Sherlock paced around the room, unable to sit down. His hands shook in his jittery effort to stay calm. He checked the clock on the wall again. 11:32…he should be here by now. Where is he? Sherlock's mind thought of a million things that could be happening and he didn't like any of them. He wanted John to hurry up and get home so he could apologize. However, John had apparently decided he wasn't coming home today.
"It's almost midnight!" Sherlock screeched, "He should be here! Why isn't he here? Is he really that mad…maybe he's scared. Oh my god, I'm such an idiot!"
He paced about furiously as the clock ticked behind him on the wall. Slowly, his agitation built. Pretty soon his left eye was twitching and he was pulling at his hair like a mad person. The clock behind him ticked and ticked, seemingly unaware of his crisis. He felt his chest tighten and he could hardly breathe.
"He's not coming back! He's not coming back!" he yelled shrilly at the clock.
The clock ticked on, apparently not caring if John came back or not.
"He has to come back!" Sherlock yelled at the clock, "Don't you see? I need him!"
The clock only ticked in response.
"Do you think he'll come back?!" Sherlock demanded in a high pitched voice.
The clock ticked and ticked, leaving the question unanswered.
"He said he would never leave!" Sherlock screamed at the clock, "But I did something awful!"
The clock just stared at him, ticking.
"Quit that!" Sherlock shrieked at it.
But the clock kept ticking, laughing at Sherlock.
"Stop it! It isn't funny!" Sherlock cried, pulling at his hair.
The clock kept ticking, maddeningly refusing to stop. Sherlock leapt forward and sent his fist through the clock's face. The clock kept ticking. He sent his fist through it again and again and again until the clock was in ruins and tiny shards of glass were stuck in his knuckles. He stared down at the glass in wonder. He picked out the pieces, unaware that tears streamed down his face. He sat down heavily on the floor and pulled his knees to his chest, sobbing hard into them.
Mycroft watched as his little brother dissolved into tears. He desperately wanted to send Dr. Watson over there immediately, but he knew the doctor needed some time and it would just be worse if he sent him now. Mycroft considered going over to the house to comfort him, but the Holmes brothers never really did that sort of thing. He turned back to the leather-bound notebook in front of him. He scribbled down a few more words, before reading back over the paragraph. He sighed at the words.
"This is by far the most embarrassing thing I have ever done," he muttered.
The notebook was filled three-quarters of the way with all of the information in Mycroft's head pertaining to sex with a man. It wasn't exactly an extensive knowledge, but it was enough to have enjoyable experiences. It was the basics; it was what Sherlock needed to know. Mycroft hoped Sherlock would read through it, memorize it, and then burn it. And then never, ever speak of it again.
"I should've made Greg do this," Mycroft grumbled.
Not that Greg knew any more than Mycroft did. Or does he? Mycroft wondered. He hadn't really thought about that before. His face got red, thinking about whatever hidden knowledge Greg might have inside his graying head. Mycroft pushed that out of his mind and looked back through the notebook, adding notes in the margins here and there. He sighed again as he closed the notebook.
"The things I do for you, brother," he mumbled at the monitor that showed his brother.
Mycroft squinted to see what Sherlock was up to and saw that he was still curled up in a corner. But he was breathing slowly and steadily and was no longer crying. He'd finally fell asleep. Mycroft gave a half-smile out of relief.
Little note: I know, I know! It's so short. X.x I promise I'll update soon! Love you all!