Hello hello hello readers! Right, normally here I would be doing my replies to your lovely reviews but LadyLilyMalfoy made a good point in saying that they're a bit off putting at the beginning so I'll either message you a reply or leave them at the bottom for anons and people who have messaging disabled if I have time :) I'll only do them at the top if someone has asked a good question that I think other people will want to know the answer to :)

Drenched

Sherlock had been allowed a book. It was a dull book about depression and anxiety. He was only reading it as there was nothing better to do.

He had another group therapy session later, his fourth.

He hated the group sessions. He didn't care about the other people in the room. He hardly cared about anyone. No, he didn't care about anyone, not anymore. Care leads to pain.

Sherlock looked out his window. It was raining. If this were some useless poem he was reading in English, you could call it pathetic fallacy. But no, he wasn't sitting in a boring English lesson, he was in a youth drug rehabilitation centre, but he had never wished to be in one of those lessons before now. He knew he would miss being at the school, but he didn't realise he would miss the lessons. He even missed annoying the teachers.

He had been there 2 weeks.

14 days.

336 hours.

20160 minutes.

1209600 seconds. 1209601... 1209602...

Yes he was so bored as to calculate how long he had been there in seconds. He had so much free time he was dying of boredom.

He needed to find another way to irritate the annoying doctor that always forced him into doing some kind of activity.

Last time they had tried to focus on trust. They had done that pointless activity where someone falls backwards and you're supposed to catch them. Rather than allow the teenagers to choose their own partners, he had chosen them himself, preventing Sherlock and Megan from sitting at the side, disagreeing to partake in the activity.

Big mistake.

Sherlock had been paired with another boy, around a year younger than him. He began to fall backwards, only for Sherlock to step out of the way suddenly and watch the boy fall to the ground.

He was forced to leave early.

Well, forced isn't the right word but he had to leave, much to Sherlock's delight.

He had been in his room for exactly 3 days, 5 hours 27 minutes and 12 seconds. Another pair of brutes were to transport him to the group therapy room in about 10 minutes. He looked around his room. 10 minutes to find a way to annoy that doctor.

His eyes turned to the small bathroom in his room. He walked inside and turned on the shower. He stepped inside, fully clothed, including his shoes, and let the water fall on him; his light grey tracksuit bottoms turning closer to black and his white shirt turning almost see-through.

He felt the clothing stick to his skin, showing his skinny figure and making him look even thinner than he already did. His ribs stuck out awkwardly and his arms were bony. His hair had grown quite long and began sticking to his forehead and poking him in the eye. The jogging bottoms felt heavy as he stepped out the shower. He had heard the click of the door and was just stepping out of the bathroom when he heard the hinges squeak and the door opened.

The two men gave him a hesitant look. Sherlock just smirked as they nodded towards the door, cleverly knowing not to argue with him. They walked him down the corridor to the room. Sherlock's feet made loud squelching noises with each step and he left behind a small puddle. Someone would have to clean that up later, but that wasn't his problem.

He stepped into the room, being the last to arrive, as usual. Everyone turned to look at him. There was a mixture of confusion and judgement. He saw the smirk on Megan's face as he sat down and purposefully flicked his hair out of his eyes, sending water into the faces of the people next to him. They were not amused.

The doctor rolled his eyes and sighed before continuing with his session.

Sherlock tuned out and closed his eyes. He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle before placing his fingertips together and putting them on his chin. He thought about what Dr Weaver had told him that morning:

"Sherlock, if you listen and take part in your therapy sessions, you will get out of here much quicker."

"How can you be so sure?" Sherlock frowned.

"I've seen it. As soon as you start to comply, the system speeds up. Trust me you'll be out of here before you know it."

And with that his psychiatrist had left.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, contemplating whether to continue his rebellious behaviour and stay even, or 'agree' to the treatment and get the hell out of there.

It didn't take him long to make his decision.

"So Sherlock, I hear you have finally agreed to your treatment" Mycroft said as he sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock.

"You heard correctly dear brother." Sherlock slumped in his chair.

"What made you change your mind?"

"I just realised the error of my ways." Sherlock said, adding a hint of regret to his voice. His acting skills had really come along recently.

Mycroft gave a genuinely pleased smile. Sherlock stopped himself from smirking. He had even fooled his brother. If he kept up this act, it hopefully shouldn't take him too long to get out.

"I'm glad." The elder Holmes said. "I hope we should not find it necessary to make a return to this facility."

"I won't be coming back anytime soon." Sherlock said. Next time, he thought, next time I'll be more careful. Next time you won't catch me. "This place is as boring as hell anyway."

Mycroft chuckled slightly. "I would have thought so. If the comedown of your drug addiction wasn't a big enough incentive, I was sure the boredom would be."

"I'm not an addict." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

Mycroft sighed. "You may not feel you are anymore, but you were Sherlock. That smoking needs to stop too."

"Let me guess, James told you?"

"Indeed he did. I hear they supply you with nicotine patches every now and again?"

"Yes." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. The nicotine helped a bit, but he needed more to sustain his habit.

"I see…"

They sat in their familiar awkward silence for a short while before Mycroft spoke up again.

"Angela was asking about you a couple of weeks ago."

Sherlock gave no reply, just looked at his brother, waiting for him to continue.

Mycroft obliged. "She was wondering how you were. I told her you were fine. Getting on with your schoolwork and being a model student."

"In other words you lied."

"I felt it was the right thing to do. No use upsetting the poor woman."

Sherlock smirked and looked at the clock. His brother followed his gaze and then looked at his own watch.

"I'm afraid I have to leave now." Said Mycroft as he stood, picking up his briefcase and umbrella. "I only came in for a brief visit."

Sherlock stood immediately and walked towards the door. "Bye." He said in a bored tone and put his hand on the door handle and waited for the click.

"One minute Sherlock." His brother said before walking towards him. Sherlock let out an irritated sigh. "She left this for me to give to you." He handed Sherlock an envelope. Sherlock recognised the writing and paper immediately.

It was from Jonathan.

"She found it not long ago when clearing through his old belongings from the hospital. He never got a chance to send it."

Sherlock carefully took the envelope in his hand turned back to the door. When he heard it click, he flung it open and he was escorted back to his room.

Sherlock sat on the bed just staring at it.

He didn't know what to do.

Well of course he knew he should open it but he didn't know how he would react. He usually got upset. He had the scars to prove it. Oh how he hated emotions.

Before him were the very last words Jonathan had written to him before he died; his private words for Sherlock's eyes only.

Sherlock nodded to himself in determination and picked up the envelope. He was going to do it.

He carefully opened it and let the cold metal object inside fall into his hand. It was a medal, the George Medal to be precise. He had read about it in one of his brother's old history textbooks. It was awarded for bravery, a step down from the George's cross.

He put the medal down and took out the paper from the envelope. With slightly shaking hands, he unfolded it and read the familiar text on the page.

Sherlock,

I'm sorry it has taken me so long to write. After the operation I have been rather weak and so I cannot write as quickly as I wish.

To say I am fine would be a lie and I do not wish to lie to you. My doctor has confirmed that my recovery has not gone as well as they had hoped. I am yet to break the news to my wife and I have no doubt her heart will be broken.

You may be wondering why there is one of my medals along with this letter. I'm sure you have probably guessed this by now, but it is the George Medal. I received it after an act of bravery on the 10th July 1940. As I'm sure you are aware, that was the first day of the battle of Britain. I was part of the RAF and so it was my duty to defend my country against the Germans. My aircraft lost all radio contact due to a malfunction. I did not know what was going on around me. I watched as three of my good friends were shot down and killed but their deaths are what caused my actions. I flew towards the German fleet and shot down 36 enemy aircrafts. My aircraft was eventually hit and I managed to fly back, unaware my actions had saved a young man's life. I found out his aircraft's radio had also malfunctioned and he was going to be shot down but I destroyed the enemy first. They gave me the medal but I did not want it at fist. I killed good men. The Germans were just following orders, like us. I've told you before that the war was a pleasant experience for no man. None of those men deserved to depart this world so quickly. It didn't matter where they were from, they were human lives lost.

I lived my life to the full. I made sure that I survived for a reason. I was unsure of that reason until you were brought into the world. I looked after my family and my friends in the same way but I never felt it was a duty to care for you Sherlock. You are the son I never had. Until you left the Holmes' Estate I felt the need to protect you. Your parents were very different when Mycroft was born. They were young and tried their best. I hate to speak ill of your parents but by the time you were born, everything was merely for appearances. They no longer loved each other. I brought it upon myself to try and bring you up as best I could in such a dark world. I believe I succeeded. You are an excellent young man Sherlock, and do not let anyone else tell you otherwise. Do not feel like anyone else is better than you, as you are their equal. You are extraordinary.

I want you to keep that medal with you always. I know you do not understand sentiment, but I want you to have it. I know you will look after it well and just knowing it is in your possession comforts me.

I do not know if I shall be writing to you again and I doubt if I will have enough time to receive a reply from you. I am no longer living, Sherlock, merely existing. Yet I am not sad, I am happy. I have had a wonderful life and I am privileged that you graced the end of it.

I would like to take this opportunity to say goodbye and thank you Sherlock Holmes. I am proud to call you my friend.

Yours,

Jonathan

Sherlock put the letter down on his bed and looked at the medal in his hand. He clasped it in his fist and tried to stop the tears falling down his cheeks.

He had forgotten how much he had missed Jonathan until this moment.

He took several deeps breaths and sniffed. During his last few days of life, Jonathan had thought about him. He had given away one of his most prise possessions to him.

"You're the father I always wanted, but never had…" he said to the darkness of his room before putting the letter and medal aside and falling into a deep sleep.

Ah that was emotional :')

FullMoonPhoenixShadow: Thank you so much! :D