There was a delay in writing this chapter due to being sick and starting university. I felt like such a fan-girl when I found out my building is the Baker Building—I do not care I am glad I'm in the Baker Building! Plus, I keep looking around for a lonely student Sherlock so I can give him a hug to assure him that at least one person doesn't hate him. Anyway, please review! Constructive criticism is also welcomed and anonymous reviews, just let me know what you think. Also, I am contemplating on having a chapter looking back on Sherlock and how he got addicted to drugs in the first place. Any thoughts on this? Let me know in the reviews or message me, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Also, quickly, if you think Sherlock's falling back into drug addiction is too fast, then here is my reasoning for why I wrote it that way. In my point of view, Sherlock is a very fragile person and in scenes such as well Sebastian states in "The Blind Banker" that everyone at university hated him, he reveals that he is really just a vulnerable being who wound up being alone for most of his life. Now, John is the one person who praised his talents, who wasn't put off or agitated by them. He put up with Sherlock, and once that was gone, when he believed he'd ruined the first good thing to come into his life, Sherlock would punish himself in the one way he knows, which is through drugs.

Also I apologise for the spelling and grammatical errors in the previous chapter.

[SH]

Two weeks later...

People had always seemed replaceable to Sherlock; he could guarantee that he could find a near replica of a person without too great a difficulty. He was blind to the fine threads that connected people to one another, the strength of those ties and bonds did not exist to him. He had never been close to his family. Mycroft had been the favourite, and Sherlock was the one in the background, living in the cool shade of his brother's shadow. Sherlock did not care to keep in contact; if they wanted him, they could make the effort for once. To his disdain, they rarely did—save Mycroft of course who was keen to have his little brother under his thumb for the rest of his days.

When John went, Sherlock immediately assured himself that there was bound to be a substitute to fill in the tiny, insignificant space the doctor had left behind. But, even though he would never admit it to anyone, not even to himself, John had left a colossal void when he had gone.

Before John, Sherlock managed. That was all he was capable of doing when it came to taking care of himself; he just only just about manage it. Before John Watson, Sherlock's life had been frantic like violent waves, crashing and, at times, overwhelming and drowning him, though that was all part of the thrill. When the doctor arrived, he was able to pull Sherlock out when things became too much. John was more aware of Sherlock's limits than Sherlock himself. At the beginning, Sherlock saw this as agitating and annoying, and only when it was gone, did he realise how much he needed it. He needed someone to enter his frenetic world and to make it calm once in a while, take off some of the weight and offer a hand when he needed to be pulled back onto his feet.

The drugs were meant to be John's replacement. They were meant to clear his head. They were meant to make him better, make him calm. Sherlock realised that they were not doing that, that they were making him worse but just like John, he couldn't bear to see them go otherwise he would be completely and utterly alone with his vicious thoughts that scratched and engraved themselves into his skull.

[SH]

"You look awful."

Sherlock, who had had his hands over his eyes, spread his fingers slightly to peer through them to look at Lestrade. It had been exactly fourteen days, 336 hours and 20,160 minutes since John had exited from his life. It felt like such an immense amount of time, and Sherlock was bewildered as to how he had survived so long.

"Are you coming down with something?" Lestrade pried when he received no response, attempting to appear indifferent by the answer by shuffling through papers as if he were looking for something and was only inquiring to fill the silence.

"I keep getting—headaches," Sherlock replied, sliding his hands down his face and dropping back down onto the table with a thud. It wasn't exactly a lie, his head was throbbing, and his eyes felt like they had been open under water for a great amount of time. They stung so badly he had to keep rubbing them, making them red and puffy as though he had been crying.

Lestrade frowned a little, quirking an eyebrow and glancing over the papers briefly. "Maybe you ought to get that checked out," he suggested. He was about to add 'why don't you go to the doctor's about it' but noticed that it may draw attention to the fact that Sherlock's somewhat personal doctor wasn't around anymore.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning back in his seat. "I may just need to take some pain killers or something." Lestrade remained oblivious to the hint of a flash in the consulting detective's eyes.

"Yeah well, if it gets any worse—do something about it," Lestrade said, supposedly finding what he had been looking for and turning away.

Before he could go however, Sherlock added swiftly: "Have you found him yet?"

Lestrade twisted around, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He knew precisely to whom Sherlock was referring. "Nothing; it's as if he—never existed, like he was just a figment of our imaginations or something."

Sherlock gave a small nod. "I've been searching for signs of him, anything, for quite some time."

"So that's why you've been gracing us with your company," Lestrade said. "Just in case something pops up and we don't think to mention it to you."

Sherlock nodded again, connecting his fingertips into a steeple, lowering his head so the tip of his nose touched it. "No luck though. Everything I've chased up or looked into, just leads me to a dead, dull end." He exhaled. "He isn't dead, I know that for certain. No, I may need to talk to someone who got the closest to him, possibly without him even knowing it."

"Who's that?" Lestrade's ears pricked up at this.

"I need to pay a visit to Bart's morgue," Sherlock sprang up to his feet, grimacing a bit at the movement, tugged on his coat and wound his scarf around his neck. "Care to join me, Lestrade? Or do you want to go through some more blank pieces of paper to find an excuse to talk to me?"

Lestrade's face burned alarmingly red as he noticed the sheets of paper he'd been pretending to look at, were in fact blank. Sherlock smirked at him and brushed past him without waiting for the detective inspector to decide on whether he was going too or not. He knew the answer, and sure enough, Lestrade trailed on behind him, hot at his heels.

Sherlock had an odd thing about getting into the police car, so, after a heated debate he and Lestrade hailed a taxi and travelled in absolute silence. Sherlock seemed to be wading deep into his thoughts, so Lestrade sealed his lips and distracted himself by observing nothing in particular out of the window. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Sherlock tentatively massaging his temple and take out a white pill from his pocket, slotting it into his mouth. Minutes later, he became visibly more relaxed.

It didn't take them long to find Molly Hooper; as per usual she was down in the mortuary, timid and dainty as ever, but these mannerisms intensified when she laid eyes on the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes, who seemed oblivious to his effect on her.

"Ah, morning, Molly!" he greeted loudly, his baritone voice reverberating around them like a choir.

She was blushing fiercely, hanging her head low over her clipboard as she made notes on the deceased man on the table. "Oh—hello," she mumbled.

"Long time no see," Sherlock pressed on, taking in the sight of the dead man as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to be facing. "Listen, I hope you don't mind," he wrinkled his nose, sitting at the corner of the table so he was directly in front of Molly, forcing her to look into his face. "But detective inspector Lestrade and I have a few questions for you. Are you free now?"

"Oh—um—no, not really—I have to f-finish with Mr. Guillam and—"

"Please, Molly," Sherlock interrupted, suddenly skinned of the nice cheerful tone that was now deadly serious. The smile dropped from his face as he studied her expression in an imploring way. "We need to talk to you."

Lestrade uneasily witnessed the exchange, contemplating whether he should step in and offer a kinder word to ensure her that she wasn't in trouble. Before he could, she quietly agreed, zipping up the black bag to conceal the face of the late Mr. Guillam to be seen to later and she took them over into her office so they could talk in private.

She was blatantly very nervous, and she kept shakily brushing stray wisps of her hair behind her ear, bowing her head as if to hide the pink hue of her cheeks, though it had very little effect as Sherlock noticed them within seconds. He pressed onwards though; he was fully aware of what method to approach Molly Hooper with and he intended to use it to his advantage. As long as he remained endearing and complimentary, perhaps even flirty, they could get whatever they wanted out of her.

"D-do you want some coffee?" Molly asked tentatively.

"Oh no, Molly, we'll be fine," Sherlock countered hastily, tilting the corner of his mouth up into a crooked smile that didn't quite claim his pale eyes.

"Speak for yourself," Lestrade grumbled.

Molly glanced up at the detective inspector, unsure whether she should just make him a coffee. Noticing this, Sherlock pounced, eager to use the buzz he was getting from the pill to get answers.

"So," he clapped his hands loudly together, causing not only Molly to jump but Lestrade also. "Jim from IT wasn't quite—Jim from IT was he Molly?" she tensed. "Did you have any idea of his true identity?" he already knew what her answer was going to be.

"No!" Molly looked aghast, daring to look him straight in the eye. "I honestly didn't! Please believe me! I would never get involved with someone that—that—" her face went ashen for a moment and then she dropped her gaze down once more.

"After the phone number incident," Sherlock continued, unfazed by her response. "Did you confront him?"

Molly swallowed hard and gingerly nodded. "Yes...I was so angry...I went to speak to him as soon as I left. I—demanded to know if he was gay, if he was using me and what he was doing and he just—he told me he wasn't and that it wasn't his number under the dish. I knew it was, and I broke it off with him..." something was wrong the last part, Sherlock noted. Embarrassment eloped with her anxiousness, and his eyes widened slightly.

"He proved that he wasn't gay, didn't he?" Sherlock said, triumph burning hotly in his chest when she slowly raised her head again, her mouth parted and tears glimmering in her eyes. "He seduced you?"

Lestrade cleared his throat out of discomfort and fidgeted on the spot.

Molly said and did nothing for a while, just staring off into space as if she was reliving the moment. The pain, the anger, the humiliation danced hungrily in her eyes, and Sherlock grew impatient, desperate to know what sort of scene was playing in her mind. Eventually, she spoke again.

"Yes," she said quietly, closing her eyes so the tears collapsed down her face.

"What happened after that?"

She sniffed, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve and looking away. "Nothing really...we stayed together and for some time things were...they were nice." She gave a wan smile that instantly gave way to the great weight of her emotions. "Then the next thing I know, I find out he's resigned from Bart's and he's just...disappeared. He left me a note though—"

"What did it say?" Sherlock cut her off before she could even finish her sentence, his heart skipping a beat.

"It just said sorry," Molly replied, and Sherlock looked immensely disappointed. "Sorry and that he couldn't be with me anymore. It hurt but...I oddly didn't mind too much..."

"Do you still have the note?" Sherlock interjected a second time. Each of his muscles was taut under his flesh and they were even starting to hurt from the way they were all bunched up together. His knee started to jig and he leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped together under his chin, digging into her tear-filled eyes with his own, searching for something, anything.

Molly nodded, recoiling from the sudden closeness as if she couldn't stand to be near him. "It's in the bin over there."

Sherlock shot up and crossed over to the small bin that was sat next to the door, already dissecting it of its contents. There wasn't a lot in there, just plastic sandwich boxes, quite a few used tissues (from crying he guessed), and the odd apple cord but the note was there. It was only a little crumpled and the paper was tender in some places, indicating that she'd cried all over it making it brittle.

He straightened up once he'd gotten his hands on it and scanned his eyes over the scrawl. There was a lot more there than Molly had told them, yet it was mostly just about why he couldn't be with her anymore. It read:

Dearest Molly,

I'm afraid we cannot be together anymore. I have resigned from my job so to make things easier for you. I got a job offer in Cardiff and I'm going to take it. I'm sorry things have to end this way.

Jim

Sherlock reread it approximately six times before handing it over to Lestrade, who was eagerly holding out a hand to accept it. Already, ideas were zipping through his mind like fireworks but none had yet exploded, catching alight for him to behold. They had started to fade and he was engulfed by disappointment, biting his thumb the way he used to as a child whenever he was stressed.

"Cardiff...reckon that's where he is?" Lestrade said hopefully.

"No, it's too obvious," Sherlock said coolly. "He knew we would go to Molly, and that we'd see the note. He did it in hopes of making us dance around pointlessly. Besides, that's where the pink lady came from, remember? Just a little jab at me I suppose."

Lestrade wasn't entirely convinced, and made a mental note to call a couple of stations in Cardiff to ask questions later. He didn't mention this to Sherlock though, and shyly offered the piece of paper back to Molly, who went to accept it only to have it snatched by the consulting detective.

"It's still evidence," he snapped, stuffing it into his breast pocket. "Sorry, I'll have to confiscate it."

Molly didn't argue, and neither did Lestrade; they honestly didn't get chance to because after taking it, Sherlock strode out of the room without so much as a thank you or a goodbye.

"Sorry about that," Lestrade said to Molly, smiling faintly. "He's like that."

"I know," Molly murmured, playing with her ponytail absentmindedly. "I'm really sorry—about Jim. I truthfully had no idea..."

"No one blames you, you know," Lestrade assured her. "He outwitted Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake! Though the ruddy bastard would never admit to it, he got the better of him. So no one thinks badly of you, alright?"

Molly nodded and returned his smile. "Thank you," she whispered.

"No problem," Lestrade made for the door. "Mind how you go."

"You too," Molly returned.

[SH]

Mycroft liked to think he knew his little brother better than anyone else did. He liked to believe that he could read Sherlock in every language, in brail even, and he would still understand him with ease. He predicted what a mess Sherlock would make of his relationship with John, though he wasn't glad about it. He'd much rather have someone there all of the time to keep an eye on him, someone who could withstand his extreme mood changes and his brash and boorish behaviour. Still, it seemed no one was able to do that and it left Mycroft gravely disappointed.

Mycroft had been let up by Mrs Hudson, who always seemed reluctant to open the door to him at all because she would feel responsible for whatever argument or trouble ensued between the siblings. He had knocked on his brother's flat door, simply out of habit for he knew that Sherlock would be aware of whom it was paying a visit and would refuse to answer. Mycroft had a copy of the key anyway, and brought it forth from his coat pocket after waiting two minutes for Sherlock. He justified just waltzing into his brother's flat by telling himself that he'd given him the chance to let him in on his own accord.

The flat was in a grand state. It looked as though Sherlock had gathered every item he owned and had thrown it up into the air like confetti, allowing it to strew itself all over the floor. Every step he took forwards, Mycroft was not standing on carpet at all and he rolled his eyes, pulling a face at the revolting smell emanating from the kitchen, most likely drawn from Sherlock's various experiments that were no longer reined in by the sensible mind of Doctor Watson. He brought a hand to his face as he paused for a moment, listening out for any sound indicating his sibling's presence. The absolute silence would have indicated, to any normal person that he wasn't home but to Mycroft, this just suggested that he was either hiding out or asleep or just sitting stock still staring listlessly off into space.

Mycroft showed himself to Sherlock's room, doing his best to step over things that looked like they would break if he were to tread on them, using his umbrella to nudge them to the side out of harm's way. The kitchen looked disgraceful, and he told himself he would order his brother to clean it up once he found him. The bathroom was, surprisingly, neat and looked untouched apart from lavatory, which he gathered from the toilet paper nearly running out. He would have carried on if it weren't for the medicine cabinet. The door was left wide open, a majority of the contents was missing, either scattered on the floor or— Mycroft's eyes widened, and he went still.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, a strangled voice that was not often heard passing his lips. He ran to Sherlock's bedroom, his heart racing. It wouldn't be the first time he's done this...tried to see how far he could push himself to the edge of life just to find a reason to stay. "You better not be doing this to me again!"

The sight he found caused his heart to lurch in his chest and he bolted to his brother's side. White pills lay around him like autumn leaves. Sherlock had his eyes closed as he lay on his back, one leg dangling off the side of the bed, one arm lying across his stomach. Mycroft clutched his sibling's shoulders, lifting him up and roughly shaking him.

"Sherlock! How much have you taken? Tell me! How much have you taken?"

To his amazement, Sherlock's eyes opened and he looked almost bored with his brother's reaction, as if he had just woke him up to tell him something pointless. Mycroft stopped shaking him, stunned to find tears were trickling down his cheeks. He examined Sherlock briskly with his gaze and quickly calculated that his brother had not taken anything in fact. His chest constricted but still he couldn't bring himself to let him go.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said flatly. "You're hurting me. Could you do me a favour and loosen that gorilla like grip of yours. You always did use your weight against me; most people would call that playing dirty."

Mycroft usually would have reacted hotly to the quip, yet this time he was just relieved he still had this brother in front of him, no matter how spiteful he could be at times, no matter how cold and ignorant and arrogant—

He did as he was told, removing his hands and lowering them slowly to hang limply at his sides. The two brothers watched each other closely for some time. Sherlock smoothed out his clothes and sat up straight, leaning his back against the wall with his knees tucked up to his chest, winding his slender arms around them to keep them in place.

"You jumped to conclusions," Sherlock remarked. "You never do that. Usually, you give yourself a couple of minutes to work things out. You should really keep your head, Mycroft, in the heat of a moment to avoid making such stupid mistakes."

"Shut up," Mycroft countered, humiliated to find he was flushing at this comment. "It's near enough impossible to think rationally when it comes to your little brother, and thinking about him trying to kill himself—again."

"Oh God will you ever let that go?" Sherlock demanded exasperatedly. "I was nineteen!"

"Doesn't matter how old you were, Sherlock," Mycroft glowered at him. "You will always be my little brother, and I will always react the same. Even when you're ninety-years-old..."

"I'll never reach ninety," Sherlock interrupted. "Don't be daft."

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as that last statement really sunk in, and it made Mycroft feel secretly incredibly upset.

"What's with all the pills anyway?" Mycroft said abruptly as if remembering the reason for his current position in the first place.

Sherlock bit his lip, looking somewhat ashamed of himself. "I was thinking about it...you know...," he admitted. "But I really couldn't, there's too much exciting things going on right now."

Mycroft frowned. "Like what?"

Sherlock shrugged and, after receiving a spine tingling glare, sighed loudly. "Moriarty!"

"He's gone, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed out. "You have to let him go."

"You really are incredibly dense sometimes," Sherlock spat.

"No, you are the incredibly dense one," Mycroft bristled at the insult. He noticed how childish he sounded and dropped it, casting his eyes down to his lap.

"Why did you come over?"

Mycroft looked up. For a brief second, he completely forgot but he retrieved it rapidly. "I just wanted to check up on you." He gave a tight-lipped smile. When Sherlock didn't look convinced, he changed tack. "Sherlock, roll up your sleeves."

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked upwards as he figured out what was wanted from him. "Ah, I see what this is—"

"Sherlock," Mycroft intruded the snide reaction, rising to his feet to add to his authority. "Your sleeves, now."

They stared each other down, Mycroft's heart picking up frantic pace as Sherlock started to unbutton his cuffs without further argument. Sherlock rolled each of them up to the elbow roughly so to emphasise his disapproval, despite the action nipping painfully at his skin. Then he stretched out both of his arms so his pale forearms were visible for Mycroft to see. Mycroft reached out and took the left one, searching for any marks that appeared recent.

There were the faint scars of previous puncture marks, though there was no bruising and the skin didn't look abused or irritated in anyway. He took the right one just in case and, to his expanding comfort, found nothing that would suggest anything. His features went lax and his entire body slouched as if he had been freed from some vice that had entrapped him. Sherlock shook his brother off and started to roll his sleeves back down, his face somewhat red.

"Thank you," Mycroft said softly prior to turning away and heading for the door.

"For what?" Sherlock called after him.

Mycroft hovered in the doorway for some time, his back to his sibling thankfully so he wouldn't be able to see the tears gathering like a storm in his eyes once more.

"For sticking to your promise this time," he replied once he was brave enough to speak without his voice giving way.

And with that, Mycroft Holmes took his leave.

[SH]

They were watching 'Love Actually' when the hand of the clock touched eleven that night, and the instant the credits started to roll, John turned off the television set, stretching his aching joints. When he started to yawn, Sarah covered his mouth with her hand, bringing him to look over to her. He smiled warmly at her, holding her hand there and pressing his lips to her palm.

"Tired already?" she asked innocently.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he said, intertwining their fingers.

"I don't mind, I have to be up at six tomorrow anyway," she ran her thumb along the roof of his hand.

John went to give her a kiss goodnight when she touched his chest, halting him in his movement. She ran her hand down, feeling the flutter of her heart against it as she did so.

"You know—you don't have to sleep on the lie low, don't you?" she breathed. "I want to wake up to you tomorrow. Could you do that for me?"

John swallowed and nodded, eyes dancing from hers to her slightly parted lips, which he then greeted with his own in a deep, loving kiss.

That night, John slept in Sarah's bed and for the first time, they made love. It wasn't a matter of spontaneous pleasure seeking, it wasn't frantic or crazy or even heated. It was tender, and though they desired one another, they just lay together like a husband and a wife, who had loved and had each other for a very long time. They were sharing themselves, revealing their old scars, their hidden freckles, and birthmarks. They were stripped down to their very core, and were allowing the other to witness it comfortably. John lay beside her afterwards; she was lying on her front with her head turned to face him, her arms tucked up with her chest with her back rising and falling slowly in sleep. John stroked the hair from her face, and pressed a doting kiss to her forehead.

While John was sharing his body with Sarah, Sherlock was lying on his sofa, Dionysus sitting on his tongue and then he gulped it down without the assistance of any liquid, savouring the discomfort he felt as he did so. His mind turned to John right then, imagining what would happen if he had burst in on him as his brother had done. What would he say? What would he do? Would he take Sherlock in his arms the way Mycroft did? Would he shake him roughly? Would he be saddened or angered? Would he kiss him and curse him half-heartedly for being so foolish? Sherlock's breath hitched as the tears shimmered in his eyes, dribbling down his cheeks.

Mycroft sat in his office, hands clasped under his chin as he cried without a sound, his shoulders heaving with the soundless sobs that cut through him.

Police cars were packed into a thin street, and Lestrade stepped out under the flashing red and blue lights of the sirens. He looked about him, the wind freezing cold against his face. He was approached by Donovan who held out a plastic baggie and in it; Lestrade saw was the pink phone...

TBC