A/N: I'm sorry if I upset anyone with my last chapter. Does anyone think I should put a trigger warning at the beginning of it? If you do, let me know either by PM or in your review. I'm always unsure about putting trigger warnings because I'm not sure if the things I write would be considered trigger or not.

I apologize if anyone was affected negatively in the last chapter so I'll just be safe and post a trigger warning from now on.

TW: This chapter and possible future chapters may contain descriptions (vague and somewhat specific) of sexual and physical abuse. Please read at your own risk.

Chapter Fifteen: Breakthrough

.o.o.

.o.

Go straight to the place where you first lost your balance

And find your feet with the people that you love

And bring us in an indigo dawn with the lovelorn and renegade

Yes you were the eyes of a men not forgotten

Get hold of the night that rises in your blood

Focus on your pulse, focus on your breath, know that we're never far away

Elbow - Real Life (Angel)

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock stayed in his room for nearly three whole days, only coming out to use the bathroom before popping back into his bedroom again. He also made a conscience effort to keep John locked out, both out of the bedroom as well as John's life. Neither went unnoticed by the doctor.

The detective lay in his bedroom still on the morning of the fourth day, letting the white sheet swallow up in a cocoon of warm comfort. He didn't know what he was feeling but he didn't want to show his vulnerability to John; the last thing he wanted right now was pity from him. He wished there was some way to be around dear John without the nagging or the unwelcome sympathy that always felt like charity to Sherlock.

He had felt hungry the first forty-eight hours but once the second day ended and the third day had started, the hunger pangs had disappeared and the numbness came back. Sherlock swallowed hard, thinking.

He knew he had been young but why hadn't Mycroft did anything to protect him? He had been old enough to know what was going on wasn't right or even legal. Why hadn't he said anything to someone, anyone? The silent answer appeared suddenly in Sherlock's mind.

Because he wanted to see you suffer.

The brothers had a rivalry but there were just some things that weren't right to do to do your own brother, no matter what. Letting him be abused by his father's best friend seemed to be one of those things. Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, feeling his heart begin to pound against his chest erratically.

No, he couldn't let himself think about this again. He wished he could just simply 'get over' this. It was in the past so why was it bothering him so much now? It was annoying to say the least. His thoughts were then interrupted abruptly by the sound of his partner's voice outside the door.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"

John's voice sounded far away, as if he was talking to him from another planet. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly, debating whether or not to answer him.

He heard a heavy, tired sigh come from John's side of the door before the detective heard his voice again. "Sherlock… please come out," the doctor begged softly, sadly. "Please. You need to eat something and you've locked me out. I'm really worried about you, mate."

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip anxiously, torn apart. He wanted the closeness of his John but he didn't want to eat anything. He stayed where he was, holding the sheet tighter to his body.

"We don't have to talk about anything, Sherlock. I…I promise. I just want to see you and make sure you're all right. I-I miss you…"

Sherlock sighed inwardly now, hearing the pain in his lover's voice and feeling an ache in his chest. He forced himself off the bed and moved towards the door before he unlocked it. Not even five seconds later, he saw it open and then saw John looking up at him in surprise and concern.

"I'm not talking about it," Sherlock spoke curtly before he walked around John and sat down in the armchair by the newly lit fire, his body cold and malnourished.

John rubbed his neck before he turned around to face him and nodded. "Right, okay… of course. Do you… maybe want some tea or something? If you're hungry, I can make you a bit of toast or you can eat some fruit perhaps?"

Sherlock looked down at the flickering flames inside the fireplace and cleared his throat. "I'm not hungry."

John moved over to him and gave him a small, reassuring smile before he knelt down and placed a hand on Sherlock's knee, looking up at him with loving eyes. "Okay. I'm not… going to force you to eat but… can I just take a look at you?"

Sherlock looked down at John, fully aware he meant well but he couldn't help but feel patronized, like a child again. He bit back all the hurtful words that was threatening to burst out. He already knew what John was going to say. The detective knew what his body would look like to the doctor, but he also knew that it was easier just to give in to John's demands than fight with him on it.

He reluctantly stood up and took the sheet off, grateful that he at least had boxer briefs on. He watched as John stood up to full height and let his eyes trail up and down Sherlock's body as brief, concerned looks reached his eyes.

"Sherlock, I can see your ribcage… you really should eat something. Your legs look like twigs."

This was what the younger man had been afraid of. The nagging; it seemed endless. "I told you, John. I'm not hungry."

The doctor rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his temper in check, before he looked back up at Sherlock with defeated eyes. "Fine… okay. Can you at least have some tea? For me?"

He was about to argue until John had added the 'for me' bit. He couldn't argue with that, and John knew it. He knew that Sherlock wasn't always vulnerable but when it involved himself, Sherlock would succumb.

"If I must," Sherlock nearly whispered before he watched John relax slightly and go into the kitchen and turn the burner on underneath the kettle.

He wrapped the sheet around his body again before he sat back down in the armchair, letting himself sink into it. He listened to the rattling of the tea tray and tea cups and he let himself space out, feeling hypnotized by the flames.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Can you hear me?"

The young man blinked several times before he looked back at John curiously. "I'm sorry. Weren't you making tea a moment ago?"

John motioned to the tea mug that sat on a saucer beside Sherlock's chair before he searched Sherlock's face. "Did you black out again?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head before he grabbed his tea and saucer. "I didn't… black out, John. I just became lost in my own thoughts."

John chewed on his lower lip nervously. "I don't like this, Sherlock. I don't like you becoming distant from me. You locked yourself in your room for three days, not eating, probably not even sleeping, and not even talking to me."

"You let me," Sherlock said almost icily, although he held no ill will towards John for it.

The doctor nodded knowingly. "That's not the point. I wanted to give you time to think about everything. I wanted to give you some time to process it and maybe come to terms with it. I was hoping that perhaps… I don't know. Maybe you would be okay if you thought about it enough."

Sherlock wanted to wrap his arms around John so tightly and never let go of him. He wanted to breathe him in until it hurt. Instead, he remained in his chair, the sheet the only thing hugging his body. "I'm afraid to let myself think about what happened, John. I'm afraid that if I think about it enough, I'm going to black out more and my depression will worsen."

John searched his eyes desperately, perhaps wanting the same thing that Sherlock wanted. "You don't think your depression is already worsening? Sherlock, not eating, barely talking, isolating yourself; these are all textbook symptoms of depression. Just let me in. Let me help…"

"How can you help me?"

John looked at a loss for words suddenly. "I-I don't know," he stammered helplessly. "I just want to make things okay for you again. I want you to love me again."

Sherlock became swiftly aware of the aching in his heart again and his mouth feeling dry. "I… I still love you, John. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Why would I think otherwise? You lock me out of the bedroom, didn't talk to me for seventy-two hours, refused to come out to eat and the only time you asked me for help was in my office four days ago when you had a full-blown panic attack. Then, you come home and ask if I wanted to order in for dinner. These things aren't signs of love, Sherlock. You're trying to repress this even further and that's not healthy, for anyone," John urged.

Sherlock could feel anger boiling up inside of him but he couldn't take it out on John when he was already causing the doctor so much emotional pain. "I'm sorry, John. I don't… I don't mean to hurt you but I don't know what to do in this particular situation. I don't feel love inside of me so I suppose it's difficult for me to show anyone else love."

John sighed and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What do you want to do right now, Sherlock?"

The detective looked puzzled for a moment before he distractedly started to pick at the skin around his fingernails. "I don't know. I suppose I want to take lots and lots of illegal sedatives and sleep for days on end until I don't remember anything my brother told me four day ago."

John straightened up now and looked unsurely at Sherlock. "How serious should I take that?"

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged. "Take it how you will, I suppose, John. Lying about what I want to do would just be a waste of both of our time."

John sighed again and then rubbed his eyes before he looked back up at the man he loved more than anything else in the world. "Can you just… let me try something with you first before you go out wherever your old stomping grounds are and shoot filth into your veins? Will you just give me a chance to help you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

John took out his phone and quickly texted the man he thought could help Sherlock the most right now, the man who had been the cause of Sherlock's worsening depression. When he was done, he looked back up at Sherlock.

"Please don't hate me for this, Sherlock. I only want to help you and I… truly believe he can help you."

Sherlock felt a sinking feeling in his stomach now. "W-What have you done? Who did you just text message?"

John just gave Sherlock a sad smile before he stood up and walked over to the young man until he was inches away from him. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his jaw before he stood up again and then looked into the flames.

Sherlock was quiet again, curiosity and fear both building up inside of him. He didn't know that many people in their lives but narrowed it down to Lestrade or Mycroft, although, there was a chance that John was fully giving up on him and had called someone from the hospital to come and get him. The silence between both men was making him uneasy. Usually, John was always speaking to him and his sudden silence was rare.

Finally, Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. "Just tell me you're not sending me somewhere to be locked up."

John shook his head. "I'm not, Sherlock. I wouldn't do that to you. That would just make you even worse. I only want to help you."

"So you've said multiple times…"

John turned to face Sherlock now and in the flames of the firelight, Sherlock could make out a single tear making a trail down the doctor's cheek. "Because it's true. I love you. I'd die for you and I'd fight for you and… I'm willing to do both of those things if it means it'll help you on some level, somehow. I am not giving up on you, Sherlock. I don't care how stubborn you are. I know you're not going to make this easy but it's because I love you that I'm doing this, so please don't hate me."

"Why would I hate you?"

Bad timing seemed intent on answering his question when there was a knock at the door. John quickly wiped away his tears and cleared his throat before he walked over to the door and opened it. He nodded and stepped out of the way to let the man inside the flat.

"John…" A voice greeted dryly before nodding back at the doctor.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed when he heard his brother's voice. He didn't hate John for having called Mycroft, but it did increase his overall annoyance. "I should've guessed it was you."

The elder brother walked over to the chair where John had been sitting a few minutes ago and sat down across from the younger Holmes brother. "Guessing is for amateurs, dear brother. You're much smarter than that."

Sherlock wrapped the sheet tighter to him before watching John disappear towards his own bedroom to give the siblings privacy. He looked back at Mycroft. "Three visits in less than a week… it is either my birthday or we've both died and gone to Hell."

"Well, you've certainly not lost your sense of humor at least, Sherlock. That's comforting," Mycroft drawled. "By the look of you, I'd say you haven't eaten anything for about four days. You haven't slept for three of those days, and from the hoarseness of your voice, I'd say you haven't conversed since the day you left our little meet-up."

"Brilliant deduction, Mycroft. You should have my job," Sherlock replied sardonically. "Can we please skip this idle talk about discuss the real situation at hand?"

Mycroft's amused facial expression twisted into seriousness in less than a minute. He crossed his legs and then looked his brother in the eye. "You want to discuss the real matter at hand, Sherlock? Very well. You've been neglecting to take proper care of yourself and it would appear our conversation at the café four days ago has affected you to the point of worsening your depression. You've isolated and distanced yourself from myself, Greg Lestrade, and most importantly, John. It is vital you get this under control, Sherlock, and quickly."

Sherlock held back the sudden temptation to laugh in his brother's face. He clenched and unclenched his long fingers under the sheet. "I just found out I've been sexual and physically abused as a child, Mycroft. I'm not prone to outbursts of emotion very often but I believe I could safely say that I have a certain right to feel the way I do after what I've experienced."

His brother nodded slowly. "You were a victim of unfortunate circumstances, Sherlock. You do have the right to a certain… selfishness, I suppose, but you should turn your tragic childhood experience into something positive."

"And how do you suppose I do that exactly?"

Mycroft took out his cigarette case and took one out for himself before he offered one to Sherlock, who leaned over and brought out a slender arm to take it from Mycroft's hand. His brother took his name lighting both of their cigarettes before he took a drag from his own and relaxed in the chair.

"I understand you possess several sociopathic qualities but it comes to my attention that doing things for other people can somehow put your own demons to rest. What I'm suggesting you try, dear brother mine, is to let John in. Let him help, let Greg Lestrade help you, and do try not to lose your patience with either of them," Mycroft insisted. "I believe if you go to lengths to make them happy, then you might be a better person for it."

"You're one to talk, Mycroft. Letting people in and doing things to make them happy? That's not exactly up your alley, is it? It's amusing that you're telling me to do these things when you haven't ever done them yourself."

Mycroft took another drag of his cigarette before he exhaled, coughing slightly. "Do as I say, not as I do, Sherlock. I believe you should be placed on antidepressants again. They might very well help you and I believe it dangerous for you to not be on them during this time with how you have been these past few days."

Sherlock nearly ripped the sheet away from himself now. "I'm only this way because you had to tell me the memories I was repressing!"

"Are you saying this is my fault…?"

Sherlock finally stood up now, letting the sheet fall down to his waist, exposing his bare chest, but then tied it tightly so it wouldn't fall any lower. "Yes, of course I am! You didn't have to unload all that information about that bastard on me that same day! You could've told me on separate occasions and maybe even a bit more delicately!"

"Delicately? Sherlock, I was already telling you as delicately as I knew how. Anyway, it's done and over with now so I suggest that you move on with your life and do as I suggested."

Sherlock put out his unsmoked cigarette in the nearby ashtray on the table before he took a step towards his brother, careful not to trip over the sheet. "It's done and over with for you! You can go home and sleep peacefully now but I have to deal with the knowledge of what happened! I have the memories of what happened and now that you've told me some details concerning it, I've been getting occasional flashbacks to my childhood trauma so thank you very much, Mycroft!"

The elder brother put out his cigarette as well before he cocked an eyebrow. "I understand that you're having difficulty coping with the reality of your repressed memories and that perhaps you're unsure what to do with them now, but you shouldn't go blaming me for this, Sherlock. I'm only trying to help you."

"Help me?" Sherlock took another step towards him. "You haven't helped me at all! I could've lived just better not knowing the truth. Why shouldn't I blame you? You're the reason why I haven't slept or eaten or conversed with John these past few days! I've been beating myself up because I keep thinking that I could've done something to stop what was happening. It was my fault that he did those things to me!"

Sherlock didn't even know if those words were true but they felt true to him, and that was enough. He felt angry at himself, his brother, the man who had taken advantage of his naivety…

Mycroft stood up suddenly and shook his head. "No, Sherlock. You mustn't believe that. Of course you couldn't do anything to stop him from hurting you. You were only a child. I speak as your older brother and a man who cares very deeply for your well-being; none of it was your fault."

Sherlock growled in frustration and then moved threateningly towards Mycroft, who gave an almost fearful look at his younger sibling. "Admit it was yours, then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Admit that you could've done something to put an end to it, Mycroft. You were old enough to know better. You knew what was going on and you let it happen," Sherlock spoke matter-of-factly but inside he was raging like a wildfire about to spread over several hundred acres of forest.

"Are you implying that I let you continue to be abused by him because I wanted you to feel pain?"

"You've always taken pleasure in my pain and mishaps, Mycroft. It isn't such a giant leap to assume you would take the same pleasure in seeing me tortured as a child. Just admit it was your fault."

Mycroft suddenly slammed his hand down hard on the table, causing the china cup to rattle on the saucer. "No! Damn it, Sherlock, I will not admit to that! I did what I could! Lest you forget, I was just an adolescent when it was happening so I couldn't exactly do much either! I did what I could!"

Sherlock suddenly shoved Mycroft with both his arms. "You didn't do enough!" he screamed, hardly even feeling the hot tears that were sliding down his cheeks.

His brother fell back a bit and blinked, surprised to see Sherlock crying. "I ended it."

Sherlock swallowed hard and when he finally felt the saltwater on his skin, he wiped it away roughly. "W-What? What do you mean, you ended it?"

Mycroft took a step away from Sherlock but looked at his younger sibling with sympathetic eyes. "I mean, Sherlock, when I found out what was taken place, I told our father. Of course he didn't believe me so your abuse continued until I made sure that father walked in on it and saw for himself. He was terribly angry and confused and he called the police. He told them what he saw, as did I. Your abuser ended up going to jail for twenty-five years for sexual assault and rape. I ended it, Sherlock. I couldn't let it continue, not without hating myself for it, anyway."

"You… you s-stopped it," Sherlock clenched his jaw to stop himself from fully breaking down. He had gotten flashbacks but none of it contained any sign of the abuse having stopped eventually. It played like a looped video in his mind, over and over. "You saved me."

Mycroft cleared his throat and smiled ever so slightly. "Curious; you seem to constantly mix me up for your arch-enemy rather than your ally. We may forget where our priorities lie any other time but when it comes to family, you'll always be my ally, Sherlock. It would do you some good to believe the same of me."

Sherlock was in awed surprise that he felt speechless for several minutes, letting silence fill the room. He swallowed hard and then felt somewhat embarrassed. He had blamed Mycroft for what had happened this whole time because he had truly believed that his older brother had purposely let it go on just for the sake of getting pleasure out of seeing his younger sibling be tortured and abused but he had underestimated Mycroft. He took a few steps back from him, suddenly feeling unworthy to be in his presence.

"I-It appears… I owe you an apology, Mycroft…"

The elder Holmes held up a hand to stop him. "This has been more than unpleasantly awkward, Sherlock. Apologizing would only make it that much more uncomfortable for both of us. Just consider us allies as far as familial issues go and I'll consider us even. It would benefit us to be on the same side in that aspect, and for John's sake… don't ruin the only other opportunity you've had at being loved as well as loving another human being. John Watson is a trustworthy and extremely patient individual, and I believe if you open up a bit to him, it would help everyone else in turn. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late to a lunch."

Sherlock watched as Mycroft started towards the door and he bit his lower lip in thought. "Thank you…"

Mycroft gave him a smile that looked more like a knowing smirk. "Don't mention it. For either of our sakes."

He felt himself relax slightly once his brother closed the door behind him, their conversation still alive in his mind but slowly dying down. That was it. Mycroft had been the one to help him after all. That's all that Sherlock felt like he wanted to hear; the truth that glued the memories together, as well as his relationship with his brother.

He sat back down in his chair, letting his thoughts trail off as he patiently waited for John to return.

.o.o.

.o.

John anxiously returned back from the store, two grocery bags in each arm as he let himself back into the flat. His eyes meandered towards the spot where Sherlock looked up at him. He walked into the kitchen and set the bags down before he started towards his partner who looked even more vulnerable than before, if that was possible.

The men stared at each other in a comfortable silence and that was the moment when John knew that things were going to improve in their lives. He gave him a short nod and smiled at him lovingly. "So, did… did Mycroft help at all?"

Sherlock let out a deep-throated chuckle as he nodded once. "Help is a very strong word for what Mycroft did but I suppose in a way, yes… he did help to clear some things up for me. Did you know what he was going to say, about how he stepped in and actually did stop what was happening?"

John looked at him with guilty eyes now, the love still laced in them, however. "I met him next door for tea one day and we talked. He, very vaguely, explained the situation to me so I had an idea of what he might say to you but I didn't know everything he would say. Are… are you all right, then?"

Sherlock held the sheet around his shoulders as he took several steps towards John. He looked down at him with a neutral expression. "I'm not sure what I am right now but… I must admit that I've come to better terms with what happened and my brother's part in it."

John nodded in understanding. "It's… going to take some work still, but we'll get there. We just can't… fall apart. You can't distance yourself from me anymore. If you're going to let me help you, you need to let me in."

"I can try to do that, John. You know I can't promise anything but… for you, I can try. What comes next?"

John pondered for a moment hesitantly. "Well, I thought maybe we could get you on a different antidepressant and perhaps even add an anti-anxiety medication to it as well. We'll monitor you on it and give it a few weeks for it to kick in properly. In the meantime, maybe I can act as your temporary psychiatrist of sorts and you can just… talk to me. We'll take things one day at a time."

Sherlock nodded, although flinched slightly at the thought of confiding his thoughts and feelings purely to John. He felt too emotionally drained to dwell on that right now, though. Besides, John was feeling so much hope right now for Sherlock to get better that it would hurt to shoot him down now.

"I can't promise that I won't have bad days, John…"

"Oh, I expect you to have them," John replied, nodding understandingly, "but like I said, we'll get through them together. I don't doubt that there will be days when you want to yell and stomp around and be quiet towards me but I know what I bargained for when I fell for you, Sherlock. I'm willing to go through all of it with you."

Sherlock sighed inwardly and took John's face into his large hands before leaning in and pressed his lips to the doctor's. He ran his fingers gently through his hair and then towards the ex-soldier's broad shoulders before finally parting again.

"That means… so much to me, John. More than I deserve."

"Oh shut up, you stubborn arse, and come back here…" John stood on his toes and pressed their lips together again before he lead Sherlock into the bedroom, never letting their lips part again, not even to shut the door behind them.