Chapter 3

The phone went dead, leaving only a quiet buzzing to fill his mind. Slowly John lowered the phone from his ear, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. He felt weak and shaky, as if all the energy had been zapped from his body. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, using the sofa for support, all the while wondering what he should do. Talking to Sherlock appeared out of the question judging by the crashing that still radiated from the detectives bedroom. That seemed the only option though; he needed to calm his friend down before he could hurt himself further.

Another loud thud shook the flat and startled John from his thoughts, sparking him into action. He hurried across the room and into the hall, skidding to a stop outside the detective's door, listening to the sudden unfolding silence from within. For some reason the silence scared him more than the thuds and crashes, at least they had been a sign that his friend was still alive. He drew in a breath before knocking attentively on the detective's door, hoping with all his heart that he would get a reply. There was none.

John knocked again, calling to Sherlock quietly, keeping his voice calm and comforting so as not to startle his friend. There was still nothing, not a reply, not a yell, not a sound. Worry struck John, sending horrid images into his mind's eye. He pushed them back, letting his medical knowledge flood his thoughts, trying to detach himself from the situation. He knew bursting into Sherlock's room could cause more damage than good but his friend was not responding to his calls and he wasn't going to take any chances. He shut his eyes, mentally preparing himself for whatever he might find, and pushed open the door.

The room was a mess from what John could see from the light of the door, the bed upturned and leaning against the wall, the wardrobe lying on its front, one of its doors pulled from the hinges and the contents thrown around the room. The wooden chest was on its side, two of its draws lying on the floor and another broken, the front hanging off at an angle. The periodic table had been removed from the wall and was now torn on the floor, its frame smashed, the glass glinting in the light from the hall.

"Sherlock?" asked John quietly, when he was unable to see his friend in the cluttered and dark room. He listened carefully for a reply, and was disappointed but unsurprised when there wasn't one. Silently he crept further into the room, leaving the door open to let in some light.

Sherlock was sitting in the corner of the room, hiding behind the remains of the bed. He had his arms clasped around his legs, his chin resting on his knees, a look of terror on his pale face. John slowly knelt before his friend, not wanting to startle him but Sherlock didn't appear to be aware of his presence at all. He was looking straight ahead, his eyes staring unseeingly and wide with fear. His lips were moving slightly, as if he was speaking, but no sound came out. John's glance drifted from Sherlock's face to the wrist that was still clamped around his legs.

John noted that the left hand was holding tight to the right forearm, just below the elbow, presumably to keep his arms in place. The right arm was pressed tightly to his legs too but the hand was limp, the fingers curled and unresponsive. Sherlock's wrist was no longer straight either, his hand hanging at a noticeably unnatural angle. John swore under his breath, knowing that he needed to treat Sherlock soon, to straighten the hand, to reline the bones and straighten the blood vessels.

"Sherlock?" he asked again, putting a hand on his friend's upper-arm, trying to pull him from trance. It had little effect though, only causing Sherlock's already erratic breathing to speed further. He swallowed hard, unsure or what to do, not wanting to startle the detective further or send him into another blind panic.

They sat like that for a while, John not wanting to move and Sherlock unable to. Suddenly the light levels in the room dropped further, sending the room into near pitch blackness. John looked up, puzzled, until his eyes came to rest on the neatly dressed figure of Mycroft Holmes in the doorway. Without saying a word the elder Holmes brother crossed the room and knelt next to John on the floor. He studied his baby brother closely, taking in the unseeing eyes, the slightly moving lips and the broken wrist in one careful glance.

He leant forwards slightly, resting his hands rest calmly on Sherlock's shoulders. He lowered his head, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes. "Sherlock", He whispered, his voice barely audible even in the silent room. "Sherlock, listen to me, you're safe now." Sherlock didn't appear to notice his brother or the comments until suddenly, with a relived exhale from Mycroft, his eyes slid shut and he collapsed sideways into his brothers arms.

Sherlock ran from the living room, feeling the unwanted emotions building inside of him, needing to escape. His room was quiet and peaceful but it didn't help to calm his mind, the memories kept coming. Of the boys at school, his parents, his teachers, all yelling, telling him he was a freak. Because that was what he was, a freak, a nobody, nothing worth caring for, and he knew it. The anger and fear was building inside him as the comments whirled in his head, desperate to escape.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving the room in near darkness to try and calm his mind. He thundered round the room, trying to take out his anger and emotions by smashing and destroying, by physical exertion. He could feel the bones in his arm grinding dangerously but there was no pain, only the anger and frustration that coursed through his body. He knew that he needed to calm himself, banish the emotions and memories to the Mind Palace before he was forced there himself. It was a defensive side he had learnt all those years ago at school, to shut himself away from the bullies and the pain, keeping his precious brain safe and his body in a trance-like state.

But now he didn't want to go to his Mind Palace however he knew that it was coming, that he was unable to keep away. It was normally his place of calm, a haven of sorts in his childhood where he could lock away his memories and feelings and shut himself away from his body. But now the memories were free and swirling in his brain, the good the bad, the painful, all mixed together in a thundering mass of emotion. It wouldn't be safe in his Mind Palace now, he would be trapped, unable to move or speak, unable to free himself from the torment as he was locked inside his head.

He tried to calm himself, leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, but his senses were already dulling, the room blurring, until his legs were too week to stand and he sunk to the ground, pulling his arms around his legs, trying to hold himself together. There was a knock at the door, a voice calling to him, but he didn't hear it, he was too far gone, already trapped inside his Mind Palace and unable to get free, back to his body and his sanity that resided there.

Suddenly there was a hand, a hand on his shoulder, he could feel it there, just faintly at the back of his mind, a nagging pull dragging him back to his body, it was weak though, very weak, too weak to do anything, too weak to pull him from his Mind Palace and end the nightmare. He didn't know how long he was there, wishing the hand could be stronger to save him from his torment but eventually something changed, another hand, a pair of hands, one on each shoulder, grounding him to his body and reality. There was a voice, too far away to make sense, merely just an echo in his mind, the words an indistinguishable muddle.

Then the voice came again, closer this time, close enough for Sherlock to tell whose it was. It was Mycroft's, his brother's voice, the voice that always came to pull him free from the overwhelming tortures of his mind. He followed the voice with all his will, needing desperately to free himself, to return to the safety of his body, to Mycroft. Slowly his senses returned, the sounds of the room, the breathing of his brother and someone else, the throbbing pain in his arm, the weight of his head on his knees. Gradually he returned to his body, his mind back where it belonged, and his eyes slid shut, his face relaxing in upmost exhaustion. He could feel his body drooping, the muscles going limp and someone moving him slightly, tipping him back until his head rested on their chest. He was tired, so tired, he just wanted to sleep and that was fine, perfectly fine, because he was safe, because Mycroft had saved him again.