Sherlock kneeled on the cold, tile floor in only his pajamas. He pressed the sharp metal to his arm, hissing slightly as it slid into his skin. He pressed hard, making the metal cut deeper. Then he ripped his hand away snarling. He stared at the wound with mild curiosity. Wide and deep and red and pink. If this were a different situation, he'd have to get staples or stitches. But he wasn't going to get them. He blew a stream of air on the open cut. He shivered at the stinging it caused. He slowly lowered his arm, resting it on his leg. And that's how Mycroft found him, kneeling, bloody and broken.

Sherlock jerked awake, jarring John awake as he did so. He was shaking from head to foot at the memory. He thought he'd deleted it. He thought it was gone, but there it was, cropping back up in his dreams. His breath came out in shallow pants as he tried to clear his mind and once again delete the memory.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, "Are you ok?"

"No!" Sherlock shouted, "I'm not ok! I deleted that memory! It was gone! John! Why is it back?!"

Sherlock flipped John over and straddled his hips, gripping John's upper arms and snarling. He squeezed the arms and glared down at John, demanding an answer.

"Sherlock, calm down," John pleaded with him.

"No! Why is a deleted memory back in my mind?!" Sherlock shouted, pressing harder on John's arms.

"I-i-I don't know, Sh-Sherlock," John answered, tearfully.

Sherlock's thin fingers melded into John's skin, gripping tighter and tighter. He leaned his face in.

"You're supposed to know!" he screamed at John.

John choked and whimpered slightly.

"Y-y-you're h-hurting m-me," John whimpered.

"Well, good!" Sherlock screeched.

Then Sherlock leaned further down and bit John on the neck. It was no playful nip or sensual scraping of teeth. No, it was a bite. Like a dog or a vampire or a wild cat. Sherlock wasn't in his mind any longer, his urges and instincts were taking him over. He was furious at the doctor who was shrieking and squirming beneath him. It's your fault! He screamed in his mind, you make me feel like this!

He tasted blood in his mouth and sucked on the wound. John shuddered and struggled harder. Sherlock pulled his face up and bared his teeth at John. John's eyes widened in fear and confusion. Sherlock laughed, throwing his head back as he did so. How very silly, you idiotic man. You think that somewhere deep down I'm good, Sherlock thought as he flipped his head back to glare at John, but I'm not. Nowhere in me is there good.

Sherlock grinded his hips against John, licking at the bite. John froze. Sherlock laughed again and put his teeth back in the bite mark. John choked again and Sherlock looked up to see tears running down his face. He licked them up; happy he was the one to make them. He started to devour John's lips when the door opened. Sherlock turned to glare at whoever it was that was interrupting his revenge.

"You had better get off of him, brother," Mycroft said firmly, ice dripping from his voice.

Sherlock snarled at him and refused to move. Then Lestrade came around the corner, gun pointed at Sherlock's head.

"Do as he said," Lestrade commanded, "I will shoot you."

Sherlock hissed at Lestrade and turned back to John. John looked up at him with tearful, pleading eyes. Blood dripped down from the bite in his neck. Sherlock leapt back suddenly. Oh my god, what have I done? He scrambled back off the bed and half crawled to the door, trying to get out of there as soon as possible. He pushed past Mycroft and Lestrade and ran down the hallway. He collapsed not too long into the fleeing, partially from weakness and partially from the sobs that threatened to take him over. He curled up and buried his face in his knees.

"Have a cigarette," Mycroft's voice insisted from his right.

Sherlock looked over to see his brother holding out the item in question, already lit. He took it with shaky hands and stuck it in his mouth. Several drags later he rested his wrist on his knee.

"What have I done?" he whispered in a hoarse voice.

"Don't worry; Dr. Watson is very resilient," Mycroft assured him.

"That's not quite the point," Sherlock snapped, "Why…why would I do such a thing?"

"I imagine you're mad at him," Mycroft supplied, "Probably because he made you fall in love with him."

Sherlock's head whipped around so fast he was sure he pulled something.

"Wha-what!" he sputtered, "D-don't be absurd!"

"Why did you take those drugs, Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned.

Sherlock flinched at the question. Mycroft had never asked him that before.

"Because…he didn't come home," he admitted.

"Why is he so important then?" Mycroft pressed.

"Because…" Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say the despicable word, "Because he's not like everyone else."

"He's captured your heart, little brother," Mycroft insisted, "And you can't stand it. That's why you attacked him. I'd say that plus a great deal of sexual tension."

Sherlock blushed and looked down at the burning cigarette in his hand.

"Mycroft," he hesitated, "I don't know what to do."

"I'd say you should apologize first," Mycroft offered, "Then tell him you love him and explain why you did what you did. Then you can probably get through that sexual tension."

Sherlock blushed again.

"Um. Mycroft, how do i-," Sherlock started, but Mycroft slapped a hand over his mouth.

"I suggest you do not finish that sentence," Mycroft said firmly, "If you still need advice about it after you and Dr. Watson make amends, then you can ask. Before then I refuse to give you sexual advice."

Sherlock nodded his understanding and Mycroft pulled his hand away. Sherlock pressed his lips together in an effort to hold back all of the questions that filled his mind at the words "sexual tension".

"Dr. Watson needs some time," Mycroft said, as he stood up, "Lestrade has taken him out for a bit. When he gets back, I suggest you explain yourself."

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft turned to leave.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called.

His brother turned and quirked an eyebrow at him. Sherlock's mind flashed through a million images of the help that Mycroft had given him over the years. The help he refused and the help he didn't deserve. He looked down at his hands, nervous with the sudden sentiment.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"You're welcome, Sherly," Mycroft answered.

Sherlock's head snapped up at the use of the childhood nickname, but Mycroft was already several steps away. Sherlock watched as his elder brother walked away and was struck by how silly he'd been to him his whole life. He never once realized that Mycroft cared about him. Mycroft was probably the only person that cared about him besides John. He choked back the tears and scolded himself for his sentiment, but his lips turned up in a smile anyway.