Mycroft Holmes swore that for some reason fate had taken something with the Holmes family. He had been very busy taking care of his father and his 'desk job'in the British Government.

Richard, his father, had certainly got worst since Mummy's death and even more after John's departure. Mycroft knew if he told him about Sherlock's words he would die in an instant. His hearts wasn't the same and also his mind was affected.

People says that political men are the best liars in the world. Mycroft always believed that and now he felt he was an incredible one and an excellent actor. Every time Richard asked him for John and why he couldn't say bye, he put his best face and assured him John was enlisted and called very quickly and he couldn't say bye. He also promised him he had his best men in the front line to protect John and he also remembered his father the fact John was a Doctor so he wasn't going to be directly fighting.

Mycroft wished with all his heart that all of that could be true. It was all the opposite. John was now John Watson. just a simple man, a Doctor and judging by the situation of the country, the every day news about the British Forces in the front line, he knew his brother was going to do more than taking care of wounded and hurt soldiers.

The expert in politics couldn't protect John. It wasn't fair. Why a random bloke was going to need some undercover soldier to protect him? The truth was Mycroft Holmes didn't occupy a minor position in the British Government. He was the Prime Minister hand. He wrote every single speech the head of the Government read to people. And having such power on his hands, Mycroft couldn't protect John's life.

Mycroft had to trust in John's word. He just had to wait to see him back again. Safe.

But with Richard's illness and his poor health Mycroft couldn't leave the manor and all his work was reduced on text messages between him and his PA. A text almost every five minutes to keep the safety of his country and of his people.

And for days, Mycroft Holmes forgot everything about Sherlock.

Anthea, his new assistant knew everything about his young sibling; how, why and where find him when he was missing, a thing that didn't happen so often because Sherlock was living with John and under his watchful eye. But now he was gone. And Mycroft knew his young brother was probably missing his university lectures.

Mycroft also knew Mummy would be terribly upset. But for a moment he allowed himself not think or care about Sherlock. He had a terrible pain in his chest. And the older brother felt like if Sherlock had destroyed their lived as they used to know them.

Sherlock had killed John.

But what Mycroft didn't know was the fact he was going to lose Sherlock. Just as he lost John.

Afghanistan wasn't anything but all the opposite from what the papers and the media liked to show to people. There wasn't soldiers with clean uniforms. There wasn't happy soldiers fighting for their Queen and for their country. There wasn't just a 'few' wounded and hurt men.

There was desolation.

There was pain.

There was homesickness.

There were more than a few men dying.

They weren't winning that war.

They were dying.

It was full of young and hopeful soldiers and doctors fighting for their Queen and for their country. In his first day, John tried to get used to the place which had very hot days and very cold nights. The medical staff was excellent full of capable people.

John tried not to think in Sherlock but it was hard not to do it until a bomb exploded and he met the hell. By first hand.

Once the effect had gone, grief invaded his chest like a terrible infection in his system. It had been days, he couldn't tell how many but he hadn't drink or eat or even had a path after his first shot.

The 'White Lady' was exceptional. And every injection was a journey to happiness and comfort. It was the perfect way to forget everything just for a few moments and pretend nothing had happened to him. But once the cocaine was out of his system, the pain was the only thing left.

There were days in which just an injection couldn't do enough. Memories of his childhood were there to torment him. John's figure was there to with him once the effect was gone, like a ghost ready to taunt him.

John used to make him good tea saying it ws the best drug to stay calm and think. But now John wasn't there with him anymore. He was gone, and the only thing left was the cocaine.

They did never expected an attack at their arrival, but he was ready to work. Fortunately there weren't many hurt men, but it was enough to make him learn how to use a gun. And a grenade. Personal defence. And how to shoot the enemy.

"I'm a Doctor, not a Soldier. I came here to fix people not to kill them-"

"Doctor Watson, we have no choice. Our men are dying, we need you. Our country and our Queen needs you"

And one morning very early and after he took good care of his wounded and injured patients, John was sitting in a van learning how to reload a gun. They were going to invade Afghanistan.

It was late, very late at night when he injected himself for the third time and he dropped the needle to the floor. Sherlock knew there were a few hours of difference between London and Afghanistan. If his calculations weren't wrong, it was very early there and John was probably removing Soldier's bandages, sewing wounds... John was helping someone's life and he was taking his at the same time.

Sherlock glanced at his left arm. It was pale and it had red marks of the previous injections. For some strange reason the 'White Lady' was taking a long time before he could feel the effects so he decided to walk through the flat or what was of it.

It had been more than a week, he couldn't tell but he stopped in front of John's room and opened the door carefully like if inside was his brother sleeping or reading for another of his university test.

The place was like Sherlock used to remember; neat and clean. The bed was made and there was a frame with an old picture beside the bed over the night table. It was a picture of Mother. She was sitting in his favourite armchair and there was also a vase with her red roses in the back. She looked so happy. Her long curly and dark hair was falling over her left shoulder like a cascade of dark ink and her grey eyes were shinning. Those features reminded him the comments his Father used to tell him. Sherlock was the exact copy of his Mother.

Sherlock cried. He couldn't contain his tears. After Mother's death and John's departure he allowed himself to cry because those tears were heavy on his grey and stormy eyes. He hugged the picture very tightly against his chest and rested his head over John's pillow.

The young Sherlock Holmes cried and cried until the cocaine effect hit him. And John was sitting beside him, stroking his dark curls and crying with him.

"I need you, John."

The blonde man smiled sadly. "But you killed me, Sherlock. I'm not John Holmes anymore."

Sherlock tried to touch his brother but the only thing he felt was nothing.

"You must forget me, Sherlock."

"I don't know how."

John's soft hands cupped his face and Sherlock could feel his soft thumbs agains his cheekbones. He could also see tears falling from those blue eyes.

"I know you will."

His John disappeared. He vanished on the darkness of the room and Sherlock ran to sofa were he had been injecting himself for days again and again and looked frenetically for the needle. When he found it, he injected himself all the cocaine he had.

"i'm going to forget you, John. I will"

Sherlock fell on the sofa and before he could close his eyes and surrender under the cocaine's power his head turned to watch for the last time that picture. The picture in which he was smiling happily with John.

He thought he could die.

Hell, he was right.

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