A/N: Hi again! To those of you who have read the first part of 'Anger', this is now the complete version of the chapter. To those of you who haven't, well, read away. This is the full chapter!

To all of you - thank you so much for reading my words.

Trigger (/spoiler?) warning: drug use.

At first, none of the profilers wanted to share. Prentiss' move was bold, to be the first to open up. But it wasn't quite enough. They all talked, but it was an empty exchange of words, just scratching the surface without bringing true comfort. Talking about their shock and guilt was supposed to help, but it didn't. They were all shocked and sad and tormented by Rossi's death, but repeating it over and over again didn't make them feel any better. It didn't make it feel any more real. However, after an hour that felt like a day, Hotch arrived. No one could decide whether or not they were surprised by his red and puffy eyes. It wasn't the first time he had cried in the team's presence, but they never saw him after. He seemed tired and drained, but collected at the same time. They all knew exactly why he came when he did – he didn't want the team to see him at his weakness, but he couldn't let them mourn alone. He was responsible for this team in every aspect. The room turned quiet when he entered, except forthe noise made by another chair being dragged to the circle they had created. Hotch sat down, and after another moment of silence Garcia explained what they were doing. In the time between Garcia's explanation and Hotch's response, each of the team members had developed a theory about what Hotch would say. Would he mention Haley? Give a quiet speech about the importance of sharing and dealing with it together? Would he start crying again?

But instead, he said: "I just can't believe I won't have any more of his damn spaghetti carbonara."

There was silence for a second. Then, they started giggling. The moment after, they were all laughing hysterically. Even Hotch had a smile on his face. It wasn't that funny, not at all. But laughing made the burden on their hearts lighter for a moment, just enough to feel okay for a bit.

When the laughs died out, they all started sharing again. But this time, it was different. Seaver talked about the time she played GTA with Rossi and was certain he was cheating. Garcia shared the time she tried to explain Tumblr to him and failed miserably. Hotch revealed that Rossi had tried to convince him to go on a double date with him multiple times. Their stories had nothing to do with Rossi's death, but they helped. The only one who didn't fully cooperate was Reid, who refused to let go of the belief that Rossi was in fact secretly alive.

The next hour passed far more quickly than the previous one. They only realized that time had passed when a phone rang. They were rather surprised to find out it was Reid's. He reluctantly pulled it out of his pocket and answered the call.

"Doctor Reid," he said hesitantly.

"Hi, uh, it's… Molly Hooper? The coroner?"

"Oh, yeah, hi. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, of course. I mean, not really. I heard about what happened. I'm sorry."

Reid nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see it. "Thanks, I appreciate it." What that the right thing to say? He wasn't sure. At the moment, he didn't really care.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Reid figured she didn't have anything else to say, and was even less capable of having a small-talk than usual. He tried to end the call, but she interrupted after the first syllable.

"Would you like to see him?"

Reid hesitated for a moment, taken aback. "What?"

"I mean, you obviously don't have to, it's just that he's here, and I know it helps some people."

Did he want to see his friend's dead body? Not at all. But he needed proof. Once she'd show him the body he'd find a sign that it's a duplicate or a fake and prove that Rossi was still alive.

"I'll be right there."

He ended the call. "That was Molly," he said, looking only at Hotch. "I have to go."

Hotch nodded, understanding the situation. "Take your time."

Reid hurried out, and Hotch glanced at his watch. "Actually, I better leave too. I need to pay Mycroft a visit." He paused and met everyone's eyes. "For Rossi."

He got firm nods back. "For Rossi," JJ replied. She still blamed him for Rossi's death, understandably so, but she knew the importance of it. Rossi gave his life for Mycroft – the least they could do was to check up on him.

And he left, leaving the team to continue their discussion, wondering what was waiting for him at Mycroft's office.

If it weren't for how tired he was, John would've thought that the sight of his home was a dream. Or maybe it really was a dream, and he had just reached such an intense level of exhaustion that even in his dreams he wanted to sleep.

"Oh, so you do remember where you live," Mary said as she saw him.

No, he was definitely awake.

He wanted to apologize for not coming sooner, or for the lack of calls or for anything else that he might have done wrong, but he was too emotionally drained to say anything useful.

"Agent Rossi died," he simply said. It pretty much summed up everything.

The look on Mary's face changed instantly. "Oh no! And he was my favourite, too."

John gave her a baffled look. It took him a moment to understand. "Young, pretty, admires Sherlock?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, that's Agent Reid," he said, somewhat irritably. She had every reason to mix up their names. She hadn't spent as long with them as he did.

"Oh. Who's Rossi then?"

"The old Italian one."

"Oh." They were both quiet for a short moment. The whole situation was so strange already that this ridiculous conversation didn't even feel that odd. "What happened?" she eventually asked, turning slightly sideways to hint John to come sit down.

"He was a friend of Mycroft's, apparently," he answered as walked to the couch and crashed on it with a sigh. "Don't ask me why. For whatever reason, a cupcake Mycroft was supposed to eat was poisoned with cyanide –" he paused, noticing the surprise on his wife's face. "What?"

"It's hard to take seriously any story that starts with Mycroft and a cupcake."

John snorted. Only Mary could find amusement in the story of someone's death.

"Sorry, go on," she said with a slightly embarrassed grin.

"Anyway, Rossi was there with him and somehow figured out that it was poisoned so he ate it himself to save him. Then they came over to the station and when we found out he really was poisoned, he said a personal goodbye to each of his friends, including Mycroft."

"Oh my god," Mary said with a frown, finally taking the events seriously. "I can't believe he did that for Mycroft. They couldn't have been such good friends without us hearing about it."

"That was his point, I think. You don't have to be too close to Mycroft to be the closest friend he has. I guess he was just trying to show him he was worth dying for."

They both looked at each other, thinking the same thing without saying it. I'd die for you, but don't you dare die for me.

John sighed heavily. "I need some rest." He pushed himself back on the couch, resting his head comfortably on it. "Just to close my eyes for a few minutes."

Mary gave him a warm smile. "Sleep tight."

"I'm not going to sleep," he murmured, dosing out already. "I'm just… Resting."

When he opened his eyes after what felt like a few minutes, he was quite surprised to find that it was already getting dark. The sun was still up in the sky when he had arrived. He looked for his phone in his pocket but found it resting on the table in front of him. He could clearly remember putting it in his pocket. Did he really sleep so soundly that he didn't feel Mary taking it out?

He took his phone and checked the time. He had slept for an hour and a half, so it seems. He had a missed call from Sherlock, so Mary must have put it on silent. He was supposed to take care of her, not the other way around. Then again, she never did let him care for her. She was only happy when she was up and about.

If Sherlock called him, that meant he was up and probably out of the hospital. He had a lot of catching up to do – Rossi, Lestrade, Donovan…

The note. He had completely forgotten about it. He searched for it in his pockets and sighed in relief when he found it. He opened it and read its content. And then again, to make sure that really was all that was written there. All it contained were the words "for information:" and an American phone number he did not recognize. He put it into his phone, to see if it belonged to one of the agents. It didn't. He tried to look it up online, to see if it belonged to a company or a public figure. It didn't. He stared at the number in his phone for a little longer, and then pressed 'dial'.

It rang four times.

"Hello?"

John was talking to an American man, but that was all he could tell from his voice. Sherlock could probably tell the colour of the man's shoes by it.

"Uh, yes, my name is John Watson. I got your number from Detective Sergeant Donovan." It wasn't false, but it felt weird to put it this way. He couldn't really say 'I found your number on a note I took from her dead body'.

"Is she the one who called me the other day? I was busy and asked her to call back later, but I think that might have been rude of me. Could you apologize to her on my behalf?"

"Er, Donovan died yesterday. She was murdered."

The man sighed. "Was it because of me?"

"Frankly, I have no idea who you are, but no, it wasn't because of you. Unless your name is –" he started saying, but then realized that sharing Daiva's name was how they lost Donovan in the first place. "Never mind."

"Unless my name is what?"

"Sorry, can't say. It's a rather long story, really."

When the man didn't reply, John spoke again.

"I'm helping the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI on a case, if that explains anything."

The call went quiet again, but this time John didn't notice. Was he supposed to tell that man all of that? He didn't even know his name, but something about the tone of his voice made him trust him. It sounded old and wise, and he couldn't help but imagine some sort of guru on the other end of the call.

"That explains that you're dealing with an organized psychopath who's making an effort to make sure only the BAU handles his case. And you too, it seems."

Great, John thought, more profiling. Just what I needed.

"You sound like a profiler. Maybe you should contact the team, they could use your help. Especially now."

"No, I – I can't get involved. I've put this all behind me before it was too late. The team is more than capable to handle it by themselves."

John nodded to himself. There was definitely a story there, but he didn't have enough sympathy left at the moment to ask about it. He just wanted to get this case over with.

"What did you mean by 'especially now'?"

That seemed to have caught the man's attention. He was a complete stranger – John should not tell him what happened.

"They lost one of their own."

There was a short moment of silence, during which John could practically hear the stress spreading in the man's heart.

"Who was it?"

John almost didn't want to tell him. He wondered if there was an option that would hurt less than the others. He was not supposed to spread the word of Rossi's death to strangers, but at this point John was certain he was not talking to a stranger. He wasn't a profiler and he definitely wasn't Sherlock, but he could tell when someone was in genuine distress. The man on the phone was a friend of the team, and he deserved to know what had happened. Either that or John was just making matters worse, but at this point there was no going back.

"David Rossi."

A few seconds of silence passed, during which John could still hear the tension in the man's breaths.

"You're not lying to me, are you?"

Only then it occurred to John that the stranger was taking a risk just as much as he was. John could be a sadistic psychopath that lied just to enjoy his suffering.

"No, I'm not. I'm sorry," John added, because he felt like he should.

"I… I always assumed I would go first," the man said with a heavy sigh.

"He died saving someone else's life." John knew that didn't change anything, but he hoped it would help him to know.

"Of course," the man said with what sounded like a warm smile. "How else?"

John wanted to say something to comfort the stranger, clearly changing his opinion about not having enough sympathy left, but didn't know what would help. At first he had worried that he might be talking to someone dangerous, but hearing the sorrow in the man's voice convinced him that he was talking to an ally.

"There's no other way, is there?" the man said to himself. "Not at this point." He sighed and then spoke again, this time to John. "Will you be available at this number?"

"Uh, yes," John answered hesitantly.

"I'll call you once I arrive to let you know where I'm staying, we'll meet there. Don't let anyone know that we talked."

"How about you give me your name so I'll know who not to mention?"

"I don't want anyone to know I'm coming, especially not the team. Not before I'm sure."

"So you trust me enough to fly across the ocean and meet me but not enough to tell me your name?" John asked, challenging his strange logic.

"The risk of a wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision," the man said and ended the call.

John wondered if that was a quote or his own words, but was too distracted to check. Did he just make a big mistake? Yes, the man clearly cared about the team and they needed all the help they could get. But there was a reason why he was so afraid to let the BAU know he was involved. He could help, but he could also make matters worse. One thing was clear to John - until he'd receive another call from that man, he'd keep the conversation between them. The team did not need another drama.

At some point, Reid found himself standing outside the morgue's doors. He had no recollection of going there, and he wasn't sure how long he had been standing there. That was, of course, the reason he was there. Whenever his feelings became too intense, he couldn't focus or think properly. It had always been like that, since he was a child. That was one of the reasons he preferred to distance himself from others, and why he had to know for sure what happened to Rossi. The longer he stood there, the more his confidence in his theory lessened. Yes, it was possible that Molly called to show him that there was actually no body, or that it was fake. But a part of him knew that wasn't the truth. That same part kept his feet glued to the floor.

The doors were suddenly pushed open and he jumped. Molly came through them and was equally surprised to see him. If he had stood one step closer, the doors would have hit him.

"Agent Reid," she said, with a look that seemed equally sad and happy to see him. "I was just going to call you to make sure you were still coming. How long have you been standing there?"

"Uh, not sure," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "You said you had something to show me?"

Still holding the door, she stepped aside to let Reid through. "Well, I wouldn't call it something, but -"

Reid walked past her and entered the room before she could finish the sentence.

His eyes started scanning the room, as they always do whenever he entered a new place, but then froze. On a slab in the middle of the room was a body covered by a sheet, and Reid could not remove his eyes from it. It might not be him, Reid thought to himself vigorously. It might be someone else. It might be fake. It's not him. It can't be him.

Without making a sound, Molly followed him in and stood next to the body. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to. I just figured you might want to say goodbye."

Already feeling the familiar lump in his throat, he nodded stiffly and stepped forward to be on the other side of the body. Molly sent him a worried look and gently uncovered the body's face.

Reid could swear the room was suddenly drained of oxygen. For a second he wasn't sure it was really Rossi who was lying there - the thought of him, lying lifeless on a slab, without a smile in his eyes or an advice between his lips, felt much too unreal. But it was him. There was no doubt about that. All of Reid's false hopes and alternative theories evaporated, leaving him only with the undeniable truth.

The look in Reid's eyes must have reflected his emotions, because after a few moments Molly slowly put the cover back in its place. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "I wish I knew what to say to make you feel better."

"You could tell me that this is a perfect replica of Rossi and that he's in fact alive and very far away from here," Reid said, his eyes still on Rossi, hesitating a moment before continuing. "But that's not true, is it?"

Molly shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

They were both quiet for a moment. Reid's gaze hadn't moved from Rossi's eyes, even though they were now covered by a sheet. He could feel Molly's eyes on him, desperate to make him feel better. A part of him felt like it would be ungrateful to stay sad despite all her help, but he knew that was ridiculous. If she had lost anyone she cared about in the past, she knew she couldn't expect him to get better instantly. Something told him that she understood.

"Would you like to talk about it?" she asked. "Say to me what you would've said to him, had you had the chance?"

"But I did have a chance, don't you see? They didn't rush him to the hospital immediately. He stood in front of us and said his goodbyes. I had my chance to speak, but instead I just nodded. I'm supposed to be a genius, what kind of genius just nods?" he cried in frustration, finally looking up at Molly. He was somewhat surprised to feel tears in his eyes.

"The kind of genius that loses a friend and has no control over it. He knew how you felt, I'm sure of it."

"How can you be so sure?" He sighed and shook his head. "We shouldn't have let him talk to us. We should've rushed him to the hospital, maybe he would still be alive if we had."

"I read the case report. You called an ambulance the moment you realized something was wrong. You didn't hesitate. There was nothing more you could do, and Rossi knew that too. He knew those could've been his last moments, and he chose to use them to say goodbye. It was his decision, and it just shows how much he cared about all of you."

Reid looked to the floor, unconvinced. Molly gave him a sympathizing look, rummaging in her mind for a way to make things better. Then, an idea finally showed up.

"Give me your phone."

He looked back up at her, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Come on, give it to me," she insisted, putting out her hand.

"If you're going to kidnap me, I'm really not in the mood," he mumbled, but unwillingly let a tiny smirk on his face.

Molly chuckled. "We're not going anywhere, don't worry. Well, we are, because there aren't any chairs here and it's a bit cold –" she paused for a moment, realizing she was going off-track. "We can go to the lab, no one would interrupt us there. You've spent long enough thinking about your friend – you need some time to distance yourself."

Reid considered it for a moment, mulling it over in his mind. Then, he slowly handed her his phone. "So what's the plan?" When he noticed Molly was switching his phone to silent, he tried to protest. "My team might try to call, we still have a case."

"And you'll call them back, in an hour. But for an hour, there's no case, no team and no Rossi. There's just the two of us, talking about anything but work."

"What, like a date?" he asked, sounding nervous.

Molly could feel herself blushing instantly. "No, of course not – I mean, if you want it to be, then –" she said, a somewhat hopeful look on her face, "but it's not, of course, sorry, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable –"

"Molly, it's okay," Reid interrupted her with a small smile. Then, he could almost hear Morgan's voice in his head, encouraging him to be brave. That time, he chose to listen. "I… It could be nice, uh, if it were like a date."

He could hear his heartbeat screaming in his ears. What the hell did you do?, he thought to himself. But when Molly gave him a sheepish smile, he knew he made the right call. It made sense, too – the only thing that could make him nervous enough to forget about everything that was going on was a date. If he could even call it that.

"Alright. Then like a date it is."

They both smiled at each other, and Reid knew he was doing just what Rossi ordered. When he gave his body one last glance when they left the room, he could swear he was smiling.

Ten minutes after he had left the police station, or maybe ten hours, Mycroft Holmes found himself standing in his office. He could not remember how he got there or how long it took him to arrive. Was there light outside when he left? He couldn't remember. The only thing he could notice was how dirty and messy his office was. Was it really like that when he left? Maybe it was, and he just didn't notice because he was too busy getting annoyed by David.

He froze for a second when that name passed his mind, worrying he might get too guilt-ridden to do anything useful. To his surprise, that didn't happen. His mind was too preoccupied with the state his office was in to think about anything else. He needed to fix it, and then he would be alright. A messy office leads to a messy mind, and he can't afford to make any more mistakes.

He opened one of the cabinets, revealing a safe. He punched in the password and opened it. He considered for a moment which items he would need, but then decided to take them all. He put the cleaning supplies on his desk, closed the safe and shut the cabinet's door. He'd always found tidying relaxing, but it wasn't really a dignified hobby for a man in his position. Nevertheless, he always had the basic supplies stocked and ready, in case he truly needed to clear his mind and nothing else worked. He walked over to the door and locked it, to ensure no one would interrupt him. Sure, he could hire someone else to do the work for him. It would probably be faster, too. But Mycroft wasn't in a condition to trust others. People make mistakes, they mess up. He doesn't. At least not from now on.

He started with his desk. Just tidy things up a bit and get back to work, he thought. And he did. But then he noticed that the desk itself wasn't clean, and neither were the drawers or the items in them. And the cabinets were quite dirty, too. The windows certainly weren't clean. David must have left some crumbs from eating that damn cupcake, which meant the whole carpet was dirty.

Why did he go here instead of to his real office? He could've gotten more privacy there and be certain he would be left alone.

He couldn't help but hear David's voice in his head, profiling him, telling him he came here because that's where things were okay for the last time, and because he didn't actually want to be alone. The agents could find him here but not at his real office, so he came here because he secretly wanted company.

That was nonsense, of course. This office was closer than the other one, that was all. He shook his head, as if to shake the thought away, and focused back on what he was doing.

Had he locked the door? He wasn't sure. Best not to take any chances, he told himself. He tried to unlock it, and once he did, he locked it back. He found he was slightly calmer after doing that. A bit of certainty, that's all you need.

He got back to cleaning. It felt a little embarrassing at first, to wipe the windows and dust the bookshelves like a maid, but soon enough he stopped worrying about that. The cleaner the room got, the more relaxed he felt, and the more determined he was to continue.

He only noticed it was starting to get dark when he crashed down on his chair, exhausted from the physical effort his body certainly wasn't used to. He looked around the room, pleased with the results. Finally calm enough to work, he reached his hand to take the first file that needed addressing. The second he touched the file, all the tension came back. He tried to command his hand to pick up the file and open it, but it refused to obey.

No, he shouldn't get right back to work. He had just made a big, fatal mistake. What if he made another one? He must learn from that mistake before he can move forward.

He took a pile of empty pages from one of the drawers and put it on the desk in front of him. He took a pen, but then replaced it with a pencil, in case he needed to erase something. He stared at the empty page for a moment, unsure what to write on it. The tension in his chest felt like it was forcing him to write something specific – what he could have done differently. How he could have saved David Rossi. His phone buzzed at some point, but he turned it off absentmindedly. He couldn't be interrupted. The more scenarios he wrote down, the better he felt. Whenever he stopped, he couldn't breathe again.

When a knock on the door startled him, he noticed he had about ten pages written down, front and back. He had no clue how long had passed. The usual worry about wasted time didn't even cross his mind.

"Mycroft?" Aaron Hotchner's voice asked through the locked door.

Hotchner couldn't get in unless he opened the door. He could just as easily ignore him until he leaves. He looked back to the pages in front of him, ready to continue, but then the knob was turned in a futile effort.

"Open the door, please."

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Mycroft muttered exasperatedly and put down the pencil, rather forcefully. He crossed the room with a few long paces, unlocked the door and went back to his seat.

Aaron let himself in, somewhat hesitantly. His eyes scanned the room, and Mycroft couldn't decide whether the frown on his face was a result of the profile he was building in his head, or just his regular expression. When he was done studying the room, he looked directly at Mycroft with a strong enough gaze to force him to make eye contact. He hesitated momentarily before talking, as if he knew that no matter what he'd say, it'd be the wrong thing to say.

"I see you haven't increased your security."

"That would obviously be pointless," Mycroft replied with an impatient sigh. "Either Daiva hasn't found out that his plan has failed yet and therefore still thinks I'm going to die, or he's heard the news and is now giving me time to contemplate about my involvement in David Rossi's death. He must assume that if hasn't killed me, he might as well give me time to mull over the guilt I must be feeling."

Aaron hesitated again, but this time Mycroft knew it was because he was disassembling every word and adjusting his profile accordingly.

"Is he correct?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "About what?"

"Do you feel guilty?"

It took Mycroft longer than he would've liked to reply. He gave Aaron a cold, tight smile. "Does it look like I feel guilty?"

Aaron didn't react, but glanced over mycroft's desk. "It looks like Dave was right when he told you you should take care of your OCD before something triggers a full onset."

"You can leave now," Mycroft said warningly.

"What you meant to say was – when did he tell me about that? The answer is that he didn't. But my friend was an excellent profiler, and I have learned a lot from him. He undoubtedly saw the signs before, and judging by the way you just reacted I understand you chose your pride over your health and ignored his advice."

"When you work with the mentally ill all the time, it's granted that you'll start seeing symptoms everywhere," Mycroft said in a semi-calm tone, making a very poor attempt to calm himself down and stay civil.

"Yes, because the strong smell of cleaning products, the impeccable condition this room is in and the state of your hands are obviously not signs that you've spent the past few hours tidying this place to the point of exhaustion. And I know that all these pages you have written down there are full of strictly work-related matters –" Aaron crossed the room quickly and tried to snatch a page from the desk, but Mycroft reacted quickly and put his hand down firmly, holding it down.

"Let me make something very clear, agent Hotchner," Mycroft said, poison dripping from his words. "You're used to being surrounded by your team. Your little playmates know that when a cold man like you gets angry and lets it show, it means that he's dangerously angry. Don't bother pretending that there's a warm heart inside you, because we both know that a job like that changes you. Even a dedicated father like you couldn't prevent it. You're damned to a lifetime of loneliness and unhappiness, always keeping a firm mask over your misery."

Mycroft paused for a moment, both to give his following words more meaning and to see Aaron's reaction so far. The latter was somewhat disappointing, seeing as Aaron seemed unmoved.

"So before you choose to say anything else, ask yourself a single question. Whose anger do you think is more dangerous - yours, or mine?"

Aaron took a moment to reply, probably calculating his response. "There's no doubt your anger is more dangerous, especially with the resources you have. But you will only be angry for so long before you realize that anger is actually masking loneliness and grief. At that point, you will only be dangerous to yourself. I'm just trying to help you before it's too late, for the sake of our friend."

Mycroft got up sharply. "I believe it's time for you to leave."

Aaron gave him a long, hard look, and then nodded stiffly and made his way to the door. Mycroft sat back down slowly, waiting for Aaron to actually leave. When he reached the door, Aaron turned around.

"You know, maybe you're right about me. Maybe this job has irreversibly changed me like you said. But I don't think it's too late for me, and it's not too late for you either. You don't have to talk to me, but get help. Find someone you trust and talk to them, or you will see the consequences sooner than you think."

Before Mycroft could react, Aaron left and shut the door behind him. Mycroft immediately sprang up from his seat and locked the door. He then returned to his desk and sat down heavily in front of it. With far less determination than he had before, he picked up the pencil and kept on writing, making an active effort not to think about Aaron's words.

Sherlock strode into the Scotland Yard building with an air of impatience. He was only out for about a day - he couldn't have missed much. And yet he was anxious to get back to work. He was certainly glad to be out of that dress and into his regular clothes, although that was quite an escape he pulled there. He must remember to tell John about it.

He scratched his arm absentmindedly. He was serious about his decision to stay clean, but he knew it wouldn't be possible without a distraction, preferably a case. And he had a case, but unfortunately, it wasn't just his. He had to handle the BAU. He'd never admit it to them, but he'd become used to them. He was even rather fond of Reid, and had a strange respect for Hotch. Besides, John was there to keep him in check. As he got closer to where he knew the team was waiting for him, he started to get somewhat excited. This case was just what he needed - difficult, strange, different… Interesting.

He lost some of his speed when he got a view of the team. Rossi, Hotch and Reid didn't seem to be there, and neither was John. Lestrade and Donovan were nowhere to be seen. Actually, not seeing Donovan wasn't so bad, but there was still something odd about her absence. There was a brunette with the team Sherlock didn't recognize. Sherlock thought he had already met all of the team members, yet her body language suggested she belonged to the team, so he must have been wrong.

The team only noticed he was there a second before he opened his mouth to talk. He had expected them to look surprised when they saw him, maybe even glad. Instead, they looked drained and annoyed. Their eyes were red and bright, as if they'd been crying - but what could've possibly happened?

"Oh no," Morgan muttered tiredly as he laid eyes on the detective before the latter could say a word. "Just who I wanted to see."

Sherlock shut his mouth, surprised. He hadn't expected the team to welcome him with open arms, but he had assumed they would at least be shocked to see him there, maybe even impressed.

"I was just accused of murder on national television and still escaped from the hospital - quite elegantly, if I may add - to come help you with the case. I think the words you're looking for are -"

"Fuck you," Morgan completed, with a slightly different answer than Sherlock was expecting. "Just because you didn't kill those people, doesn't mean you're not a killer. Do you think any of them would've died if you hadn't pissed Daiva off? They could've still been alive, and so could Rossi."

"What does Rossi have to do with any of it?" Sherlock asked, baffled. He could feel anxiety growing in his chest in the few seconds of silence that stretched out until he got a reply.

"He died." JJ was the one to reply, her voice devoid of any emotions. "To save your brother."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was more surprised that something so dramatic had happened in the short time he was out, or that someone was actually willing to die to save Mycroft. He wanted to get more information, to find out how it happened and learn what he could from it, but instead he asked: "Why would he do that?"

"I guess he made the mistake of thinking anyone from the Holmes family is worth saving," Morgan replied, the look in his eyes making it clear that he had every intention to be hurtful.

And it worked. Not that Sherlock was going to show it.

"Derek!" Garcia scolded him quietly.

"What, am I wrong? Has any of them done anything but ruin our lives? They've dragged us into a game from hell that we can't quit against a far more skilled player. If Sherlock hadn't been such a smartass, he would've taken Daiva's case back then, and if Mycroft weren't so full of himself, maybe he would've considered a chance that there's someone else out there who's smarter than him."

Sherlock knew that Morgan was hurting and needed to take off some of the weight on his heart. Still, his pride took a hit. "Daiva isn't smarter that us, he's -" he started to say, earning immediate eyerolls from the Americans.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, we don't care who's smarter!" Garcia snapped, taking Sherlock by surprise. And everyone else too, as it seemed. "They just told you we lost our friend and that it's your fault, and all you can do is protect your fragile ego?"

Sherlock was quite for a moment. "It's not my fault that he died."

"Not directly, maybe," Seaver said. "But you're the reason we came here in the first place. You got us into this mess."

"I'm sorry, did I ask you to come here? I told you you weren't welcome on the first day you arrived. I'm perfectly capable of handling this investigation myself." Equal amounts of guilt and anger were growing in Sherlock, and as always, he chose to act upon the latter.

"You can just apologize, Sherlock," the unfamiliar brunette said tiredly. "Even if you don't think it's your fault, you can just apologize."

"Why should I apologize if I have done nothing wrong?" Sherlock tilted his chin up instinctively. He briefly deduced she was indeed another profiler, but was too distracted at the moment to wonder who she was, or to care about the rest of his deductions about her.

"Because that's the human thing to do," Seaver said. "But that's the thing, isn't it? You're not really human. You made us forget that, with all your clever deductions and distractions. The truth is that you just don't care. And the craziest part is that you see it as an advantage."

"Well, it is. Caring slows you, binds you down. In the end, it only hurts you," Sherlock said with a certain air of pride.

"Yeah, 'cause you're not hurt at all," JJ said, annoyed. "Not caring sure helped you with your drug addiction, or with your nightmares, or with the constant feeling of loneliness that's been eating you up all your life."

"Don't pretend that you know me, because I can assure you you know absolutely nothing," Sherlock shot back, sounding more defensive than he intended.

"I don't need to know you. You're so easy to profile it would be a crime not to. You think you're a mystery, a brilliant and enigmatic man, but the truth is you're just a sad junkie with pathetic excuse for a life that runs around trying to impress everyone around him. How long do you think it'll take John to realize that he's just satisfying your need for applause and nothing more? How long until he realizes that you're not the kind of person he wants to raise a baby around? Tell me, Sherlock, how long do you think it'll take him to leave you?" JJ was slightly panting when she finished, as if it was physically hard for her to say those things.

Sherlock knew this was the last thing he needed to hear at the moment. He'd spent a long enough time trapped inside his own mind to know what drove his drug habit, and what triggered that relentless itch. Part of staying clean was knowing what to avoid. And in any other situation, Sherlock was sure JJ's words wouldn't have mattered to him. Which was why he was rather surprised to find that he felt not only offended, but humiliated. He found himself agreeing with JJ. Profilers are just like bullies, Sherlock thought, they know just what to say to make you hurt most.

Whether it was the prolonged silence or the look in Sherlock's eyes, the profilers seemed to notice the change in the detective. JJ's expression softened a bit, but Sherlock suspected it was because she felt guilty for saying those things and not because she regretted them.

Normally, Sherlock would retort with a reply so elaborate and so vicious it would ensure none of the Americans would ever try to humiliate him like that again. But at the moment, he wasn't tempted to do so. Using drugs, however, was far more tempting. Resembling the profilers to bullies helped Sherlock reach a decision - it was time to take his parents' advice on bullies from all those years ago. He would walk away, leave them to their anger, and take care of his own problems.

He had to stay clean. He had to show John he could still count on him.

Sherlock opened his mouth, in an attempt to excuse himself, but when no words came out he quickly shut it. With a swift turn, he left the room as quickly as he had entered it.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" he could hear Garcia ask quietly.

"Honestly, I just don't care at this point," he heard Morgan reply.

If anything else was said, he was by then too far away to hear it.

He flagged down a cab the second he was out of the building. He didn't hear himself give the cabbie his address. All he could hear was JJ's words, which were mixing with so many other images and sounds Sherlock felt like he might throw up.

The closer he got to his flat, the more anxious he became. He knew that once he opened the door to his flat and saw the syringes lying around, it would be nearly impossible not to use. At least not alone.

He called John.

He called Mary.

He called Lestrade.

He called Molly.

Desperate, he called Agent Reid.

Even more desperate, he called Mycroft.

None of them answered their phones.

Only when the cabbie asked him for his money did Sherlock notice he had reached his destination. He pulled out a bill from his pocket, stuffed it in the cabbie's hand without looking at it and exited the cab.

He opened the black door and walked in. Before climbing the stairs, he tried calling out to Mrs. Hudson. When he got no reply, he climbed up and called out again.

She must be out, he thought. Well, it's better that way. She could never bear to see me using.

It took him a second to realize he had already given up.

"No, no," he said to himself in a desperate tone, trying to convince himself. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, which only smeared some sweat from his forehead on it, and made him aware that he was, in fact, sweating.

Once he noticed that, everything else came rushing back, so suddenly that it took the air out of his lungs. Every organ in his body hurt, but none like his head. The room was spinning slightly, but Sherlock didn't lose his balance, as if he was spinning in sync with it. He started pacing back and forth, making a physical effort not to look at the coffee table, that carried the weight of various drugs, syringes, needles and some drops of vomit that remained uncleaned from about a week ago. He opened and closed his fists one at a time, trying to channel out some of his nervous energy.

Maybe he just needed to relax. He lied down on the sofa and quickly turned to his left side, to keep his back to the coffee table. He closed his eyes and tried to slow down his breaths, pushing all thoughts out of his head. After what felt like forever, it appeared to be working. He could feel the tension in his body slowly relaxing and his head becoming heavier and heavier.

He had four seconds of bliss before it came. It was different this time, as if his brain was too exhausted to create proper nightmares, so it just flashed a slideshow of horrors before Sherlock's eyes. Some were real memories, others painfully realistic. That was the downside of investigating murders - he could imagine a variety of ways to be killed. And in his mind, his friends were going through them all.

John is strapped to a bomb, reading out Moriarty's words. Lestrade is lying on the floor, lifeless, with his throat slashed. Mary is going into labour, alone, in a cell. Moriarty is smiling and shooting himself in the head, depriving him of a chance to save his friends. Mrs. Hudson is putting her hand on her gunshot wound. John is looking at him with disappointment in his eyes, as he realizes he's back on drugs. Mycroft is sitting next to him in whatever hellhole he was getting high in, avoiding his eyes.

Sherlock opened his eyes and jumped up, breathless. He was panting and still felt like he was suffocating. The pain came rushing back, even worse than before.

Without realizing what he was doing, he reached to the coffee table. He didn't look to see what he was holding, or how much of it he was putting in the syringe. Before he could stop himself, he felt the needle penetrating his skin. Quickly, the sharp pain was substituted with blissful numbness, and as he pulled out the needle, he could feel himself falling.

A/N: That's it! Hopefully I'll be able to upload the next chapter soon enough. In the meantime, I'd love to read your thoughts and opinions in the reviews :)

See you next time...