I apologize if Mycroft is out of character. I would like to state that he does indeed know that Sherlock is alive, he acts this way because of two things. The first being he wants to act the part of a secretly mourning brother, something June would believe. And two, he feels a bit guilty about the whole ordeal and the way its hurting June.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of it's preexisting titles.

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It's all blue, the walls, the carpet and she wants to tug at her hair and scream at the man showing her such a horrid flat. She squints, for the blue cleaning the walls were just a little too bright. The man, showing her the flat, Robert, if she remembers his name correctly turns to her with a fake smile. His teeth showing just a little too much and she thinks he could use some practice on the 'happy' face.

"Do you like it?" She stares at him, a bit longer than ordinary and he takes this as a bad sign and tries to speak again. "I mean, I know the color is a bit too much, but you can change th—"

"No thank you." She reasons before he can finish and she mentally slaps herself for being so rude. He did say she could change the color, but she was on a time limit, she had a new job interview ready down at the hospital on Oak Street. A nice hospital she might add.

She couldn't work down at the surgery anymore, it reminded her too much of him. She knew she was running away from her problems, that this, her behavior was getting far too old for her age. Twenty seven and she was already acting like she was sixteen, on her birthday, didn't get the car she wanted or the cake she received was dry.

He opens his mouth, closing it, and opens it once more like a guppy. "I know the coloring is bad, Ms. Watson, but that will change to your specifications if you rent the place." He adds quickly. She stares at him intently; his eyes wide with hope and instantly she can tell he's new at this.

The suit is wrinkle free and is less than worn out; so it must have been a new one. The way he was tapping his fingers and the nervous stream of lip biting and tripping over his own feet was enough to conclude that he needed her to rent the flat. She sighs, taking one more glance at the interior. She brings her wrist up to look at the time, the portable clock reading 3:42. He did have a point, she could redesign, but she didn't know if she had the money.

Five weeks since she decided she couldn't stay in the flat she and Sher…him shared, and not one other flat came close to her price range. But this one, ignoring the horrible color scheme, was pretty cheap and she could rent it out for quite some time. She'd just have to deal with the overwhelming blue for a time, until she was sure she had the money to do so, and her soon to be new job should help her with that.

The tapping of Robert's foot grew infuriating and she mentally screamed. The smallest of things seemed to be pushing her on edge, ripping open her secure chest of contained rage that she had managed to keep to herself for a good ten years. She bit the inside of her cheek, looking around and leaving the man behind. The kitchen wasn't bad, hardly any blue, and the bathroom was a crème. It seemed the only thing that made her want to bleach her eyes was the living room.

She swerved on the heel of her foot, finding Robert once more with a soft sigh. "I'll take it." She poses, and he smiles largely at her words.

"Great! I'll go get—"

"I'll deal with the lease later." She comments, exiting the medium sized flat. Rober—She looks at his name tag and finds that his name, is in fact not Robert, but Ryan. Well, that was embarrassing. Good thing she hadn't said his name the entirety of their conversation.

"But, I do—"

She's half way down the stairs when he trips, his knees buckling and caving into the back of her thighs. She almost yelps, falling with him, her head hitting against the paste like wall, another loud clunk summons her attention to the left. Rubbing the back of her head, she glances at the young man before her, his brow drenched in red and her eyes widen.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, I don't know what happened—"

"You're fine." June moves forward, looking at the braze cut on his forehead, pushing at the hems of the open skin he hisses. More blood silently crawls out of the gash and she narrows her eyes. "Tell me if this hurts?" He nods. Pressing down near the seam once more she lifts, pushing down with a soft tug. "From a scale from one to ten how badly it feels."

"Uh, maybe an eight—No seven." She nods; digging into her purse she pulls out a small first aid kit, taking out some cleaners she plants them to his head with a soft graze. Dabbing the wound he hisses again. He likely had a light concussion, and the cut looked pretty deep. She pulls out a thick square of gauze, pressing it to his forehead she brings his hand up and has him hold it.

"Alright, I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay?" He nods slowly, interpreting every word she says, focusing on the curve of her lips as if that would help.

She stands, her vision darkening and she holds to the wall for support. Leaning down she yanks Ryan up, bringing his arm around her shoulder. They leave the flat complex all together and she hails a Taxi. After a good five minutes one pulls off to the curb and she hops in.

"Great Ormond Street Hospital." The cabby driver nods, before pulling back out into the street. They're there in a few minutes, pulling Ryan out she hurries him to the large building. Upon entering her breath is drawn from her lungs, the place entirely too large, but she liked it. Coming up to the front desk, a woman with a batman lanyard and red hair paid them hardly any attention, June coughed.

She looks up, eyes wide at the man next to her. "He needs medical attention." She nods, waving a hand and before she knows it June is ambushed by a nurse, taking him away from her. She waves to Ryan and he gives her an impish smile.

Well, today was going just great. Looking around, observing much more carefully she about sighs, the place was out of her range. Or at least she was convinced that was the case. Her other job she was over qualified, but here, she wasn't so sure.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" June turns to the young lady at the desk and she nods.

"Uh, yes. I'm here for a job interview." June pulls out her watch and breaths out relieved, she'd made it on time. "June Watson." The young woman nods, typing in her name.

"Oh, yes, you're here for the four'o'clock interview." She re-examines. June bobs her head yes and she gives June a lanyard with her name on it. She quirks a brow. "Sorry, it's mandatory, you'll find Doctor Bailish on the thirteenth floor. He's in his office, so last hall to your right and all the way down." June says her thanks and heads to the elevator. Her nerves were all but bundles and she felt as if she were dry drowning.

Upon entering the elevator she found that only worsened her problem and she breathed deeply. She hoped this didn't go awry like the last interview at St Marks. The Doctor there interviewing her looked too much like him and she almost had a mental break down. Dark hair, pale skin and eyes that glowed when praised.

God, this was sad, running from everything. She did it, countless times, from her family, her work, and now the flat…Deep down, she knew it wasn't just the flat she was running from. It was the situation as a whole. She despises the way it makes her feel, so she ran from that as well. Or at least tries, but who was she kidding, the farthest you can run away from feelings is...well...It wasn't a choice. She closes her eyes and steadies her breathing, but upon closing her lids she has the pleasantries of seeing the whole ordeal over again.

Sherlock watching her, the gusts of gelid breeze swift and rigid, and she swears she can see the glister in his eyes from all the way down there. His alarmed tone when she goes to meet him up there, talk him down and hold him in her arms, smell the citrus and spice ease off of him. That was her goal, and she had achieved it.

Not in the way she wished she had. The scene, his fleeting form plunging, disappearing behind that god awful truck with a sickening bounce and clump she screams his name. And at the exact moment, when he landed, her heart was tugged and ripped out of her chest with the leniency of a bulldozer lifting dirt from the earth. It was bruised, tattered and strewn across her rib cage and down her spine. She had to watch it, a dozen times in Afghanistan. People dying all around her.

When she was little she believed that people fell like autumn leaves. Softly drifting through the air, the breeze carrying them and landing them with a loving clement. She had realized quickly, after entering her world of war, that that was far from the case. She had almost forgot, the way people fell, until he sunk from that roof and—

She rasped for air, clawing for it, and it wasn't too late for her to figure out she was having a panic attack. She grasps for the bars around her, holding onto them for dear life, because—oh god; if she let go she was afraid she might drop with him.

Her throat dried out before she had time to swallow, the rugged breaths she now drew only grated on her tongue and stung bitterly. Clutching at her chest, she counted aloud. "One, Two…Three…" She watches as each level lights up on the elevator, passing each floor one second at a time. She needed to calm down, she couldn't appear rattled for this interview. She needed this.

She needed it.

"Six, Seven…Eight…" She'd be fine by the time she hit ten. She'd be sound and considerate of others. She'd give smiles as she passed down the hall and she'd hold her breath when things got too hard. She's been doing it for years now. What makes it so different now…she knows the answer, but refuses to point it out and instead focuses on her in take of oxygen, counting once more. "Nine…Ten." She forcefully relaxes into the paneled wall behind her.

The low of her back hitting against the bar of metal, the intense chill frosting her back and she leaps forward from it. A small beep signed off and the doors to the thirteenth floor opened.

Stepping out, she smoothed the back of her hair, the waves dancing up around her arms. Pulling it all off to the side she took a deep breath and marched forward.

She needed this.

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"Afghanistan?" June gives him a slow nod. She's fiddling with her fingers, avoiding eye contact, she knows that's bad. It shows symptoms of social anxiety, unable to communicate with patients wasn't in any way a good thing for a doctor. "I'm fascinated. You were a doctor, solider, what else?"

'A blogger for a consulting detective' she thinks to herself, negatively, but lets it roll off her tongue before she speaks about it. "That's just about it." He gives her a short smile, looking back down at her resume, he clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and she wants to tear it out.

She didn't understand, the sound of clicking had been driving her insane. It seemed that many were doing this just to anger her, put her into a dilemma she wouldn't be able to back out of because she had already snapped. Holding back any utterance that threatened to dishevel the man in front of her, Doctor Bailish, she squeezes her fingers into the palms of her hands.

"Well, it appears you are quiet capable for the job." He speaks more to himself and she finds herself examining him. The black of his hair turning grey with pricks of white, his blue eyes almost a darkening distress of ridden anxiety, and the way his fingers thumbed her resume was just as irritating as the clicking of his tongue.

Once he was done flipping through the papers he settles them down, the white clashing with the black of his keyboard, and some of them whither due to the A/C in the office they sat in. She was senile, she had to admit, who turns the A/C on in the middle of Autumn? He clacks his teeth, typing something into his computer before he finally responds.

"When would you like to start?"

It's silent, the ticking of his office clock; the only reminisces of time as she folds his words in half and tries to disassemble them in her head. She got the job? It didn't exactly surprise her, but she couldn't help but stress that she had actually gotten it. There were several other people perfectly qualified for the job. Some who were probably better. Many who weren't going through an existential crisis in their life.

She guessed she was just in mock shock in the fact that she had been given the job so eagerly. "Uhm…Well, next week might be good." She nearly questions, the query perking inside and out, lifting the man as he raised a brow. She hurries to correct her words as if she had said something wrong. "I'm moving…so it might be a problem to just start…" He seems to catch the hint and gives her a jovial beam.

"Of course." He stands holding his hand out, she shakes it, and finds his palms are sweaty with a stick that makes her want to fling her arm back. "Just call my physician assistant, Kara, when you can come in, of course do it ahead of time."

"Thank you." She turns to leave, his eyes on her back with a persistence she finds unnerving to say the least.

At least she had the job. She couldn't stand working at the surgery anymore, it was long and boring…and she was just making up excuses for the real reason why she was leaving it. The same reason as to why she was leaving the Flat, leaving Ms. Hudson…leaving everything behind. And she felt some sort of heat grow in the back of her head, an anger she hadn't realized was there perching in her chest.

She was doing what he had done. Leaving everyone; everything. She shouldn't just run away, but she wants to at the same time, like a drug, her insistence on fleeing was just as addictive. She feels as if she isn't strong enough, that she's that wet paper that kept her family center and still, but still wavering as it was tugged along this façade.

This whole thing was a façade. She knew it, her smile, that special glint in her eyes, the way she held her chin high in hopes that this gut wrenching torment would just leave. Let her be and she could get on with her life. Leave it all behind. She'd think it'd be better to just forget, feel nothing on the inside for the things around her. Including him.

And she almost want's to slap herself for just thinking that. She didn't want to get over it, she didn't want to forget him; she didn't want him to just be a faded memory as she drifted out into that sea of void desolation. That irritation she was feeling only moments ago is replaced with a heavy sided dose of inconsolable forlorn.

She blinks hard, forcing the tears that boded to escape, her hues glazed in a thick stasis of water, one of salt and miserable dejection. She wants to hold herself, break down and let herself come undone, just for a while. But she can't. She has to move forward.

She's at a crossroads, one that tugs her left and right before she can make up her mind. Both decisions raucous, slowly subduing her on the inside.

Forget him.

Or

Let him be her pain.

Her ever changing pain, her ever changing thoughts to move on, the remarkable escalation puts her on pause and she feels the world around her spin out of control. And just when she thought she was starting to finally, finally, have it under control. Under that little thumb of hers, to push and bob whenever she liked she finds that she doesn't and that control she had convinced herself of having was slipping away all to quickly.

She sucks in a raspy breath, hailing for a cab. She sighs, nothing coming her way, and she assumes it's because she looks like a mess. She's ready to walk back to the flat, force herself to look at his commodity and not feel a thing, but that was near impossible. She missed him, didn't want to, didn't want to feel so much, but she did. And for once she wished she could be like him, delete memories on a whim that she deemed unimportant.

But that was just the problem wasn't it? He was important. His sly remarks, his little deductions just to show off, the thrill of the game that sprinkled down upon her when he came into her life. Making her feel like she had some importance in the world for once, like she meant something, like she could do anything.

If she were delete that memory, of him plummeting off that building, she'd do it…she thinks she'd do it. But that's the problem with memories. They're what make us who we are. They keep us in line; tell us what not to do and what to do. Keep use safe in dire times, keep us sane when we are lonely, keep us happy when we need some cheering up. And sadly enough can keep us exposed and tired, if the using the right memory suicidal.

She was ready to give up, the cabs ignoring her, and she wonder if she really did look like a mess. Like some unstable lady with a thousand problems who happened to crawl out of the depths of the alley way's just around the corner. She would just walk, it was good idea, keeping the environment healthy and all that.

Plus, it lengthened the time she'd have away from the flat. She'd have to pack her things, now that she thought of it, and she wondered what her room looked like now. She hadn't slept in there for the last few weeks. It was the couch, chair or his bed. It didn't feel right sleeping in there, but it didn't feel right anywhere, not anymore.

She thinks back to it, the flat, the smell of death. Citrus and spice, that tint of tobacco that seemed to overwhelm her lungs at the worst of times. Then there was that pinch of tea in the air, the crisp scent it left hanging over her head. But that smell had long been forgotten, she hadn't made tea for almost four weeks. She couldn't find the strength to. Couldn't find it in herself to touch anything in that kitchen; his kitchen.

Sometimes, if she's lucky, she hears him. She was positive she was just going insane, but if she focused hard enough she could hear the distant complaints of the tall man, his exaggerated synopsis of things around him.

She's nearly a block away from the hospital when a familiar black car rides up next to the sidewalk, she turns to look and narrows her eyes. It was one of Mycroft's…She ignores it, continuing her dreadfully tiring walk. The window rolls down and the woman who texts day and night pokes her head out; Anthea.

"Get in." she pushes, but it's obvious she's reading a text. It must've been from him. She keeps her walk steady, unable to look at the beast of a car. It's too much, she'd spent so much time avoiding anything remotely related to him. Mycroft was the last thing she wanted, needed, in fact she might as well try to hide. But he'd find her. He's the British government.

You can't exactly hide from that in London. "June, please get in." She pauses.

It's his voice.

She slowly rounds, her eyes landing on said man, Mycroft looking through the window with in, his lips managing to be stern yet curved in a frowning state. She's hot on the idea of just booking it, running for her dear life, because she's not ready for this. Not him, the two were too similar. In their own way's. Both deducing everything in sight, acting as if every other human being on the planet was a Neanderthal, pets to toy with. And both extremely arrogant with a tar of, shockingly, nice fashion.

Before she has a chance to say anything, Mycroft steps out from the vehicle, the door open as he waits for her to get in. She stares at him, uncertainty painted across her face. He's looking at her exactingly, fingers straining on the handle of the car door.

"Get in." His tone is dangerous, but in a way she'd never heard it before, at least not directed at her. She'd only heard him use such a pitch with Sher…yeah, with Sherlock. She heaves out an exhausted breath, the steam rolling from her lips as it compensated the air around her. She looks around her, still, and he goes to bring her in but she moves before he can.

She steps in, settling into the leather seats, the warmers beneath heating her thighs. Mycroft sits across from her, closing the door, blocking the barrage of frost that lied outside the car. He stares at her, the car moving and she refuses to look at him. She's watching the cement speed as the car cruises past each and every block it has to offer. He opens his mouth to say something, but pauses, and she finds her heart coming to a stop when he finally does.

"I am aware you are looking for a flat." She doesn't look at him, doesn't give him any confirmation, she doesn't need to. She knew he already knew, there was no point in telling him so, if not he could just deduce her status and figure it out the Holmes way. He coughs. "I am considerably certain that you wish to obtain a new flat, in that case, I…I want to give you something." She's looking at him now, he's holding out an envelope, waiting impatiently for her to grab it.

She has a pretty good bet on what's in that black envelope, but doesn't say, she guesses instead. "What is it?" He almost scoffs in her direction, as if it were obvious, and it was. She didn't exactly know why she as asking, maybe to pass the time?

"Money." His voice is flat with irritant.

"Why?" She pushes.

Immediately a look of discomfort and displeasure reaches her perimeter, he avoids contact with her brilliant hazel orbs, both large and addled, the signature look of June Watson. He pulls the envelope back, staring at it with a gaze she'd never seen before. It almost appeared to be regret, maybe anger; she could even spot a pinch of sorrow in his marble colored hues.

"If you do not want it—"

"No, I don't." She pips, naturally, as always avoids help when she needs it most. But being the nice Scottish lady she was, she couldn't just take his money. Even if she did need it. And she really needed to stop interrupting people today, it was becoming a bad habit. "I appreciate your…whatever this is, but I'm doing fine on my own." She finishes, finally the woman sitting next to June, her texting all but stopped. He didn't look convinced, both brows reaching the top of his hairline.

But fell back, taking note of her words he ignored them politely. Setting the envelope on her lap he leans back into his seat. The rest of the drive is quiet and it isn't long before they pull up to 221b Baker Street, and she finds herself frowning. Not wanting to go in.

Oh, she really doesn't want to.

He was everywhere in there. And she didn't know if she could handle it right now, not after the issue in the elevator, not after having her memory refreshed of the Holmes attitude. She thought she'd been getting along, better than she had a few weeks ago, but it seemed she had yet to make progress.

It was sad, really, that she couldn't even go into a flat without wanting to break down in a fit of hysteria. It's not like he was the only person in her life. She had family, a few other friends…she looks back on it and finds he was the only one who mattered. She doesn't realize she's been sitting in the car for over five minutes until Mycroft speaks up. Unsettled, she might add, and it gets her undivided attention.

"Do you wish to go somewhere else, Ms. Watson?" she's shocked, his words calm and, well, concerned. In the most professional way, if that were possible. She assumed it was, because he just did it, with a dull expression and an irritated look in his eyes he still managed to sound the tiniest bit worried.

He must've thought he hid it pretty well from her, because his expression is unchanging. And he looks far from trying to change the attitude he was letting her perceive.

"That…uhm, that would be nice." June murmurs and he nods to the driver who pulls away from the curb, the second time that day, just for the convenience of June. And she's bewildered as to why he's being kind to her, doing this, why would he even consider her feelings on this entire situation? Wasn't caring a disadvantage? Unless this was just an inconvenience that he felt the need to push.

"Where would you like to be taken?" She glances up at him, thinking, tugging her coat around her torso like it would help with the bitter cold that had wrapped itself around her. The heat of the car doing nothing to stop it.

Her thoughts roam, tracing the silver lines of what clouds she could define; she leans her head against the window. All destinations, stops all seem unimportant, finding that there's nowhere she wants to be. Frigid static frames her limbs, numbing her down to the bone and all she can hear is her beating heart. It's unsatisfactory and she wants to hold her breath, see how long she can keep it beating without it rising in tempo, until her lungs feel like their about to burst and her head pounds with the feet of a thousand drums.

All color is leaving her, what was once a bright light on the streets, the lamps glowing with a gold all but turn to a dulled out grey. Everything passing her by in seconds, minutes, a passing time she doesn't wish to shorten. She was lost.

She didn't know where to go. She didn't have anywhere to go. That flat was no longer hers. All the color that she once retained in her vision was disappearing, reds and blues, even pinks all leaving her. What once was a rainbow in her bright eyes was now a storm that quaked the world around her. It ripples through her frame and makes her lame, in her side there's a shame, the pride of keeping her mouth shut. Not speaking aloud of just how much she missed him, how much she wanted to be just near him, to smell him, hear his rattled thoughts aloud.

It never rested, it was constantly on her mind, bleeding her out, and every day was a battle. A sullen song buried deep in her body, holding the sounds of what she was, losing what left she had. She was lost. She jerks back into her seat as surprise contours her features, Mycroft dapping a handkerchief on the bounce of her cheek. She gawks at him, and finds he's faded out too, the same despair, one void of emotion.

No one else would notice, no one else could. It was his expression he kept on all accounts, when he was angry, tired, jabbed and she figures it's the same when he's in a state of desperate melancholy.

"I'd like to just...just not stop." He nods, the driver making random turns now. She rests against the colorless seal of the car, her emotions imploding and vacuuming in all of what she had left.

She was lost for her home had already died.