**Keeping this chapter short. Severe cutting trigger warning. Read at your own discretion**

"Callouses. Concentrated on the tips of the fingers on your left hand" Mycroft smiles at his daughter's deduction skills. She was a fast learner. He silently closes the door behind him and waits for a moment. When nobody comes after him, he breathes a sigh of relief and walks down the hall, checking rooms as he passes them. He needed to get away; needed to see Sherlock with his own eyes.

As he nears the sign which reads Emergency room, his heart rate increases. Maybe he wasn't on this floor. Maybe they moved him. The next two rooms he looks in are empty, then he reaches the last door in this corridor. He leans one hand on the wall and catches his breath. If he weren't here, he'd go back. No sense in wandering the whole hospital. He slowly opens the door, and to his dismay, hears the sound of the beeping heart monitor. Please be a stranger. He peeks his head in and sees Sherlock. His heart lurches.

Mycroft closes the door quietly behind him. "I'm so sorry Sherlock." The lean man was dressed in a terrible blue hospital gown. Numerous tubes and cords extend from various locations and bags of liquid are suspended beside the bed and hooked up to his still body. Mycroft steps up tentatively. He brushes the curls from Sherlock's forehead, then kisses it gently. "How could I let it come to this?" He takes Sherlock's cold hand, careful about the heart rate monitor on his finger, and squeezes. His chest tightens at the lack of response and he sinks to the floor. "Fuck!"

He rests his back against the bed and lets his head fall, staring numbly at the ceiling. They'd turned the lights off at least. Odd, considering they wouldn't bother the patient, but still, Mycroft was glad for the lack of light. Something clatters to the floor and Mycroft jumps. He looks over and sees his pocketknife laying on the ground beside him. It must have slipped from his pocket. "Two. For every one, I'd make two." The words ring like a bell, clanging around in his head as he picks up the knife. He moves to put it back in his pocket then pauses. The cool metal of the casing felt nice in his palm. He drops Sherlock's hand and opens the blade. Its reflective surface gleams as he twists it in his hand. For a moment, he finds himself lost in the flashes of light it catches, then he catches a glimpse of Sherlock's reflection and returns to the present.

Mycroft looks over his shoulder at Sherlock. "What now? What am I supposed to do?" He turns back and fingers the edge of the blade. "It should be me in that bed. Me in a coma. Me fighting for my life. Not you. You don't deserve this." He cuts his thumb by mistake and jumps, dropping the knife. He pinches the skin around the cut, causing a drop of scarlet blood to form on its surface. As he sucks at the wound, Mycroft's eyes flick down to the knife then back at Sherlock. His chest tightens as the feeling of guilt once again overwhelms him. He clenches his jaw and scrunches his face with a deep breath in and out. It would be so easy. He certainly deserved the pain. A small repayment for the anguish he'd caused already. And it wouldn't affect anyone save himself. Right?

Mycroft swallows the lump in his throat and picks up the knife with a shaking hand. Practiced fingers open and close the blade as his indecision taunts him. Someone was bound to notice. Caroline would assuredly tell Mary, and Sherrinford would likely scold him. Plus, he had no change of clothes here. But then the lingering anger creeps back into his head. Anger at Sherlock for being such a stubborn prick. Anger at Sherrinford for not reaching out and letting him believe all this time that he had really died in the war. Anger at whomever was sending the texts and messages, threatening his family, and putting him in this position in the first place. But most of all, anger at himself for not being strong enough. For letting himself lose control. For allowing Sherlock to stay behind at the motel. For not anticipating the dangers.

He lets the blade slide across his wrist, wincing and then relishing in the pain. He leans his head back and focuses on the cold tingling of nerves and finally the blood dripping down his arm toward his elbow. Just as the initial pain begins to subside, he makes another cut, just above the first. Two more on his right arm to mirror his left, then he relaxes back, breathing in the faint smell of Sherlock's cologne, simply allowing the blood to flow freely and begin to collect on the floor. Just as he begins to feel his heartbeat in each individual cut, the door opens. He keeps his eyes shut until he hears John calling his name.

"Mycroft. What the fuck?" John immediately runs over and kneels beside Mycroft, checking his vitals. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"This is all my fault." Mycroft allows John to inspect the wounds while glaring duly at the wall.

"That doesn't give you the right to do this to yourself! This. This is why Sherrinford didn't want us to leave you alone." John looks around for a first aid kit and spies it near the door. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." He grabs Mycroft's upper arm and leads him to the bathroom. He sits Mycroft on the toilet seat and wets a towel in the sink. He starts to gently clean the cuts to better assess the damage.

Mycroft lets his head hang. "I had to see him. So I waited until you were distracted and took the chance to sneak away. I didn't plan on this. It just…it just kind of happened. Please don't tell Sherrinford."

"I won't. Here. Hold this down." John presses the towel to the wounds on his right arm which were deeper and less controlled. Mycroft obeys and John walks over to the first aid kit. He unfortunately finds it empty, save a few bandages and rubbing alcohol. "Who's in charge of filling these?" John returns. "Look, I need to go find a nurse so we can get you fixed up. There's nothing useful in this room. However, I'm afraid to leave you alone."

"Take the knife then." Mycroft motions to where it was laying abandoned by Sherlock's bed. "I'll be alright here."

"You don't have anything else on you?"

"No."

"Alright. I'll be right back then." John retrieves the knife and shakes drops of blood from it. "What the hell Mycroft," he mutters and leaves the room.

Mycroft stares at the tiled floor, a tear joining a drop of blood. Suddenly, his pocket vibrates, and he struggles to pull out his phone. He reads the message over and over without comprehending the words.

'You're trying hard
Applause you'll get
But if Sherlock lives
You can't reset
-JM'

Song: Weight of the World - Citizen Soldier

Happy Halloween People! I'm thrilled it's finally here! What are you dressing up as? I'm going as a modern day vampire. :) Stay safe out there and Remember to Love Each Other.