Just a little filler chapter to keep you all happy for a while. I've included a little MycroftxAnthea here for those of you (like myself) who thinks the elder Holmes deserves a little lovin'.

By the way, I hope you guys don't mind my little rambles in these notes; it's just my brain refusing to keep it's opinions to itself.

Oh, and special mention to XMillieX whose hilarious reviews keep me giggling at my laptop screen :)

...

The sleek black car pulled into a well practised and precise stop outside the steps of 221 Baker Street. It had been exactly 3 days since John Watson's abduction and Mycroft considered it time to check on his little brother. Hopefully Sherlock hadn't done anything completely stupid whilst the investigation continued.

Afjusting his collar Mycroft glanced over at his assistant Anthea, whom had been driving the car. Secretly, he was glad to have her back, having allowed her a week off to visit her ill father in Margate. The young lady he had employed as a temporary subtitute, Katie, had been present when he had shown Sherlock the kidnap footage. Whilst Katie had been competent and had performed admirably, she just hadn't been Anthea.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Anthea turned round and gave him a tight lipped, reassuring smile, then pulled out her phone and began texting. No doubt sending emails to other contacts of his. Her nails were a light shade of coral today, Mycroft noted, it suited her. She was also wearing the perfume one of the security team (who had a little soft spot for her) had given her for Christmas. It was a nice scent, spicy but with undertones of some sort of fruit. Mycroft had always been sensitive to smell, ever since he was little.

'I'll be back in 30.' he informed her, exiting the car.

The flat was even gloomier than before. It wasn't that it was dark; on the contrary, it was rather light outside, it was that there seemed to be some suffocating invasive presence filling up the entire room. Mycroft saw Sherlock lying his back on the sofa, eyes closed and his fingers steepled under his chin, as tough in prayer. Mycroft knew better than to make such a poetic connection, his brother was not a man of faith, a man of brutal and calculating science? Now, that was a more accurate description.

'Any news?' Sherlock asked, not even opening his eyes. Despite being used to his brother's unnatural skill, he was a little surprised.

'How did you know it was me?'

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, 'Please, I know no-one who uses sandalwood cologne to such an extent, plus, I can hear Anthea's infernal tapping from here. I said, do you have any news?'

'None, regrettably.' Mycroft admitted, settling down on the arm of John's armchair. 'Shouldn't you be helping Lestrade?'

'No, I'm in the process of deleting.' Sherlock replied, his eyes were still closed. If it weren't for the fact his mouth was moving, you could be excused for mistaking him for a statue.

''Deleting?'

'Yes. Deleting. I need to free up my mind.'

'I see.' Said Mycroft acidly, 'and what, pray, are you deleting?'

'How should I know? I've deleted it.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes, 'Oh really brother, there's no need-'

Now Sherlock's eyes flew open and looked directly at him. 'No news? Go away.'

This was pushing things a bit, but Mycroft had grown so accustomed to Sherlock's acerbic nature that he merely shrugged it off.

'I came to see how you were doing...' he began.

'Fine thank you.' came the curt reply. Damn it all, he had closed his eyes again.

Mycroft's eyes roamed the immediate area of the sofa, it wasn't until he reached the corner of the coffee table that he saw it; a tiny syringe, half empty, lying discarded but not forgotten. Mycroft's shoulder's slumped and he felt a small twinge of grief.

'Oh Sherlock.' He sighed, 'you promised Mummy you wouldn't.'

'To hell with Mummy.'

Okay, this was the last straw. It was bad enough Sherlock plugging his veins with Heaven knows what, but to completely disregard a promise to their mother was just plain nasty.

'I would have thought you'd be out there looking for Dr Watson rather than 'deleting'.' Mycroft remarked angrily. 'You have a funny way of caring-'

'I don't care about John Watson.' Sherlock snapped coldly.

'That's bollocks Sherlock and you know it!' Mycroft shot back. Harsh certainly, but it had the desired effect, Sherlock opened his eyes and lifted himself off the sofa. He glared at Mycroft, and his brother saw that his pupil's were dilated and unfocused, the sure sign of a high.

'Oh really?' Sherlock snarled, glaring hatefully at his brother. 'Let me tell you something, a year ago John Watson didn't exist to me, not even a blip on the radar. When...if Markin kills him, he'll just be another corpse, another body in the morgue. It's sad, but that's the way it is.'

Typical Sherlock. Mycroft felt his heart twist with pity as he saw the blazing turmoil in the pale eyes. He had only ever seen that look before, when their father had first told them about the cancer...

'Strange, that you should be destroying yourself over a blip.' he retorted cooly. He knew it was harsh, but experience had taught him to be blunt with Sherlock, dancing around with careful words wasn't going to do John Watson any good.

'I am not 'destroying myself' Mycroft.' Sherlock spat back, 'I'm creating space in my brain. Don't you understand? I need to THINK!'

The single word echoed eerily around the flat, bouncing off the bullet-riddled walls. Mycroft rolled his eyes; that's quite enough sulking young man.

'While this is all very fine Sherlock' said Mycroft irritably, tapping his fingers on the sofa back, 'But could you be a little less melodramatic? You're giving me a headache.'

This earned him a glare from his brother, but Mycroft could tell he'd gotten through a little. Bending his head closer to Sherlock's, the elder Holmes spoke more softly than he'd done in years:

'Lockie please.' He whispered, using an old and abandoned nickname, Sherlock blinked owlishly at the term but made no attempt to answer back, so Mycroft pressed on. 'You've gotten through this before, you can get through it again. Your friend -and he is your friend, don't pretend any different- right now, is in danger and he needs you. He needs you clean. The police are trying but if you don't help there may be some almightly cock-up and John Watson won't come back. You're right, caring won't help save him, but action will.'

Bingo. A moisture began to brim in the depths of Sherlock's eyes, causing Mycroft to have two seperate reactions. One part piped up; Oh no, don't cry. Please. You haven't cried since you were four...oh Sherlock I couldn't bear it, please don't cry...

Another side of him cut across with a snarl; Go ahead. Cry. Go on that's it...prove to me you can do it. Show me there's a human underneath...

No tears came, and Mycroft wasn't quite certain how he felt about this. Running a hand through his hair he began to walk away.

'Wait.' The request came so suddenly Mycroft paused in his tracks. He turned to see Sherlock on his feet, eyes now clear and focused, holding the needle towards his brother.

'Take it away...' he said, clenching his jaw. He seemed to hesitate slightly before adding a quiet 'Please.'

Mycroft obliged. He would have Anthea dispose of it later. 'You know where to find me Sherlock, if you ever need-'

'I know. Thank you.'

On reflection, this was the closest the two brothers were ever likely to be again. They shared a quick nod and Mycroft was on his way. Sherlock followed him out of the window, all thoughts of self destruction gone. He couldn't be so selfish anymore, not now when John needed him...

I will not lose you.

...

This quickly descended into suckery. Sorry.

Been swept off my feet, literally, with work the past few weeks. 'Bat Boy' was a comlete success! Now gotta focus on 'The Villain's Opera', so please forgive the gaps between updates.

Next Chapter: Sherlock recieves another message, and John realises that it's no fun when your own brain cells gang up on you.