Here's chapter four and though Sherlock might seem a little OOC to you people I don't know as to how he would react to such a situation as this but I'm guessing due to the fact that the general consensus is that he has difficulty in identifying his feelings that his response to this is quite appropriate (I know I'd probably react to this in much the same manner so...) Anyway, without further ado...

ENJOY

Kasey

...

CHAPTER FOUR

...

REALITY AND SHATTERED DREAMS...

...

...

"One is easily fooled by that which one loves" - Jean Baptiste Poquelin Moliere.

...

...

Sherlock paced up and down the length of the sitting room, trying to control his worry and his fear and his anger and self-loathing as Lestrade stood uselessly in the doorway to the flat looking at Sherlock like he was the one who needed help! John was probably in danger, he was probably hurt, he had probably been taken by one of their enemies and being tortured this very second! He was probably-

"Sherlock, you know we have to wait forty-eight hours until you can officially report John as missing," Lestrade cut into Sherlock's thoughts and the younger man stopped pacing long enough to pierce Lestrade with one of the most withering gazes that he had ever received. Lestrade sighed and held up a hand, "I know you're worried Sherlock and I am too but maybe he's gone to visit his sister-"

"Hardly, the last time John actually spoke to his sister was two months before he moved in when he was still recovering in hospital; he hasn't mentioned wanting to get in contact with his sister beyond the occasional phone call and e-mail. I also highly doubt that he would have spent the night at her home when she's recently broke up with her partner and is slipping back into old habits," Sherlock said decisively and Lestrade repressed the urge to physically stop the now pacing man.

"A friends then!" he said exasperated already and he'd only been in the room for just over five minutes. He was sure John Watson had friends other the Sherlock and it seemed that the detective knew this too since the response the man gave him sounded so uncertain and so human that it made Lestrade pause for a moment.

"No, not very close friends; I don't think he has any friend who he'd stay the night with, I don't think he does..." Sherlock tried to argue but there was now a growing feeling of anxiety in his chest, warring for space next to the anger, fear and self-loathing. He stopped pacing a stared at his hands not noticing how Lestrade frowned at him in concern, "there's only me... isn't there?"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked tentatively taking a step closer to the now inert man, "just how did this all come about? John leaving last night and not returning?" he already had a fair guess but he wanted to hear it from Sherlock's own mouth to confirm his suspicions because if this was just a verbal spat that Sherlock was over-reacting to then Lestrade could tell the man straight up that John would be back by noon at the latest; and it was only nine-forty-five now so there was plenty of time.

Sherlock blinked and looked at Lestrade almost as though the man had dared to encroach on a very sensitive topic, and Lestrade knew from his own experiences with significant others that he had to tread carefully or he might just end up nursing a bruised jaw by the time he left Baker Street; with Sherlock arrested for assaulting a police officer as well. Lestrade was sure the young man was going to respond with some sort of scathing comment about his lack of intelligence and such so he was surprised, gob-smacked actually, when Sherlock answered him in a small delicate voice, "I didn't mean it..."

Lestrade sighed and said, trying to make his words sound firm but not insensitive because he did understand verbal spats it was just there were other things he could be dealing with at this moment in time, "I'm sorry Sherlock but if this is just a tiff between you both then I can't get involved; there are other things I need to deal with, like murders," Sherlock glared at him and Lestrade took a hesitant step back towards the door but only because he needed to be on his way not because he was scared of getting sucker-punched, "I really am sorry Sherlock."

Turning around Lestrade made his way down the stairs to the front door of 221 b Baker Street and he was aware that Sherlock was standing on the landing in front of the stairs watching him leave, so he resisted the urge to sigh or look over his shoulder as he opened the door to come face-to-face with none other than John Watson who was staring at him holding his key in an outstretched hand. Behind the doctor was a tall, older man dressed in a suit that Lestrade guessed probably cost more than his annual salary and he also noticed that the man had a split lip which made his eyebrows raise in surprise, "Doctor Watson, nice to see you; I was just checking on Sherlock here, he was under the assumption that you'd been kidnapped."

John winced slightly at that and muttered darkly, "he wasn't far off the mark," before stepping back to let Lestrade past, bumping into the suited man behind him whose name Lestrade didn't know. As Lestrade left 221 b he noticed that John almost dived through the door to get away from the well-dressed tall man and it did make him curious but it wasn't his business so he bid John a good-day and climbed into his police car, setting off for Scotland Yard.

...

...

Sherlock stood at the top of the staircase and stared in silence as John dived through the door and Mycroft, his bloody thieving bastard of a brother, stepped in behind his John. He was so happy to see John that he didn't really bother giving Mycroft more than a quick look before his attention focused entirely on the doctor who had froze on the first step of the stairs looking up at him. Neither of them spoke, they just stared at each other; Sherlock looking at John feeling happy that he was home, worried that he wasn't talking, guilty for what he'd said and angry that he'd stayed out all night and had brought Mycroft into their home. John was looking at Sherlock feeling guilty for what he'd done, shameful of the fact that he didn't entirely regret it, angry with himself for betraying Sherlock and happy that the younger man hadn't blown himself up in his absence.

Their stationary staring was broken though when Mycroft cleared his throat rather pointedly though you'd think that after what he'd done that he'd be trying to melt into the wood-work. Sherlock blinked and his attention was riveted from John and onto Mycroft in a heartbeat; he frowned as he took in the fact that Mycroft seemed to have a split-lip and from what he could see a slight discolouring around his right eye, like the beginnings of a black eye. How had that happened? Who had done that to Mycroft? He'd give them a commendation.

Oh... of course; he knew only one person, besides himself, who wouldn't be worried or intimidated by his brother and that one person was staring at him in mixed guilt, regret, worry and happiness. What had Mycroft done that had warranted his calm and collected doctor hitting him this side of Sunday? Maybe he had said something that John had found particularly offensive? No, John wouldn't deck someone merely because they insulted him; oh, maybe Mycroft said something about him, Sherlock and John hit him for it? That sounds a bit more plausible but Sherlock was more inclined to believe that Mycroft had tried to do something and John had given him what-for for trying. Was he right about that or was he wrong? He couldn't be completely wrong because the evidence was there, proof that John had a mean right hook.

"Perhaps I should leave?" Mycroft asked politely, drawing Sherlock's attention from his own internal ramblings, and he was about to tell him that that was an excellent idea only for John to swirl around and pierce Mycroft with such a deadly look that Sherlock was sure his brother almost withered; on the inside of course.

"No! You are not leaving," John said darkly, firmly, commandingly and Sherlock shivered at the tone of John's voice; never in all the time he'd known the man had he heard such a tone from him. A tone that bore no argument unless someone wanted to actually be shot, "You are going to explain everything you bastard."

And that caught Sherlock's attention because those words had such an underlying tone to them that he barely registered the fact that John had turned on his heel and was now walking, marching, up the stairs until the man was literally a step down from him. He quickly moved aside as he saw that John wasn't in the mood to wait for him to move and would have probably ploughed right through him. Mycroft took a deep breath and Sherlock noticed that his brother seemed to have paled somewhat which made him wonder about what it was exactly that he brother was going to explain.

Mycroft started up the stairs, slowly but surely, almost as though he could avoid the upcoming confrontation if he took long enough but alas it wasn't to be because John was standing patiently, if you called standing to attention in such an obviously tense and angered stance patient, waiting for Mycroft to enter the sitting area. Sherlock followed behind his brother and closed the door giving them the illusion of privacy since Mrs Hudson was downstairs pottering about her kitchen.

"Well, I don't know what you want me to say John," Mycroft started, his voice his usual indifferent tone except for when he said John's name, it turned suggestive, darker and more elusive; and it made Sherlock want to growl and scratch his brother's eyes out with his hands.

John for the most part wasn't fazed by Mycroft's suggestive leer and instead cut across him, his voice deceptively calm and it reminded Sherlock of the calm before the storm; just what the storm would be at this present moment in time Sherlock didn't know and for some reason he had a feeling in his stomach that made him not want to know, "You are going to explain to Sherlock why I didn't return home last night. You are going to explain to Sherlock how this all came about. You are going to explain to him just how responsible for this entire thing you really are."

If Sherlock didn't know the ex-army doctor so well he would have been rather disconcerted by the cold finality and the calm politeness that John spoke in; in fact, if he wasn't so brilliant and couldn't deduce a person's entire life going solely on what type of shoes they wore then he would have thought that John was the sociopath not himself. And it seemed that his brother was also having a similar thought because he saw his brother's face pale more so and watched him fiddle with the ever-present umbrella in his grip; a very tight, apprehensive grip he noted.

"Come now John, I don't think you can lay all the blame on me? You're as much at fault as I am," Mycroft said smoothly, his voice not betraying the utter guilt, worry and abject fear that he was feeling; he had never felt fear like this, this was the sort of fear that he half-expected young, inexperienced soldiers would have felt in the trenches during World War Two. He felt like anything he did or said now would just ensure he ended up in an early grave and the chances of survival dwindled quicker and quicker, spiralling down and down the plug hole as John stared at him coldly, not giving anything away. Absolutely nothing and the doctor had such an expressive face so it was scary that there was a mask being worn, and rather effectively too.

"This would never have had happened had it not been for you," John countered softly, firmly and Sherlock suddenly, unintentionally was reminded of something someone had said to him once, years ago; "dark madness has no better mask than that of soft politeness from a fractured mind" and he shivered because he couldn't help but compare John's voice, John's now soft and polite voice to what this person had said to him. But he knew that John wasn't mad, he wasn't what society would call sane either because hey he lived with Sherlock but he wasn't mad, he wasn't insane... but his voice now... it was... terrifying and he was quite happy that John wasn't talking to him because he strongly believed that his response would not be unlike his elder sibling, "Explain now please."

Mycroft blinked as a new surge of fear made itself known inside of him, the way this man had said please to him was more unnerving to him than the look, the voice and even the blank mask with cold, deadly eyes all because it was the type of thing one would expect a serial killer to say to his next victim before he gutted them or the likes. He had to forcibly stop himself from starting to hyperventilate as he felt his body react to the fear he felt and release a far amount of adrenalin into his system; a pre-designed response to the feeling of fear that had been built upon and perfected by several millennia of evolution. And who was he, Mycroft Holmes, to question evolution?

Nodding cautiously Mycroft acquiesced to the doctor's polite demand and began to speak, not looking at John or Sherlock and focusing on the wall just to John's left as though it was the most fascinating thing in existence, "after my initial attempt to get you two together I met a rather unexpected obstacle; namely myself and my unintentional feelings for- for Doctor Watson. I am afraid that due to this I found myself in the mind set wherein I would not rest until I h-had Doctor Watson f-for myself."

He swallowed thickly and he could feel the shock, hate, anger and utter murderous intent rolling off his brother, "I decided to plan ahead, setting everything up so at the right moment I could finally have what I had worked so hard to acquire. It had taken me weeks to prepare for l-last night when I sent you a t-text asking for a-assistance S-Sherlock," his eyes accidentally swept across the room and settled on Sherlock for a single moment before returning to the wall; but a single moment was more than enough time for him to see just how hurt and angry he'd made his brother.

"I suspected that you would end up arguing due to your boredom and the lack of development in your latest case so I knew my t-text would send you over the edge and you would therefore drive Doctor Watson away from you," and now John's facade broke, now Mycroft and Sherlock could see just how guilty John truly felt and how angry he was at Mycroft, "I found him on Westminster Bridge in a rather... intoxicated state and offered to return him home but he declined due to the fact that he d-didn't want to see you in such a state as he was in; therefore I took him to my home and w-we uh..." he couldn't say it. He couldn't, he just couldn't because he didn't want to feel ashamed about the fact that he'd had John Watson; every single part and piece of him.

Sherlock whispered, dreading the answer, "what? What did you do?" and he looked brokenly from his brother to John who was now looking at him and allowing him to see everything that John was feeling at that moment in time. He could see remorse, self-loathing, hate for himself, anger and fear swirling in John's eyes and exuding from his every pore as the man blinked back tears.

"I'm sorry Sherlock... I'm so sorry..." John whispered sounding just as broken as Sherlock looked and felt, and Sherlock's world turned a different colour; the colour of betrayal, of pain, of hurt. It became sour and bitter and like a poisoned apple. And he couldn't breathe because he knew, he just knew what had happened between them... he could just imagine it... imagine them...

"I'm sorry..." Sherlock echoed numbly, "You're sorry..." and he laughed, he laughed a bitter and broken laugh, the laugh of a tormented man who had just had the ground beneath torn away and he was in free-fall, falling, falling, "you're sorry! And that makes it all better doesn't it John! That makes all this," he waved a hand in the air as he stood up almost as though he was in a broken and hurt daze, "okay! It makes the fact that you fucked my brother alright doesn't it!"

He couldn't stop himself, he couldn't control himself, he couldn't breathe and he couldn't think. He needed to get away, he needed to be free, to disappear into a haze of nothingness... he needed a fix but he had nothing... so he settled for almost running from the sitting area and into his room, slamming the door behind him. And once in there he collapsed on his bed, curled up and cried; he cried for the first time in years, he cried tears of agony and hurt and betrayal as he heart, his newly discovered heart broke and shattered into a million pieces. He felt like he was dying... he felt like he wanted to die... he wanted it to stop... why wouldn't it stop?

...

...

To Be Continued...

Well... if I didn't hate myself before I definitely do now... I am beyond evil for doing this aren't I hmm? And how the heck am I meant to fix this! T.T

God I need to write a fic with a SIMPLE plot for once... you know; beginning, middle, end. Not; intro, squiggle, beginning, squiggle, squiggle, climax, BIG SQUIGGLE, middle, BIGish squiggle, second-climax, squiggle, end, squiggle, prologue...

I can't wait for college to start now... :D

Anyway, tell me what you think and such because I really could do with some feedback on this chapter in particular... Thank you

Kasey!