The luxury car pulls into Baker Street just as the sun is setting over London. It's been an uneventful trip, with both Sherlock and John still in good spirits even though their time away had been cut short. But as John spies Mycroft waiting patiently at the doorway of 221 he feels his heart sink slightly. There's something about his demeanour and stance that gives John an awful sense of foreboding, for whilst Mycroft is as utterly composed and immaculately groomed as always, his limbs and very being seemed dragged down by a weight so unmistakable that it might as well be physical. John glances at Sherlock, who judging from his own expression has made similar observations, but neither of them say anything. There's a sense that whatever awaits them is inevitable and that there's nothing they can say or do that will change the fact. They get out of the car and collect their bags from the trunk of the car before joining Mycroft at the doorway.

"Sherlock. John," he says, nodding his head by way of solemn greeting, and the three of them start to ascend the stairs to 221B.

"Mind telling us what this is all about, dear brother?" Sherlock says, trying his best to sound impatient, but even John can tell that it's a cover for his sudden nerves.

John can't blame him, feeling distinctly troubled himself at Mycroft's unusual behaviour.

"All in good time, Sherlock," Mycroft responds.

His tone much gentler than John is used to hearing from him, which only serves to make him feel worse. John lets them into the flat, deposits his overnight bag at the foot of the stairs and heads to the kitchen to sort out tea, though something tells him they'll need something stronger. When he comes back into the living room with a tray of mugs, he finds Mycroft settled in Sherlock's chair and takes a seat next to Sherlock on the couch. John passes a sugary tea to Sherlock and takes a sip of his own, surveying Mycroft carefully.

"So what's this all about then, another royal scandal that we need to keep hidden from the public?" he jokes, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Nothing like that, I'm afraid," Mycroft replies evenly, setting down his mug and folding his hands neatly in his lap.

"I don't really know how to tell you this, other than to just come right out and say it."

His expression is uncertain in a way that John has only seen a couple of times before, and John senses Sherlock grow even tenser beside him.

"Eurus is dead."

For what seems an eternity the room is silent, too silent, with the weight of Mycroft's words hanging heavily in the air. John chances a glance at Sherlock, who looks utterly shell-shocked. It's John who manages to speak first.

"What happened?"

"Despite the increased security at Sherrinford, Eurus managed to escape again. She took out security personnel and temporarily disabled the surveillance, though we're still not entirely sure how. By the time the situation was escalate it was too late. Eurus was already outside and they couldn't reach her in time. She threw herself off the cliff."

At this John has a strong visual of the terrible scene. The pale figure standing at the cliff edge, the furious wind whipping her hair and white dress, her face as she plunged to her untimely death.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft finishes.

His expression is so pained and compassionate that John can hardly stand it. But Sherlock's expression remains unchanged and John can sense he's only half with them as his mind struggles to rapidly process this information. He reaches out and carefully places his hand on Sherlock's, his thumb stroking the skin soothingly. The gesture seems to bring Sherlock back to the present.

"No," he says, his voice as strong and cool as steel.

"I don't believe it."

"It is with deep regret that I must assure you that it's true, brother mine. I wish it weren't."

"No," Sherlock repeats, rapidly getting to his feet.

"No, it makes no sense! Why would she do that? What would be her motivation? I saw her only two weeks ago and she was the same as always, she was-"

"She was mentally ill, Sherlock," Mycroft interrupts, his voice cautious but certain.

But Sherlock is pacing now, working himself up to a state reminiscent of an active volcano, and John and Mycroft can only spectate from the sidelines as he spirals out of control.

"No, she was a genius. IS a genius. Don't you see?"

Sherlock pauses and looks between their baffled faces with exasperation.

"This is all just another one of her clever plans!"

"She is gone," Mycroft says softly. "I'm afraid that is the truth. And you need to accept it."

"Well I don't!" Sherlock snarls, slamming his fist against the nearest wall.

Silence falls but Sherlock is pacing once again, full of nervous energy.

"The body," he says suddenly, bluntly.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft replies.

"If she's really dead I need to see her body. To identify her."

"It hasn't yet been recovered from the waters surrounding Sherrinford. Given weather conditions at the time of the event, and the overall treacherous conditions surrounding Sherrinford, it is possible that her body may never be recovered."

"How convenient," Sherlock says, and his eyes meet Mycroft's in a wordless challenge.

They stare at each other in icy silence for several long moments. John feels desperately torn between wanting to help in somehow and not wanting to get in the way.

"So that's it then is it brother?" Sherlock spits.

"From you who knows better than anyone that things aren't always as they appear. You who knows better than anyone what's she is capable of."

"I do," Mycroft agrees. "But not this time."

Sherlock growls in frustration, the speed of his pace increased, hands going to his hair and pulling frantically at the wild curls. Before John knows what he's doing he's jumped up to stand before Sherlock, catching his arms with his own hands.

"Sherlock, stop," he says quietly.

Their eyes lock and John feels a slight shiver at Sherlock's expression of cold desperation, his own expression a silent plea. He attempts to draw the man closer to him, and for a moment it seems that Sherlock will accept the comfort. But then he's pushing John away, firmly but not forcefully, his gaze now trained to the floor.

"I'm sorry," he says breathlessly. "I can't. I need to be alone."

And with that he storms to his bedroom, the door slamming heavily behind him. John fights the impulse to follow, knowing that Sherlock needs space but worried about what he'll do. He looks to Mycroft helplessly, seeking direction despite himself. Mycroft's features are heavy with sorrow and regret, and John can't help but feel that his emotions seem genuine.

"Let him go, John," he says, his voice weary.

"But what if-"

"The flat is clean. I made sure of it before I brought you both back from Cambridge to break the news."

John sighs, relieved to hear this even through the small wave of anger that washes over him at this regular invasion of privacy.

"I trust that you will keep a close eye on him though. There's no telling what he might do in this state."

John nods in agreement, suddenly feeling exhausted at the possibilities.

"You know how to reach me if needed. Regrettably, I have my doubts that Sherlock will accept help from me in any form. In his mind, everything that has happened is my fault."

And John feels an unexpected surge of sympathy for the older Holmes brother and the burden he bears.

"I'll take care of him. I promise."

Mycroft gives him a small, sad smile as he stands to take his leave.

"I know you will, John. Even though Sherlock doesn't often say it, he appreciates your support immensely. You mean more to him than you will ever know."

As he says these last words, a strange expression crosses Mycroft's face, as though he's said more than he intended to, more than he should have. But before John can even be sure he saw something, the brief moment of indiscretion is gone. With a short thank you, Mycroft takes his leave, leaving John alone in the living room.

The two weeks following the news about Eurus had been unequivocally difficult. All John had to compare it to was Sherlock's grief when Irene Adler had "died". But although some elements were the same – the unending silence, the tangible sorrow – this time he was more like a cyclone and it was all John could do to stay out of the path of destruction. Sherlock had been manic in a way that John had never seen him before, chewing through cases so quickly that John could barely keep them straight. Worryingly, Sherlock had become convinced that every case he took on had a potential link to Eurus or a hint that she was somehow involved. When one case would fail to materialise the evidence he wanted, he would frantically scour his emails and the comments on John's blog for hours on end for potential leads, and the whole cycle would repeat itself. As much as John wanted to believe Sherlock's deductions, as much as he usually would, he knew that he couldn't go along with it this time. Someone needed to be on the outside, making sure they didn't both get sucked into the black hole.

Trying to take a practical approach so he could feel as though he was at least doing something, John had taken to leaving small high energy snacks in his wake in places where Sherlock would find and devour them without really paying too much attention. Getting him to sleep had been a far bigger challenge, and John estimated that his micro sleeps all added up to barely a few hours a day, which as a doctor he knew wasn't even sustainable in the short-term. Late one night several days into this madness, he'd been on the verge of drugging Sherlock's tea with sleeping pills, unethical as he knew this was, when there had thankfully been the slightest bit of relief. He'd been lying in bed, unable to sleep from the stress of it all, when he'd heard careful footsteps outside his door. John had kept perfectly silent and still as Sherlock had slowly entered the room and crawled into bed beside him. And he'd so desperately wanted to roll onto his side and hold Sherlock close, tell him that everything would be okay, but he had a strong suspicion that this would only scare Sherlock away. Sherlock was gone before John awoke the next morning – he anticipated Sherlock had slept for maybe four hours, which was nowhere near enough but better than nothing – and neither of them spoke of it that day.

This pattern had repeated itself ad nauseam over the past two weeks. John felt lost and helpless, now feeling as though he were watching an impending car crash in slow motion, unable to affect the inevitable and devastating outcome. He'd tried gently talking to Sherlock during one of his slightly calmer periods but his friend would barely say two words, reassuring him almost convincingly that he was fine. John had brought him an extra sweet cup of tea one evening, placing a tentative hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he stood beside him. Sherlock had closed his eyes and leant into the touch, as though allowing himself the briefest moment of comfort before pulling away. Bravely, John had relentlessly tried reasoning with Sherlock, asking if it were possible that his looking for connections and running himself ragged with investigations were a result of trying to process his grief but, perhaps not unexpectedly, he was met with either resounding silence or confident assurances that he was wrong. When Sherlock apparently grew tired of John's comments and questions, he'd lock himself in the basement flat for hours on end, so John eventually had to stop trying. John had exchanged countless texts with Mycroft, which he had no doubt Sherlock was aware of, keeping him updated and exchanging useless ideas about how to help their friend and brother. Mycroft had floated more than threatened the idea of sending in their parents, who had in the past often had more success than he in getting through to the middle Holmes child. John was halfway beginning to come around to this idea when Sherlock had reached something of a turning point. He was eating a little more, sleeping an extra hour, and reverberating at a slightly slower pace. Though they weren't vast improvements, John was still determined to see them as positive signs.

Now John's sitting at his desk at the clinic, trying to focus through the static in his head and the grit in his eyes. He's cursing himself for taking on an extra shift, the late shift of all things, but the clinic had been desperate and he'd rationalised that he could use some extra cash with Christmas not far away. He'd taken almost two weeks off whilst Sherlock was at his worst, but he knew he couldn't be on leave indefinitely and it was hardly realistic for him to be with Sherlock every second of the day and night. Mrs Hudson had kindly agreed to take Rosie for the night, and keep an eye on Sherlock at the same time.

He's trying to catch up on some patient notes when his mobile rings. Mrs Hudson. His stomach drops at the sight of the caller display – she only ever calls when it's something urgent and currently with her are the two people John cares most about in the world. He scrambles to answer the phone.

"Oh, John, it's Sherlock," she says, sounding panicked, and John's insides squirm nauseatingly.

"He's just disappeared! I was giving Rosie her bath and when I came out he was gone. It could have been a good twenty minutes ago," she continues, clearly aghast.

"I'm so sorry, John, I didn't know what to do, I can't just leave with Rosie-"

"It's okay, Mrs Hudson," John says, sounding far calmer than he feels.

"Do you know where he might have gone? Did he say anything earlier tonight?"

"Not a word I'm afraid. I can't reach him on his phone, it's going straight to voicemail. Oh dear, and he didn't even take his coat and it's raining out," she frets, sounding borderline hysterical now.

"It's okay," John repeats. "I'll find him. You just try to calm down. I'll see you soon."