He arrives home. His mother is there. His father is nowhere to be seen and his sister is probably with her girlfriend. His family is not close with each other but he's fine with it. They all have their own lives. It feels like they are all flatmates who happens to have the same last name and same facial features. It's starting to feel like it's too late for them to start bonding again. Harry and him both have their own lives now and they're not children anymore. Their parents lost their opportunity.

"John? Harry?" his mother calls from the kitchen, washing some dishes.

"It's me!" He yells from the door as he walks in the kitchen.

"Oh John! How's your day?" she asks.

The whole moment inside the Holmes house flashes through his memories. "Interesting."

"Oh really?" he sees his mother smile but still looking at the dishes as she washes them.

"Yes... I went to ask him for dinner..."

"The anti-social?"

"He isn't anti-social, mum," he tells her.

"Right, right, sorry... From what I've heard, he doesn't seem sociable. Besides, I never got his name..."

"Maybe because you haven't been spending much time with us..." he snaps at her.

He hears the clanking of the plates stop. "John, I-"

"-I know. I know-"

"We're doing our best and-"

"Yes, yes.. You're right, I know. I understand completely..." He rubs his face with one hand... "I just wish you would've done your best earlier..."

He hears the water stop and then he feels a hand on his shoulder, "John, please..."

"Sorry," he says, putting his hand on top of hers. "I know you do it for our sake, but... We've been living with too busy parents for so long..."

"We understand dear, I mean, look at your father's progress..."

"I know..."

"I'm just getting even more worried for Harry by the minute..."

"Because she has a girlfriend?"

A pause. "No, because she's starting to drink like your father..."

He sighs, "I know..."

She sits in front of him and looks at him. "Enough of this for now, so... You went to your friend's?"

"Oh right, yeah," he sits up straight. "I... I invited him..."

"Yes, you said..."

"... and he agreed."

"He did?" His mom asks confused. He doesn't blame her. Yesterday, even he wasn't sure if Sherlock would agree. "How'd you do it?"

The whole conversation between him and Sherlock pops in his brain. The twenty-four hour arrangement. The honesty. Sherlock's condition. "He just needed a push."

His mother claps her hand. "Well that's excellent news!" She stands up in excitement. "What does he and your girlfriend like to eat? I mean, I could make their favourites just to make them more comfortable..."

"Mary is more of a steak person..."

"Alright," his mum goes deep in thought.

"And Sherlock doesn't eat much. Desserts, I guess," his mother's head snaps to him and he almost jumps back to the intensity of his mother's eyes.

They keep silent.

"Desserts, got it," his mother's voice changes. It's dark.

"Yes..."

"So, that's his name then? Sherlock?" His mother smiles.

"Yup. Sherlock..."

"So, I better prepare for our dinner."

"Mum! It's in tomorrow..."

"It's Saturday... I should get started."

He rolls his eyes and laughs. He really likes his mum. The problem was, he didn't know what kind of person she was when he was younger. Why does his parents have to be successful in Medicine? Yes, they are in good shape in terms of house rules, decency, curtesy. But they are not in good shape in terms of family relationship. Ignorance. Invisibility. That's what he felt for a long time. His family only started this bonding when they saw Harry and Clara together. They asked him what happened and he told that he has known for a very long time... He doesn't know any other family relatives.

Finally, he goes to his room. He falls on his bed. Boy, is he exhausted. His mind cannot seem to wrap around the new observation he saw from Sherlock. He looks back. Sherlock has a nice family. Mrs. Holmes is very talented, sweet and kind. Mr. Holmes is a funny man, though he can be intimidating when you go against him. Now, for Sherlock.

Sherlock is more... vulnerable isn't the word he would use. 'Human?' he mentally slaps himself. Sherlock is already human. Sherlock was weak today - physically, he thinks. Has Sherlock been to another fight? Has Sherlock been doing drugs again? 'Oh god... Please not that...'

He remembers Sherlock being careful around their furniture. He remembers Sherlock's weak voice. The relief when he told Sherlock he would stay. The fear in Sherlock's eyes when he said he would leave if Sherlock doesn't say yes. The look on Sherlock's face when he told all those things that would hit home.

"Twice." Sherlock's voice from earlier echoes in his brain. Did he really tell Sherlock all those horrible things twice? He smacks himself. How can he be such a hypocrite? Here he is threatening every single person in the known universe to stop being arseholes to Sherlock and yet he himself has been the absolute arsehole.

He remembers all of it. He remembers how Sherlock fell after he left the manor. He remembers Sherlock's pale face. He remembers Sherlock not looking at him after his talk with his mother. He remembers how Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot and his face had gone red... 'Did he slap himself?' Sherlock seems to do that quite a lot.

He thinks to himself. God, what must Sherlock be feeling all this time?

He feels pathetic. He feels dead. He feels like being tortured. He crawls to his house. His mother's text kills him. She has been harsh to him since the beginning of time, yes but... It still hurts to see a text like that from your birth mother.

Good thing the Manor Staff isn't here to see him like this. Though it's not like they don't know. It's just humiliating for them to see their employer's son crawling to their house and they are threatened to ignore him and keep their mouths shut. They're happy to get along.

He finally reaches the door. And sure enough, his mother stands impatiently in front of him. "Get up, worthless." He can't move. She rolls her eyes at this and grips his forearm tightly and harshly pulls him from the ground. "You're going to pay for every flaw you have caused."

"Your husband wants the rake and the fireplace poker by the door when he comes here," he snaps at her.

She slaps him - not as hard as before - and pushes him harshly to the door, slamming his bruised and wounded back. He winces in pain and his legs fold below him. "You better get it, then." She says calmly, amusement in her eyes.

His parents are psychopaths. 'No wonder I'm a psychopath...' The thought hurts him. Mycroft seems okay though. Mycroft is cold and icier than ice, but Mycroft isn't a psychopath.

He crawls outside and hides behind a tree and some bushes in the darkest area in the front garden. Anyone can hide here and be invisible. This area is often ignored, forgotten, like a corner you've never seen.

As he sits there, his heart pounds in his chest in fear. A rake. What does his father want with a rake? A rake! That's new. Very new. Completely new. The thought of his father, clawing his already beaten-up back haunts him. Maybe his father actually wants to kill him this time. He shakes the thought away. John has given him hope. Hope to be better. Hope that he and John will be friends again. That's his push. He needs to be there for John. Always.

But he shivers at the thought of his father coming back in the manor in god-knows-when... So he calls a number he didn't know he would call.

It rings.

His phone rings, getting him out of his thoughts of Sherlock's feelings. He looks at the caller. He is confused and surprised. 'Speaking of the devil...' Sherlock doesn't call. Sherlock prefers to text - that's what Sherlock told him ages ago... "Hello?"

"John..." He sits in alarm. Sherlock's voice is so obvious. Now that he pushed his anger away. Sherlock tries to act calm and cool and casual. But he can hear Sherlock. Sherlock sounds... panicky. And is that... fear?

"Sherlock? What's wrong? Twenty-four hours, don't forget," he reminds Sherlock about the arrangement.

"Can I visit your house earlier than the appointed time?" He notices Sherlock changes the subject. Sherlock always changes the subject. Sherlock talks with his I-am-bored-Give-me-a-distraction-before-I-shoot-the-wall voice. He lets it go for now. Let Sherlock keep secrets. Sherlock will tell him what he wants to tell him.

"Yeah, sure... Yes... I live in-"

"Great. I know where. Be there in a few minutes."

Sherlock hangs up.

'What the hell?'

It rings.

His phone rings, he looks at the caller and is surprised to see his brother calling. Sherlock doesn't call, not even text him much. "Brother dear?"

"I need a car." I hear the fear behind the cool mask.

"What for?"

"There is no need to ask questions. I need a car and I need it right now." 'Is he running away to go home?'

"Where are you?"

"The manor." Sherlock isn't running from some people and going home? Is Sherlock lying? If Sherlock isn't running from anyone, does that mean he is running from home?

"If you-"

"I'm not going to get in trouble," he knows Sherlock is rolling his eyes. The annoyance is real this time.

"I'll have the driver text me your destination as soon as you tell him."

"Yes, yes, whatever..."

He hangs up.

The car finally arrives five minutes later. Mycroft is getting slow. He tells the driver John's address and the driver texts for a second and off they go.

As time stretches, he realises that Sherlock has never even been in his house and he has never been in Sherlock's manor before he disappeared. They were always in Baker Street, and at school, at Angelo's and anywhere where they could almost get killed and such. Things have changed.

It rings. The doorbell rings. He already told his mother that Sherlock has to visit today. She's fine with it.

He runs to the door and opens it. He finds Sherlock leaning on the doorway. He looks even more exhausted than usual. Sherlock's face looks red - just like before he left. Has he been slapping himself again?

"May I come in?" A whisper.

"Umm, yeah, yeah. Yes, come in," he gestures for Sherlock to enter. And enter he does.

Sherlock falls on the couch and lies down. Sherlock looks up at the ceiling. He sits on the armchair beside the couch and looks at Sherlock. It looks like they are in a Psychiatrist Office. He rests his elbows on his knees and sit on the edge of his seat. "May I ask why you've suddenly come in here?"

"No, no you may not." Sherlock answers.

"Why?"

"I don't want to talk about this," Sherlock answers, closing his eyes.

"Right, okay..." he nods, looking at the floor.

"That doesn't mean I don't trust you, John," Sherlock suddenly says causing him to look at Sherlock. Eyes still closed. Sherlock looks more peaceful, like he is finally relaxing after all the tiredness. He doesn't ask. Somehow he trusts what Sherlock said.

'Trust issues,' a voice at the back of his head says. He has trust issues, yes. But somehow he trusts Sherlock with his life and apparently, so does Sherlock.

"You look like shit," he tells Sherlock.

Sherlock opens one eye and looks at him and gives a smile as he closes his eyes, "You look like a hedgehog."

'A what?' "What?"

"Well, people in school have been talking about you resembling that of a hedgehog."

"I don't look like that!"

"Mary thinks so too..."

"Since when did?"

"Everyone thinks you're a hedgehog, John. It's old news."

"I don't look lik-"

"Tea?" His mother interrupts. Sherlock opens both eyes and looks at his mother. Deducing her, probably. Sherlock probably knows everything about her. Even things he doesn't know. His mother knows things about Sherlock but he didn't explain deductions to her. They don't exactly talk a lot before.

"Thank you," Sherlock sits up rather stiffly and gets the tea from her. She smiles at him and he smiles back. "Sherlock Holmes," he says, reaching a hand to her, holding the cup of tea with the other. "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson," he tells her.

His mother's eyes widen in surprise and he sees Sherlock's eyes does as well. He smiles at the thought that Sherlock doesn't want to upset his mother. Sherlock's making effort at least. "Don't worry, mum. Sherlock has these deductions." He sees Sherlock sigh in relief.

His mother tilts his head at him, "Deductions?"

"Just details he finds out by looking at you," he tells her.

"Oh," his mother nods and smiles at both of them. "Well, I better leave you two for a while. Must be something important for Sherlock to suddenly come here."

He looks at his mother. He expects a thousand questions swarming him. But his mother doesn't seem bothered with Sherlock's deductions. She must have seen how he needs to talk to Sherlock and this sudden visit.

"I'll be in my room, John."

"Okay, mum." And she leaves the room leaving Sherlock and him alone.

Silence is in the room and before he asks something, Sherlock beats him to it. "I need to sleep."

He raises his brow at him, "You do. But will you?"

"Yes," Sherlock admits and he looks at him in surprise.

"You can sleep in my bed. I'll take the couch," he offers but Sherlock shakes his head and his eyes close. "Are you sure?" Sherlock hums.

He stands up to get a blanket and some pillows for Sherlock. When he comes back to the living room, Sherlock's eyes are closed and his breathing is even. Sherlock is really asleep this time. He covers Sherlock with the blanket, closes the lights and goes to sleep in his room.

He opens his eyes as John leaves the room. He appreciates John giving him a blanket and some pillows. But he couldn't sleep. Not in his condition. He is in deep pain. His back and legs are torture. He leans on the wall to help himself walk. He tiptoes to the hallway where the bedrooms are. Three bedrooms. He stands in front of the door he deduced correctly.

He hears movement and knows there is consciousness inside. He can finally be able to talk about his pain - the physical pain. He really needs the help and he feels like someone raked his back. He winces at the word, "Rake," he whispers to himself. He would have sobbed but he doesn't.

It's only seven. He gets in the room.