Hello all! And happy Monday! Midterms are upon me and I'm stressing out something awful. It's all over Thursday and then I can sleep restfully again. But enough about me. Enjoy the chapter. Just read the warnings for possible triggers.

InvisibleBlade: Sherlock
Me: John
Shared: Greg and Mycroft

Warnings for this chapter: drunk Sherlock, dom!Greg, sub!Mycroft, suicidal ideations, Holmes brother feels, angst, emotions running rampant, Sherlock and John talk it out, sleep deprived John, some fluff near the end to make up for all the angst

Trigger Warnings: suicide attempt, blood, cutting


Chapter 43 – A Little Brotherly Love

Sherlock ran to the only place his mind saw as safe: his brother's house.

He felt pathetic going to his brother every time a problem came up in his life, but what else was he to do? If he stayed on the streets he'd do something reckless. He wasn't going back to cocaine, even if it would temporarily wash away his problems.

He knocked out Mycroft's guards again and managed to sneak into the flat using a key he'd 'borrowed' off his brother a while back.

The house was silent. His brother and Lestrade were asleep then. Good.

…::-::…

'Do you know what we do with rule breakers, Mr Holmes?' Greg purred. He walked around the bound Holmes and cracked the riding crop against his submissive's thigh. Mycroft hissed and moaned, staring at Gregory with pitch black eyes.

'We punish them,' Gregory finished, hitting Mycroft's shoulder that time.

'Mmm! Yes sir!' Mycroft groaned. 'Punish me sir! I've been quite naughty.'

'Oh, I plan on doing just that,' Gregory growled. 'Spread those thighs. Present yourself to me.' Mycroft followed the order, spreading his bound legs as far as he could. Gregory growled appreciatively at the sight, whipping the crop against Mycroft's inner thigh.

Suddenly there was a loud crash from downstairs, both men's heads whipping toward the door in a panic.

'Someone's broken in,' Greg hissed. He dropped the crop and dashed over to his designated drawer. He pulled out his gun and checked to see if it was loaded. 'Stay here. I'll handle this.'

He dashed downastair, Mycroft still bound to his chair and incredibly aroused at the sight of Gregory's inner BAMF appearing to protect him. He was going to reward his Gregory greatly when he returned.

Sherlock was pissed. That's all he was aware of. He was very, inexplicably, and dangerously pissed. He'd dived into his brother's wine collection, cracking open almost every bottle in sight. Except somewhere between drowning his sorrows and now, he'd crashed into the alcohol cabinet, sending bottles flying everywhere and himself to the ground. He giggled and began lapping up as much escaped alcohol as possible.

Greg hid behind the wall between the kitchen and the sitting room, gun at the ready. He peered around to see if it was clear. It was. He then moved to Mycroft's office and saw the door was cracked open slightly. There was giggling coming from inside. Had some delinquents broken in to steal alcohol. Bad idea. Greg burst in, gun drawn, and was prepared to shout, 'Halt! Police!' when he saw exactly who had broken in.

'Sherlock?' he asked incredulously, lowering his gun. 'What are you doing here? Are you drunk?'

Sherlock sniggered, turning his head slightly to gaze at Lestrade. 'Amashing deducssson,' he slurred before turning his face to the ground once more, slurping up a white wine with his tongue like a dog. Greg tucked his gun into the waistband of his trousers and stooped down to gaze at Sherlock.

'Why are you here?' he asked again, but softer than the last time.

'Itsss hard to exssplain.' Sherlock hiccupped and slurped the alcohol faster. 'And dun ask me to.'

'Would you at least stop licking the floor? You look pathetic and disgusting.'

Sherlock raised his head, lips trembling. 'Disgusshing?' Tears brewed in his eyes. 'Pathetic? Disgusshing?'

'Oh. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, Sherlock. Do you want to talk to Mycroft instead? I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.'

'No. Croft dun like it when mmm pissed. Dun leave me Greggy.' Sherlock lunged forwards and hugged the detective. 'You're too precioussss for thisss world,' he hummed.

'You have been watching way too much TV,' Greg sighed. 'You sure you don't want to talk about what happened?'

'No,' Sherlock grumbled before breaking out into song, clutching the detective tight. 'Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful phrase...'

'Oh my god. No. Nope. I am not dealing with this right now.' Greg stood up, Sherlock's arms falling down his body to rest around his ankles. 'I am putting you to bed. We'll deal with you when you're sober.'

'It means no worries for the rest of your days! It's our problem freeeeee! Philosophy!' Sherlock continued his song until a memory popped into his mind. A happy memory of him and John watching The Lion King and singing along to all the songs. That led to the memory of what had happened just hours earlier. Such a contrast between memories.

Sherlock's singing turned into sobs and tears streamed down his face.

'Ok. Yep. I am definitely taking you to bed.' Greg scooped Sherlock up in his arms, dropping his coat in front of the laundry room door as it was soaked with wine. He brought Sherlock to his old room, now their guest room, and set him on the bed. He began to slowly undress Sherlock so he wouldn't have to sleep in wine-soaked clothes, speaking to him softly the entire time.

'It will be ok, Sherlock. You'll go to sleep and have happy dreams. Then we can have a nice big breakfast in the morning. Just you, me, and Myc. Does that sound good?'

'Itsss not ok. I hurt John. Mmm a fucking monster. I am sick of the shit my lifess become. I fucking deserve to die. I wanna die. I wanna leave. So jus go back to My. Mmm fine.' Sherlock was wailing at the top of his lungs now.

'Mmm gonna fucking piss myself!' he sobbed, the warning coming a moment too late.

Greg sighed and ran a hand down his face. Sherlock was wetting himself like a child, and sobbing like one too. When he finished, Greg stripped him of all his clothes. He tossed them toward the door and wrapped a blanket around Sherlock's naked body.

'I'm not going to leave you alone right now. Not when you said you wanted to kill yourself. And I'm not going to press the John issue right now. Save that for when you're sober and have proper control of your bladder. I'll get you some dry clothes and you can sleep on the sofa then, since you wet the bed. Ok? I want to be sure you're comfortable and safe before I go back to Myc.'

'Fucking don't give a damn about what you do with me! Should have bloody shot me! Would have made the world a better place!'

'You shut up right now Sherlock Holmes,' Greg growled. 'I am not shooting you, nor will I ever. I am not going to kill you and I am not going to let you kill yourself.' He stalked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of pyjamas, helping Sherlock into them. 'I am taking you with me.'

He hauled Sherlock into his arms and took him upstairs into his and Myc's room. He set him on the bed and told him to stay put. He then dashed to the other bedroom and untied Myc from the chair.

'Sorry. We'll continue this later,' he apologised quickly. 'But you're brother's here, and he's downright pissed, in both senses of the word.'

Mycroft whimpered as he was released from his bonds, not wanting the game to end.

'Don't look at me like that. We need to help your brother. He's threatening suicide. Now, take care of yourself. I'll be in our room.'

He stalked off and returned to Sherlock. He put his gun in his drawer and locked it, not wanting Sherlock to get at it. Mycroft wanked himself to completion, cumming with a loud moan. He quickly composed himself and dressed, walking to his proper bedroom to join Gregory and Sherlock.

'What brings you here at this hour, little brother?' he asked calmly.

'Shut the fuck up, Mycroft. You fat bastard. I hate you! You gave me fucking shit advice! I bloody hate you!'

'What?' Mycroft blinked, taken aback. 'What bad advice did I give you?'

'You aren't fat,' Greg mouthed at him. He nodded but stayed a fist distance away from Sherlock anyway.

'It doesn't matter! Nothing matters anymore! Come morning and I'll be gone forever! Spose I just wanted to say goodbye.'

'No. I'm not going to let that happen,' Mycroft growled. 'You are not going to kill yourself. It's exactly what Moriarty wants.'

'You're not getting it, are you? I cannot live like thisss anymore! I can't wait for the next shit thing to happen! I am fucking done! If you respect me at all you'd bloody let me go.'

'Then make me understand!' Mycroft yelled. 'Tell me what went wrong!'

'Fuck off! Leave me alone! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Fat fuck!'

'You shut up!' Mycroft roared. 'Shut up right now!' He grabbed Sherlock roughly and hauled him to his feet. 'You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. I am not abandoning you, I will never abandon you, and especially not now when it is very clear you came here for something other than to get pissed and yell at us. So you tell me what's wrong or I will restrain you to a chair all night or until you sober up. Whichever comes first. Do you understand?'

'Oh? So you want to know how I fucked John into oblivion? How I couldn't stop myself from hurting him? How I bloody enjoyed myself because John was getting a taste of his own medicine?' Sherlock sneered, tears falling down in bucket loads. 'It wasn't even that great a fuck. Had a good long wank in your office just to satisfy my needs.'

'Yes. That is exactly what I wanted to hear.' He pulled Sherlock into a tender hug as he cried. 'I am sorry to hear that that happened though. I am sorry that you hurt John, and that you hurt yourself in the process. But please don't end your life over this. Nobody's life is perfect, everyone has shitty days or weeks or months or years. Please don't kill yourself over this. I'm sure you and John will be able to talk about this someday. It might not be soon, but it will happen trust me. It will happen.'

'Try a shitty life. I am done, Croft. Absolutely done. I can't do it anymore. I can't. Mmm sorry.'

'No. You are not quitting. Sherlock Holmes is not a quitter.' He pulled back to look at Sherlock's face. 'Please. Don't go. You can stay here as long as you like. You don't have to go back to Baker Street if you don't want. Just... please don't kill yourself. I... I don't know what I'd do.' Mycroft's lip trembled and his eyes shined bright with tears. No. A world without Sherlock would be a horrible one indeed. He may be a pain but he was family, and families stuck together. And he needed his brother more than he was willing to admit.

'Sherlock Holmes is a quitter! Sherlock Holmes wants to go because he's in a world of misery! Please let Sherlock go! I thought you loved him! I thought you cared about him! Then let him go!'

'I'm not letting you go because I love and care about you! I can't let you do this! I can't! I love you and I'm not letting you kill yourself!' The tears were falling down Mycroft's face now, hot and heavy. Greg just watched in an awkward silence.

'You can't stop me forever! One day I'll do it! I'll leave this rotten world and my pain shall end!' Sherlock hit his fists against Mycroft's chest. 'There is nothing you can do. Nothing.'

'I realise that, but right now I can help, and I will. I won't let you end your life over something that can be fixed. I'm going to help you and you can't stop me.'

'Right now mmm gonna either chuck up or piss myself again,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Well then, I'll help you to the loo.' Mycroft led Sherlock to the attached bathroom. He pulled his trousers down and sat him on the toilet, passing him a bin as well.

'In case you do both. Lord knows I've done it before.'

'You?' Sherlock giggled. 'Oh mmm in so much trouble when morning comes.' He leant his head over the bucket with a groan and began to chuck up violently. Mycroft flinched and swallowed down his own bile as Sherlock vomited.

'Yes, I have been pissed before. Though I don't get that way very often.' Sherlock didn't reply, just continued to shake and throw the entire contents of his stomach up.

'I'm going to put you to bed when you're finished, alright? You can clean up a bit first if you want, but you're going to bed.'

Sherlock groaned as his vomiting stopped and his bladder took its turn to empty its contents. Mycroft leaned awkwardly against the sink, looking anywhere but at his brother.

When Sherlock was done he grabbed his brother's shoulder. 'Your wine collection is shit.'

'Oh? And why's that?' he asked, raising an eyebrow.

'Itsss all French and it makes me fucking piss myself like a baby.'

'Well, I'm sorry you don't like it. But I do. Now, let's get you into bed, ok?'

'Spose I have no choice in the matter.'

'No, you really don't.' He pulled his brother's trousers up and helped him into the spare bedroom upstairs. He tucked him in snugly and kissed his forehead.

'I'm sorry about what happened, but please don't kill yourself over it. You can fix this. You can. It may take a while, just like your own rape, but you can fix it. I have faith in you.'

'Lucky one of us does, hmm?'

'Sometimes that's all you really need.' He kissed Sherlock's forehead again and smoothed down his hair. 'Now go to sleep. I'll see you in the morning, yeah?'

'Not looking forward to that,' Sherlock grunted. 'Head's gonna fucking kill.'

'I know. Just sleep now. We'll take care of you in the morning.'

'Might want to text John to let him know that mmm safe.' Sherlock snuggled underneath the covers. 'Oh, and if my smexomina plays up mmm sorry. You're gonna have to change the sheetss.'

'It's ok. Just sleep. Goodnight, Sherlock.'

'Night, Croft. Have fun with the riding crop.' He giggled and grinned cheekily at his brother.

Mycroft flushed and swallowed. 'Yes, I believe we shall. Later though. When you aren't here to hear us. Uh... goodnight.' He dashed from the room and back to Gregory, straddling him.

'He knew about the crop,' he whispered in Gregory's ear. 'And it reminded me of how much I want you still.' Greg hummed and switched their positions, promptly taking him hard and fast, the two of them falling asleep in blissful exhaustion.

…::-::…

When Sherlock awoke he instantly wished he hadn't. His head was a pounding mess. He was stark naked and had a pillow clenched between his thighs. He'd somehow shed his clothes in the night. Then there was the stench of cum and sweat. His sexsomnia had played up then. Great. Bloody great.

Greg woke early, as was typical of him. Mycroft was stretched out like a cat yet was somehow entwined in a knot with Greg. He untangled himself and got dressed, stretching slightly when he heard a loud groan come from the other bedroom. So Sherlock was awake and probably suffering from the hangover from hell. He quietly made his way over to the door and knocked gently.

'Sherlock? It's Greg. May I come in?'

'Hang on,' Sherlock croaked, forcing his tired body to wriggle under the covers so he would at least have some dignity left. Though it was highly likely he'd lost the last drop of that whilst he'd been drunk. He shoved the covers over his head and mumbled, 'Come in.'

Greg entered quietly, not wanting to set Sherlock off. He made his way over to the window and shut the blinds, blocking out the sun. He then moved to the bed and sat on the edge.

'Not feeling so good this morning, huh?' he asked softly. 'I'm not saying that to make fun of you, I'm just wondering how you're feeling.'

'I drank from Mycroft's whole wine collection. I think it's safe to say I feel like shit.'

'Would you want to take a shower?' Greg offered. 'I was gonna make breakfast soon too, if you want to join us.'

'Don't think I'll be able to make it without collapsing,' Sherlock sighed. 'And I'm not in an eating mood.'

'I can help you to the shower,' Greg said. 'But if you won't eat would you at least drink some water? I heard you were pretty sick, so you should get some fluids back into your body.'

Sherlock grumbled under his breath incoherently before answering with a 'Fine.'

'Ok. We'll start with some water, see if you can get some strength back.' He went into the en suite bathroom and filled a cup with water, handing it to Sherlock upon his return. 'Drink that and see if you can get up. Once I start cooking, Myc will wake up, so be prepared for him to come check on you.'

'Hmm,' Sherlock hummed, sipping at the water. 'Brilliant. Just what I wanted to face when I have a hangover. A pissed off Mycroft.' He handed the water back to Lestrade before burying himself underneath the covers. 'Tell him to leave me be.'

'He isn't pissed at you. He's worried about you. You threatened suicide multiple times last night, and it scared him. He just wants to be sure you're alright.' He sighed when Sherlock made no acknowledgement that he'd heard him. He set the water on the side table and left the room. He went downstairs and began preparing breakfast, just some simple bacon and eggs. The bacon would rouse Myc in no time.

Suicide? Had he really been threatening suicide?

Sherlock may have been suicidal in the past but he'd never outright proclaimed to anyone that he was going to take his own life, let alone to his own brother. He felt like shit in both senses. He couldn't imagine the utter nonsense Mycroft and Lestrade put up with whilst he'd been drunk. He only hoped he would earn their forgiveness. Especially his brother's.

Mycroft hummed as the scent of bacon began to slowly wake him up. He stretched out and purred, cracking an eye open to assess his surroundings. He sat up and stretched, still sore from last night. He had some bruises from being tied to the chair and his legs hurt from the crop, but he felt fantastic otherwise. When he got dressed he decided to check on Sherlock to see if he was feeling any less self-destructive than last night. He knocked on the door softly, knowing Sherlock would be hungover.

'Sherlock? Can I come in?'

'Nope,' Sherlock replied grumpily. 'Though when has me saying no ever stopped you?'

'Well, at least you didn't reply with "I don't know. Can you?" Because I may have laughed, but I'd be annoyed too.' He opened the door softly and moved to sit on the bed.

'How's the hangover?' he asked softly. 'Oh. I see Gregory brought you some water. Good.'

'Oh, the hangover's bloody great. I've never felt better. I truly think this is the highlight of my life so far.'

'You always were especially sarcastic after a night of narcotics. Seems you're the same with alcohol.' Mycroft sighed and looked down at his brother sadly. 'Have you had any... suicidal thoughts since last night?'

'I always have suicidal thoughts, Mycroft. I have ever since I was a child. I never seem to escape them. I wouldn't worry. I'll get over them. I always do.'

'I'm sure I'll worry anyway,' he sighed softly. 'I worry about you constantly these days. About John hurting you, you hurting John, Moriarty, your rapist, and now you hurting yourself. I can't help but worry.'

'Will worrying stop me from getting hurt?' Sherlock snorted. 'No, because the fact is no matter where my life takes me pain follows.'

'I never claimed it would help you or make you better. I care about you Sherlock, and I'm just trying to look out for you. I've done a shit job so far though. I'm sorry.'

'Stop it. I am not dealing with the pointless guilt you carry because of me. Not right now.'

'I'll leave you be, then.' Mycroft stood and walked to the door. 'Feel free to come down and join us if you want. I promise to keep the lovey-dovey goo to a minimum in your presence.' He smirked slightly and left the room, joining Gregory in the kitchen.

Sherlock dragged himself from the bed, wincing as he opened his eyes and stood to his feet on shaking legs. He somehow stumbled into the en suite attached to the bedroom. He turned on the shower and by some miracle was able to stand up in the shower. He moved into the warm spray and groaned, wetting his hair in an attempt to help his migraine.

Mycroft hugged Gregory as he cooked, watching him in a contented sort of bliss.

'I never thought I would enjoy such domestic trivialities. But it's so different with you. Everything is,' he mumbled softly.

'A good sort of different I hope,' Greg grinned, passing Mycroft a piece of bacon.

'An excellent sort of different,' Mycroft hummed, accepting the bacon and humming.

'So, how's our unexpected house guest?'

'Hungover, in pain, and distant. So, normal apart from the hangover.' He paused and chewed on his bacon slowly. 'I wish he would just talk to me. And I can't exactly have John come over and talk some sense into him like he used to. Not after what happened between them last night.'

'They'll work it out. I'm pretty sure England would fall if they didn't.' Mycroft laughed softly and finished his bacon, hugging Gregory tight.

The hot water splashed against Sherlock's shaking body. His head was throbbing manically and his muscles ached. He was never drinking again. Why he'd turned to drink was a mystery to him. After all that had happened when John had been a heavy drinker he'd vowed to hate the stuff forever more. He supposed it'd been his way of coping with what happened between him and John and just life in general.

After a long soaking he reluctantly left the shower, stumbling back into the bedroom and throwing on the pajamas he'd discarded in the night, not bothering to dry himself off. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball under the covers again but his stomach was beginning to gurgle. He'd thrown up last night so perhaps it would be a good idea to get something to eat. With a sigh, he began to make his slow and painful journey to the kitchen.

Greg looked up from his plate, listening to the stumbling steps on the stairs. Ah. Sherlock was coming down. Mycroft swallowed his bite and waited for Sherlock to arrive.

'Good morning,' Greg smiled brightly. 'Come to join us?'

Sherlock glared at Lestrade and his brother and grunted, padding over to the toaster and putting two pieces of bread in.

'I was too cheery, wasn't I?' Greg whispered.

'Quite. It was rather unsettling,' Mycroft joked. 'He's not going to talk. He's hungover and in one of his moods. Just leave him alone.' He shoved another bite of his eggs in his mouth and chewed slowly, not wanting to eat too fast.

Sherlock waited impatiently for his toast and fished around in the cupboard for something to put on it.

His heart froze as he saw the same brand of jam John so often bought. Nostrils flaring, he grabbed the pot of jam and stared at it. Anger rose in his chest and he found himself chucking it across the room before he could so much as blink. It hit the wall and smashed, sending jam flying everywhere.

He growled underneath his breath and stormed from the kitchen as fast as he could, forgetting the toast, just wanting to get away.

'What the hell was that about?!' Greg demanded, turning and staring at the sticky mess of jam on the wall and floor.

'I'm not sure, but I feel it has to do with John in some way,' Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock had ended up back in the en suite. A blade was balanced between two of his fingers. It was shining under the sunlight pouring through the window.

He hadn't held a blade since his teenage years. He didn't think he'd have to. But there he was holding a blade, running it over old scars, wanting his pain to fade into something more physical.

The door was locked and the two men downstairs were unaware of what he was going to do.

There was no helping him now.

'Ugh! It's everywhere!' Greg complained as he attempted to clean the wall.

'Gregory, just let the maid take care of it. It's what she's paid to do after all.'

'Just let me do this!' Greg snapped. 'I'm used to cleaning after myself, not the privileged life where all your messes are cleaned for you! Go check on your brother!'

Mycroft sighed and let Gregory be. He ventured upstairs and knocked on Sherlock's door.

'Sherlock? Are you ok? Will you please talk to me?'

The blade had sunk into his pale flesh and the blood was beginning to drip down his arm. It felt better than he remembered. It made him feel numb and drowsy, even to the extent that his hangover was a little more bearable. Still, perhaps the blood was gushing a little too much, and perhaps the cuts were a little too deep.

He heard his brother's voice and groaned. 'No. I don't want to,' his voice cracked. Mycroft opened the bedroom door and searched the room. Sherlock wasn't there, but there was light shining from the bottom of the bathroom door. He knocked lightly and sighed.

'You don't have to talk, but you seemed really upset. Can I at least see that you're ok?'

Sherlock took a deep breath to stop the waves of dizziness threatening to overtake him, and shoved down his pajama shirt sleeve over his bleeding arm. He opened the door slowly, poking his head out to look at Mycroft, knowing his brother wouldn't leave him be till he'd seen him. Mycroft took in the sight of his little brother. He looked pale, his eyes looked sunken in and red, and he seemed to be struggling to hold himself up.

'Are you ok? You look like you're about to pass out.'

'Mmm fine,' Sherlock huffed, slamming the door shut just in time for his legs to give way beneath him. His body hit the floor with a dull thud and his world swam into darkness.

As soon as he heard the thud, Mycroft knew something was drastically wrong. He shoved open the door and screamed when he saw Sherlock passed out in the floor, blood dripping from his arm and staining his clothes. He found the blade on the counter. Where had he even gotten that? He quickly scooped Sherlock into his arms and ran downstairs.

'Gregory! I'm taking him to the hospital! He's passed out from blood loss. I'll be back later.' He dashed out the door and to his driver before Greg could even respond. His driver sped away to Bart's before it was too late.

…::-::…

Sherlock woke up feeling like shit. That wasn't too unusual. Lately he felt like shit a lot. That was probably thanks to his self destruction. His brother was hovering nearby and Sherlock swallowed heavily.

'Wha?' He looked around his surroundings. He was in hospital. Again. 'How'd I get here?'

'You bled out from the deep gashes you'd put in your arm,' Mycroft stated bluntly.

'Oh,' Sherlock mumbled. 'Is that all?'

Mycroft scowled. 'Is that all? What more are you expecting? Was that not enough? You scared me to death, Sherlock. I thought you were going to die. You almost did. The doctor said if we had arrived a moment later you wouldn't have made it.'

Sherlock shrugged, disinterested and uncaring. 'So? It shouldn't have come as a shock. I believe I told you how I was feeling.'

'You idiot,' Mycroft growled. 'How could you do that? You think killing yourself would stop your pain and make everyone else's life easier?'

'It'd have stopped my pain. I don't care about anyone else. What? I don't.'

'Not even about John? I realise you hurt him, and he has hurt you, but I know you two love each other. If you left him like that, it would kill him. Because suicide kills two people, Sherlock. And I wouldn't put it past John to follow you.'

Sherlock swallowed and shook his head. 'You're not doing this to me. I am not going to feel guilty because of my actions. And love? If what John and I have is love then I don't want it. And who am I to care about what John would do if I died? It would be his decision.'

'You honestly think you're the only couple that has problems? That you're the only couple that hurt each other? Stop being such a fucking idiot and observe! Don't just look! Observe what has happened to the people around you due to your actions! John is a mess, emotionally and mentally. Yes, I've seen him and he's here. But I sent him out when he was about to collapse from exhaustion. So he's asleep somewhere. Mummy is here too, and she's worried sick over you. You can't kill yourself, because that's exactly what Moriarty wants. If you do that, you're letting him win. And the Sherlock Holmes I know would never let that bastard win.'

'You don't know me. All you see is your darling little brother. You think I'm strong. Well, let me tell you that I am weak and I have given up. I don't give a damn about anything anymore. So no, you start observing. It's time you saw me for what I am.'

'You are not weak! Why can you not see that? You are the strongest person I know, Sherlock. No one else could go through what you have without killing themselves. No one else could survive what you've gone through. Parental abuse, drugs, multiple injuries, heartbreak, getting raped twice. You survived, Sherlock. And I realise you would rather give up, I wish you wouldn't. Because you've survived this long, and while it's been a tough and painful road, you have come out a stronger person. I know you have. I can see it. And I have been observing and I see you for what you are. A broken man who wants to give up but who also wants to fight. And I'm asking you to fight.'

Sherlock bit his lip, shaking his head, tears dripping down his cheeks. 'I don't know how much longer I can fight for, Croft. I have never wanted to die so much in my life. Please try to understand.'

'I have been there, Sherlock. Believe me, I have. You were in a coma, so you weren't there to watch me deteriorate. But you look exactly the same as I did. And John too perhaps. I know he was ready to kill himself before he ran into that Stamford fellow and met you. You changed his life, Sherlock. He grew to love you, and you love him too. Yes, you're in an extremely rough patch right now, but you'll work it out and things will return to normal. Please don't end your life. Suicide is a very permanent solution to a temporary problem. It might seem like it will never get better, but it will. I can't promise it will be anytime soon, but it will get better.'

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes. 'What do I do? How do I stop myself from harming myself? Because I don't even know how I got that damn blade. I tried to drink myself to death before for goodness sake. Suicide is on my mind twenty four seven. I can't stop this. I can't.'

'I would send you back to rehab, but we both know how helpful that turned out to be last time.' Mycroft sighed and moved closer, sitting in the chair by the bed. 'I wish I could be more help, but I honestly don't know what to do.'

'Well, I'm fucked then,' Sherlock sniffed. 'The great Mycroft Holmes doesn't know what to do.'

'I'll come up with something eventually,' he scoffed. 'Give me time and I will fix this.'

'Fix it?' Sherlock's face creased. 'You can't fix people. You can't fix me.'

'It won't stop me from trying,' he glowered. The door opened then and John hobbled in, holding a large cup of coffee from the café down the street.

'Iz he up yet?' he asked, yawning loudly. When he laid eyes on Sherlock he grinned dopily and ambled over to the other side of his bed. 'Hey.'

'Hello.' Sherlock swallowed, face contorting in pain. 'You alright?' he asked gently.

'Worried about you, but otherwise fine,' he shrugged. 'How about you? How're you feeling?'

'Brilliant!' Sherlock exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically. 'Really brilliant.'

'Liar,' John smirked.

'Of course I'm fucking lying,' Sherlock sighed heavily.

'It's ok,' John shrugged. 'I sort of expect it by now. Cuz I know you don't want me to know that you're human, just like everyone else. Cuz to me, you're a superman.'

'I certainly don't feel human,' Sherlock sniffed loudly. 'I feel wrong and out of place, and disgusting.'

'Me too,' John admitted, finally sitting down. 'Guess that's why we were drawn to each other. We didn't belong anywhere else, so why not share a flat with a fellow reject?'

'You're not a reject,' he scoffed. Sherlock looked at Mycroft. 'Perhaps you should leave now. John and I have a lot to talk about.' Mycroft nodded and stood, straightened his clothes, and left, closing the door with a solid click.

'Of course I'm a reject,' John muttered once Mycroft left. 'The army didn't want me, my sister didn't want me, no job would hire me. No one wanted to share a flat with a war vet with PTSD and depression. Who would want me?'

Sherlock frowned. 'I wanted you. I saw the good man hidden behind the broken soldier. I wanted you because I was lonely and you were lonely too. You're not a reject.'

John looked at Sherlock with tired, sad eyes. 'If I'm such a good man, then why did I hurt you? Good men don't hurt the people they love.'

'The best of men make foolish mistakes.' Sherlock reached out a hand to John's cheek and gently stroked it. John closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

'I still can't believe I did that. I don't know why I did it. I would never have done that if I had been in my right mind. So, I've sworn off alcohol. For good. Not another drop. Not even casually in a bar among friends. Because I don't want it to change me like that again. I don't want to hurt you again.'

'I don't expect you to do that.' Sherlock rubbed his thumb in circular motions across John's cheek. 'I suppose you will have heard about my own drinking binge?'

'Yes. And your suicidal actions too.' He glanced at Sherlock's bandaged arm and swallowed thickly.

'I am sorry on both accounts,' Sherlock apologised sincerely. 'Did you receive my note?'

'I did, yes.'

'I suppose I tried to tell you how I was feeling but without really mentioning how I was feeling. When I said I was taking the coward's way out, when I said I was leaving to clear my head, I think that may have been my way of saying goodbye forever.'

John clenched his eyes shut and shook his head. 'Woulda been a shit way t' say goodbye,' he mumbled. 'I cried when I found it, ya know? Cuz I thought you were already gone. Broke my heart.'

'I broke your heart long before the letter,' Sherlock whispered. 'It's why I wanted to leave this world.'

John shook his head again but harder. 'No. No. Don't want you to go.' A few tears escaped and slid down his cheeks. 'Want you to stay. With me. Forever.'

'Really? After what I did to you? After all the pain I've caused you? You still want to spend your life with me?'

John nodded eagerly, opening his eyes to look at Sherlock. 'We all make stupid mistakes. I'm not going to leave you because of them. I am willing to forgive you for what has happened. For everything. Because I love you and I don't want to lose you. But... can you ever forgive me for what I've done to you?'

'I'm not one to hold grudges but... you really terrified me. I thought given half the chance you would have beaten me to death, and you fell asleep still inside of me and...' Sherlock took a deep breath. 'When you released me in the morning you didn't even react to me being tied up, or to your cock still being shoved up my arse. So maybe I don't forgive you entirely. I want to but there's something in me that is holding me back.'

John swallowed and nodded. 'I wouldn't expect you to forgive me. What I did was terrible and horrifying and unforgivable. I'll understand if you want to break up. We can go back to being just flatmates if that's what you want.'

'Do you really expect us to just be friends after all that's happened?' Sherlock snorted. 'I still want to ravish you. I love you.'

'Well... No,' John sighed, his lip threatening to twitch up in a smirk. 'But there's always shag buddies. Or friends with benefits.'

'No.' Sherlock shook his head firmly. 'If I am going to have you in any form, I want all of you. I do not want you to be my shag buddy.'

John giggled. 'That sounds so weird coming from your mouth. Say it again.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Shag buddy?' John nodded and laughed harder. A bubble of laughter trickled from Sherlock's lips as he saw the amusing side of things. 'God,' he breathed. 'I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard.'

John clutched his side and wiped his eyes, gasping for breath. He was so tired he was slap happy, and the last time that had happened he had been at his sister's for Christmas. He smiled over at Sherlock gently, trying not to start laughing again.

'I like it when you laugh. Why don't you laugh anymore? It's a good look on you.' Sherlock frowned, pursing his lips together.

'I don't know,' John sighed, looking down at the floor. 'But I like it when you laugh too, and I haven't heard you laugh in ages. But I can understand why. You went through a major trauma, twice in less than six months. And now this.' He gestured vaguely to Sherlock's bandaged arm. 'Why would you want to laugh when you're obviously depressed?'

'I've always had a slightly suicidal side to myself, John. I've hidden it pretty well over the years, I suppose. I don't like admitting it. I'm fairly sure I give off the whole self destructive vibe though. Just know that when I laugh it's because you are shedding light on the black and white world around me.'

'God. Why does everything you say sound like poetry?' He smirked and looked back at Sherlock. 'Are you sure you're not a poet? Because you could definitely be one.'

'I may have written some poems,' Sherlock admitted. 'I started writing a novel too. Never finished it.' Sherlock hummed softly. 'Probably should get round to that at some point.'

'I didn't know you were writing a novel.' John budged closer. 'What's it about?'

'It's about a detective and an army doctor,' Sherlock said softly. 'And it's not finished yet.'

'Oh.' John's eyes brightened and he smiled. 'Shall I be coauthor then?'

'If you like,' Sherlock smiled. 'I don't know if you'll like the way I've written us though.'

'Oh. I thought you were using a metaphor. Like we were our own story and our story wasn't done... Now I feel silly. I didn't know you were being literal.'

'Oh.' Sherlock's brow creased. 'Well, there is that. But yes, I have been writing an actual novel about us. Though it's not set in this century. Think the eighteen to nineteen hundreds with top hats, and moustaches. I'm still a genius though and you're still my sidekick.'

John perked up slightly. 'Top hats and moustaches? Have I got one?' He traced his finger against his shaven upper lip and frowned slightly. He'd always wanted a moustache, but he'd never been able to grow a proper one. He always ended up looking like a pedophile. Or Hitler.

Sherlock chuckled. 'Not yet, but it was rather fashionable at the time so I only thought it right that I gave John in my novel one. I have one too! Though imagine me with a mustache in real life? It takes me months to grow facial hair as it is.'

John giggled at the thought. 'It'd probably tickle when we kissed.'

Sherlock grinned. 'That's it!' he exclaimed. 'I'm going to grow a moustache just so I can tickle you.'

'You can tickle me without a moustache ya know!' John pointed to his ribs.

'But where would be the fun in that? No. I'd much rather tickle your far more sensitive lips.'

John huffed and pouted. 'I don't want you to grow a moustache. It'd feel weird. I've never kissed another man, Sherlock. And all the women I've kissed said they preferred me shaven because my whiskers chafed their skin. I don't even want to think about how a moustache would feel.' He shuddered slightly. 'So, no moustaches. Please?'

Sherlock pouted. 'But I want to leave whisker burns on you,' he whispered huskily. 'All over you. Besides you may just like it. Please let me?'

'If you want to leave whisker burns you'll want to grow more than just a moustache,' John pointed out, his pulse quickening at just the idea of Sherlock marking him like that. 'But, yes, I'll let you try it out.'

Sherlock laughed joyfully. 'You just wait, John. One day I'll have facial hair and I'm just going to take you by surprise and mark you all over.' His face dropped momentarily. 'That is if you allow me that close to you. After all that happened... maybe it would be best to at least wait a little while to do such things.'

'Well, depending on how long it takes you to grow that facial hair, it might not be a problem,' John sighed. 'And I understand why you did what you did. It's not as if it wasn't merited.'

'No one deserves to feel that scared and helpless. Not even after what you did. I mean, at least you were drunk. I was just acting out of pure anger.'

'My being drunk doesn't make what I did ok!' John protested. 'And I wasn't scared when you were so rough with me. I accepted my punishment wholeheartedly. I wasn't scared, I was resigned.'

'I never wanted to punish you! I wanted to show you that everything was alright. That things were getting better. What a fine job I did there, hmm?'

'Maybe now that I've been punished, things finally can start to get better. You said there was something holding you back from forgiving me completely. Do you think that maybe now that I understand what you wen through, to some degree anyway, that that may have helped? And now things can start to get better from here.'

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders lightly. 'Perhaps, but I think we should take things slowly.'

'That's fine. I wouldn't want to rush into anything right now anyway.' John yawned and stretched slightly. 'Maybe I should go t' bed. What time izzit anyway?'

'Evidently bed and snuggle up to your detective time.'

'Mmm. The best time.' John toed off his shoes and took off his jumper, tossing it in the chair by the bed. He crawled up the bed and rested his head on Sherlock's chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Sherlock sighed as he watched John falling asleep. He was utterly exhausted, the poor thing. He looked so blissfully at peace now, despite the few worry lines that marked his forehead. It made the detective wonder how exactly he could have even thought of leaving John behind via taking his own life. How could he leave such a beautiful, fascinating creature like John Watson? What on Earth had been running through his silly mind? He supposed not a lot because right now even the thought of dying and abandoning John made him shiver in repulsion with himself.

Sherlock was released from hospital a few days later. The doctors wanted to be sure he wasn't going to harm himself again, but John could tell just by looking at him that he wouldn't. Something had changed that first night after his suicide attempt. And it had made him realise just how utterly idiotic his choice had been. John's powers of deduction were nowhere close to Sherlock's, but even he could tell Sherlock had realised his mistake and had no plans to try again.


So now things finally begin to look up for the boys. There will be lots of smut next chapter where both our boys are consenting participants. No dubious consent, no rape, just good old-fashioned smut ;) What a great way to start the weekend, eh? We'll see you then.

Happy Red Pants Monday!

TSA + IB