Uhmm... I've been away for far too long, haven't I? Well... uhm... it was just my birthday, Yes, I am 16 now. :D And I'm out of therapy.. fuck yeah, lying gets you through the shit things in life... anyway!

Here be a Sherlock fic... eayh... yes that is a word now.

Song is 'Just to Get High' by Nickelback. Don't own that, don't own characters and shit... :) Anyway! Enjoy...

I got him clean, yes, me, I know, it's hard to believe, but I did it, all on my own. Mycroft helped as much as he could, which wasn't much at all considering Sherlock nearly relapsed every time Mycroft swung by until he didn't anymore. I did it, me… but…

I can still remember what his face looked like.

I feel like I can't breathe, thinking about this… remembering that… his face… the way… the way he was trembling, the way his eyes begged me to forgive him for a crime I still hadn't known he'd committed. It makes me feel like fainting, like purging, like slamming my fist through the wall.

When I found him in an alley in the middle of the night.

The memories are tied so tightly with the emotions that every time I think of seeing him there… of stumbling over him in that alley, bloodied and so fucking out of his fucking mind, it's just… the emotions were so powerful that they are invoked every time I remember… every time I think of Sherlock in that alley…

TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW! TELL ME WHAT YOU'VE GONE AND DONE NOW!

God… the call to Mycroft… God… you can't possibly know what that's like… listening to the British Government fighting against the overwhelming urge to destroy everything as you tell him how his little brother has been shooting up to the point where he has no fucking clue what he's doing anymore and how he's just possibly murdered a man… the shattering feeling that comes from listening to the most powerful man in Britain take a horrified gasp in and struggle to find his words.

A gun would do the trick, get it over with…

The suicide attempts that followed for five fucking months afterwards, continuously, weekly, on a daily basis… the ties and scarves and coats and knives and ropes and razors and anything sharp or able to be wrapped around the neck for a potential hanging. Every thing had to go. 221B had never looked so empty… Sherlock had never looked so empty.

Found out he pulled a knife on someone's wife and held it to her throat.

Guess they decided it was better not to tell me that it had been my wife. Guess they thought I'd kill him, guess Mycroft thought I didn't have enough control to realize it was just Sherlock breaking down. Guess they didn't know me very well.

Tell me what you did, where you gone and hid.

He wouldn't tell me what happened, wouldn't tell me who he'd hurt or who had hurt him, wouldn't admit that he'd lost it. If I had to guess, I'd say he was hanging with the Homeless Network…

Show me, is what you really want watching what you've got circling the drain? Throw it all away…

Holding him back as Mycroft's assistant dumped everything down the sink. Holding him tight as he broke down crying. Tucking him into bed when he passed out from exhaustion and anger and hunger and withdrawal. Constantly telling him he wouldn't get to help in any cases if he couldn't get clean, the way he would glare at me, the way he would tell me he wished me dead, the way he glared at me and I knew he was glaring at his reflection in the mirror just beside me.

He was my best friend,

He doesn't have friends… not anymore… not then, then, I was his only friend, I like to think I was his best friend, but I wasn't, I really, really wasn't but I was his friend when he didn't have any, when he needed one and I like to think that means something.

I tried to help him.

He was so fucking helpless, I can't believe I did it… can't believe I got him fucking clean! And it was me that did it. I just can't…

But he traded everything…

That article, the call… oh fuck, the call… Sally's face, the smug fucking smirk on her fucking face, the relief I'd felt as I heard that recording on the phone, the sooo out of character phone recording that was meant to be a suicide note, the way I put Anderson in hospital for three months for daring to speak ill of the unknown-to-him-un-dead Sherlock. The night spent in the holding cell and the smirk on Mycroft's face as he dropped by to get me out of lock up personally, Sally's ire…

I watched the lying turn into hiding.

The phone call, he's too fucking perfect to be dead. He's too fucking perfect, besides, Mycroft wouldn't have nearly broken down crying when he heard the message if it didn't mean that Sherlock was alive and kicking. He's fucking hiding, I know he is! And if he's started again… if he's fucking destroyed everything I… we worked so hard for… if he's gone and ruined everything, he'd better wish he'd really died jumping off that fucking building…