentence.

Silence sat between them both for a moment.

'Sherlock, this is an honest question now so I want you to answer me honestly.' The politician said softly. 'How are you coping at the moment?'

Sherlock's head snapped up to meet his brother's gaze. 'I'm perfectly fine.' he said tightly. Mycroft reached forward, loosening Sherlock's fingers on his china cup, noticing his knuckles going white. 'That's not what I asked.' He said quietly.

'I'm fine!' The detective snapped, standing up. 'And now that's over with, you can go.'

Mycroft sighed. 'That's not the only reason I'm here.'

The detective groaned dramatically, walking away from the table towards the living room. 'Let me guess, one of your dopey, governmental, Eton Messes have lost some of MI6's paraphernalia and you need me to find it!'

'Nothing quite that fanciful, Sherlock, but undoubtedly more serious.' The politician replied standing up from the table. He crossed into the living room, watching as his brother picked at one of the thin, steel strings on his violin. A thoughtful expression on his face crossed his face. 'Do you remember when I got you that?'

'Of course,' Sherlock said solemnly. 'Eighteenth birthday.'

'Quite a day…'

'Quite.'

The pair of them stood in an unspoken, but mutually agreed, silence, both residing themselves to their own thoughts.

'You're keeping secrets from the people you usually talk to.' Mycroft said quietly. Sherlock looked up but said nothing. Mycroft continued, knowing that he wasn't going to get a response from his brother. 'Doctor Watson said you broke your wrist…May I see?'

Sherlock stepped away from Mycroft's outstretched hand. 'No. I don't know what you're talking about.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Can we not do this? Please? I just want to make sure you're okay.'

'I have a doctor for flat mate.' Sherlock spat sarcastically.

'And he would have been none the wiser had you not accidentally dropped your violin!' Mycroft's patience was evidently dwindling. 'Why did you not tell him?!'

'I wasn't hurt, Mycroft! I didn't have anything to tell him!'

The politician went to move forward but paused mid step as he saw Sherlock suddenly shrink away from him. Momentarily taken aback by this, he frowned. 'Sherlock…' His tone was strong but in a strange way soft. 'This is silly, just show me.'

The detective straightened up to his full height in an act of defiance. This caused Mycroft to let out and audible breath. He looked nonchalantly down at his shoes before eyeing his brother again. 'Sherlock if you have nothing to hide you have nothing to fear. If you're not hurt you have no reason to abstain from showing me your wrist.'

Sherlock began to back away. 'No.'

'Oh, for goodness sake.' Mycroft crossed the dimly lit, cluttered room in no more than four strides. Sherlock scuttled backwards but quickly hit the wall behind him. He twisted as the politician lunged for his wrist. 'No, no, no, no!-Ah!' Sherlock seethed as his brother caught hold of him. He wrenched his arm away. Mycroft looked condemningly at his sibling, quirking an eyebrow at him. 'Are we done now?'

Seeing that there was no way to mash the truth anymore, Sherlock conceded with a dejected sigh. He held out his wrist. Mycroft took the hand in his, gently turning it over. His eyes flickered momentarily over the joint before coming up to meet his brother's in an entangled distress. 'It's broken.' He murmured.

Sherlock nodded. 'In three places.' they hummed together.

Without warning, Mycroft suddenly grabbed Sherlock by both shoulders and dragged him towards the sofa. Sitting him down, the politician knelt down in front of his brother, staring at him straight in the eye. 'Sherlock, if he's back you have to tell me and you have to tell me now.' The politician's tone was uncharacteristically rushed.

Sherlock tried to pull his arms away but Mycroft only held them tighter. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Sherlock, please, this isn't a game!'

It was silent for a moment. Sherlock looked up into his brother's steely grey eyes. 'No.' He said eventually. 'If "he's" who I think you're talking about…then no.'

Mycroft looked disappointingly down at his feet, closing his eyes. He looked almost as if he was in pain and in that brief moment, Sherlock felt as if he was twelve again.

The detective looked down sharply, feeling spindly finger's close around his. He looked back up at Mycroft. He was… He looked almost like…There was a strange sort of sincerity Sherlock had not seen in him in a very long time. It was unsettling. The politician squeezed his little brother's finger tips. 'Sherlock… Please let me help you.'

Sherlock found himself getting unsteadily to his feet 'No. No, you're wrong.' He said, slowly shaking his head.

What am I going to do?! He wanted to cry…To just fall onto his brother's shoulder and tell him everything; everything that's happened, everything that was going on his uncontrollable head… But he couldn't…Mycroft would surely go after him. He would get hurt. Father would come back and punish him for telling him. And what would happen if he went after John? Or Molly? An act of revenge. What if Lestrade found out?

Mycroft could see the conflict in his brother's eyes. 'Sherlock…?' He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder but Sherlock flinched away again. 'Tell me what you're thinking.' He whispered.

Sherlock lightly shook his head. He sank down on to the edge of the sofa, eyes fixed on the floor a few feet ahead of him. Mycroft crouched down in front of him, gently taking hold of his arms. 'Sherlock, you've been lying to me... ever since I've arrived. Please, please tell me the truth. I want to help you.'

Something in Sherlock suddenly snapped. 'I don't need your help!' he spat. The detective gave his brother a sharp shove, causing him to almost tumble backwards. 'You've finally lost it, Mycroft! The power's finally gone to your head and made you delusional!' Sherlock got up storming towards the window. The British government climbed up off of the floor, glaring at his brother. 'Sherlock, stop it! That's enough! Look, you may have Doctor Watson fooled but not me, not for one minute so you're going to drop this idiotic, lackadaisical attitude right now because I'm not having it!'

Sherlock's shoulders sunk, head coming to rest against the wall beside him. All the bitter energy that had only moments ago possessed him into wanton actions had all but abandoned him. Sighing, Mycroft walked up behind him, allowing his frustration to melt. He placed a hand on either of Sherlock's arms, resting his chin upon his left shoulder. The pair stared at their reflections in the window bleakly.

'How did we get so old so fast?' Sherlock whispered.

'I don't know...' Mycroft replied quietly. '…Sherlock...? How many times?

'…Just the once.'

'Your wrist?'

'Yes.'

'Did he do… anything else?'

Sherlock looked at his brother's wary face, reflected within the glass. 'No.'

Mycroft nodded. 'Okay… Alright. Thank you… Thank you for telling me.'

'Well, isn't that lovely.'

The brother's both jumped at this sudden, intruding voice. Mycroft thought he was going to have to have to catch his younger brother he turned pale so quickly. Their heads snapped simultaneously towards the door. Mycroft felt a dread settle over him. He tried to reach for Sherlock, to ground him, support him, knowing his mind was undoubted falling into a state of disarraying panic, but he couldn't. He couldn't move, couldn't reach. He only just managed to get a hold of his tone for long enough to address the broad figure standing in the doorway before him. 'Father.'

So... How was it? I'm still not convinced. It's the summer holidays for me soon though so hopefully I'll get a lot more written. Is there anything you particularly want to see or a direction you want this to go? Just let me know! Until the next time ;)