The weight of self-pity fell on his back and the walk to the flat felt endless. It was all slipping away. All he had ever known was gone.
His entire childhood had been lost to a series of bullies and arguments. His father never made it pleasant and his mother lost interest as he became a surly teenager and a distant adult. Out of abandon and boredom, he turned to drugs. First it was just marijuana and pills that he stole from his mother's prescriptions. As university grew tedious he fell into the crowd that took cocaine for recreation and quickly overdid it. Years were lost to the constant desire and ache for escape. It wasn't until Lestrade found him in the cell and decided to talk to the strung-out twenty-six year old with cuts on his face and tattered stolen trainers on his feet that anything changed.
Helping with the cases were all that got him through his rehabilitation. He was unwilling to go anywhere with doctors and meetings. Instead he spent his days in the lab with Molly and his nights following Lestrade from case to case until he'd developed the skills to investigate on his own. Eventually the thrill of solving homicides and cracking burglaries was far more exciting than any artificial high.
And now it was gone. All the pleasure and stimulation of constant success and mystery was gone. All that was left was a stunning amount of silence and an increasing level of hopelessness.
As he rounded the corner, a car pulled up next to him. He picked up the pace but the car continued to follow.
It wasn't until the window rolled down and he caught a glimpse of the passenger inside that his heartbeat slowed.
"Get in," Mycroft said.
He knew there was no use arguing.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft sat back in his seat. "I'm concerned."
Sherlock scoffed. "Concerned? About me?"
"Well yes," Mycroft said. "Why shouldn't I be?"
Sherlock ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. Mycroft's crisp appearance had made him self-conscious. "I'm fine."
"John punched Father. You were in hospital. None of that is fine."
Sherlock didn't have an answer. It was clear to both of them that he was lying and on the brink of another mental collapse. It had happened before and it would surely happen again if something wasn't done about it. But he was too proud. There was nothing his brother could say that would make this better.
"That was a mistake. It won't happen again."
Mycroft shook his head. "Don't be surprised if I don't quite believe you."
"Do you even understand what happened?"
Mycroft nodded. "Of course I do. Do you?"
Sherlock felt his blood boil. "What are you implying?"
"Selfish. As always," Mycroft muttered under his breath.
Sherlock sat up in his seat and leaned towards the driver. He tapped him on the shoulder and spat out his words. "Please stop the car."
The driver didn't respond to Sherlock's orders, as any good employee would. Mycroft sat with glee as Sherlock's frustration grew. "Excuse me?" Sherlock said.
The driver once again ignored him. He was paid to listen to Mycroft and Mycroft only.
"Just sit down, Sherlock," Mycroft said.
Sherlock sat back, thoroughly annoyed.
"You are not observing what your behavior is doing."
Sherlock picked at the sleeve of his shirt. "Not observing? What is there to observe?"
"Precisely."
He felt stupid once again. He hated that feeling. It was like spiders crawling all over his skin and digging into his flesh. "What are you talking about?"
"It wasn't just you."
"What?" Sherlock asked with a snap.
"It wasn't just you that was injured. You do understand that."
"John? He's fine," Sherlock said.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Is he now?"
Sherlock thought back to the last few weeks. "Yes," he said, "he is."
"He's not," Mycroft said, "but you've too busy worrying about yourself, haven't you?"
Sherlock felt nauseous at the implications. "What do you mean?"
"Has he returned to work?"
"No," Sherlock said, "but it's because-" He didn't have an answer. He didn't actually know why.
"He can't. He can't go back."
Sherlock sat in silence.
"You're unraveling him."
"I'm what?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft softened his face as best he could. "When I first met him, there's was this brokenness about him. You must remember. But there was something about you that distracted him. You...well you fixed him up and filled in all those cracks. But you must see what all this is doing to him."
Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't believe it. "He's fine. He's just stressed."
"About you. About his own health. About his future. Sherlock, this is killing him."
It was like a punch to the gut. "No…" he protested.
"He was injured as well. Quite badly. But he's a good man. He's focusing on you but he's still hurt. And all this constant need to keep you happy is wearing him down. He's falling."
It couldn't be true. "But he hasn't said anything. Why wouldn't he say something?" Sherlock said quietly.
"That's not who he is," Mycroft said. "He'd die without saying a word of warning. You have to think of him. You have to help him as well."
"How?"
Mycroft opened his bag and pulled out a small packet of paper. "Come and work with me."
Sherlock immediately let out a laugh. "Work? With you?"
Mycroft simply looked at him with the glare of a disgruntled teacher. "Or I won't pay your rent any longer."
"That's manipulative," Sherlock said.
"No," Mycroft responded, "it's saving the both of you. Someone has to earn a living and it ought to be you."
Sherlock wrung his hands together. "So John…"
Mycroft shook his head. "He's not well, Sherlock. I saw his records. He has issues that are not easily solved. Even if he attempted to go back he would be terribly exhausted. Don't push him any more. Let him have the time to recover."
Sherlock grabbed the packet and began to read. It was still difficult to decipher the letters but the ability was slowly coming back. He carefully read each sentence three times before moving to the next just to make sure he read it correctly.
It was an administrative position in which he'd coordinate Mycroft's travel and meeting schedule. "So I'm your assistant?" Sherlock asked.
"I have to keep an eye on you. You don't think I trust you to run a committee in your state."
"My state…" Sherlock muttered.
"Be grateful for this. It pays more than enough for rent and John will be able to rest. It's all you need."
Sherlock stared at the paper and mourned the life that it implied. It was full days of working for his brother. The thrill of his life of adventure was dead. This was what he was capable of and nothing more. A pity job with his cocky brother.
But then he thought of John and recalled his weary posture and frazzled tone. Mycroft was right. He had been selfish. This entire time it had been about what he had lost and how the world ought to have mourned his incapabilities. But he hadn't seen how John fell as well.
No, he had to make this right.
"Yes," he muttered.
"Pardon?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock looked his brother dead in the eye. "Yes," he said. "I'll do it."