Author's note – I initially planned to just use John/Sherlock's POVs, but I kind of felt like Mycroft has become an essential player (and, potentially, in some cameos, even Lestrade, Molly, and/or Mary) so hopefully it doesn't bother you that I'm going to use other POVs.

Mycroft and his infamous umbrella make a lovely appearance too.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and this fic, and thank you so much for those of you following and favoriting and reading, it really does mean so much. And please review if you have any requests, etc.

Alright, without further ado, chapter nine.

–––––

Author's note – I initially planned to just use John/Sherlock's POVs, but I kind of felt like Mycroft has become an essential player (and, potentially, in some cameos, even Lestrade, Molly, and/or Mary) so hopefully it doesn't bother you that I'm going to use other POVs.

Mycroft and his infamous umbrella make a lovely appearance too.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and this fic, and thank you so much for those of you following and favoriting and reading, it really does mean so much. And please review if you have any requests, etc.

Alright, without further ado, chapter nine.

–––––

Mycroft

"What a pleasant surprise," Sherlock says as Mycroft walks in. "Do take a seat."

"Hold on, I've got some business to take care of." Mycroft brushes past him and goes straight to Sherlock's room. He begins rummaging around drawers, though he is careful not to make too much of a mess despite his pounding chest and shaking fingers. The blades are in an old shoebox tucked beneath Sherlock's mattress.

"Impressive," his little brother drawls, leaning against the door frame. "Only took you two minutes, sixteen seconds."

"Shut it," Mycroft warns, and empties the contents into his jacket pocket. "I'll be disposing of these, as well as the others I'm about to find in the bathroom."

"Clever. Have fun."

"I will." Mycroft all but shoves Sherlock against the wall as he strides to the loo where, after five minutes and four seconds, he discovers another hoard.

"Where shall we go next?" Sherlock asks sardonically. "Pray tell."

Mycroft slaps him in the face.

"That was unprece –"

Mycroft slaps him again.

"Are you –"

Mycroft knees Sherlock in the gut.

"What the fu –"

Mycroft seizes his umbrella and impales Sherlock's foot with it for good measure.

"You're a bloody terrorist," Sherlock gasps, cradling his cheek and wincing. He falls into his armchair.

"And you're a bloody idiot," Mycroft snaps, sitting on the sofa.

"Really," Sherlock says wearily. "I'll devise a comeback for that exceedingly poor-quality retort later."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft pauses, adrenaline pumping through his body, hands twitching involuntarily. "Why?"

"That seems to be the question of the century."

Anger. Crippling anger, borne, no doubt, of grief and a touch of guilt. "No, you know what? You know why I just assaulted you?"

"Because you're bored."

"No, you wanker! Because I don't fucking understand why you didn't have the sense to tell anybody! I don't care who the fuck it was, if it was the random nice lady on the tube, if it was Anderson, if it was a bloody hobo. But I know you, and I know for a fact that this was just another secret, something fun to keep to yourself, something you didn't think was a big deal, just like the drugs were, and you can't do that! You just fucking can't."

"Sense is not my area, it would seem."

"It used to be! Just because you've got feelings like any other person doesn't mean that you're crazy or insane, and you should have told someone!" He's getting very worked up now and does not care enough to calm down. "You should have told me, for god's sake."

"Excuse me? Why would you ever –"

"YOU'RE MY FUCKING BROTHER AND I FUCKING LOVE YOU."

Sherlock stares at him, flummoxed, for quite a long time.

"Sorry. I never intended for that to come out of my mouth." Mycroft feels embarrassed and saddened and unbelievably angry.

"That was... rather..."

"Anyway," Mycroft goes on, quieter now, "you should have told me."

"I didn't want anyone to know."

"Don't hurt yourself, Sherl," Mycroft says gently, moving so the younger man is forced to look him in the eye. "There are so many better ways to deal with pain than that."

Sherlock ducks his head. "I'm not good."

"At what?"

"Everything, really. John. Life. Emotions. Not to mention I've been off my game, and I..." He drifts off, shuts his eyes. "Remember Philip Brown?"

"The cocky son-of-a-bitch who made primary school living hell for you? Yeah."

"I've been thinking about all the things he said to me back then, and I think he was right."

Mycroft gapes at him. "You're letting a fourteen-year-old prick make you feel inferior?"

"He always said how I think I'm better than I am, and how I'm bonkers, and how I'm never going to amount to anything. And I'm not, am I? I live alone, relying on an elderly woman to make me eat and sleep, I don't have a remotely legitimate job, I haunt crime scenes as an alternative for getting high. I couldn't even keep John as my friend. Does any of that qualify as getting somewhere in life?" Sherlock speaks rapidly, scrutinizing the carpet, eyes darker than ever. He has accepted this distorted theory as reality, and nobody has stopped him. Nobody knew enough to stop him.

So many words are tumbling inside Mycroft's head that he feels dizzy. Sodding brothers. Make you care about them so much, willing to take a bullet for them, then turn around and do this. Torture, really. "Please stop," is all he can think to say. "You're stronger than that."

"I'm not."

"Don't be a stubborn arse."

"I am."

"But I love –"

Sherlock holds up a hand. "Don't say it again."

"Fine." Mycroft takes a shuddery breath, folds and unfolds his hands. "I'm going to move in with you until things get better."

Sherlock looks horrified and deeply affronted. "You're bloody well not."

"Then how will I be able to trust that you'll stop?"

"You won't, because I'm not going to stop."

"What would make you stop?"

"Nothing."

"Sherl."

"Mike."

"Oh god, not that again."

"Your name was always so peculiar, you're the one who wanted to change it, not me."

"I was nine."

"You were definitely ten."

"I like my name. You shouldn't even remember things from that long ago."

"Fine. Mike."

Mycroft would laugh if the situation wasn't so dire. He leans his elbows on his knees contemplatively. "Listen. Sherlock." The pause stretches on so long that his brother says impatiently,

"That is indeed my name. Gold star for Mikey Holmes. Are you going to say anything, or ought I to leave first?"

"Listen. I..." This is more painful than he anticipated. "Please get help. Please stop."

"Why should I? I'm not hurting anybody else, and as far as I'm concerned this involves me, and only me."

"That's where you're wrong." Fight to stay calm. Deep breaths. "John is devastated. You broke his heart."

"He broke mine." No one but Mycroft would be able to read through the facade of mild disinterest in the detective's voice.

"It wasn't... we won't get into that." Mycroft is undeniably of the belief that Sherlock's feelings are reciprocated, but that doesn't matter right now. What matters is saving his baby brother. "It breaks my heart, too, and I can guarantee that Mum will feel the same."

"You haven't told her yet?"

"No. I wanted to give you a chance to."

"I don't want to."

"Fine. I will." It is not a conversation to look forward too. Someone has to do it, though. And over the years it has become his responsibility to have the shitty tete-a-tetes, to execute the ultimate blackmailing, handle the nitty gritty. Sherlock may think he's got people wrapped round his pinky, but those people are even more firmly wrapped round Mycroft's. "You have to stop. I'll get you help."

"I don't want therapy," Sherlock snaps.

"Fine. Don't get therapy. Seek asylum in a new case, in skydiving, in cooking. I don't give a fuck."

"You think I'm going to cook my sorrows away?"

"I don't fucking care." God, that man is infuriating. "Do something else with the energy."

"I don't want to."

Sodding brothers.He stares Sherlock straight in the face and says slowly, "Do it for John." It's his last card, thrown out onto the table, and Sherlock's got an excellent poker face.

A poker face which crumples.

Encouraging. Not in a sadistic way. Sherlock's got a palace that's been accumulating towers and guards for the past three decades, and fighting past those barriers is exhausting, gut-wrenching, and difficult.

Again, someone has to do it.

"Do it for John," he repeats.

"Don't do this," Sherlock whispers hoarsely. "That's too far."

"It's not. We both know you love him."

Sherlock's legs are folded up to his chest now, and he looks at Mycroft with the wide, frightened eyes of a little boy. "I don't want –"

"To face your emotions? It's about time. You don't need to fear them."

"I can't. You vied for me, didn't you? With John. You reinforced my request. He hasn't spoken to me since. The only person who could have stopped him is you."

"I did talk to him. I asked him to remove himself from your life, for your own well being. And he obliged. Think about that for a moment, and think about what I'm asking you, and then tell me what you're going to do."

"It doesn't... work like that," Sherlock says shakily.

"He did it for you. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was abandon you, but he did. For you."

"That's very invalidating. One does not stop self harming for another person. The emotions penetrate far deeper than that."

"I understand this." And Mycroft does, far more than he will ever divulge to his brother. "But I also understand that, like it or not, you are a sensible, albeit confused and often emotion-driven fellow. Stubborn as hell, too." Sherlock allows a small smile at this pronouncement. "And I know that deep down in the god awful, arrogant bastard sitting in front of me is a decent bloke who's willing to get his life back together, if not for himself, for someone he loves more than anything."

"I don't love John more than anything," Sherlock says disdainfully. Good: when he starts finding arbitrary things to dispute, it means Mycroft's won, and both Holmes men know this.

"I'll be checking in on you, you know. Every day. So will Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft gets off the couch.

"Oh, please. You have cameras trained on me at least seventy-three percent of the time; don't act as if it'll be any different."

"I will physically surveil you."

Sherlock leans back in his chair theatrically. "Oh my, aren't you the badass."

"Goodbye," says Mycroft firmly. He pauses at the threshold – Sherlock's already checking out, tousled curls falling against the bridge of his nose as he remains perfectly still – and says softly, "I know it'll be hard."

"Yes," says Sherlock, and Mycroft watches in gut-wrenching pity as his brother's eyes flicker automatically to the bare spot where John's chair used to be.

Wordlessly, he shuts the door behind him and strides out into the street. These sorts of interactions with people, particularly his brother, are a tricky, unpleasant business. Always has been, always will be.

But someone has to do it.

–––––

Monday, November 18, 2013

John

Mary brings up the inevitable issue just as stewardesses come by with drinks.

"What happened with Sherlock?"

John freezes. "We haven't talked much."

"Well, I know that, darling, but I'm wondering why you were so shaken last night. Just water for me, please," she tells the attendant.

"Oh. He hasn't really... he's a little stressed right now."

"Is he doing drugs again?" she asks crisply.

John almost chokes on a peanut. "Come again?"

"I asked if he's –"

"No, I know, I know." He waves her off. "No, he isn't."

"Mm. What is it, then? I'm not dumb, John. I know you care about him, and I know that, aside from myself, he is the only person who could reduce you to such a state. You were trembling, you were upset. Something clearly happened."

"Nothing," John says, throat thick and clumsy as he tries to swallow down a cashew. Shitty airline food. He takes Mary's hand, kisses it. "I'm knackered, think I'll take a nap now."

She still looks concerned. "I know you don't want to talk about it, and I respect that. Just... please don't push him away. Please don't let – I know things changed," she fumbles, "when we got married. And I just don't want to be the reason that you end things with him."

The irony of this statement hits him harder than it should. Him push Sherlock away? As if.

Reading correctly into his stormy expression (Sherlock admittedly has a point when he accuses John of wearing his heart on his sleeve), his wife sighs. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to push. I worry about you sometimes. Keeping things in like that. And if I don't try to talk to you about it... well, someone has to."

"It's fine," John murmurs, feigning drowsiness.

"He makes you happy. Don't push him away," Mary whispers, pecking his temple as he slumps against the plane window and feels the engine's comforting hum against his cheek.

Don't push him away.

As fucking if.