Sherlock's going to Rehab in a few days. He'd manage to talk his brother out of it for a week. Mycroft let him out of the "cage" (as Sherlock calls it) for ten days and he's getting his arse to Rehab.

The two are in Mycroft's flat. Sherlock's on the armchair, reading a book. And he is sitting on the sofa, watching the fire in the fireplace in front of him. He's grateful that Sherlock is quite peaceful right now. He has been severely frustrating to deal with for the past four days.

He's been eating himself up. He really wants to ask Sherlock about his parents and all. He wants to ask Sherlock why he took drugs. Where he went when he left the house for a year. He finally wants some answers and honest ones at that.

He doesn't want those cryptic messages Sherlock often gives him. He wants the raw truth.

"You missed the family dinner," he tells Sherlock suddenly.

Sherlock looks up from his book and stares at him. He only stares at the fireplace but he can feel Sherlock's eyes. "Oh." Sherlock only manages to say. After a pause, "I apologise. I was in the-"

"-hospital. Right yeah. I know. I was there."

He hears Sherlock close his book and the attention is given to him. "What is it?" Sherlock asks.

He sucks in a breath, "Nothing."

"You lie."

"No I'm not."

"And you're not good with it."

He sighs in defeat. "Right. Yes. You got me."

"So what is it?"

"You really want to hear what I think? or feel for that matter?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you usually so against talking about sentiment?" he raises a brow at Sherlock, finally looking at him.

Sherlock is sitting with his body language saying that he has his full attention. Clearly listening. Not shutting him out. But all he wants is for Sherlock to tell the truth and to talk about his parents but he doesn't know how to start.

"You might as well say it instead of wasting my time. I have to go to Rehab in five days, eleven hours, aaaaaaand-" Sherlock checks his watch. "-forty-nine minutes."

"I know."

"Of course you know. I just told you."

"No, Sherlock. I know."

"Know about what?"

He looks down on the floor, he doesn't want to see Sherlock's face for a while, "Your parents." He hears Sherlock suck in a breath.

"What do you mean?"

He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock's wearing his cold protective mask again. He's closed off. Trying to look alright when he isn't. He can see past that. He's not an idiot like Sherlock says. Hell, he can be mistaken for a swot in school if he wasn't famous for Rugby. He is quite the ladies man.

"I know how your parents treat you."

And that's when he sees Sherlock - for a moment - break. The seconds of despair. The nanoseconds of heartache. The picoseconds of absolute pain.

Sherlock whispers, "T-treat me? I'm not sure w-wha-what-what you mean..."

He shakes his head, "All I want is for you to be truthful, to tell me what goes on in your head and not just about the deductions. I want you to tell me about the Sherlock beyond the deductions. The one that refuses to come out of the shadows..."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Sherlock, I want you to talk to me."

"I am talking to you."

"You do. But you never say anything."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Why did you never tell me?" He closes his eyes. That's a stupid move of him to ask. He should've started simple.

"If you were in my shoes, would you?" Sherlock looks at him in the eye, not a thread of emotion in his face. It's as if they're discussing their school lessons. "Would you have told me about it? Would you suddenly tell me about what you're going through?"

"I might have. At some point."

"No no no no no," Sherlock smiles in that painful way. "Would you have told me about it?" Sherlock, then, looks down for a moment. "Scratch that. I suppose you would have told me... I may have even helped and done something..."

He looks up at Sherlock, "Are you saying that you didn't tell me because you think I won't do anything?" He keeps his voice calm. Accusing, what he asked, but it was calm.

"What? No! Don't be ridiculous!"

"Then what do you mean? Say something, Sherlock. I don't want you to talk to me. I want you to say something to me..."

"I didn't want to tell you because I know you would do something..." Sherlock sighs, defeated.

He grows even more confused. What does Sherlock mean about that? "Might want to elaborate, Sherl. Because I don't understand."

Sherlock gives a sad chuckle, "You should have that on a T-shirt..."

"Sherlock, please."

Sherlock sighs, "I didn't want to bother you with me. It's not important anyway... You don't deserve that much..." Sherlock looks down.

He feels saddened and angry about what Sherlock just said. "No, Sherlock. You can't say that," he snaps. Sherlock looks at him, alarmed and... scared? "You can't tell me that I think of you too little that your problems aren't a big deal. Sherlock, those were very important problems. I don't want to say this but hell, Sherlock, your parents abused you." Sherlock looks down.

"I know. But... John... You tell me not to talk. But to say something. I want to ask you a favour. I don't want you to hear what I'm saying. I want you to listen. I want you to understand what I mean. It's hard to make you understand when I'm learning myself..."

"What do you want me to listen about?" he whispers.

"I know it's a big deal. I know that you don't think of me too little. Hell, I found out from Mycroft about how you were when I left..." Sherlock shakes his head. "It may be the detox talking but I don't want you to worry. I know how much you worry. You worry for my well-being. You worry for my actions. You worry for my health. You worry about yourself. You worry about the two years of my absence. No, John. I don't want that for you. You have enough worry on your plate. No. I'm not saying I'm keeping you in the dark. It's not my intention. I am not saying that worrying about me is a waste. I am not saying that I'm not enough and unimportant..." He hears Sherlock's doubt on his last sentence but he lets Sherlock continue. "What I am saying is that I don't like to see you worry. I don't like to see your scrunched up face. I don't like seeing the gears in your head turn to the conclusion and think differently about my situation. I don't like..." Sherlock sighs. "I don't like you worrying. You don't deserve to worry about anything. You're John Watson. You deserve better."

He feels touched. Tears form in his eyes and he wants to kill every voice in his head that is pushing him to cry. "Sherlock. You're the most human, most selfless, the kindest, bravest, most self-sacrificing, greatest person and friend the world is able to make," he sniffs. "Sherlock. I didn't need you to do these things for me... I don't care if I worry... I worry for you because I care... about... you... You may not see it, Sherl, but I care a lot-"

"I know you do."

"-and that shouldn't be something you needed to push away from. I want to be here for you. You're one of the people I love and care about most in the world."

Sherlock looks at him like he is crazy. He blinks a few times and shakes his head. He can see that Sherlock doubts his words. "John-"

"No. Sherlock. My worries don't need to concern you. I need you as much as you need me, I get that now. There's no use in hiding it. Hell, with the week we've been through, I don't understand how we're not emotionally devastated right now. Sherlock, I know it's hard with what's been going through with your parents but you should've at least let me help you when you're not okay. I didn't need the details."

"John. You don't need the details. It's better if you know less."

"Why?"

"If you knew more, you'd be even more worried. No. Listen to me. You don't need to worry but I know you will. I'm fine with my parents. I'm used to it..." He closes his eyes. Those four syllables. He hates it. 'I'm used to it.' God, he hates it when he hears that.

To remember Sherlock's bruises, scars, traumas, slapped face, belt marks, everything... And hear him fucking say that he's used to it?

He's angry that murder is illegal.

"FUCK IT!" He yells and he jumps from his seat and throws himself on Sherlock.

Sherlock gives a yelp of surprise as he hugs the bastard hard. He tries to ignore the fact that Sherlock doesn't know what to do and seems to be very tense. It's like he hasn't received a hug in his life. It hurts him that it may even be a possibility.

"Hug me back, Sherl."

"I don't know where to put my hands."

"Just mimic me. You're good at that."

And so Sherlock does. After a few acceptable seconds, he lets go of Sherlock and pats him on the shoulder.

"Sherlock. You're worth everything, okay? You're always worth it and never forget that."

Sherlock keeps quiet and then he groans, "Ugh. Rehab."

"You could've stayed clean, you know." He says, sitting back down on his seat.

"I know. I know. Geez. You're starting to sound like Mycroft."

"You mean, I sound smarter than you?"

Sherlock frowns at him but doesn't comment. He and Sherlock both know that Mycroft is smarter than Sherlock is, far smarter, terrifyingly smarter, but is too lazy to do work. In his point of view, it seems like Sherlock looks up on Mycroft and hates him for it.

'John is quite the person,' he thinks. If only he was able to return the kindness John gives him, he can finally call it even.

'Don't be hard on yourself, Sherl. You've proven yourself.' The John in his head says.

He has valued John too much that his past self would judge him. He has forgotten to value what John values. Himself. Learning about John's depressive days made him sick to the core, worse when he thinks about the fact that he is the one who caused that.

No. He has to move pass this. He must forgive himself...

...

...

He can't.

Plus, he is still fearing the worst. His parents. No, he doesn't fear them. It's much worse than that. It makes him feel devastated that John find out about his secret. He's been hiding it from everyone for years. Years. And now, his secret is out. Who knows what will happen next.

Rehab? God, he hates Mycroft.

He isn't an addict. Addiction is when you cannot control yourself. Like you will kill to get what you're addicted to.

He's not addicted to drugs.

He's addicted to keeping the people he cares about safe.

The drugs only help him get his mind off of things. The drugs only keep the fear and pain in his chest away. Before, it doesn't need much use anymore. He can control it. He has full control. Until his parents had gotten worse and when his secret almost got out. Then, his parents almost killed him and he ran away. So, he thinks it is only fair that he is given the simple joys of life.

Who knows? Maybe he dies out of sickness and that way, he can leave everyone and keep them safe and rid of him.

'Not good,' Mental-John says.

He ignores Mental-John. Mental-John is an idiot.

John's words earlier enters his mind, "You're one of the people I love and care about most in the world."

No one told him they care about him before. No one told him they love him before. He didn't know someone would. And apparently, John does.

A part of him says that John is an idiot. A part of him says he doesn't deserve John. A part of him says he's lucky to have John. A part of him is dying with John's words.

He's so overwhelmed. He can't contain his emotions. It's a heavy thing to weigh on your shoulders.

He shakes his head. He's always been light. Even with his peer and family problems, he's always been light. No one liked him. Mycroft could have but he often ignored him as a child, been calling him stupid (He doesn't blame Mycroft though. He didn't know). His parents hate him since he was born. Hell, their housekeeper was the one who took care of him when he was young. He was only guided by Mycroft since Mycroft wanted to show off to a little brother.

His peers hate him. He doesn't fit with the others. To anyone, in fact. They hate his intelligence. They don't forgive his lack of social cues. He tries to right the wrong but they chastise him for it. He gave him and thought, fuck it. No one will like him and that's that.

That's all he thought. Which is why he has always been light. He didn't need to care. He doesn't have to care. Hell, he didn't care.

But John...

John...

JOHN!

John showed him that he is acceptable. That he is human. That he can feel. He can care. He can have friends. He can love. He can be loved. He can be cared about.

Few have been decent with him: Greg Lestrade (probably because he helps him with some of his school work), Molly Hooper (only because she likes him), Mrs. Hudson (may be because she owes him a favour)... That's it, actually.

But John. John has always been loyal. And for that, he will forever be loyal to him.

And if Jim's threats are taken into action. He will kill Jim Moriarty with his own bare hands.

Sherlock is going to Rehab. Sherl and his brother walk from Mycroft's flat. He and Mycroft took Sherlock's things from the Holmes Manor.

The Holmes parents are so lucky they weren't at home. Because being with the same room as him and Mycroft Holmes, they would cower in fear over a chair. Don't ask.

Sherlock enters the car and Mycroft enters after him.

The three of them keep quiet as they journey to the facility.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock grumbles after a few minutes of silence.

"You brought this open yourself, Sherlock. It's only right to bring you to the facility."

"No. I am not an addict."

"But there are the facts-"

"Facts you didn't observe enough."

"We both know I observe better than you do. And what I observe is that you need to be in Rehab."

"I am not addicted to drugs."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"It's true!"

"No."

"But-"

"Quiet, girls," he finally tells the two brothers. Sherlock huffs in annoyance and leans back on the seat and Mycroft checks his phone and brings the phone to his ear. Mycroft talks on the phone but he doesn't bother to listen because he looks at Sherlock.

He may look like he is sulking. But he knows his friend. He's devastated.

"Sherl-"

"I'm not an addict!" Sherlock snaps. He and Sherlock look at each other, both shocked at Sherlock. Sherlock probably didn't expect to snap himself. He is confused with the whole thing.

"I was just going to ask if you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"How many times do you take drugs in a week?"

"Three."

"You're lying," he tells Sherlock.

"I'm not," Sherlock tells him.

He shakes his head, "No no no no no... You have that look..."

"Another look?"

"Yes, you're lying look."

"I don't know what you mean!"

"I'm not going to describe what you look like when you lie, Sherlock. We both know you'll try to change it when you realise what I see!"

"But I'm not lying."

"Sherlock. Answer John honestly," Mycroft intervenes.

"You are not my mother!" Sherlock scowls.

"You are not my child!" Mycroft tells him. "So stop acting like one."

"Thrice! Thrice a bloody week! Don't you get it?"

"No. Because that's a lie."

Sherlock sighs, "Twice a day."

"See? Isn't that easy?" Mycroft comments and he glares at him to tell Mycroft to stop making Sherlock feel worse.

"Not because I want it. Or need it like air. I use it for my brain! Isn't that easy for you?" Sherlock looks at Mycroft. "You should understand what I am saying! We both have goddamn crazy minds!"

"And yet mine doesn't get out of control like yours. I have complete control of my brain, you don't."

"God, Mycroft. I forgot how much of a machine you are." Sherlock snaps.

Sherlock's words makes him frown, "Don't say things like that."

Sherlock looks at him, still clearly annoyed. But Sherlock's eyes soften. His guilt must be showing on the outside. "Sorry..."

"Don't," he tells Sherlock and the silence continues forward.

It's been weeks since he went to Rehab. John and Mycroft visits him about twice a week. Clearly, he annoys Mycroft - because what else is there to do with him? And John? He waits upon his arrival every Saturday. He kind of feels like a dog waiting for his master as he comes home. He is the dog, John is the master.

And people think that John is his pet. They all have it the other way around.

Anyway, he hates the sessions, group sessions to be precise. Trust exercises. Talking about oneself. Listening to them talk. True, they could have been interesting stories if it wasn't the fact that he managed to deduce every one of them when he entered the room.

They were a bunch of teenagers. There's alcoholics... Cannabis... Sex addiction... Cocaine... There's one with Technology addiction... And here he is, Morphine-Heroine-Cocaine addict. He hasn't met anyone.

And apparently, he hates his psychiatrist. Kept asking him questions about how he is, that he must accept what he is, asking him about what he feels, why he does it...

He never answered... Until...

"Sherlock. The longer your silence persists, the longer your presence persists here."

He doesn't care, he looks at the walls of the room, the leather texture of his chair... Anything.

Dr. Harrison sighs, "I want to ask about your family, this time."

He finally looks up and he failed himself, "No."

"An answer," if Dr. Harrison was surprised he talked, he didn't show it.

He looks away. Ashamed for his own failure.

"It's clear you have family problems."

He looks at Dr. Harrison, "As do you," he replies. "Divorced parents. Mother took you. She died. You lived with your father and his wife and their unpleasant children."

Dr. Harrison merely blinks, "You are as defensive as I suspected you were."

He stares at Dr. Harrison as the doctor writes on his notes. He would've thought the doctor would snap at him or something.

"Now. Let's talk about you..." he keeps silent. "In a scale of one to ten, how bad is it to stay at your house right now?"

"Why is this necessary? Don't tell me it's to help me because I hate hearing that now."

"Why?"

"Because everyone keeps saying it that it gives abrasions to my eardrums."

"It's necessary so I know the extent your parents mistreat you..."

"They don't mistreat me..."

"Your trembling fist says otherwise," he looks at his own hand. He is trembling.

He places them on his lap. "Observant?"

"Tell me your story."

"Why?" he asks weakly.

"To get you back on your feet..."

He talks.

AN: I know it's been a long time. Here I am.