Here's chapter 24! (23 without the timeline, but who cares!) I hope you enjoy this one.

Btw, if you were wondering why Mel was behaving strangely, how would you feel when a girl who you think is your friend is the daughter of a huge baddie and who is clearly capable of doing the same? She will be in the story again soon, she is not out of it - next chapter or the one after that.

Did you read about Moffat comissioning series 5 kind ofon his own? And series four is confirmed, series 4+5 are both planned out according to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Yay! More painful, horrible, hiatuses (hiati?)

How much of the third series did you watch? What do you think about it?

Sherlock sees through my façade as soon as he sees me, and raises his eyebrows, but I don't comment on it. He isn't so ready to let the matter drop, I'd almost call it concern if that wasn't so very unlike Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't worry about things like that, he'd only care when somebody is dying, and then only sometimes.

"Kiara, what happened?" He sounds curious, and this is when I realise what's going on. He is deducing me, fighting the boredom. I wouldn't mind at a normal day, but I cannot stand it now.

"Nothing, Sherlock! Nothing interesting enough for your massive brain, if you weren't bored!"

"I -" He starts and frowns, but I storm out of the room before he can finish his sentence.

Two hours later I am in the basement, drenched with sweat, only wearing sweatpants and a sports-bra; the equipment for boxing and knifes is cut and destroyed, but I can't care right now. Mycroft has enough money, it won't bother him. And who cares if he does? I am not there to babysit them! Just like I told Melissandre, I do a lot for them, it's not my job. I am seventeen years old, for god's sake!

I don't notice the tears running down my face, and it will take some more hours to see what I am right now: I desperate, lonely, under-age girl, without parents, the father's death only a year ago, not mentally stable from the beginning, breaking down now, when the bonds, the unstable, weak links to normality waver because of the rejection of a friend.

Suddenly I see Melissandre's stony face in front of me again, just when she realised who Father was.

"Well, fuck you! I don't need you! FUCK YOU!" My voice is hoarse when I scream out the words, and I throw one of the knives in my hand as hard as I can at the boxing-bag. I know the throw is bad, the power and energy misguided, so I duck in time when the knife bounces back.

Only seconds later, the wooden door opens. Whipping around, the other knife leaves my hand, only barely missing Mycroft and sinking deep into the door.

"WHAT?"

Mycroft flinches when the knife misses him by millimetres and doesn't answer, but slowly walks towards me, looking me up and down, deducing me. It should have been awkward and embarrassing, standing in front of him in in only a bra and shorts, sweaty, exhausted and with red eyes and a snotty nose, but it isn't. I know he isn't looking in that way.

I do it without thinking. As soon as his hand touches my shoulder, I step a little closer and hug him, cling to him desperately, but still careful of his back.

The fine fabric beneath my fingertips is the only thing that grounds me, that keeps me sane. I can feel Mycroft stiffening, but because he carefully puts his hands on my back, I know that he is just surprised and astonished, not in pain. He stands still and doesn't say a word when I bury my face in his shoulder, soaking his suit with tears.

It is very surreal, standing here, hugging him, crying on his shoulder, but I am immensely grateful. This is the breakdown that had to come, and it could have been a lot worse and painful.

After ten minutes, I pull away and look at him. The fear that I have crossed a line is there. The Holmes-brothers are not the hugging, cry-on-my-shoulder type. He looks back into my eyes, calmly, but I can see understanding in those grey-blue, all-knowing orbs.

"Thank you," I whisper and take a step back, wiping my face.

Just like with his nightmare, we don't talk about that incident. After I showered and came back into his office in acceptable clothes, where Mycroft is waiting for Sherlock and me, he only looked at me and nodded at me and then Sherlock came in. He must have noticed something, but for today he seems to have learnt his lesson.

Mycroft and Sherlock go back to planning and searching and destroying Father's and now Moran's web. Neither of them can just sit around and heal in peace, I have noticed, they must keep themselves occupied. Understandable, with their huge intellect, but sometimes I just wish for some peace. Then again, Mycroft rested for more than two weeks, which is at least three times as long as Sherlock would.

I ignore their conversation, and lean back in the chair. It's harder without Anthea, but at hind-sight it is unsettling how much we relied on her and how vulnerable we made ourselves. We only answer to ourselves now – but I can see by the way Mycroft behaves and moves and every once a while looks around as if to tell Anthea to get something.

Mycroft's office is warm and it is wonderful to just hear them both talking, planning, working, being alive and relatively safe and normal again, that I can't help the pull of sleep, lulling me into darkness.

What do you think? Review please!