Sorry its taken so long to get this to you. You know why. Its not great as a result because its been so hard to get past. Hopefully it will be easier from now on. So please enjoy and sorry for the crapiness. Part two of this is already mostly written so the next chapter won't take long.


Sherlock tried not to think about John during the journey from his flat to Mycroft's house. This seemingly small task seemed almost impossible. How many times had he been in a taxi, turned to his side and John had been there? Sometimes he'd smile back, or tease, other times he would fall asleep, his head resting against Sherlock's shoulder. More than once, John would be drunk, Sherlock would come and fetch him and take him home and John would sleep it off in his bed or on the couch.

Now when Sherlock looked to his side, there was an empty space. A space that never should have existed. John should be standing by Sherlock's side, not this nothingness. He wondered if it would always been this hard, or if it would eventually get easier? He wasn't sure he was ready to move on from John just yet. Not until he at least knew the full story.


The car shuddered to a halt, shattering the detective's thoughts. The driver helped him out of the vehicle, Sherlock's psychosomatic limp had deteriorated during the long walk back to his flat. Making sure Milton still was safely asleep in his pocket, he followed the driver into the building and towards his room. He refused everything except the offer of a glass of warm milk and then made himself at home. Sherlock was tired and wanted nothing more than to lay his head down and slip into the land of nod and hope his dreams would be more pleasant than real life.

Sherlock lay Milton's sleeping form onto the couch and slipped out of his postman's uniform and into a pair of grey cotton pyjama pants and a blue tee. He rested his head on one of the fluffy pillows and decided to wait for his milk and then sleep. Perhaps it would be easier that way. And sleep he did, and as he had feared, his dreams were not pleasant at all. John turned his back on him in everyone. And it hurt.


The manservant was quick to report back to Mycroft as soon as his little brother had arrived. Mycroft wasted no time practically rushing to his room, of course looking as if nothing was on his mind at all. But when he opened the door, he found his sibling asleep, clearly exhausted. Mycroft could guess what happened, in fact, he didn't need to guess, he could simply deduce it from Sherlock's face. However it would prefer to get the details from Sherlock himself once he had woken up and felt up to it.

He swept back the ginger hair that suited his brother so well that it might as well be his natural hair colour. His nose was clearly broken, the silly boy hadn't set it before sleeping. And neither had John. The deduction was obvious and Mycroft could feel fire rising in his belly at the thought of John not only rejecting Sherlock but physically injuring him and then turning him away. "I am so sorry little brother, you were right." It was fortunate for Mycroft that Sherlock was asleep, for Mycroft would never have admitted it if his brother wasn't.

There was a knock at the door, which opening slowly revealing the manservant. Sherlock stirred at the noise, turning over in his sleep. He looked so young and vulnerable, which he was at least right at this moment. The servant tiptoed towards Mycroft, who moved from his place by Sherlock's bed. He placed a finger on his lips, the universal symbol for bloody well stay quiet, my baby brother is sleeping.

"What is it?" He whispered, it must be important, he'd dismissed this man for the night. His servants usually took any free time they could get.

"Sir there is an...um...angry man waiting in the foyer. A very angry man Sir. I believe it to be Doctor Watson. I am concerned he will break something if you do not come right away Sir."

"Very well, direct him to my study, make sure there are no breakable items and then bring us some soothing tea." The servant bowed and fled the room. Mycroft sighed, he knew it was only a matter of time before John would confront him, but he hadn't expected it so soon. He must be truly close to boiling point and couldn't wait till tomorrow to scald Mycroft. The government official only hoped the good doctor would listen to him and take his words into account. But this was probably wishful thinking, a great deal of yelling was likely to come his way sooner than later. He supposed he did deserve it.

"We'll talk later Sherlock." He pulled the sheets a little so that they covered his little brother's shoulder and patted his arm, before leaving the room in search of one livid John Watson.

God help him. Because he certainly needed it.