Crush it 'till the petals fall.

November

AN: As you may have all noticed, I did not end up editing RoS. I am hoping to start doing that over the summer when I have a bit more free time.

At the moment I would say this is going to be updates once every two weeks.

The crisp air was suffocatingly refreshing. One could almost understand why doctors had once believed fresh air to be the cure for all ills.

If only that were the case.

Still, the weather had brought a few tourists and some locals out to enjoy the cold blue sky and miraculous lack of rain.

At the edge of the path, Mycroft stood and watched.

It had been two weeks since Molly and Chris had properly taken Ava into their home. The three of them were walking through the park, Ava bundled in a coat and scarf that Mycroft had provided and a neat little coat that Molly had bought last Thursday on impulse on her way home.

He had intended to 'accidently' bump into the three as they were out for a Sunday stroll in order to inspect Ava's well-being, but Mycroft now found himself unwilling to walk over.

It should be Sherlock holding her hand. John listening to her chatter. Mycroft trying to settle her hat properly on her unruly curls.

A childish reaction, even he could admit that. Too much time spent with Sherlock…

With a sigh, Mycroft turned and continued down the path, leaving the makeshift family to their leisurely walk around Green Park.

If only Sherlock were behaving like a brat. That at least would be comforting in its familiarity. Instead, Mycroft had a stranger in his house. A quiet, silent stranger who looked barely anything like his brother, who stared at nothing.

It had been almost a month.

Still, Mycroft could take small victories. It had almost been a month since Sherlock had last dosed himself, and almost three weeks since he had started attending sobriety meetings. Not that Mycroft expected that to last once Sherlock's spark was back.

When, he said to himself firmly as he got in the car. Not if.

"You saw them."

It wasn't a question.

Looking over at his brother's thin and tired face, Mycroft nodded. "They were in the park," he said easily. "Picking up conkers I believe."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Timothy said you had eaten," Mycroft added, approaching his brother warily as his mind replayed his cook's worried debrief about the lunch Sherlock had picked at. "Did you feel like joining me for dinner?"

Sherlock shook his head minutely.

Assuming that was the end to the conversation – a lengthy one in comparison to other attempts at communication recently - Mycroft turned to call down for supper.

"Was she laughing?"

Mycroft hesitated.

It was enough that Sherlock shook his head and looked out of the window. "Why are you doing this?" he asked dully. "Why bother? They are better off without me."

"I do not believe that," Mycroft said slowly. "I cannot believe that after what I have seen you do this year. The man you were becoming-"

"It's been a year," Sherlock murmured, cutting him off as if his words were of no consequence. "A year since they moved in. Since you bribed John and forced him back to me."

It almost made Mycroft want to roll his eyes. "I hardly forced him back, Sherlock."

Sherlock's head rested against the window, his breath fogging the view of the darkening streets beyond. "How can it already have been a year?" he asked the night.

Mycroft gave up for the time being, relatively sure that Sherlock barely needed him to keep the conversation going.

The violin would have survived the fire had it not been for Sherlock's enraged attack on the flat. From what they had found, Sherlock had broken the thing against the wall, his hands covered in cuts and splinters and burns from the night.

Sherlock hadn't so much as glanced at the replacement Mycroft bought.

Music had always soothed Sherlock. Listening to it did very little to help his mood, but playing had always done wonders, given him something to focus on as he composed.

It was eerie some days just how still Sherlock could be now. His usual whirlwind nature seemed to have turned to ash and he could be mistaken for a statue most days, but for his eyes.

Always watching.

Mycroft would have sold Scotland to know what was going on his head.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft sighed. "The same," he said with some disappointment. "You can try again if you wish."

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't know how you cope, watching him like this," he said, inspecting Sherlock's shadow against the window.

It was so quiet that there was no doubt Sherlock could hear their conversation, but his brother seemed to have little care about what was being said.

"The fire?" Mycroft asked, closing the door and ushering Lestrade to the study.

"Closed," Lestrade said, relaxing slightly. "It helped that you paid for the damages and that the insurance company didn't have to pay out. Mrs Hudson has kept quiet about the whole thing. We've limited it as much as possible."

Mycroft nodded. "It won't impact upon the custody issue?"

Lestrade glanced back at the door. "That will be the least of your problems," he said quietly.

"I have to believe he will snap out of this."

Lestrade hissed in frustration. "Out of being practically suicidal? Yeah, people often just wake up one day and decide to be happy."

Mycroft glared at him. "What do you suggest I do? Hand over a needle and be done with it?"

"Annoy him," Lestrade suggested. "Drag him back to the world kicking and screaming. Find something to make him care."

"Ava is with Miss Hooper and seemingly adjusting, John is in prison and refusing visitors. What would you have me do?" Mycroft hissed.

"Get him to fight for them," Lestrade suggested.

Mycroft rubbed his finger across his brow, exhausted with the topic he had dissected over and over again in his mind. "He believes it to be an impossible task. He has given up."

Lestrade closed his eyes and sighed. "Then you're doing nothing but keeping a ghost alive," he said, standing up. "I'll see myself out."

Mycroft watched the door for an age afterwards.

Like a child, Sherlock went to bed at ten. Not to sleep, mind; he simply moved rooms and swapped his perch by the window for curling up against the wall.

In all his life, Mycroft wasn't sure he had ever been more terrified as he carefully placed a bottle of pills on the bedside table.

The precise, dull noise had Sherlock turn his head a little.

"If you swallow all of these, you will never wake up," Mycroft said, finger resting upon the lid.

Silence.

"I presume there is some catch," Sherlock said, turning his head back.

"No. If you take them you will die."

He waited.

Slowly, Sherlock sat up, turning to rest his back against the pillows as Mycroft released the bottle. His little brother picked it up and examined the contents.

"What would you like me to say to them?"

"To who?" Sherlock asked, turning the bottle in his hands thoughtfully. The new skin where the burns were healing was still pink, but there wouldn't be any vivid permanent scarring.

"To John and Ava."

Sherlock's gaze snapped up.

Mycroft sat down softly on the edge of the bed softly. "Should I tell him it was his fault? That his harsh words drove you to it?"

Sherlock looked away.

"And should I explain to Ava that, despite her questions, no one will be coming for her for years to come?"

Sherlock shook his head a little before pressing his lips together.

"Then how shall I tell them? What shall I say to explain why you chose to take your life rather than fight for them?"

"I have lost them." Sherlock's voice cracked on the statement. "I will not get them back."

"What about back to each other?"

Sherlock's throat bobbed as he blinked up at Mycroft. "You can do that," he muttered, looking suddenly unsure.

"Why would I? They aren't my family. You are."

"Grant me my last request," Sherlock said as he rolled the bottle in his hand. The pills clattered in the quiet room.

"Think about it," Mycroft said. He gathered his courage and stood. "They will need more help than I would give."

Sherlock's hand tightened around the bottle, his knuckles turning white.

Mycroft bent to his brother and kissed his hair. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he whispered, praying it wouldn't be the last time.

In the morning he listened at the door, hoping to hear some sign, something that would confirm-

Nothing.

Feeling sick, Mycroft slowly opened the door.

The pills were still on the table and Sherlock was gone.

In the darkness of morning, Sherlock sat on the pavement opposite 221, across from the scaffolding and the new sign for Speedy's. The original one had been damaged from the heat.

Burn away the rest.

Leaning against the dark rails behind him, Sherlock watched a sheet flapping, tugged at by the bitter November breeze until the bottom slipped and he had a glimpse of what was beyond.

It was almost empty. Anything that could have been salvaged had been and, according to Mycroft, most of what couldn't be was a result of Sherlock's destructive rampage.

Had John's empty chair survived?

Flashes of the flat were visible where the sheet billowed and flapped. New plaster, new floors-

The stain would have gone then.

Sherlock closed his eyes, not even opening them when he felt someone sit next to him.

"Look what you did to my bloody flat."

It almost made him smile. "You should go in," he said opening his eyes. "It's cold."

Mrs Hudson was wrapped up against the weather though, an odd collection of clothes that indicated she'd thrown them on quickly. "So should you," she said with a pointed glare at his thin shirt.

He shook his head.

"When will it be available for the new tenants?"

"You paid for the year," she said with a stubborn nod. "You can go back in whenever you like. It's your mess, young man."

It was.

"Hardly a mess," Sherlock murmured. "There's nothing there."

"Sometimes you need a spring clean," she said, shifting as the wind whistled past.

Sherlock shook and ducked his head down to his knees. Moments later she had wrapped an arm around him.

"I don't…" He lifted his head to stare at the flat. "Am I just meant to move back and carry on?"

"I suppose you could stay with Mycroft for the rest of your life."

He looked at her in disgust and disbelief.

"There you are," she said gently, stroking at his hair. "There's that rude, arrogant, wonderful boy that swore to me no one would ever lay a hand on me again without paying the price."

Sherlock shook his head. "That person…he doesn't have a family," he said staring up at the flat. "He can't. It's not his nature. But…" Tears threatened to blur his vision. "I wanted it," he whispered. "I want them home."

Mrs Hudson pulled him close and let him turn into her neck. "We all change," she said softly. "We are who we are but we learn patience or strength. We learn to enjoy the silence or give others the biggest slice of cake. We learn to compromise and give."

"I hate silence," Sherlock muttered.

"You hate it because it means no one's there," she corrected. "Years ago you wouldn't have even noticed."

"It's too much," Sherlock said slowly. "I am not...the process…it would be slow and careful." He looked up at the sky. "I am not capable of it."

"Nonsense, as long as you try," Mrs Hudson said gently, "there is a possibility you might get them back. You could get Ava back. Mycroft has all the steps in place."

"John…I'd need John's approval." Sherlock shook his head.

"Well, he certainly won't give it if you spend your mornings out here, freezing to death on the pavement," she scolded.

"You didn't see him," Sherlock whispered. "And she's happy with Molly-"

"But she isn't home."

Sherlock winced and pulled away.

"Six years," she said as he stood. "If it turns out to be that long, Sherlock, Ava will be without a father for six years."

He paused and stared down at the ground. "He'll take her away," Sherlock said, swallowing. "When he gets out. He'll take her back."

"Or he might see you try, he might see you giving him what he hoped for and come home."

It hurt to hope.

"Try," she said gently. "If in six years' time you feel the same, I'll do exactly what your brother did last night."

"He texted you," Sherlock sighed, staring up at the lightening sky.

"He texted everyone."

Oh excellent. Though Sherlock supposed it wasn't exactly news that he was suicidal after he had set light to the flat while still in it.

Try.

"What I said to you," he began, turning around.

"Go home," she scolded. "Get warm. You and I are fine."

"You're not…" He struggled for a moment. "...my landlady," he said after a moment. Uselessly.

But she understood. An amused, relieved smile crossed her lips. "Nor your housekeeper," she added, nodding to the road. "Go to your brother."

"I've rescheduled your meeting," Mycroft said once Sherlock was in the car.

"Meeting?"

"The sobriety one."

"You make it sound like a business meeting," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft said nothing but seemed determined to stare at Sherlock as if soaking his appearance in.

Try.

"Reschedule it again," Sherlock said. "Drop me off there."

Mycroft tilted his head and obediently phoned. When he finished, he looked up at Sherlock.

"Why didn't you?" he asked. It sounded as if the words were being dragged from him.

"There's always next month," Sherlock said, looking out the window. "We'll see how this one goes."

Next Chapter: Whine about your problems.