John brewed tea for the group but the kettle remained full. Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella, Greg with his tie, and Sherlock moved his gaze around the room in a panic.
"Sherlock," John started, sitting next to him. He placed a hang on a boney knee. "There's something…there are a few things, actually, that we want to talk to you about today. I know this whole thing has been a mess of emotional conversations, but I need you to really listen, alright? Because you're not getting better. We've tried everything we can think of, and it's not working."
Greg stepped forward. "You won't take care of yourself because you think you can't live up to a standard. God knows where you've got that idea from, Sherlock. You view us as men who have our lives together, who always have, and that's just not the case."
"I don't need a list of past grievances to feel better about myself," Sherlock said, his voice low as a cat's.
"Drink your tea and shut up," John mumbled.
"No, I think you do." Greg shuffled his feet. "Sherlock, there's no such thing as a perfect person. We're all human. Even you."
"And you?" Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "Will you relay stories of breaking my action men when we were children? Or pulling my ears? Spare me, please. John, this is infantile. Let me sleep."
John put a saucer in Sherlock's hands and squeezed his wrist. "Sherlock. Tell me why you left the clinic."
"Why should I have to defend myself? You called yourself, you said I shouldn't have been there."
"That doesn't mean you should have escaped."
Sherlock let his body sink deeper into the couch. "I had…the nights…"
"Yes?"
"Ah." Mycroft sat at the small dining table. "Sherlock, you're supposed to tell me when the nightmares return."
"Nightmares?" John looked down, removed a strand of hair out of Sherlock's eyes. "I've never known you to have nightmares."
"Not since he was a child," Mycroft said, "but I should have seen the signs. Which was it this time?"
"It's not important."
"It is, Sherlock. You're no longer the judge of that."
"Please." He leaned into John, felt his body sway. "Listen. Grab me a cigarette, Greg. I see the box in your pocket."
"Sherlock—" John started.
"It's been two weeks of nothing, John, and my body is going to crumble unless I give it something."
"Tea, toast, anything else. Come on."
"Don't give me that look." Sherlock fumbled with the saucer and stood, a fawn on new legs, and pulled his arm away. "Don't. I can't disappoint any longer. I wish those barmen had the guts I'd counted on, that I wouldn't have to see the pain in your eyes any longer."
John stood, blocking him from an exit. The room went quiet.
"Don't. Sherlock." He gripped his shoulders. His words getting louder, louder than he'd intended. "Sherlock, your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it. We have put in this effort because we love you, you cock, and because all we want in the world, every goddamn one of us, is for you to get better. If you feel suicidal you come to us. But you do not—look at me, Sherlock—you do not make flippant comments like that."
Sherlock's eyes were on the ground.
"Did you make a list?" Mycroft asked quietly.
"I haven't done any more. I couldn't."
"Not that list, Sherlock. The other one."
A pause, a ruffling of coat pockets, a quiet exchange of a slip of paper between the Holmes brothers. Mycroft handed it off to John.
The doctor looked it over, breathing through his nose. Don't believe me when I say I'm fine. Followed by a list of his wishes—no funeral, no fuss, a good home for the dog. John bit his knuckles, the skin whitening.
"Sherlock…"
"John, I don't want to cause you pain anymore."
"You don't think this would do that?" Greg backed against the wall at the force of his own voice. "Good god, Sherlock, what do we have to do to prove to you that you're cared for? You thought you could just leave the clinic to disappear, and we'd go on about our lives?"
"This isn't…important. It isn't. John. Please, John, just let me go to bed."
John still gripped his fists together. "I can't lose you again."
"This is stupid, it's just stupid. You're making me talk, all of you. Is this what you came here for? We're off track. Go on, tell me what you came here to say. To prove you're all flawed too. Hmm? Can't compete?" He stumbled. "I'm exhausted. Please. Please, just let me…sleep, or smoke, whatever, just stop talking."
"Sherlock," Mycroft said. His voice was quiet but stopped the room. "We are here to tell you that every man in this room has at one point in his life either contemplated or attempted to end his own life."
"Don't be absurd."
"Greg endured a rough few years with his wife that made him wonder if life was worth living. I as a child did not know whether I wished to live in a world where I was destined to stand apart. And John…"
John looked away, then directly at Sherlock. He hated how the light made him look like he had when he first met him, young and cocky. But there was a confusion underneath. "I had my gun ready. The day I met you."