Hey guys,

I know I know, I'm more than late in uploading this chapter, and I have no excuses other than my hectic schedule. But I'm gonna upload a fluffy one-shot just right after this to compensate. :D

Koala hugs and cookies for HauntingMelodyofaNightmare, jwolf18791 and my darling friend, NausS, for your wonderful reviews and supports. Thank you so much, sweethearts!

Also, big thanks to those who have followed/favourited!

If you like this chapter or the story, in general, please leave a review. It feels great to hear from you. :D

This is neither Beta'd, nor Brit-picked. Each mistake is mine.

Enjoy the read!

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

Chapter: 2

I hear the wind call your name

It calls me back home again

The sparks of the fire

The flame that still burns

It's to you I'll always return...

- 'I will always return' by Bryan Adams

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock...

Home...

John had heard that he flat lined when the doctors were removing his bullets, but he never knew how it felt. Now he knew how it felt when the mind flat lined because his did at the very moment. John's mind went blank, completely. He couldn't compare the feeling with anything else as he never experienced such a thing before. He blinked- nothing happened. Tried to talk- nothing happened. He just felt empty and blank. Suddenly he felt a burning sensation in his chest and realized his lungs needed oxygen desperately. With a jerk finally his brain responded to the call of his body and then the hyperventilating started.

John's world stopped spinning. Or the speed got doubled. He felt disoriented. He couldn't breathe, couldn't reach the surface. He was drowning. His sense, his control everything was slipping through. He tried desperately to draw some air into his burning lungs but couldn't. All the signs indicated to one conclusion- a panic attack. Not a violent one, where he actually relived his memories of getting shot, but a mild yet effective one.

John must have been looking seriously ill as he realized the man, no, Mycroft Holmes, was looking at him with an expression which might have been called concern if not for the perpetual grimace that adorned the man's face. His ears throbbed, head felt light, he felt suffocated. But in the midst of this psychotic chaos there was only one thought in John's mind- Sherlock. And because of that he tried to compose his body, calm his mind with sheer willpower. He would not break down, not now, not when there were questions to be asked. And most of all not he would not appear week in front of this man, Sherlock's brother.

Sherlock.

Promise.

Gun.

Death.

Injury.

Broken.

Home.

Sherlock.

His mind played these things like a record on a repeat mode. John clenched his jaw and tried to still his mildly trembling body.

"Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson? Can you hear me? Do you need medical attention? John?"

At the mention of his name John's head snapped towards the man. He stared at this intimidating figure in front of him.

Sherlock...

"A-are you Sher-Sherlock's brother?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at the question, "I am."

John's eyes instantly darted around the room, searching, "Is he...is he here?"

"No, he is not here with us at the moment. But do you need any immediate medical attention, Doctor? You were on the verge of having a panic attack."

John visibly relaxed at that. He is not here, not here. He can't see me, won't see me. Not like this. Never.

"Doctor?"

"Hm? Uh..no I'm alright now, it's alright..so-sorry."

"No need to apologize for something you do not have any grasp over." Mycroft waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Now, as the first rush of John's panic subsided the curiosity and confusion sprang into being. There were so many things John needed to know right now but first he needed to know, "What am I doing here? And who are you?

Mycroft was sitting in his chair now and inspecting his nails! He didn't avert his eyes while answering, "Your involvement is required for something which is of utmost importance to me."

This man was definitely Sherlock's brother, John thought with a sigh and said, "Which is? And how do you know me? I am sure we have never met before."

But Mycroft Holmes responded to that question with another, "Have you heard from Sherlock or about him after you came back?"

"No."

"I thought so."

"But that doesn't answer-"

"All in good time, Dr. Watson. And to answer your second question I took liberty to research about you when all of a sudden my brother began to receive letters from the British military base of Afghanistan."

Ah, so this is why Sherlock hated him. Now I know why. But John didn't say anything aloud, just waited for further clarification. The elder Holmes got up from his chair and continued.

"And my brother's reaction to your letters gave me everything I needed to know."

John gaped at that. "Did you read my letters?"

The grimace Mycroft shot at him could easily be translated as don't be daft.

"People can learn much more if they tend to observe certain things."

Yes, definitely Sherlock's brother. And suddenly a thought occurred to John.

"Uh..wa-was it by your orders that I was relocated to that medical institution in Glasgow? Because I am quite sure most of the injured soldiers are usually moved to our London facility."

"Indeed. I admit that I had a small role behind your shifting to Glasgow."

"Why? Has he...has Sherlock asked you to do that?"

Once again Mycroft ignored John's question and instead asked him one, "Do you know where Sherlock is at the moment, Mr. Watson?"

Something in his tone or the way Mycroft Holmes looked at him made John's inside churn. A nameless fear grabbed him instantly.

"N-no, why?"

There was a pause.

"At a rehabilitation center."

"At a...at a...rehab?" The last of the sentence became almost a whisper.

No, that couldn't be. What John was thinking couldn't be true. Surely Sherlock was there for a case purpose, right? Sherlock couldn't... He wouldn't...

"He relapsed?"

Mycroft Holmes arched an eyebrow at the incredulous tone of the question.

"So, you are aware of Sherlock's...addiction."

It wasn't a question and even if it was John wouldn't be able to say anything, his mouth felt too dry to utter anything. Mycroft seemed to realize that as he continued on.

"Sherlock is struggling for his addiction for years now but this time it wasn't a simple relapse or I wouldn't think of bothering you, Dr. Watson."

John began to doubt whether this whole scenario was happening inside his head because the fear, the confusion, the pain he was feeling he usually felt them in his nightmares. First of all to know that Sherlock had gone back into drugs was too much to bear for his already broken mind and then he didn't have any slightest idea where did he fit into this whole thing. Why Sherlock's brother thought to bring John here and let him know about Sherlock? And above all what the fuck was going on with Sherlock?

"What's wrong with him? What happened?"

"He over dosed."

Yes, this was a nightmare. This was definitely a nightmare. He would wake up screaming and sweating at any moment now and the stupid night nurses would rush into his room to increase his humiliation. This was all happening in his head. Because he was mind numbingly terrified right now. John had seen and a few times treated some of the OD cases and it was something John never wished upon anyone, let alone Sherlock. John just couldn't imagine that that genius sharp boy reduced into some mindless addict who couldn't even tell their names. His vision had started to blur. But not now damn it, not when there was more to know.

But what would he say? What should he say? He wasn't there with Sherlock when he needed him, he couldn't stop him to push the syringe into his vein. John had failed Sherlock. He knew that. But why? Why did Sherlock do this?

"Why?"

"Dr. Watson, my brother is a brilliant and trained chemist. I do not believe for one second that he would mess up his dosage even in an extremely drug addled state, no. It was intentional. Sherlock over dosed himself deliberately."

"WHAT? Wh...why? I don't understand. I...Wh-...I don't understand."

John stared at this man stupidly. He literally had nothing left to think. Sherlock intentionally overdosed?

"Do you know when was the last time Sherlock overdosed?"

There was another time?

"No." John replied dumbly.

"When our mother died."

And just like that the scattered pieces of the puzzle began to fall into pattern. A vague picture was beginning to form in front of John's eyes. He slowly lifted his head and whatever he wanted to convey Mycroft Holmes seemed to understand once again as he answered John's unspoken question, "He is mourning your demise in his own way, Dr. Watson."

Slowly, very slowly John nodded his understanding and stared at the far wall without actually seeing. Sometimes the pain became so much intense that it didn't feel anything. Only numbness.

Sherlock, his Sherlock, his genius boy tried to...kill himself? To cope up with John's death? Someone he never met with? Sherlock thought of...thought of suicide? For John? But what could John do now? What good he had done to Sherlock ever? He couldn't give him anything when he was healthy and intact then what could John possibly give him now when he himself was broken? Wasn't it better to let Sherlock think that...

Mycroft's voice cut through the fog of depression and self doubt.

"Now, I have a very serious and important question to ask you, Dr. Watson and I expect your full honesty while answering me." Mycroft Holmes eyes became too sharp, too piercing to look at but John never averted his eyes from the man. He was too exhausted to feel anything anymore. He couldn't lie even if he tried to. So, he just held his gaze.

"How much do you care about my brother?"

Hah! Wasn't that the easiest question John could ever expect to answer? He had answered this question to himself long ago, after all. But he still took his time to voice his answer. He averted his eyes from Sherlock's brother and focussed at some point on the table. A sad broken smile slowly appeared on his tired face.

"Enough to let him go."

Mycroft stared at John for a long moment before going back to his side of the table. He had been standing in front of John, leaning on John's side of the table, this whole time. He opened a drawer but John didn't look at him or anywhere; his eyes had this blank lost look in them, like he wasn't even there.

Mycroft came and stood in front of John again and extended a battered envelop towards him. John slowly looked at it and blinked and then looked at the man again but didn't took it.

"It was the last letter Sherlock sent to you. It couldn't be delivered to you for the sudden attack on your main base. It came back to him. I hope you will excuse my intrusion knowing that I have already read it, for obvious reasons. But it's yours to have and you are required to read it."

Mycroft gestured again to take the letter so John took it this time. He looked at the envelope. Sherlock's last letter. This letter held all the answers he had imagined for these last two months. But John felt this sudden urge to not to read it, ever. As if reading it would rob him his last refuge- his imagined future, the one which John would never have- with Sherlock. But apparently Mycroft Holmes had other plans as he went on, "My assistant will take you to the new medical facility where you would stay to complete your recovering process. You will be provided with a mobile phone to communicate with me or my assistant. And after reading this letter you would inform me when you would like to meet Sherlock."

John was listening to all these instructions with a bitter, dejected mind but his head snapped towards this irritatingly authoritative man at the last part of his monologue.

"Meet Sherlock? What do you mean?"

"It means, Dr. Watson, that you will be taken to the rehab where Sherlock is."

John was too shocked to react instantly and it took him a few seconds to wrap his mind around the matter.

"I don't want to...I don't want to meet Sherlock. No, that's not possible!"

"Of course it is possible. Why else do you think I have brought you here? Sherlock needs you."

"No, no no, no you don't understand. He doesn't need me. He doesn't. I can't...I can't go in front of him like this. This is not what he needs, I am not whom he needs. No, this cannot be. No, Mr. Holmes, I can't see Sherlock."

Mycroft Holmes didn't say anything instead he observed John for a long time. Then he turned his face towards the only window of the room.

"Have you ever held someone you care about the most in your arms while they convulsed to near death? Do you know how it feels to see someone dearest to you try to kill themselves time and again and all you can do is just watch? Knowing that you have absolutely no option to make them see reason? To save them emotionally? Have you, John? Believe me when I say that if I had other options in my hands I would not have bothered you. But apparently there isn't any except you. It is you Sherlock needs, he wants. It definitely bothers me to say that my brother's future depends upon you. You can make him or can break him forever. And I seriously hope Sherlock didn't place his faith, his...affection on an undeserving man."

John kept absolutely quiet during Mycroft's speech. He didn't utter a word, didn't say he was a brother too, a brother of an alcoholic sister. He didn't say he had his own horrors too as a brother. He knew it was wrong to compare but he couldn't help but think that Sherlock was way more precious than Harry. His first impression of Mycroft Holmes wasn't something he would call positive but he couldn't deny this man's love, dedication for his brother. He couldn't deny how much trouble this elder brother had gone through only to keep his brother safe.

"Is that why you have brought me here, in London?"

"Yes, this is precisely the reason I looked for you in Afghanistan and brought you in Glasgow first and then here."

John's eyes widen, "You brought me from Afgha-What do you mean?"

"I needed to find you in order to keep Sherlock from doing something which we both might regret later. He was desperate to know you were safe."

"But then why did he do that…that thing? Nothing is making sense!"

"Sherlock thought you were dead."

"But you knew about me, you knew I was alive, surely he kne- wait! You didn't tell him? You didn't tell Sherlock about me?"

John couldn't grasp over what the actual fuck was happening. Sherlock's brother knew about him and didn't tell Sherlock! Then what the hell did he tell Sherlock? Because John was certain it took a lot more for this arse of a man to conceal this information from his brother. But John set aside this question for now as he had yet to know what The Mighty Mycroft's reason for doing so was.

"When I found you your condition was very serious; doctors weren't even sure whether you would survive your injury or not. I didn't want to give my brother false hope, it would have made the situation worse."

"More than it already is? Would there have been something worse than Sherlock trying to kill himself?" John could feel his voice rising.

"I..uh..slightly miscalculated about his attachment with you."

"Miscalculated? Mis- Jesus! You bastard! You knew, you could have prevented Sherlock's accident but you didn't! How could you?"

"I can assure you, Doctor, that no one is more remorseful than I-"

"Fuck your remorse. That won't make Sherlock better, you know."

"Which is why you are here. To make him better."

And with that all the boiling rage, all that anger brewing inside him suddenly vanished. His gaze became uncertain and painful, shoulder slumped.

John shook his head, "No, I can't. I can't."

"I do not want to put pressure on you, Dr. Watson but I will if it-"

"Don't you understand? Can't you see?"

Mycroft Holmes abhorred being interrupted mid-speech and John had done that quite a lot already but this time he really looked at John trying to see what this young soldier wanted him to see.

"What is your objection, Dr. Watson?"

John's right hand subconsciously went out to touch the left hand which was on a sling and cradled it into his chest where his second bullet wound was. He lowered his eyes, brows furrowed, as if imposed with a life altering challenge.

"I am broken." A mere whisper. Hollow, teary, fragile- just like the man himself.

With those three words, any doubt Mycroft Holmes had about this man was cleared. He looked at John some more and told in an unusually soft tone, "So is Sherlock."

John's eyes darted towards the elder Holmes brother and for a moment he thought he saw Sherlock. His Sherlock. John shut his eyes immediately.

Mycroft stood there for some moments and then moved and settled on his chair again. The moment was broken and John tried to compose himself.

"You need your rest, Doctor. Go and have it. And once you are ready, give me a call or a message and I will organize your meeting with Sherlock."

"But I haven't agreed with anything!" Exasperation was loud and clear in John's voice. Why this man is so infuriating? Is it a Holmes trait or something?

"Ah, well, I am sure you will once you get to think all the things over in a more…uh..familiar atmosphere." Again that bristling tight-lipped smile and a nod which told John that this conversation was over.

John actually didn't know what he was thinking or feeling or what he should do now. He realized that he didn't even care. All he wanted to do was a get himself some strong pain medications and find a bed. He was beyond exhausted. He felt drained out totally.

John stood up, glared at Mycroft some more and turned to walk to the door but again that posh-y git-y voice stopped him.

"The letter, Dr. Watson. You forgot to take the letter with you."

John turned and looked at the envelope with his name on it, in Sherlock's handwriting. He clenched his jaw, almost snatched it from the table and without another word left the room.

~0~0~0~

Once the door was closed behind him John exhaled a shaky breath.

Sherlock almost died because of him.

Sherlock needed him.

How could he save Sherlock when he was the reason Sherlock almost died?

Why Sherlock did this?

Did he…? Could he…..?

Oh, Sherlock…..

John fisted his right palm and clamped it over his mouth to stop from whimpering. A sob was working its way out of his chest. He couldn't cry now, night was allotted for that job. Suddenly he felt other presences around him and realized that there were two security personnel posted on each side of the door one of which was now quietly asking John to follow him.

John knew he should be ashamed for showing his weakness like this but he couldn't care anymore. What was left there to be ashamed of anyway when the only person he lo- cared about the most tried to take his own life because of him? He almost killed Sherlock. His Sherlock. He shouted on Mycroft for not telling Sherlock about him sooner but he himself did the same thing, didn't he? He could have called Sherlock after he was well enough, he could have asked Sherlock how he was but he didn't. All he thought about was his weakness, his broken useless life and how miserable he was. He never thought a mere news of his living could have stopped Sherlock from throwing his life away. Mycroft Holmes didn't want to give his brother false hope and John didn't want to give him any hope but both claimed they wanted the best for Sherlock. How ironical.

John limped his way towards the waiting car in front of the Diogenes Club.

~0~0~0~

It's been two days since Mycroft had that interesting and quite revealing meeting with that Army Doctor. He still didn't receive any call or message from John. Mycroft was almost sure that the attachment between his brother and the Doctor was mutual, but he also knew that both were idiots. Honestly he didn't care about John, he had no reason to but he was anxious about Sherlock's growing stoicism and aloofness. Mycroft knew if he could not persuade John to help Sherlock he would lose his brother again and probably this time for good, considering his health. But at the same time he didn't want to terrorize the doctor to get his job done as the whole situation was delicate and sentimental. In short Mycroft Holmes was stuck in between and he would die before admitting it.

Just as he was thinking about plotting something new which might leave the good doctor with no other option his phone alerted a new incoming message.

I want to see him. –JW

Mycroft could have done a Mary Poppins dance with his umbrella had he seen the movie. He immediately replied back-

Very well. A car will be waiting for you in front of the facility you are currently in at 4pm tomorrow. –MH

He didn't think he would receive a confirmation message and he was right.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock was in his room sitting in front of his window, looking over the graying nature outside. His eyes were here, but all he could see was sand, sun and a smiling young soldier with RAMC logo on his uniform.

John…

No matter how hard he tried John was always there. In his conscious, in his subconscious, in his unconscious…John was always there. John was infused with his psyche.

John. John. John.

Sherlock was sitting on the only chair of the room, chin rested over his folded knees, rocking softly.

A soft knock and then a female voice, "Sherlock, you have a visitor."

It's a Wednesday? So soon? Maybe it isn't. Maybe the last Wednesday was months ago. What does it matter anyway?

Seeing that Sherlock didn't respond the nurse repeated her words again which resulted in Sherlock's reply, "I'm an addict, Natalie, not hearing impaired. I am perfectly capable of hearing you."

Apparently Natalie had gotten immune to Sherlock's barbs for she didn't even flinch and instead asked, "Do you wish to see your visitor?"

"Do I have any other choice?"

"Weeell, if y-"

"Spare me, Natalie. Lengthening your vowels won't strengthen your inane advices. I'll go and see the Holmes scion who holds all the glories of this farce of a family."

"Uh…he..is..he-"

He expressed his annoyance in a huff and almost pushed the nurse away from his door on his way out.

Another evening to test my patience. Sherlock carefully slipped on his non-chalant mask. He never could fool his brother but he would never stop trying also.

He reached the visitor's room, turned the door-knob, pushed the door open, went inside just a step and stopped dead.

Sandy blond. Cobalt blue warm eyes. Golden skin. 5'6''. Lean but with a good structure. Broad shoulder. Left hand hanging from a sling. Left shoulder stiff and probably bandaged. Not probably, definitely. A checkered shirt. Brown trouser. Army issued jacket and shoes. Standing straight but right hand holding a metal cane.

John….

John…

"Sherlock?"

The man spoke.

John...

"Sherlock? I'm-I'm…..John."

John.

~0~0~0~