Own nothing, still adoring.

Mycroft Holmes stood on the pavement staring up at the 221B Baker Street windows. A faint, flickering glow was the only sign indicating there was someone within.

Three days had passed since the visual surveillance long ago secured inside the flat, and reintroduced countless times since, had been removed or blocked by his brother. Within minutes of this latest disruption, CCTV cameras were focused upon the building and security personnel stationed to the front and rear of the Baker Street address. Audio surveillance remained intact in a location his brother had yet to discover, confirming that John and Sherlock were in the flat, and that, as far as he could detect, all was well.

There was no specific threat, but, because he worried about his brother, constantly, Mycroft deemed the interference necessary. Sherlock Holmes unseen for a day or two was cause for concern. Three days was intolerable.

The security guards melted into the landscape, invisible even to his keen eyes. Mycroft dismissed his car, which pulled to the kerb a lengthy distance away, and glanced again to the windows.

Mycroft approached the door, attended to the askew knocker and slid his key into the lock which turned with a nearly inaudible click. He stepped inside, securing the door behind him. Ascending the stairs on silent footsteps was simple. Mycroft knew well which stairs would warn his brother of his arrival.

On the landing he discovered the flat doors standing open. Entering through the kitchen, he paused beside John's chair to allow his eyes to adjust to the soft glow from the light above the stove. The chrome and leather chair opposite was also unoccupied. The crackling in the fireplace held his gaze for a moment until a soft murmuring from the far side of the sitting room drew him there.

From a distance of several paces, Mycroft observed his younger brother sitting at one end of the sofa. He approached, only realizing at the last moment that Sherlock was not alone, that John lay cradled in his arms, and it had been Sherlock humming in his deep baritone whom he had heard upon entering the flat.

With eyes fixed on John's sleeping face, Sherlock at first didn't acknowlege his presence. It was only when Mycroft rested his fingers on his brother's shoulder that Sherlock raised his head to look at him with eyes swollen and red rimmed.

"Sherlock?"

"I...I don't know how to help him."

His voice was shaking, rusty, and very small.

"I've lost my best friend and I don't know how to find him."

"Sherlock."

Mycroft responded in kind, his voice low and just above a whisper so as not to disturb John.

Sherlock looked to him as he had when just a child. Older brother had had all the answers then.

"I want him back, My."

It had been years since Sherlock had addressed him using the only nickname he'd allowed. Not comfortable with displays of brotherly compassion, Mycroft wavered as he stepped closer, lowering himself to sit on the small table in front of the sofa. Mycroft reached out to place a hand on his younger brother's knee. The pain he saw in Sherlock's eyes nearly broke his heart. He sighed, suddenly, unusually, at a loss for appropriate words.

"I thought he was getting better. There were days when he was my John again."

Mycroft squeezed the boney knee beneath his hand.

"I understand, Sherlock, but I don't think you do."

"What, My, what don't I understand?"

"What is it that you call it? The Black Dog? Brother mine, you, for so long have suffered this same affliction and yet you do not recognize it when you see it in John?"

"No, it's his grief..."

Mycroft lifted one annoyed eyebrow.

"Sherlock, grief and depression go hand in hand. Just look at him. There is grief, yes, but even in sleep there is depression in every line of his countenance. He walks as an old man walks. He sits and stares, he has no will to accompany you when you have a case. This is not the John Watson you love with all your heart."

"I don't...this is not...tell me what to do?"

"Sherlock, you know what to do for him."

His brother shook his head, gathering John closer to his chest.

Mycroft softened his approach. His younger brother needed understanding, guidance, not a reprimand.

"This is depression born of grief. It is still depression. And if he cannot fight it alone, you must fight it for him until you can fight it together. You must never let it win, Sherlock. Depression, in all its forms, is, as you often say, tedious and hateful. It is insidious, it never plays fair. It cheats."

Sherlock, wide-eyed and afraid, looked up at him.

"When the black dog comes for you, what does John do to help you? Do that for him. He will know that you are trying to help him. He is not like us, Sherlock. He needs someone to tether him, to keep him safe. He needs you."

"I'm sorry, Mycroft."

The elder brother in him raised his other eyebrow, this time in surprise.

"Whatever for, Sherlock?"

The detective fixed his gaze on John's face before answering.

"I don't really think you're a rubbish brother."

Mycroft pursed his lips in lieu of a smile. Awkwardly, he patted his brother's head.

"I know. It's your default defense."

Unshed tears still shone in Sherlock's eyes.

"John was right."

"Yes, he usually is...about a lot of things."

"He told me once that for a genius, sometimes I'm pretty thick."

"Yes."

Mycroft stood then, stepping to the side of the sofa, cupping his hand over the crown of Sherlock's head, and drew him against his side.

"He is lost right now, but this will pass, Sherlock, not soon, but it will pass. You are the only one who can lead him home."

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes wide in the faltering light, a solemn nod his only response.

"I will tend to the fire and lock the doors as I leave. Good night."

Mycroft let his fingers briefly trail along the side of John's head, the only gesture of affection of which he was capable. He stepped away, completed his tasks and departed within minutes.

Letting his thoughts gather, Sherlock stared at the door through which his brother had disappeared. He placed this memory in a holding room inside his mind palace, to be assigned its proper place in the room dedicated to his brother. There were many memories there, most from his childhood, very few from recent times. The memory of this night certainly qualified for entry.

Moments later, his thoughts were interrupted when John inhaled as he stirred from his deep slumber and struggled to right himself on the sofa. Because John was not fully awake, Sherlock helped him to a sitting position, steadying him with a hand against his chest. John's head drifted downward to Sherlock's shoulder. Remembering his brother's advice, he pulled John closer, resting his cheek against his doctor's soft hair.

"If I prepare some porridge, would you eat?"

For a moment there was no response, but then he felt a small nod against his cheek.

"I won't be long. Will you be okay?"

John glanced up at him, his eyes dark and unreadable, and so lost, but he nodded again.

Sherlock rose from the sofa and took just a few steps before turning to look at his best friend. John was a portrait in misery, slumped in deep dejection.

The detective strode purposefully to the kitchen where he unearthed a tea tray from a cupboard and began to prepare porridge for two, although he would not eat, and tea for them both, one which he would drink.

John wandered into the kitchen just as the kettle boiled. Sherlock reached for him when he stumbled, curling his long arms around him as John leaned his head against his chest.

"I'm here, John."

John hesitated, then hugged Sherlock's waist. When he stepped back moments later, Sherlock steadied him, then let him go.

"Shall we sit by the hearth? I'll build the fire to chase away the chill."

Sherlock pushed their chairs closer together, facing the fire, and set the tray on the hearth. When John stared into the flames from the kitchen doorway, Sherlock guided him to the chair, easing him into it. When John held the bowl, but didn't eat, Sherlock knelt on the floor and fed him.

"John, chew. Swallow, John."

John obeyed, frowning at the detested banana slices in his mouth, but not rejecting them. Sherlock held the teacup to John's lips once it had cooled a bit; John drank it down as though parched.

For a long while after, John stared at the dancing flames and Sherlock stared at John from his own chair. The doctor hadn't spoken in hours and Sherlock didn't expect any conversation.

"Sherlock, help me."

At the sound of John's small, broken voice, Sherlock knew that there was no time to waste.

John raised his head, his gaze filled with sorrow and something else Sherlock was afraid to examine. Was it John's hope that his best friend could help him?

Sherlock knelt in front of John once more, holding firm to his doctor's hands.

"Of course, John."

"It hurts."

When John leaned forward, resting his forehead against his chest, Sherlock held his doctor in his arms until his trembling ceased.

"John, do you trust me?"

The doctor raised his head; his dark blue eyes pleading with Sherlock for some relief.

"With my life...and my sanity."

Permission granted, Sherlock grasped John's hand and helped him to his feet. With intent eyes on his best friend's bowed head, Sherlock guided him along the hallway.

"Do you need...the loo?"

John looked up at him as if he hadn't understood, then stepped inside while Sherlock waited in the doorway. Task completed, John moved to stand in front of Sherlock, head bowed again, gently swaying. Sherlock recognized it immediately. This was John's surrender. He was too exhausted to fight any longer. The detective took his hand and hurried him toward the bedroom.

John did not protest when Sherlock undressed him, nor did he protest when Sherlock undressed himself. Instead, he stood mute, staring at nothing and falling apart before Sherlock's eyes.

"John."

As always, John followed Sherlock's lead without question. Tossing all the pillows to one side of the bed, the detective guided John to lie face down. Sherlock lay beside him, his arm resting along John's spine, feathering his fingers through the short hairs at his nape.

"Sherlock?"

"Hush, John."

For several minutes, it was silent.

"Sherlock."

"Just rest, John."

"Sherlock?"

There was an urgency in John's voice that Sherlock could not ignore.

"Tell me, John."

"Closer?"

As much as he understood this might be his only chance to distract John from his pain, he hesitated. Subjecting his doctor to what amounted to nearly smothering him was not to his liking, but if it helped to bring John back to life, it was worth the risk.

Using just his upper body to press John to the mattress, Sherlock rested his head atop John's so they were cheek to cheek.

"Sherlock...please."

Sherlock relented, moving fully, carefully, over John, this time crushing him into the mattress with his more substantial weight. John's groan assured the detective that he was not hurting his best friend, and that he had been correct to employ the same strategy to combat The Black Dog as John had done for him dozens of times.

Sherlock reached out with one long arm to pull the duvet over them, plunging them into what he hoped was a comforting darkness. Surrounding his doctor with his body, long fingers curved over a warm shoulder, his other hand resting on the top of John's head, Sherlock desperately sought to comfort John.

When John trembled beneath him, Sherlock recalled his own experiences with debilitating depression, episodes kept at bay by watchful Watson eyes and his caring heart. He held John tighter, mimicking from memory John's doctorly ministrations that had guided him out of his own darkness.

John's sudden, high-pitched keening was unexpected, so unlike the John Watson he knew. He shifted his body just enough to allow himself to cover John's hands with his own, weaving their fingers together. John squeezed and held on.

"Sherlock."

"I'm here."

"Hurts...so much."

Every word sounded like a gasp from deep within him.

"Tell me what to do to make it better for you."

"Hold on."

"I will."

"Don't let go."

"Am I hurting you, John?"

"No...I...feel...loved."

John's last word was a broken cry that tore at Sherlock's heart. To be loved was all John ever wanted.

"You are loved, John, by lots of people, and most especially by me."

Silence surrounded them beneath the duvet, until gradually, John's trembling eased, and his breathing steadied. He no longer gasped for air. Sherlock held on long after exhaustion took John from him.

Eventually, Sherlock folded back the duvet and lifted himself off John to lie beside him, just gazing at his much loved face, and remembering how he thought he'd lost John forever when he married Mary. He mourned Mary as well, but now he was the only one to pick up the pieces and try to put John Watson back together again, guide him back to himself. His doctor was bruised and battered, but Sherlock was determined to be his shock blanket, for however long John needed him.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm right here, John."

John reached for him, searching for his hand.

"You promised not to let go."

"Sometimes my arms can't hold you, but my heart always will."

Once, before John, the sentiment would have been unknown to him, but the man beside him had taught him that caring was not a disadvantage, then taught him how to care. And now he would care for John.

"I need your arms, too...for now...for a long while."

Sherlock smiled into the early morning light slicing through the window and turned toward his best friend.

It was a simple thing to pull John across his chest, to tuck John's face against his throat, and to wrap his arms tightly around him. When John's silent tears found their way to his skin, Sherlock held him tighter still, offering John respite.

A/N: This little tidbit was inspired by Atlin Merrick for "it cheats," in response to my comment "can't ever let it (depression) win." And by Alessia Pelonzi for the solace I found in her stunning Sherlock and John art titled "Grief." Thank you.

"C," as always, thank you, my friend, for your continued support.