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

There's some amount of language in this one. Beware for those with sensitive ears… eyes… whatever…

Enjoy!

"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up!"

He heard John's voice calling him. The sound was faint and muffled, like there was some sort of screen separating them, but it was slowly becoming clearer.

At first he was confused. Why was John calling him? Was there something wrong with him? But he slowly regained his senses. All he could see was black, and he felt himself being shaken by someone- John, no doubt, with that firm grip on his shoulders.

His eyes flew open.

He had fallen asleep- how humiliating…

John relaxed and let out a long breath.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, now very annoyed at the doctor.

"You fell asleep," John explained quite slowly.

Sherlock just quirked an eyebrow at him and John looked away. The consulting detective rarely ever got any sleep, and John had been pleasantly surprised to find him not neglecting his body for once- even if it had been clearly unintentional. John would have been more than happy to leave him to it, but…

"And then you started screaming and shouting things," John finished rather reluctantly, not sure if he should tell Sherlock this or not.

Red started creeping up to Sherlock's cheeks. "What exactly did I say?" he asked his flat mate in an uncharacteristically small voice.

John dropped his gaze once more, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes, "You were going on about how something wasn't right, and how someone shouldn't be dead."

His ice-blue eyes widened. A split second later, Sherlock's face was plastered with the blank mask he had been using so much lately, but his cheeks burned bright red.

Sherlock sat up and shot off the couch the both of them had been sitting on, heading to his room in great, long strides.

But John was fast enough to catch up to him. He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder with enough force to stop him.

Sherlock turned back toward him, his expression blank but eyes ablaze.

"Sherlock, did it have to do with Mycroft?"

Sherlock raised his hand, and for a moment John thought he was about to hit him. But he used that hand to wrench John's off his shoulder. He stormed off to his room and slammed the door hard enough to nearly unhinge it.

0

Sherlock threw some of the scattered papers that littered his bed onto the floor with as much force that could be forced with papers- he noted with blaring annoyance how impossible it was to slam them onto things properly, curse air resistance!

He sat and ran his hands through his hair, pulling on it until tears began to well up in his eyes- caused by him pulling on his hair, dammit!

It had been bad enough that he fell sleep, but then he just had to have a nightmare and bloody scream through it! This was all Mycroft's fault- he was probably lounging around in his office having a right good laugh at all of this, the selfish bastard.

If Sherlock never hated his brother before, he certainly did now- more than he had ever hated anything. No, "hate" was too soft. He despised Mycroft. Despised him, loathed him, detested him, missed him…

…missed him because he wished he could scream all of this to his stupid face!

Sherlock realized he had been digging his fingernails into his scalp rather painfully. He let his grip relax slightly as he took deep inhales and exhales.

0

John, after standing stationary in the hallway for a little while, decided- rather lamely, he thought- to make himself a cup of tea and perhaps mull the situation over in his head.

He hadn't even made it halfway to the kitchen before he stopped himself, putting his foot down with a little stamp.

This was absurd. It had been more than two weeks since they heard about Mycroft's passing- John was no expert, but felt it pretty safe to say that Sherlock should have gotten past the denial stage by then.

John quickly steeled himself for his next action. It was perhaps not the best way to handle things, but he couldn't keep ignoring this- Sherlock couldn't keep ignoring this. It was time to take initiative.

He walked to Sherlock's door- well, it was a bit heavier than walking, but not full-blown stomping. Right against the wooden barrier currently separating him from Sherlock, John could hear his flat mate breathing deeply. It wasn't crying, just deep breathing.

He tried the doorknob, but it was locked- dammit, Sherlock, why do you make things more difficult than they need be?

Well fine, this was probably going to turn into a shouting match anyway…

0

"Sherlock!" John yelled through the door.

"What do you want? Come to tell me how sorry you feel for me? How you're sorry I'm drowning in my own agony, or some other shit like that?" Sherlock snapped.

"No, you idiot- I'm telling you how much of an insufferable, stupid moron you are!"

Sherlock was stunned into silence, his next insult caught in his throat.

"You claim to be a cold-hearted sociopath, but I've seen you! I saw you that night at the pool- you do care, Sherlock, you do have a heart, it's why you're not Moriarty, for God's sake!" John took a short breath, making sure it wasn't long enough to allow Sherlock to start speaking, "You may have said he was your enemy, and you may have been in a childish sibling feud with him, but he was your brother! I may not get on with Harry, but I know that if she died, I would be pretty damn broken!"

"HE'S NOT DEAD!"

John squeezed his eyes shut. That voice Sherlock had shouted in had been filled with so much freshly unearthed anguish it was heartbreaking. But he had to do this, he had to stamp out that denial- it would be better in the long run.

"Mycroft is dead, Sherlock! You read the reports, I read the reports-"

"THE REPORTS ARE LYING, HE'S NOT-"

"HE IS GONE, SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock was silent again.

John drew in another breath, "You know death better than a lot of people! You've seen dead people, you've seen gruesome instances many times!" -well, so had he, granted, but that was very much beside the point- "You know that when someone is dead, it doesn't matter what they leave behind-" the whole government they previously had control of "-or who they leave behind-" a younger brother is really does need to be closely looked after 24/7 "-THEY ARE NEVER COMING BACK!"

"Stop it!" Sherlock tried to shout, but his voice cracked, "Please, John… just stop…" he whispered in a small, meek voice that John almost didn't hear.

Sherlock let in a quick, involuntary breath he couldn't suppress. And then another. Sherlock Holmes did not cry. He would have cursed to some higher power for this happening to him, but he couldn't find it within himself to do so. Actually, it felt like everything inside was cascading, breaking, and collapsing.

And leaking. Hot salty tears were leaking from his eyes.

He struggled against it all, but could find no more energy to do so, so he gave in. His body gave great shudders, and funny sounds escaped his lips- sobs, oh what a pathetic sound.

John heard the hesitant, almost uncertain crying through the door, and wished immediately he was on the other side of it. This had been goal, in a way, but he still felt the overwhelming need to comfort the suffering man. To help ease this slightly, if he could.

He didn't know if he should, but he whispered, "Sherlock, will you let me in?"

And really, he was asking more than just to be let into Sherlock's room. He was asking to be let into his heart, into his life, into this situation. Will you let me in, because you need this. You need someone, someone who can help you through this.

John stood, waiting, until he decided that Sherlock wouldn't let him, and he turned to walk away.

But the door opened, and Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking more broken and lost than John had ever seen him- and he hoped it was more so than he would ever see again. Fresh tears stained the man's cheeks, leaking from his reddened and slightly swollen eyes that no longer held the look of an arrogant, intellectual consulting detective, but the look of a man. A man in pain. A man who did not know what to do next.

A man who was letting his deeply emotional side be known for the first time in a very, very long time.

Then, without much warning, Sherlock closed his eyes shut and rested his head onto John's shoulder- his good shoulder, thank goodness. He wondered very briefly if that had been on purpose…

He shook his head and shoved down the awkwardness and carefully wrapped his arms around the taller man, who responded by digging his fingers into John's sweater, which was quickly becoming wet with his tears.

John rubbed Sherlock's back lightly, hoping it would come off as a comforting gesture given the circumstances and not so much a romantic one.

He gave a light sigh as the taller man cried into his shoulder.

You need someone who will help you through this. I will help you through this.

"You'll be fine," John whispered this reassurance, "You'll get through this. I swear, I will do everything I can to get you through this."

Sherlock managed to choke out something to John, which just barely came out as, "Thank you."

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