Hooray for updates, Ladies and Gentlefolk!

So there's a bit of a self-harm trigger warning for this chapter.

It's really late at night, and I don't even know if this chapter makes sense, so I apologize if it doesn't

Anyhoo, please enjoy (if you can) and review review reviewwwwww

He could hear her calling his name, her pitch rising as she thumped against the locked door. But his head was swirling, swimming with colours and shapes, everything fading and merging into one. So this was what happened when you cut far too deep into your wrists with a sharp blade.

John knew exactly what was happening, he was finally a doctor, but it didn't take a qualification to work out that after about 30 minutes he will have lost too much blood. Not the most painless way of going, he thought. But it was nice to finally feel something again.

He could only just hear Mary now, she was shouting, screaming, but her voice was no more than just a wail, what she was saying was far from distinguishable now. She was far too weak to break through the door, to his relief. He didn't want her to see him like this.

Not after the progress they had made.

It had been a long while since it happened, at least it had been to everyone else. It still seemed so fresh to John that it may as well have been yesterday. But he and Mary, working together, had started to heal, started to slowly transform John back into something recognisable of the days before it happened. Not the same, never the same. Just something that wasn't a disappointment, or something that was embarrassing to everyone around.

The day John stayed at Mary's, was the day he basically moved out of 221B Baker Street. He had planned to stay for no longer than 4 days, after that time, he planned, a week, a month, 2, 3 ,4, until they both realised they were in far too deep to just continue living their lives as they had previously. So he had stayed, helped around the house, and the feelings he had felt when he first saw Mary grew stronger. The wholeness that John last felt when Sherlock was around, the youth he felt during his University days came back to him in some ways; life seemed worth living, and it was as if the earth had started turning once more.

The death anniversary came and went, only minor hitches stopped their incredible progress. Bouts of depression led John to self-harm if Mary forgot and left razor blades in the bathroom cabinet, and it was so instinctive, so natural, he hardly realised what had happened until he saw the deep gashes cut across his arms and legs.

During these periods Mary stood by him, mopping up the mess and reassuring him with kind words and light, feathery kisses. On these times, Mycroft sent him short letters, clearly an attempt to explain why he should value life. They didn't work, not usually.

Sherlock wouldn't have wanted this for you – MH

Value your life more than he did his – MH

Be strong for Mary – MH

After months of comfort and kind words, John agreed to go and visit Mycroft. He had known him for so long, since his college days, and it seemed only fair that they should at least part on good terms, rather than a card that was a feeble attempt to stop a slightly less depressed man from ruining his perfectly average body.

He walked in through the doors of Holmes Manor, and took a deep breath, reacquainting himself with the settings. He didn't want nor need this, but if anything it was closure.

He found Mycroft already sitting in the main living room, his clothes far more comfortable than those he would usually wear. He clearly had taken the whole day off, there was no way in hell he'd be seen out without a suit on.

'Hello, Mycroft' John whispered, sitting down on the large sofa, opposite the arm chair the tall, solemn man was lounging in.

'John' he greeted, his eyes swivelling to make eye contact, automatically flicking back to the paper he was now folding. 'Always a pleasure'.

John withheld a snort, and then thought of their situation, with a sick humour. They had both lost their soul mates, neither would move on, not properly. The only connection they had with the dead was each other. And here they were at last.

Mycroft placed his head in his hands, and sighed 'I promised Greg I wouldn't let this break me, John'

He gulped at this, surprised that his could have been brother was showing emotion, and he looked away, choosing to stare at the polished wooden floor.

'And it hasn't. It truly hasn't, I've come to terms with it. But you haven't, and you need to, because its killing me knowing what you're going through and not being able to do anything about it'

Before John could even think of saying anything, the eyes that had been watching for a response glazed over, the lips ironed into a thin, straight line. Mycroft responded 'Don't you dare, say that I don't know what it feels like. You know as much as I that I do. Sherlock and I may not have had a close relationship, but this…this wasn't what…I cared for him very much, John. You must understand that. And I have so much to tell you, but for now, I can't. And I'm so sorry, I am so very sorry'

'For what?' John mumbled, his eyes crinkling as fresh tears fell down his face.

'You know what' Mycroft replied, throwing a small box at John.

John caught it, and blinked, looking up in surprise.

'I'll tell Anna you're staying for dinner?' Mycroft said, wandering out of the room, 'I believe it's roast pork tonight, delicious'

John almost expected a jibe at his weight to escape Sherlock's lips, before realising that that would never happen, and the closest he would get was by doing them himself 'don't eat too much, Myc'

He heard a soft, sad chuckle as the iceman padded away.

John turned his gaze to the little box. It was sturdy, and he resisted the urge to shake it as an excited child would on Christmas morning. He carefully undid the wrappings, and tipped the contents into his palm.

'No' john whispered, not attempting to quieten the scream that forced itself from his lips.

He fell to the floor, clutching his head, his eyes scrunched, face distorted 'no, no, no'

Mycroft came running into the room, and he fell to the ground next to John, cupping his face in his hands. 'John, come back, come on, look at me. Look at me'. John gazed up, his eyes finally focusing on the man sitting next to him.

A tear trickled down his cheek as Mycroft pulled him into a tight hug.

'You're fine.' He whispered, stroking his head as a mother would to a child, and John realised that Mycroft was a substitute parent to Sherlock. He hadn't really had a childhood, and now he felt responsible for looking after him.

John pulled away, and wiped his eyes, looking away in embarrassment.

He picked up the object that had caused such a violent response, and tipped it into Mycroft's palm.

'What is it?' he asked John, turning it over in his hand, the cold heavy weight cooling, refreshing.

'A lighter' john whispered, realising how childish it all sounded. 'I bought it for him once, it…we had a saying, something we said to each other if either of us were stressed or upset, it always calmed us down. It's written on the inner edge of that.'

Mycroft glanced at John, hearing the emotion as his voice cracked 'may I ask what it is you used to say?' he added warily, wondering whether he should or not.

John looked down, gulping. 'Keep your eyes fixed on me. An eternity with you doesn't seem long enough, but it's a good place to start'

Mycroft nodded, remembering the times when the younger couple had arguments, and after a while were repeating this to each other, soon enough wrapped in a close embrace, an out pouring of remorse that until a few years back he had never understood. Never worked out why sentiment was so important. And the things that had finally taught the Holmes brothers how to love, were gone.

'I didn't realise he'd kept it' John added, nuzzling into the arm of his cardigan. 'This was so long ago, but fire can be helpful in so many ways if you know what to do. And he did, and I knew he'd be safer with it on his person. It sounds stupid'

'no.' Mycroft said, sitting up, and resting against the legs of the sofa. 'It sounds perfect. In every possible way. I'm sorry. I didn't realise that it meant so much'

John looked up, his eyes still swimming with tears.

'Neither did I'

John stepped out of the black car, 2 hours after he had initially stepped in it. Mycroft could be seen through the half open window, but he was gone seconds later, the moment johns hand had reached the doorbell.

He felt for the cold metal object in his pocket, and flipped it over in his hand as he waited for Mary to answer.

The door slowly creaked open, and she flew from the doorway into his arms.

She pulled back, however, when she felt no response.

'John?' she murmured, searching in his misty eyes for some sort of acknowledgement. 'Baby, what's wrong?' she said, nerves creeping up and into her voice.

John pushed past her, and walked into the flat. Their flat. He wandered into the bedroom, and quickly began to search through their medical kit, what he was looking for wasn't there.

The bathroom.

He quickly unscrewed his razor, and popped out one of the slim blades that had previously been attached.

Mary still hadn't caught up, and by the time she had, he had locked himself away. Nothing that she could do.

A tear gleamed as it made its way down his cheek, and he looked up when he heard a distant, deep voice calling his name

'John'

It sounded just like him. This was better than he had hoped.

'John'

It was definitely getting closer. When he squinted he could almost make out his lover's profile.

'John'

Surely in death, Sherlock wouldn't have that tone of voice? That was one of his … quirks… that John had hoped would be skipped.

'John'

But he wasn't dead. So why could he see and hear Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

John tried to sit up, but the arms that were now reaching around him prevented this.

He was lifted up, and he allowed himself to be carried down to the vehicle which was waiting outside. He tried to speak 'Sh-'but he was cut off. 'Just relax, but don't go to sleep, okay?' he heard the nerves in Sherlock's voice. He really was living.

And he really thought that John was going to die.

He opened his eyes, long enough to catch a glimpse of his lover, sitting down in the vehicle next to him, still strongly gripping his hand, his eyes never leaving his gaze.

'I love you' Sherlock whispered as John closed his eyes and embraced darkness.

John woke up in an unfamiliar bed, and the rustling of bed sheets confirmed to him that he was in fact in hospital.

He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at a dull, white ceiling.

These guys really need to consider some wall art. Anything.

He chuckled to himself, and tried to think over what had happened. He had visited Mycroft, that much was clear, and their meeting had gone well if not to plan.

He'd received the lighter… and he had returned home, only to ignore Mary, and to –

'Mary' he whispered, his eyes widening in panic. 'Mary! Mary!' he shouted. Needed to explain, needed to apologise.

He tried to pull out the tubes that he had only just noticed were poking into him, but without success. His stress decreased when he caught scent of Mary's familiar perfume

'John, darling' she said, walking up to the bed side. 'Never do that to me again, okay?' she said, leaning down to gently kiss his lips. He tried to pull himself up as she pulled away, seeking the proximity.

'It's so lucky your friend got to you in the time he did!' Mary said, sitting down in the plastic chair by the bed. She distractedly picked at the dead flowers on his table, and flicked her hair from her eyes.

'Wait.' John said, allowing the information to sink in. 'you mean, there was someone else there?' he felt as though his heart would explode, it was beating painfully loud.

'Of course, love. Sher? Something like that, the same as you said that man you used to know was called. Come to think of it, he matched the description, the little you told of me. Not a brother?'

John ignored what she was saying as he looked over towards the swinging doors.

There, looking through the small window, was Sherlock Holmes.

They met each other's gaze, and John quickly made an excuse as to why Mary should leave 'you need a coffee, go and have a look at the shops, I'm not going anywhere'

A couple of minutes later Sherlock walked into the room. He started confidently, but as he got closer and closer towards the single bed, his stride faltered.

'John' he said, staring down at his… his what, exactly?

John grimaced, looking away. He didn't need an explanation, not now.

'You know that feeling, when all hope is lost, and then something incredible happens?'

Sherlock smiled, a tear falling onto his scarf. 'Yes. Yes, I do'

'And that feeling after, that fills you up after you've felt so numb for so long? That feeling that proves your heart wasn't completely extinguished?' John looked into Sherlock's hopeful eyes.

'I've been waiting for this moment for so long John, Yes, I know that feeling. Very well'

John gulped, rolling onto his side, away from the living, breathing miracle.

'So when will I feel it?'

The grin fell from Sherlock's face as he fell to his knees, his body, shaking with emotion.

'John?...Please? I'm back! We can get over this, together!?'

John curled himself into a smaller ball, holding his legs with his arms.

'That day. The day you fell from that roof killed me. I'm not the same, I never will be. And I want you to leave. Visiting hours are over. Please leave'

Sherlock gasped, a sob escaping from his open lips 'No, John. Let me explain…'

'There's nothing to explain, Sherlock. I've moved on, for all it will affect me, you may as well have died that day. Please don't visit again. Goodbye'