Sherlock is sat at the kitchen table with a wonderfully intricate experiment set up in front of him. He can't quite remember what it is that he is trying to prove but it is infinitely fascinating. The colour in the test tube keeps changing in a most satisfying way and there are thin wisps of smoke emanating from it. The light from the small kitchen window is catching the equipment in ways that make them sparkle with sunlight and it is mesmerising.

John comes up next to him and hads him a cup of tea which smells wonderfully comforting. 'Beautiful isn't it?' Sherlock says looking up at his friend standing next to him.

'I didn't think you cared about things like that.' John says as he sips his tea but there is no malice in his voice.

'Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.' Sherlock points out and the conversation seems oddly familiar. It carries with it a strange sense of déjà vu. Sherlock can't shake the feeling that this has happened before and when it did it made him happy. He his happy now.

John smiles and nods, he looks happy too. Then he reaches out a hand and strokes Sherlock's hair. That is odd Sherlock thinks. He has known John to play with his hair, to ruffle it and tug at it teasingly but he has never, ever stroked it like he was petting an animal or a small child.

Then John leans forward and kisses Sherlock's temple and he knows that something is very strange indeed, something is decidedly wrong. Sherlock gasps slightly and blinks rapidly and suddenly the kitchen is gone and he is looking up into the worried eyes of his mother as she strokes his hair back gently, softly like she used to do when he was little and he had a fever.

'Mummy?' He sits up and she reaches over to the bedside table and hands him the cup of tea she had placed there. Suddenly it all makes sense… the tea, the stroking, the kiss. John isn't here. John tried to kill himself and if Sherlock is lucky, very lucky, he is still stuck in a bed in Mycroft's blasted clinic where Sherlock is not allowed to go.

'I'm here sweetie.' His mother says in that infuriatingly soft voice that makes Sherlock feel five years old again.

'Mycroft drugged me.' Sherlock pouts as he takes the tea and clutches it in his slender hands warming them on the cup.

'I know sweetie, he had to. You were having a panic attack; he says you've had a few in the past few days.' She looks sad and worried.

'I was not, he's exaggerating.' Sherlock huffs even though he knows that it is pretty much true. 'I was just angry.'

'Sherlock…' his mother says in a stern voice 'don't blame your brother for this, you were shouting, crying and hyperventilating. He was just looking out for you, and you swallowed the pills willingly when he gave them to you.'

Sherlock blushes despite his best efforts to look angry and aloof. 'How do you know, you weren't there?' he grumbles but the fight has gone out of him and he is arguing more on principle than anything else.

'Is he still here? Has he spoken to the clinic? Is John alright?' He mumbles looking at his mother through his eyelashes as he drinks his overly sweet tea.

'Mycroft has left. He and your detective friend are giving an official statement to the press in an hour. Don't fret, they'll give your condolences. It's better if you're not there. I have spoken to the clinic. Your friend, John, he's been awake again but he won't speak to them. They hope that he will feel better by the morning. They have a therapist coming, and you'll be able to talk to him. I'm sure he will feel better.' She smiles comfortingly but it is so obviously a front that as much as Sherlock loves her he wishes he could rip her to pieces for being such a bad actress. She clearly doesn't care about John.

'Shut up, you don't care about John, what are you doing here anyway.' He snaps in what he knows is an unfair form of retaliation.

'I care about you love. I don't want you to get hurt.' She says softly, once again stroking his hair as though that will solve anything.

'It's a bit late for that isn't it. Two days ago I carried my only friend out of this flat because he had been tormented by a madman until he tried to kill himself and you think your stroking my hair and making tea is going to make me not hurt.' Sherlock was panting as he spoke and his mother tried do calm him down asking him to please not get so agitated…

'Agitated… you think I'm agitated…' Sherlock huffed 'He was raped while I was asleep downstairs… I was fucking asleep…' Sherlock shouted throwing the mug of tea against the wall and scooting away from his mother. ' I was so stupid, so blind… they raped him, they beat him, they broke him and what did I do… I sat in my room and I saw nothing, not until it was too late.' Sherlock was trembling. He was aware of mummy trying to wrap her arms around him but he did not want her comfort. He did not want other people's assurances that John would be alright when he had seen for himself the damage that John would do to himself if left to his own devices.

Instead ne screamed at his mother… he blamed his brother, and he broke every piece of breakable material placed within his reach until his mother sank down next to him with an offer he could not refuse.

'He's awake. You could call him.' She whispered carefully brushing his hand and she saw her son relaxing and then tensing again. She could not put into words what her younger son was feeling now. She knew that what her older son was battling with was a strange mixture of guilt and responsibility, neither of which was entirely appropriate but both of which made a lot of sense, but when she saw her younger son reacting so far away from his normal stoical self, actually crying and physically reacting to the stimuli around him she did not know what to think.

Of course none of these reactions were new to her. She had felt them all herself in one way or another but Sherlock had always claimed such complete incomprehension when love and fear and confusion were concerned that seeing him now, crumbling under the weight of someone else's pain was utterly confusing.

She wondered if she was doing any good being here… did it help at all. Her sons really were s fragile and they both refused to show any sign of it… she felt utterly helpless to care for either of them. Sherlock was clearly crumbling at the sight of his friends pain and Mycroft looked as stressed and in pain ash she had seen him since he left for university. His fear for his younger brother was not even thinly veiled, largely because he knew that she was the only one who would see his pain, and most likely he actually wanted her to see it. When he left for the press conference a few minutes ago his eyes had been lowered and his hands had been trembling slightly. Not enough to be visible but enough that she had felt it when she took his hands in hers and wished him good luck.

She hoped with every hair on her head that this would turn out alright and her sons would be happy again. Although she had a strange feeling that this outcome was strangely dependent on one army doctor currently strapped to his bed and doing his utmost to find a way to end his life.