I couldn't think of a good name for this chapter, if anyone can think of a better one suggestions are much appreciated :)

Anyway, hope you like the chapter! Please review :)

Guilt

I'm not sure how long I made it walking down the road, five minutes, maybe even three, when tje car pulled up beside me.

I didn't recognise the car, it was pretty new though, with an '11' number plate and not a scratch upon its silver, shiny surface. I caught sight of its badge - Mercedes - before it stopped just in front of me. I already had a feeling what this was all about, I had been in this position before, and my thoughts were confirmed when a man dressed in a suit got out of the car and opened the door for me.

The blood rushed to my face and I could feel myself boiling over with rage. I backed away a little, as if I was afraid of the car. I shook my head vigorously.

"No," I said sternly, "I'm not in the mood, I don't want to talk to him."

"Mr Holmes said you might say that," commented the man still holding open the door. For a moment when he said the name Holmes I thought he meant Sherlock. But I knew it wasn't Sherlock. "But then he said you'd come anyway, and you've got no choice in it."

I made an odd growling sound, like frustrated tiger trapped in a cage, because I knew this man was right. Even though there was no real sign that getting into this car was an order rather than an option, it certainly felt like it. I could always try to run away, but it would be a tired man on legs versus a car with several hundred horse power. The man, still standing there patiently with the door open, looked pretty big as well, I don't think I would be able to put up a decent fight against him if it came to a chasing game.

There was no way around it then, though I desperately wished there was. Perhaps I can do something or something will happen that will be able to distract the man and I can run for it. But somehow I knew nothing like that was going to happen. I might as well get it over and done with.

After another few seconds of hesitation, I slowly stepped inside the car.

I was taken to the smart, strangely quiet building I had gone twice before on a trip to Mycroft, once voluntarily, which now seems absurd.

Sherlock's brother was sitting in a comfy red chair in the corner of an empty room full of other chairs like it. He was reading a newspaper but looked up and smiled when I approached him, offering me a chair opposite him with a lazy wave of his hand. I did not take up his offering, nor did I return the smile, I just stood there, glaring at him, trying my best to control my anger.

Mycroft appeared a little perplexed about my refusal to take the offering, but instead he gave another smile and said. "Sorry to be summoning you like this again John, but I really couldn't help myself."

"I'm pretty sure you could." I muttered. I glanced down at the chair sitting opposite him. Despite a car journey in a comfortable seat, my legs felt strangely tired, as if I had walked the whole way. Sitting down suddenly seemed very tempting, but that would be what Mycroft wanted.

"I just wanted to know how you are." Mycroft explained, deciding to ignore my last comment. "It's been a long time since I've seen you."

"Not long enough," I grumbled, deciding that if I was going to try and remain patient by staying here without running off, I could be as rude as I liked towards this man, even if he was the British government, or that's what Sherlock claimed anyway.

If it wasn't for his selfish brother, Sherlock might not be dead.

Mycroft's smile faded at this remark, and was replaced with a look of concern, which I considered to be even worse than the fake smile. Still he tried to make conversation. "So, how are you John?"

I had a feeling I may be staying here for a while, Mycroft was going to extend my forced visit here with every conversational topic possible. At this thought I decided to take the offering of the chair before replying, "I don't think that's any of your concern."

By the look on Mycroft's face, he had been expecting that answer, or whatever answer he was expecting, he knew it wouldn't be what he wanted to hear - the actual truth about how I am. "Please John, I'm merely concerned about you that's all."

"I thought you didn't care about people?" I replied, bitterly. I was going to make this as difficult as possible for Mycroft, and besides, he didn't care. He didn't even care about his own brother.

"That's because things like this don't happen every day," Mycroft pointed out. I knew when he said 'this' he meant Sherlock's death. He couldn't even say it, did he feel that guilty? "And besides, it has been a while since I've seen you."

"Well you don't have to be 'concerned' with me," I muttered. "I'm fine."

Mycroft gave me a look that I didn't like, as if he was trying to read my mind. "No you're not."

"No of course I'm not!" I snapped suddenly. My outburst took Mycroft a little by surprise, but I wasn't, I had been waiting to burst for quite a while. "My best friend is dead, he told me he was a liar and then he threw himself off a building and smashed into the concrete. Everything I thought I knew about the last two years of my life died with him. How do you think I'm supposed to feel?"

There was a pause, Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but I hadn't quite finished yet. There was something I desperately wanted to say, and since I'd already snapped, I might as well tell him what else I felt.

"And you're his murderer."

I said it very quietly, very calmly, but Mycroft looked like he had been slapped in the face. I've never seen him look so surprised. I suppose he thought no one knew his dark secret.

"What are you talking about John?" He spluttered.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. If it wasn't for you, telling Moriarty all of Sherlock's past for him to manipulate and destroy, he would still be here."

Mycroft sighed, as if he was talking to an irritating child. "That's not true..."

"So Sherlock wasn't a consulting detective at all then? Moriarty wasn't lying when he told the world Sherlock was a fraud?" I demanded. I felt so angry, did Mycroft not care about what he did to his brother at all? My life is bad enough right now, he's just going to make it worse.

"You don't understand John..." He began, but I didn't want to hear any of his pathetic excuses. I didn't want to be here at all.

"No," I said bitterly. "You're the one who doesn't understand the chaos you've caused, and you didn't even help Sherlock when he was being driven to the edge. You always pretended to care by getting people to spy on him, but really you didn't. You just focused on your own greed to get whatever information you wanted and damned the consequences, and I bet you wouldn't change anything even if you could." My voice was strangely calm as I spoke, but I could feel the anger bubbling underneath the words, and I could see the look on Mycroft's face, he could feel my anger as well.

"John..." He began.

But I'd already had enough. "Just leave me alone, and don't bother me again!" He hissed, almost jumping out of the chair in desperation to get away.

But I had stood up too quickly. The world suddenly became a blur, all the colours in the room mixing together and beginning to spin. I'm so dizzy I feel sick and my legs sway dangerously. I shut my eyes tight to try and block out the spinning, I'm not sure if I'm going to stay standing or even pass out.

A hand suddenly seizes my arm, and I open my eyes, the dizzying feeling slowly ebbing away now I have some support, to see Mycroft standing there, holding onto me. He had leapt up from his chair in such speed I didn't think he could muster. His eyes were full of worry now.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

"I'm fine," I cursed my voice for sounding so shaky.

Of course Mycroft couldn't be satisfied with that answer. He continued to stare down at me. "You look awfully pale John."

"No, I haven't had time to go the tanning salon recently." I snapped. Part of me knew he was only trying to help, the rest of me didn't care.

Mycroft was giving me that look again, like he was trying to read my mind. "When did you last eat?" He asked me suddenly.

"That's none of your business." I replied, because I couldn't remember the last time I ate, or sat down to a proper meal. I hadn't had much appetite since I lost my friend.

"John, I think perhaps you need to talk to someone-" Mycroft began, but at this another wave of anger hit me. Why should he be suddenly so caring about me? He should have given the same attention to his brother when Moriarty turned up, and the way he spoke made it sound like I was crazy.

No, I wasn't interested in his concern or his advice.

"Just leave me alone." I growled, pulling my arm out of his grip and rushing out the room before he could say anything else, trying to ignore my spinning head.