UPDATE! :). So, I havent updated anything past this, so it'll be awhile before the quality goes up... lol. I'm postinng the updated chapters on AO3 first and then this a few days after, so yea.

CHAPTER 3

3rd Person-

Mycroft didn't realized just how bad his little brother was, though. In fact, few did. He certainly barely ate, if his ribs were anything to go by.

And he clearly didn't sleep. And he was on drugs again, not just nicotine patches that's for sure. Lestrade knew for fact he had almost over-dosed once or twice, because he had seen it with his own eyes, and it wasn't a pretty picture.

The only reason Lestrade kept calling him to these crime scenes was because he was worried of what he would do if he didn't have the distraction of work. Lestrade sighed at his appearance. He wished he could do something for his friend, but he had only gotten more callous since The Fall. Silently, Lestrade led the way to the two bodies,

Sherlock following close behind, only a shadow of his former self. It took a minute or less for Sherlock to look over both bodies, and immediately afterwards launched into a explanation of what he had found.

In the middle of a sentence, he suddenly stopped and starred off into the distance for a few moments, before carrying on like nothing happened.

Sometimes when he would pause for breath, his eyes would travel over to the side and linger there for a few seconds, before something like pain flashed across his eyes, and he went on again.

He had done this on several cases, even when they were chasing someone he would glance back for a few seconds, but not at Lestrade.

Curious, Lestrade decided to follow his gaze off to the side and back a bit, more behind Sherlock, but also to the side.

His eyes widened, and he mentally smacked himself for not seeing it sooner.

That was where John used to stand.

As he thought back to when they were running through London, and realized that he always looked where John used to be. He was now only half paying attention to what Sherlock was saying, currently deep in thought until Sherlock told him who to arrest before walking off.

Lestrade looked towards Donovan, "take care of it." he said, before walking to his office. It was about time he gave Mycroft a call.

Mycroft Holmes had just gotten out of a meeting when his phone buzzed. He glanced it, and noticed he had a voice mail along with a missed call. He opened the voice mail, and started listening to it.

"Hey, Mycroft, it's Detective Inspector Lestrade here. Just calling to talk to you about your brother. Call me back when you get a chance."

Mycroft frowned, and quickly called the DI back. "What has my little brother done now?" he asked as soon as Lestrade answered.

He could hear the other man sigh, "When's the last time you check up on him?"

Well that wasn't the reply Mycroft was expecting to hear.

"Not since The Fall."

"No calls? Or hidden cameras?"

"He doesn't answer my calls, and the last time i had a camera hidden in his room he found it and destroyed it. Why? What has happened?"

Another sigh

"Just wondering how much I need to tell you." came Lestrade's reply after a second or two of silence. He sounded sad, frustrated, and tired at the same time. Not good.

There were very few things that made Mycroft concerned, or rather, as concerned as he could get. And Sherlock was one of them.

"After the Fall, Sherlock locked himself in his room, as you know. When I got in, he was sitting on his bed, looking at the wall. He refused to talk to me at all, really. You know John was his friend? Well, according to Sherlock his only friend?"

"Yes." he replied.

"Well, we... ended up fighting, really. Or at least reached a impasse. He's gone and locked up tighter than before, now. As far as I can tell, it looks like he never sleeps, or eats, and he's back on drugs as I'm sure you've noticed. He's over dosed a couple times. For the past few cases, he has stopped in mid-sentence and starred at where John Watson used to stand."

Mycroft let out a long breath. This wasn't what he expected, he definitely didn't think Sherlock would take it this hard.

"Thought I should give you a call." he finished.

Mycroft sighed again, "thank you, Detective Inspector. I honestly didn't know my brother was this bad." he replied.

"You're welcome."

"I will visit him soon, and do what I can."

"That's a good idea."

"And Detective Inspector?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch out for him, will you?" he heard the DI chuckling, but it was more of a dark, resigned, tired sound.

"As best as I can." he said, and Mycroft closed his phone.

Upon entering his office, he informed Anthea that he needed to cancel all his meetings that afternoon. She looked up in surprise,

"All of them, sir?" he nodded,

"I need to visit my brother."

When he got to 221B, he was honestly surprised at the sight that met him there.

The living room was a total, and complete mess, the kitchen filled with experiments, and who knows what else. Scattered about, Mycroft could see empty packages he had no doubt were from drugs and nicotine packages, and the thick smell of cigarettes seemed saturated into the walls and furniture.

He carefully moved through the living room and kitchen and moved to look in Sherlocks room, and it was no better, both in state of cleanliness and finding his brother.

Moving out, he decided to go on a limb and go up the stairs to John's former room. Upon entering it, he was surprised at how clean it was. Virtually untouched, really. But Mycroft could tell Sherlock had been in here, from the lingering scent of cigarette and the slight dent in the sheets.

He knew for a fact that John hadn't been here. Returning again to the living room, he looked around more carefully for his brother.

Eventually he found him after having walked a few feet inside, laying in the corner by the couch, half under a pile of stuff, and laying in his own vomit. Upon closer inspection, the older Holmes noticed that he was awake.

Reaching down, he grabbed Sherlocks head by his hair that had grown several inches, and moved it out of the puddle of vomit. When his brother opened his eyes, Mycroft noticed they were dilated, and his breathing was quick and irregular.

Sherlock groaned when he saw Mycroft's face,

"Go 'way, My'." he mumbled.

He had a splitting headache, and his stomach still felt like fuzzy caterpillars were crawling in them. The last thing he wanted was his brother here.

Mycroft sighed, "Sherlock, don't do this."

Sherlock managed to glance up at his brother. "Since when do you care?" and wow, that didn't help his nausea, or his headache, in the slightest and he let out a soft groan as a fresh wave of pain washed over him.

Mycroft pursed his lips together, "I've always cared, Sherlock." he said, and Sherlock somehow got the energy to snort.

"Yeah right." he muttered.

"I wish you wouldn't treat yourself like this."

Sherlock had managed to find the strength to sit up by now.

"I wish you would fuck off."

"John wouldn't approve."

"Well John is dead!" there was venom in Sherlocks raised voice, and if looks could kill Mycroft would have been in a little pile of dust.

If only you knew. He thought to himself.

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it and pressed his lips into a thin line. They starred at each other for a few seconds longer, before Mycroft turned and walked out, realizing this was a pointless conversation. As he got in the car, he felt a headache coming on.

Anthea was waiting for him, and for once she put her blackberry away.

"How is he, sir?"

Mycroft sighed, and she got a brief sympathetic look on her face.

"What can we do, sit?"

"Hope John gets pack soon," Mycroft replied, and Anthea nodded before moving to her blackberry again.

Johns POV

Ever since I recovered, I slowly took down Moriarty's web. It felt good, so good, to start destroying the giant web Moriarty had spun. Revenge for everything he had put me, and especially Sherlock through. I have to admit, it had felt awkward and weird the first couple men I had taken down, adjusting to the soldier I once was, but i don't care anymore. Each kill brought me one step closer to returning to London. To Baker Street. To Sherlock.

They aren't good men anyway, I kept thinking. I couldn't help but smile as I remembered Sherlocks and mine first case together. A Study In Pink I thought with a chuckle. I held memories of Sherlock close to my heart and mind. It was the only way to remain sane out here.

Slowly I've started making my own mind palace as well, only right now it was just barely a mansion, hardly half as big as Sherlocks, but quite large for the average person.

I breathed deeply and closed my eyes for a moment. Sherlock's room is the first one down the hall. It was mostly a replica of the living area of our flat, only with a telescope at the window.

Mrs. Hudson had a very nice room a few doors down from Sherlock, and Mycroft had the large office at the end of the hall, and I'm not exactly sure where Lestrade's room is anymore.

I haven't gone there for awhile, mostly just had it for the sake of something to hold do. To remind myself that I'm not the serial killer everyone has pegged me for. The kitchen held quite a few of Sherlocks experiments as well.

Of course, there was lots more then that stored away in this place, or that, some of it cases, most of it things I have deemed important enough to keep. Maps, information on targets, things like that.

I shook my self from my thoughts.

I needed to be finding Moriarty, not taking a trip upstairs.

His web was larger then anything Sherlock or I had ever imagined. Even Mycroft only had a small idea of how huge it was. There was also another leader that I had heard murmurs of. Someone called the Spider. Apparently Moriarty had appointed someone to take his place, and from what I heard I wasn't really keen on meeting him anytime soon.

What I would give to have Sherlocks help, but I knew that Spider would be waiting for that move. Waiting to pounce on me like Moriarty had tried to do.

It was funny how much like Sherlock I had become.

A mind house, tracking down criminals, deducing things. The family business I thought with a momentary smile.

'If only the consulting detective could see me now'I thought with a small laugh that quickly was replaced with a frown. He'd probably kill me himself if he could see me now, actually.

There was a movement up ahead, ducking into a alley, and I quickened my pace. I have been after one of his snipers for awhile now, and the tracks let me here, somewhere in Iceland.

But when I got there I only saw some homeless man trying to sleep in his cardboard box, glaring at me. I glared back, and as I was turning around, something caught my eye. It was a envelope laying on the ground. I quickly made my way over to the surprisingly nice envelope, and, with a nod at the homeless man, made my way out of the alley to where I could see better.

Quickly I turned it over, to find the mark Moriarty used on the last cases Sherlock and I were on. I frowned, dread creeping up, trying to reason that it was impossible, that I saw him shoot himself right in front of me, but I couldn't shake the sudden feeling that the Spider and Moriarty were one in the same.

Shaking my head, I quickly opened the letter, carefully pulling out the piece of paper that was inside.

Enjoying the game? Your little friend doesn't think its as fun. It is fun watching you dance, though.

I stiffened as I read the note, written using a typewriter, and I couldn't stop myself from quickly crushing the note. I knew I had seen this before, maybe it was from a previous case.

Just to be sure, I checked Moriarty's room- the basement. It was dark, and cold down there, with multiple boxes, a few torches, and uncountable cobwebs and spiders. There was a light in the corner, with a desk. It fit him perfectly.

Looking over all the things he has used for previous notes, I couldn't fund a typewriter. Maybe someone else had written it, then. I didn't have time to go through all the boxes, so I ignored the nagging feeling of familiarity

It most likely wouldn't help me find him anyway.

With a sigh, I stuffed the note crudely into my pocket, and set out on my way, but more alert then before.

It was unnerving that he knew where I was, who I was tracking, what I was doing, and I haven't the slightest clue where he is.

He sure didn't make it easy. My thoughts wandered to the note.

It is fun watching you dance. That's what he had told Sherlock so long ago, during The Great Game, using those poor people. 'I like watching you dance'.

But the 'little friend' part? That had me worried. Because something was wrong, and I wasn't there to prevent it. I quickly pulled out my phone and dialed the number I have, unfortunately, memorized.

"Yes, Dr. Watson?"

I took a deep breath.

"There's something wrong with Sherlock."

okay, not sure how good this turned out.. But, here it is! Sorry it's so long :/ :). Any feedback is great! And hey, anyone notice the little supernatural quote I snuck in there? ;)