Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and I make no money from this.

Sherlock was growing tired of this, not that he had much tolerance for it when it first began, though. Everyone was tentatively asking him how he was, and always keeping worried eyes on him, as though he were about to break into pieces…

So stupid, he thought to himself in the cab on the way back to 221B, they think I will be overcome by something so… so…

He stopped his train of thought. He deemed it as… not worth his energy- yes, that was it. Coming up with the right word was stupid in and of itself.

Instead, he thought of his annoyance at everyone else (too bad they weren't there, though; mocking them always lifted his mood). He'd just been to a murder scene, and everyone there had been downright bloody nice to him- as nice as they could all manage without pained grimaces, anyway…

Everyone there had stayed out of his way, Lestrade had been exceptionally patient with him, and even the usual snide remarks from Anderson and Donovan were blaringly absent. Granted, he would have enjoyed the changes otherwise- but it had been deliberate, and why it had been deliberate rather set him on edge.

They thought he was weak like the rest of them; that he wouldn't be able to handle a little loss. Yes, John had made him more open to his emotions, but… but what did they expect him to do? Break down sobbing like a maudlin child in front of the entire city?

He scoffed at the thought. Sherlock Holmes does not cry. Oh, he'll pretend to cry, by all means, for a case or some such, but he did not actually, authentically cry. Not for anyone, not ever.

The case was simple and had taken all of 15 minutes. It had actually been a suicide, but fabricated to look like a murder (child's play, hardly worth his time).

Lestrade had been sending him a lot of those lately- simple, dull cases that even the Detective Inspector would recognize as such. Sherlock suspected that was deliberate, too. It was probably a well-intended attempt to keep Sherlock busy and his mind off of his alleged grief. Well-intended, but unnecessary because Sherlock was not grieving.

He'd left in a storm, trying to ignore the looks cast onto him by all the other people present. All looks of pity. How he'd longed to punch those expression off everyone of their faces. What did they know? What did anyone of those sorry creatures know? Nothing- they all knew nothing.

And so, there Sherlock was, on his way back to his flat, tapping his fingers against his knee impatiently.

He clenched his fist in his pocket, because it was all he could do to keep from yelling at Mrs. Hudson when she, too, sent him her own gaze of sympathy.

He had some trouble getting the key into the lock- his hand would not stop bloody shaking- so it took him several minutes to finally be able to step into the lonely flat.

Routinely, he removed his coat and scarf and put them onto the rack before he twirled his way over the sofa and dropped onto it.

He wouldn't be alone for much longer, John would get back from the clinic soon- if he wasn't already- in all likeliness.

"Sherlock," came the familiar voice, "Are you alright?"

Point one for likeliness.

The consulting detective, in response, made no effort to hide his irritation. Even his flat mate was doing it. John had made a habit of asking Sherlock how he was and if he was doing alright nearly every time he saw him. There was nothing wrong with him, why didn't they see that?

"Lestrade sent me another case- dull as the last one, so you didn't miss anything," Sherlock relayed nonchalantly.

"I mean you, Sherlock. How are you?"

"I'm fine," he answered slowly and forcibly.

"You don't look it. I'm here, if you need to talk."

Sherlock could practically hear the underlying empathy in John's voice and that calm, reassuring tone crawled underneath his skin and set his teeth on edge. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain silent in his anger.

"Sherlock?"

He felt his patience snap. Well, at least, he thought it was his patience.

Oh, just sod it all…

"I'M FINE, I'M BLOODY FINE! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? IF YOU WOULD ALL JUST BLOODY LEAVE ME ALONE, EVERYTHING WOULD BE ALRIGHT!" he shouted.

John's face didn't change all through Sherlock's emotional upsurge.

"Still here," he said again, walking to the stairs, "Let me know if you need me."

Sherlock lay sprawled on the couch, seething. Shouting had apparently been useless, because that odd burning feeling in the pit of his chest refused to dissipate. He shifted, but his sight met his beloved skull, sitting proudly on the mantel piece.

It looked like it was saying 'idiot' right to the consulting detective.

He sent the skull a short sneer and adjusted his position again, but instead found himself looking at an umbrella leaning against the wall. It was just a random umbrella, but… it annoyed him. He forced himself to think this as he looked up at the ceiling. It had nothing to do with… nothing to do with…

He shut his eyes closed, so he wouldn't see the scrutinizing skull or the perfectly normal, ordinary umbrella that annoyed him.

He hadn't believed it at first- and he still found himself looking at the whole matter with partial scrutiny (everyone else was writing this off as denial, though, the idiots)- when Anthea, or whatever the Hell her name had been that week, had called to tell him. But he'd laughed at her, and called her an idiot for trying to convince him of such an absurd thing.

Her response had been to send a government car to drive Sherlock off to only-he-could-figure-out-where.

He followed Anthea into an offensively blank, white corridor. Sherlock continued to mock and ridicule her, but, all the while, she seemed to be sincere. So, it was a big joke, then, and Sherlock waved it off.

But that little annoying part in the back of his head- overshadowed by the insistent, denying part- told him that that couldn't be it. Mycroft never had any sense of humor.

She stopped right in front of a set of doors and turned to the consulting detective. She asked- almost pleaded- him to believe her, but he never wavered.

Her eyes fell and she ushered Sherlock into the room.

Alright then, were Sherlock's first thoughts, it was a very elaborate joke.

He walked over to where his older brother's body lay.

Makeup and probably a paralytic, that's all it was, Sherlock was telling himself, he was just trying to invoke an emotional response from him, that's all…

"Alright, game's up, Mycroft. Get up," Sherlock told his older brother, but nothing happened.

"Seriously, Mycroft, this is losing it's touch fast."

And still, nothing.

"Get up you lazy sod!" He all but yelled at the corpse, bringing his clenched fist onto a nearby table with a bang.

Sherlock paced the room furiously. All the while, all through this, Mycroft's body remained still in its deadened state- his face forever blank. That was eerie…

"You're not dead," he accused, jabbing a finger in the body's direction. He threw up his arms, "You're the bloody British Government, you're not supposed to die!" and that was not desperation that just leaked into to his voice!

The door opened and a well-dressed man Sherlock didn't recognize walked in.

"Ah, you must be his brother," said the man pleasantly, "I'm so sorry about what happened to him. Murder, I'm afraid- that seems to be your area of expertise, doesn't it? I was wondering if-"

Sherlock stopped listening to him as his mind went into a hazy rush. With all of Mycroft's guards, security cameras, surveillance, power, and just plain cleverness, it didn't make sense that anyone could manage to kill him. It wasn't possible.

He didn't even let that man finish talking. He knew where it was going, they were going to ask him to investigate on the murder.

He backed away, shaking his head a fraction. Something was wrong.

Everything was wrong with the picture before him. Mycroft was not dead. It wasn't right. It didn't make any sense.

Sherlock knew he'd been bored and wanted a good, clever murder to solve, but it didn't… it wasn't supposed to…

Without warning, Sherlock turned, his coat twirling around him dramatically, and practically flew out of the room. Half-running, half-walking, he fled through hallway after hallway.

Something was wrong, something was wrong, something was wrong.

Those words chanting in his head, constantly. He could practically hear it- it was overpowering.

Something was wrong, something was wrong, something was-

"THIS IS NOT RIGHT!" He shouted, stopping suddenly with almost enough force to knock him over.

All that answered him was the small, reverberating echo of his own voice.