Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Self-harm: The deliberate non-suicidal injuring of one's body.

That is how it was categorized in his mind but for some reason, crouching on the tiled surface of the bathroom floor, with the constant sound of water flowing from the shower, clutching to the blade as if it were a lifeline meant so much more than a simple definition. When he did this, this thing which he found shameful and humiliating, a clear display of weakness he liked to pretend he did not have, Sherlock Holmes, the emotionless consulting detective, could feel. He claimed he did not have a heart, he did, but it was drowned out by the constant noise made by his brain. The deductions which would simply not stop coming, the endless reams of information which poured out of his long term memory, bombarding his conscious mind. All the noise stopped him feeling, his mind did not have a chance to feel, and he grew to hate it. But somehow the lack of feeling caused one thing to arise, and that was pain, pain from past memories he should have been traumatised by but simply did not have time. The noise in his head, his precious mind became too much for him to cope with.

Looking down at his arm he sees the blood, dark but made brighter due to the oxygenation of the haemoglobin. Why. Won't. It. Stop? His mind won't leave him alone. Only then does he consider the fact there is probably more blood than there should be. He hadn't nicked an artery; he wasn't foolish enough to cut on his wrists but preferred to slice slightly higher up his arm. Grabbing a towel he pressed it hard into the open wound, as he did so observing the cuts at various stages of healing while revelling in the silence of his mind provided by the pain of pushing the towel into the wound.

_Knock, knock, knock._

"Are you alright in there Sherlock, you've been in there for a while."

"Yes," hissed Sherlock, irritated by the interruption of his private time. In the solitude of the bathroom he could stop pretending but as soon as he walked out of the door he had to be the other person, the one everyone expected him to be. Of course, much of that personality was his personality but sometimes it was so exhausting, sometimes he simply felt like bursting into tears, but he couldn't, that wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes did not feel and that was the way it always had to be.


	2. Chapter 2

_I am absolutely awful at remembering to do these things. So basically, if you haven't guessed by now I actually don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. Certainly wouldn't be complaining if I did, but I don't, so I have to be content with writing these. _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

His arm was throbbing but he revelled in the pain it provided as he carefully rolled his shirt over his arm and then shrugged his suit on over the top. He knew it would be difficult to play the violin for a few days. Before walking out of the door he disposed of the bloodied towel through the bathroom window which opened up above a skip. As soon as he left the safety and solitude of the bathroom a wave of dizziness hit him and he instantly knew that, despite his best efforts, he had indeed lost a bit too much blood.

John watched his pale form as he flopped lifelessly onto the sofa and closed his eyes, his fingers forming steeple shapes below his chin, in his classic thinking poise. He had not been quite right for the past week or so, there had been no cases so he put down the changes to that. He really did hope there would be a call from Lestrade soon, for some reason this dark mood was not like the others somehow, it just seemed more dangerous, more sinister, hard to describe. As if on cue Sherlock's phone began to buzz and he instantly grabbed it.

"What?"… "Is Anderson there?"… "He's probably destroyed all of the evidence."… "This had better not be a waste of my time Lestrade." The detective angrily pressed the end call button, seeming inordinately frustrated especially since for the past seven days he had been complaining about being bored. "New case," he stated shortly. He stood up and reached for his coat with his left hand, wincing then switching hands before cautiously putting on his coat. _Strange _thought John. _I wonder what is wrong with his arm. _"Sherlock, its 26 degrees outside, you really don't need that big jacket on." If looks could kill the one John received would have been responsible for genocide. "Are you alright mate, you're no looking too good?"

"I'm fine," spat Sherlock icily. "You are welcome to come with me John but not if you are going to be fussing constantly and doing nothing other than getting in people's way." The army doctor was feeling another _bad day _coming on, something he had not really felt since Afghanistan. He wanted nothing more than to let his infuriating friend go and stew in his own juice but he got the feeling something bad was going to happen and, as annoying as Sherlock could be, he wanted to be able to help him. By the time he had decided this the detective had stalked out of the door and was heading down the stairs. John quickly caught up.

"Where are we going?"

"Crime scene."

"Which is where?"

"The Ramada Hotel."

"What's happened?"

"Double murder, could be linked to the double murder from two days ago." As the taxi pulled up Sherlock and John jumped in and Sherlock reeled of an address, the taxi pulled away.


	3. Chapter 3

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

"Boring," stated Sherlock as they walked through the door of the hotel room. John rolled his eyes. Lestrade, John and Anderson watched in fascination as the detective danced about the room, looking in suitcases and at one point sniffing the two corpses. Eventually he stood back up straight and sidled back over to the three waiting men. "This wasn't murder; this was suicide, assisted suicide to be precise, sort of."

"How the hell was this suicide, they were shot in the head and the weapon is missing," proclaimed Anderson feeling pleased with himself for noticing something the _freak_ did not.

"Anderson, it really is a wonder you got this job. I'm surprised even you missed the signs. Lestrade, this was a waste of my time, nothing interesting here at all." The detective was turning round to leave when the DI spoke up.

"Come on then Sherlock; enlighten us to the obvious signs." Sherlock turned to look at him and sighed. _He looks exhausted_ thought John with concern. _I don't think I can even remember when he last ate anything. When we get back to Baker Street I'll make him a big meal and make sure he eats all of it, oh he will not be happy with me._

"First of all there's the distinctive smell of vomit, which indicates the overdose of drugs, and there are traces of it on the floor next to the victim's mouths, as if it has been cleaned up. Why would someone vomit after being shot through the temple? Next of course is how did it get cleaned up in the first place, there was someone else in here who cleaned it up after them. It was obvious that he was in on the plan."

"He?" interrupted Lestrade.

"Yes, he, this third person was male as indicated by the size of the indents in the carpet in the bedroom and space between them, neither of these people had feet that size so those prints cannot belong to them. Anyway, after cleaning up the vomit he took out his own handgun and shot them both through the temple. He lifted their heads to remove the bullets and then ran."

Anderson simply stared at Sherlock, stunned into silence. "Amazing," muttered John. For the first time in a while Sherlock allowed a smile to grace his lips, it was, however, soon removed when Anderson began to speak.

"So tell us this _genius_, why would somebody want to do something like that. Why commit suicide then frame it as murder. And why would anybody want to assist in such a contorted plan. "Idiot," muttered Sherlock under his breath. "Take a look around you, you don't stay in a suite like this if you are poor, no, these people were rich. They would have been able to pay someone a large sum of money to do this; the person was probably desperate for cash. If you bothered to look in their suitcases you would have seen they were huge fans of murder mystery novels, they probably wanted their deaths to be more interesting than simply a suicide. There you go, case closed."

Sherlock began to walk back through the door, his face stormy in anger at having to leave his flat for something so mundane when Anderson, foolishly stood in his way. "You think you're so clever don't you?" sneered the shorter man.

"Anderson!" shouted Lestrade in warning but he paid no heed.

"You think you can come in here insulting all of us because you think nobody can compare to your massive intellect."

"Some people can but I'm afraid you are not one of them," Sherlock replied coolly before trying to walk past Anderson but he had different ideas. Out of rage he grabbed Sherlock's arm in an iron grip, having the intention of yanking him back and punching him in the face. However, he stopped short in surprise when the detective was suddenly doubled over, crying out in agony.


	4. Chapter 4

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

The extremely uncharacteristic cry of pain drew the attention of absolutely everyone in the room. Anderson jumped back in surprise before his mouth drew up in a sneer of disgust. He was opening his mouth to make a comment when John darted between them both cutting Anderson of from Sherlock's view, such things with the man where very 'out of sight, out of mind.'

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you ok?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," replied the younger man trying to come off with an air of frustration but not managing the tone which he was intending. Instead it only seemed to add to the helpless look that he was sporting, the one which looked unfamiliar on his features.

"Are you sure? You're looking a bit pale."

"John… I… I don't feel so good." His vision was blurring and he was struggling to think straight, it was as if there was interference in his brain, all he knew was that he was pretty sure that his sudden lack of sense had something to do with the throbbing pain in his arm and somehow it had related to Anderson grabbing his arm. However, he found himself in the unusual situation of not being able to connect his thoughts and so he was not entirely sure of what was going on.

The doctor sighed, not sure whether he should be worried or relieved by the fact that Sherlock had admitted his weakness so easily. "No, I don't think you do," he replied soothingly, gently guiding the compliant detective back into the room and into the closest chair. Next he knelt down next to him. "Sherlock, Sherlock, I need you to look at me." The detective's gaze fell on him but it was unfocussed, completely unlike his normally sharp gaze. "Ok, as I said earlier it is very warm out and you do not need that big jacket on, you don't even need the suit on so let's get that off you." Sherlock didn't move when the doctor began to undo the buttons on his jacket but as he began to tug it off his arms Sherlock got sent into panic mode.

"No! Don't touch me!" he shouted, his eyes suddenly gaining all his former clarity and they were wide with fear.

John looked at his friend with concern; panic was one of the last reactions that he was expecting. He backed away slightly. "Hey, mate, what's wrong?"

"Don't touch me; people do not get to touch me." The army doctor looked closely at his friend, if he wasn't very much mistaken it looked as if the great detective was fighting back tears.

"It's alright; I'm not going to hurt you. Can I get that jacket off you? It may help you feel better." When there was no reply John reached forwards to try to slip the sleeves off his arms which caused Sherlock to lash out, luckily John's reflexes were quick due to his army training so Sherlock barely touched him before curling in on himself.

By this time John had given up, it was evident Sherlock was not going to let anybody in and John needed to make sure there was nothing life threatening was going on because his friend was acting as if something very serious was wrong. He turned his head slightly to look at Lestrade. "Would it be possible to get a glass of water?" Lestrade nodded and disappeared. When turning his attention back to Sherlock John discovered he had tucked his knees up under him and hid his head between his legs. Shaking his head, sorrowed by his friend's suffering and the lengths he had been driven to, John silently pulled a couple of tablets from the small medical bag he had recently started taking on cases. When Lestrade returned with the water John took it, nodding in appreciation and dissolved them in the water. "Sherlock, please, can you drink this, we don't want dehydration to add to all this." Sherlock emerged from his cocoon and took the water silently and downed the lot in two large gulps. Carefully he took the glass from his friend and handed it back to the DI. It was only a few moments later when John caught his best friend as he toppled forwards, unconscious.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you all for the reviews and to those subscribing to story alerts etc. I was really surprised when I saw my inbox this morning. :D_

_Basically, I am away tomorrow and Friday and I have no idea what the internet connection is going to be like so if there are no updates I haven't died and I haven't abandoned this fic. I might try and update more than once today if I get round to it but I'm not promising anything._

_Ok, that's me done with my ramblings. _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

As soon as John had arms full of detective he knew that he probably hadn't thought this through, his height made up for the lack of body fat making him quite a difficult man to maneuver. "Are you needing a hand there John?" asked Lestrade gently. Turning his head to the side the army doctor smiled to see the room was empty except for the three men.

"Um, yeah actually, if I keep him upright would you mind taking his jacket off?"

"Not a problem." The DI began to tug but only after a few moments he stopped, raised the palm of his hand to eye level and stared in surprise.

"What? What is it?" John asked. Silently Lestrade rotated his palm so John could see and his reaction was similar. Standing and staring, in disbelief. Red covered his palm, ingeniously disguised against the black of Sherlock's coat. _No_ thought John. _No, no, no, no, no, no. Please don't be what I think it is, please no, please don't be._ John cleared his throat before speaking again. "Ok, we need to get this off him so I can get a look at the wound, or wounds." The two men worked silently, first removing the long jacket and then the suit jacket which also disguised the blood. Tenderly they removed his blood-stained shirt, although this took a bit more time then lay him down.

The blood was flowing easily down his arm the large wound wide open from where Anderson had grabbed his arm. "Lestrade, I need a basin of water and a cloth, could you give Mycroft a ring, tell him we need a car and two, no three just in case, pints of blood for Sherlock. I need to get him back to Baker Street; I don't think he'll appreciate it if he has to go to hospital. Lestrade disappeared into the next room and John revelled in the solitude for a moment, observing his friend. There were so many cuts littering those pale arms, he doubted he would have been able to see the old track marks even if he tried. It was evident that the cutting had been going on for some time. The next thing his doctor's eye noticed was the way the bones protruded forming bumps and lines under his skin. John was trying to keep professional but it was difficult when it was his friend lying there. Is ridiculous, infuriating, brilliant and confident friend reduced to a heap due to blood loss because he had cut himself. The man that could glance at you and know what you had for breakfast now lay unconscious and helpless on the floor due to something that John did not spot, could not spot, but probably should of. A single tear threatened to fall from the doctor's eye. He wiped it away quickly. "Sentiment," he explained briefly to his friend. _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. _He allowed himself a small smile before he set to work, helping his friend.


	6. Chapter 6

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

There wasn't really a lot John could do, sitting on the floor of a hotel room, his friend unconscious on the floor before him. He busied himself with measuring Sherlock's pulse and breathing rate and removing some bandages from his bag. Suturing the cuts would have to wait until they had returned to Baker Street. Eventually Lestrade re-entered the room carrying the basin and sitting it next to the doctor. "I gave Mycroft a ring; he says that he is coming across now with the blood." John looked up sharply from soaking the cloth in the lukewarm water.

"Mycroft's coming? He's not just sending a car and an assistant?"

"He in fact insisted on it. He sounded almost, oh I don't know, sad? Disappointed? Something along those lines but those two were never renowned for showing their emotions for the entire world to see were they?"

"I suppose that's one way of putting it," the doctor replied distractedly as he focussed completely on his task.

By the time he was done with washing the blood from the newest of the wounds the water in the basin was a deep red and, at John's request, Lestrade disposed of it for him. When he returned John had finished and Sherlock's arm was swathed in a bright white bandage which was pretty much the same colour as the detective's skin. As he waited John was absentmindedly holding Sherlock's wrist, feeling the life blood pulsating beneath his fingertips as if he needed to remind himself constantly that his best friend was still alive. There was absolutely no indication by simply looking at him that he was still living. His chest barely rose as he breathed in and out rhythmically and he looked more like a skeleton than a person at that moment in time.

"Can I ask you a question John?" Lestrade asked to break the silence as they awaited the arrival of Sherlock's big brother.

"Hmm?" said John as a means of confirmation as he was drawn out of his reverie.

"Why do you think he did it, I mean all of this? It just doesn't seem like him."

"Ah, I don't know. I have often suspected something happened to him in his childhood, I'd like to know what but he is pretty adamant to not talk about it. It may have something to do with that, maybe. I'll ask Mycroft when he gets here; he may be able to shed some light on the situation."

"Do you think it's anybody's, I mean, perhaps I should have tried a little harder to stop people insulting him at crime scenes or…?"

"No Greg, don't blame yourself. He's mentally unstable at the best of times. If anyone should have seen this coming it should have been me, I live with him."

"John…"

"No, don't Greg. I know I'm not to blame, I'm not exactly making him cut himself. I just wish I could have spotted the signs, I'm a damn doctor after all." John's voice was rising in anger and frustration but he kept a firm grip on Sherlock's wrist despite his growing anger towards the man. Lestrade let him carry on. He needed to let it all out, the next few weeks with helping Sherlock recover were going to take their toll on the faithful doctor. "I just wish that he'd trusted me enough to tell me." By this time John was shaking, he was hurting with his emotionally crippled friend and Lestrade could only watch as the soldier began to crumble, he knew as well as John that this was going to be a painful recovery, if any recovery was made at all, and that John was going to have to be the one encouraging Sherlock and taking all the battering that went along with that role. In a way it was lucky that Mycroft chose that moment to walk through the door into the room causing John to instantly collect himself. "Oh brother mine, what have you done now?"


	7. Chapter 7

_So I thought that I'd try and sneak in a cheeky wee update to surprise you all before I went out. Thank you all for the reviews, they mean the world to me and encourage me to update as quickly as I possibly can._

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

After Mycroft arrived things were put into motion pretty quickly. Two men followed the elder Holmes, picked Sherlock up, and carried him out to the car. Mycroft, Lestrade and John followed, shooting warning glances at anyone who stared at Sherlock for too long, daring them to keep doing it and see what would happen to them. Of course everyone looked away except Anderson who, when he saw Sherlock being carried out with heavy bandaging round both wrists, managed to figure out essentially what was going on. "Freak finally try to kill himself then?" he sneered after swaggering over to John. This earned him a punch to the face from both John and Mycroft who then carried on to the car, Lestrade in tow.

The journey back to Baker Street was a swift one, it was as if when the black car glided down the streets all the other cars fled as if they were about to be hunted. London seemed to be quiet, it was a most eerie and weird sensation and John suspected Mycroft had something to do with it. When they arrived at Baker Street John was just thankful that Mrs Hudson was out, it made the movement of the unconscious detective a lot easier.

A few minutes later John was hurriedly suturing Sherlock's arm, he wasn't too sure how much longer the sedative would affect Sherlock but he knew that it would be a lot better if he had the man all stitched up, preferably bandaged up, with the transfusion of blood entering his system before he awoke. Lestrade was in the kitchen searching for tea between all the chemicals and body parts which littered the kitchen, an abnormality John had grown accustomed to. There was the occasional 'What the hell?' emanating from the kitchen and when something truly foul was found much more profane language was used by the DI. And Mycroft was searching the house, he knew the way his brother thought and he knew where the most likely place for him to hide a blade was, he was also keeping an eye out for drugs, he didn't think that his little brother was addicted again but he didn't want to take the risk, if there was anything there he wanted to know about it.

Just as John was finishing the suture Sherlock began to stir so John very quickly finished the job and then put down all his tools and sat back, the detective's head in his lap, stoking his head comfortingly. "Urgh," he groaned, the thin, pale lips barely moving. He fought to open his eyes but he was fighting a losing battle there.

"Hey, welcome back mate. Just relax, you'll be back with us very soon."

"John?" he whispered weakly, apparently given up on attempting to open his eyes.

"Yes, that's right Sherlock.

"Wha- happen? His words slurred together and John had to listen very carefully to understand what he was saying.

"You nearly collapsed from blood-loss and you wouldn't let me anywhere near your wound. I had to give you a sedative to make sure that you weren't dying. We're back at Baker Street and we've got you all patched up." Sherlock tentatively began to feel his arm and gasped when he felt the bandage. Suddenly his eyes flew open and he found the energy to sit upright from somewhere. "You looked! I thought I told you not to look!" He sounded angry and on his face he wore an expression of anger, hurt and betrayal that broke John's heart, especially because he knew he put it there. The sudden outburst, however, brought Mycroft running.


	8. Chapter 8

_Ok, sorry for not updating sooner. I was away last night and I had no internet connection so that mad the whole uploading thing a little difficult. Thank you all to those of you who reviewed and are enjoying my rambelings, hearing that there are some people who enjoy my writing is very encouraging. I'm glad you like the part where John and Mycroft punched Anderson, I liked writing that part. ;)_

_Here's the next chapter for you anyway. _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

"Ah, I see you're back with us then," commented Mycroft with as much nonchalance as he could muster when he realised his brother was not actually trying to kill anyone.

"You brought him here?" Sherlock spat angrily at John as he tried to stand up but failed as another wave of dizziness came over him, not enough blood had been transfused to do anything other than keep him conscious. He sat down with a thump as he desperately clawed at his skin, unable to order his thoughts so he didn't know what to do for once, all the stimuli were bombarding him relentlessly and the new addition of emotion meant it was all becoming too much.

Both Mycroft and Lestrade observed from a distance as John shrugged off his friend's anger and, as usual, went to his aid without hesitation. Carefully he took both of the detective's hands in his, preventing him from being able to claw at his skin. Sherlock flinched at the contact and for a second tried to pull away but after the slight resistance he complied as John put them in the younger man's lap. "Sherlock, its ok, look at me now." It was as if Sherlock had not heard him, he did not react in any way, he simply stared at his hands in his lap, unmoving. "Sherlock, please look at me. I'm not going to get angry, I just want to understand this ok." Once again he did not react, not even a flicker of the eyes gave away whether or not he had registered John's voice. The doctor sighed, mental illnesses were not his skill set but he would do his best to help his friend and that help had to start right at that moment.

Slowly he reached out with one hand and forced Sherlock to look at him by lifting his face up by his chin. The moment their eyes met John felt his heart break a little. Sherlock's eyes were a deep blue but they looked pained. They were full of unshed tears, tears he would not let fall, could not let fall, John understood Sherlock's need to remain invulnerable, impervious to anything especially when it came to emotions. But right before him, John could see the evidence Sherlock did feel, he could see the evidence of the robotic detective's profound humanity. His skin was impossibly pale, his cheek bones protruded further than normal indicative of the conflict he was obviously feeling within himself. John always knew, since their first meeting, that Sherlock's mental state was far from healthy. It alternated frequently from manic, almost euphoric, to depressed and erratic. Always, throughout all of his extreme mood swings, for that is the only way they could be described even though sometimes they could last weeks, the man had oozed confidence. Now was the one time he did not, now he looked like a small child who was lost and had no idea where to go. He looked like someone who wanted to merge into a crowd and not be noticed.

"Would you like them to go?" John asked tenderly nodding towards Mycroft and Lestrade. "We can have a chat, just us. We'll need to let them know what is going on later, just a rough idea, but we can have a talk without them now if you'd rather." Sherlock nodded. "Speak to me Sherlock, I know you can speak and I do not want you to stop."

"Yes," he replied his voice quiet but thick from pent up emotions. John didn't need to ask them, the DI handed John and Sherlock a cup of tea each and then the two men left the apartment. When they heard the door which opened out onto the street shut John turned to Sherlock. "Alright then, please be honest with me because I really do want to help, what is going on with you?"


	9. Chapter 9

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Sherlock looked down, hands dancing nervously across his lap, but he did not say anything. "Please Sherlock, this is serious, I need to know how to help."

"Leave me alone," he said though his voice sounded unsure, a distinct lack of conviction as if he didn't really mean what he was saying. It was as if he was trying to imitate the man he usually was to try and convince John, or even himself, that there was really nothing to worry about. Of course there was, and he knew it, but it was humiliating, he couldn't bear the thought of people knowing he let emotions get a hold of him, that he let them drive him to such extremes so he could stay detached when he needed to.

John sighed; he knew this was going to be hard. "Ok, let's start with something simple, something a little more specific." That was something Sherlock could answer, it did not require him to bring any emotions into the equation, it was a simple fact.

"On and off since I was fourteen."

"Does anybody else know? Did you tell anyone when you first started?"

"No, Mycroft found out when I was sixteen. But then after a couple of years I learnt how to hide it better so I told him I stopped, he believed me."

"Why did you tell him you stopped?"

"I didn't want him interfering with my life." John smirked, that sounded like the Sherlock that he knew.

The two sat in silence for a while, a comfortable silence, John knew he wouldn't get much more out of Sherlock at that moment. If he felt it was an interrogation he would not cooperate and John needed him to cooperate if he had any hope of helping his friend recover. "Right, I'm going to make dinner, Bolognese sound ok to you?" asked John as he stood up from the settee.

"Not hungry," stated Sherlock childishly as he tucked his knees up to his chest, all but hugging his mug of tea, curling up in on himself.

"I don't give a damn, you're eating. You can have the choice of what we eat but if you don't choose it's Bolognese.

"I said I'm not hungry!" Sherlock shouted hurling the mug of tea at the wall, luckily he had almost finished so not much splashed up the wall.

"And I said that I don't care."

At this Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa in a lying position facing away from John, the doctor at first felt angry but then he saw Sherlock's shoulders shaking. Despite himself all of the anger suddenly drained away making him feel exhausted, maybe he'd just order a pizza instead, actually, that wasn't such a bad idea. Sherlock was quite partial to pepperoni pizza, and if there was some left in the fridge overnight it wasn't uncommon for one or two slices disappear, even with a case on. John grinned to himself but then it was wiped of his face when he saw Sherlock's vulnerable form. He really hoped he could help. There was nothing he wouldn't do to try. But for now John would have to play along with Sherlock's act of being angry instead of being upset. For now he'd have to pretend Sherlock had won and to do so he'd have to ignore him, pretend he was annoyed at him to lull the detective into a false sense of security. This went against he doctor's instinct. He wanted, no needed, to comfort his hurting friend but he was sure that such an act would be detrimental to the man's recovery. So, just for Sherlock, he'd have to leave him to hurt and go and order some pizza.

**I hope you enjoyed that, I didn't think it was a very good chapter myself but I may update again tonight, just to make up for it. Thank you for all your reviews, it makes my day when I open my inbox and see those emails. :D**


	10. Chapter 10

_Before I start I'd like to thank MaeEmma for this inspiration. It was not anything I had considered but I thought I'd give it a go. I am open to suggestions, if I think they are good suggestions and I can write reasonably well with them, I will probably use them. Enjoy (this is the longest chapter so far )._

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

As John munched away at the pizza he could see from the corner of his eye the way Sherlock kept on eyeing it almost longingly, then he obviously would realise what he was doing and snap his head away in the other direction. Only then the whole cycle would start again. John smirked; the pizza mustn't have been too bad an idea. The TV was on in the background but neither of the two men were really paying any attention to it, they were all too caught up in their own thoughts. Eventually the doctor had eaten enough pizza so he left it of the coffee table before him and leaned back into the seat.

"I've known several people who self-harm, I remember one man in particular." Sherlock looked up surprised but intrigued. To be honest John himself was surprised that he had said it, he hadn't even been thinking about that but Sherlock looked interested at the very least and it wouldn't do any harm to tell him. He may trust him more for it or feel he could open up, if only a little bit to John.

"Yes, his name was, oh what was it, Ryan Robertson, yes, that was it. His flat mate had called the ambulance because he'd found him lying on the floor of his room, blood pouring out of his wrists and was barely breathing. Now he was a smart guy, second year of university studying chemical engineering. He told me life was difficult, the pressures of the university were piling up and he was finding it hard to cope. I could sympathise with that, what with doing my internship for medicine, there was a lot of pressure and a lot of stress. I drank more at that time than I probably should have done so I could at least, sort of identify with his line of thought. He then told me that it was just a way to relax, he knew it wasn't good for him but he wasn't suicidal. My gut instinct was that he was lying, the cuts were deep, purposeful, but I wanted to believe that he was telling the truth. I didn't understand then that even when you wanted to help people they would fight, some for all they were worth. So I gave him the blood transfusions, patched him up, prescribed him pain medication, gave him the name and number of a therapist then sent him on his way. He even thanked me for the help I gave him, shook my hand and then left. I felt good when I saw him go; I thought I'd done some real good, I now know I was young and naive. Two days later there was a 999 call, suicide attempt and I had to deal with it. It was the same bloke except this time I could not save him; he died beneath my hands as I tried over and over to resuscitate him. The nurse had to pull me off him; she had to tell me he was gone. The autopsy revealed that as well as the obvious slits to the wrist he had also OD'd, on the same medication I had prescribed him. I learnt a valuable lesson that day, one I would never forget, but I have never forgiven myself for letting him go, for not following my gut instinct."

As John finished his story he looked up to see Sherlock looking up at him with curiosity. "I never knew that about you."

"I know that sometimes it seems that you are psychic but I doubt even you could deduce that by looking at my phone." Sherlock chuckled slightly.

"No, I suppose I couldn't. Why did you tell me that story?" The doctor looked up surprised, convinced that his friend must have some semblance of an idea but his face remained questioning and completely honest.

"Because Sherlock, I do not want you to end up the same way. I lost friends in Afghanistan, I do not want to lose you too."

"I'm not suicidal John," Sherlock growled.

"That may well be but I can still see the look on that boy's face as his body shuddered gasping for air and then I saw his eyes turn all glassy as the life finally left him. You do not get to do that Sherlock, you don't get to leave that easily!"

"I am not about to kill myself John!" Sherlock shouted, once again angry. "I am not going to get high, I am clean. I am not suicidal, do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand fine, but the thing is, even though I do believe you my instinct is telling me that these things normally get worse, often rapidly. If nobody had been around today Sherlock it is quite possible that you would have bled out whether or not you meant to kill yourself. There is a risk you will commit suicide inadvertently, you don't get to do that either. That is why the cutting stops now, no more, or else you are going to hospital. I will not lose you even if you want to be lost."


	11. Chapter 11

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

"I don't want to go to hospital," stated Sherlock, his voice a harsh whisper now fixing John with his hard scare.

"And I don't want you to hurt yourself and/or kill yourself. So since we have problems which can be solved using the same solution it would be logical to work together to solve the problems." Sherlock considered this, he most certainly did not enjoy the prospect of sharing feelings or any of that rubbish but he could not argue with the logic in John's argument. So eventually the detective nodded and John smiled with relief. "I don't want to see a therapist though; I don't do well with therapists."

"No, I can't imagine you would. Understandable, but it would be easier for me to just shove you to a therapist and then be done with it so you have to promise me you'll try and cooperate. If I don't think you are trying you will be going to a professional. Are we clear on that?" Sherlock nodded huffily then stood up off the settee, only seeming to notice the needle and tubing in his arm.

"Can I get this thing out; I want to go to bed." John looked at him concernedly, Sherlock never wanted to go to bed, the man would usually just doze on the couch, but he wasn't about to complain, a bit of sleep might do him good. John reached over, taking Sherlock's wrist, ignoring the slight flinch, and felt his pulse. It felt slightly elevated but not dangerously so and it felt strong. "Ok, once you've had a couple of slices of pizza you can go to bed." Quickly the doctor slipped the needle out from under the skin and pressed a piece of cotton wool onto the small area of skin which was not covered in bandages to stem the blood flow. Sherlock had barely seemed to notice as he reluctantly bit into a slice of the pepperoni pizza abandoned on the table. He managed to eat one before stalking out of the room, stating he couldn't manage any more. John let him get away with that, he'd make his friend, and now patient, a diet plan that night and then they'd start in the morning.

Sherlock awoke with a gasp, his sheets were tied tightly around him, he began to panic and violently fought to detach them. Eventually he landed on the floor with a thump, bashing his head on one of the bed posts, but succeeded in releasing himself from the sheets. Carefully he listened, his breath coming out in loud, short pants, for any sign of movement from John but there was none. Sherlock could see it was 3:30 in the morning and he felt desperate for a shower. After that nightmare he could not stand the feeling of his clammy skin and the overlay of filth that he could feel. Quickly he dashed out of his room and fled to the shower. John was slumped over the desk in the living room, fast asleep with the lamp on and Sherlock was thankful he was oblivious to what was going on. He turned the shower onto full and as he stepped under it he hissed as the hot water made contact with his skin. The detective did not bother to remove the bandages, he just started washing himself, at first with a cloth and ended up using all of the soap, but as the water grew colder he began to claw at his skin, desperate to feel clean.

John shook himself awake and saw it was 7:30am, he had not meant to fall asleep but he, unfortunately, was not nocturnal like Sherlock. Nor could he simply shrug off his body's needs as irrelevant. Wandering over to the sink he turned the hot tap on to wash up everything from last night, but after running it for a few minutes still no hot water came out of it. "No hot water," he muttered to himself. "Curious." It was only then he heard the shower running. "How long have you been in there Sherlock?" he asked nobody in particular, simply wanting to break the silence. He padded across to the bathroom and knocked on the door. "Are you ok in there Sherlock?" he asked. No reply, he tried again and there was still no reply. Images began to conjure themselves up in his mind, Sherlock lying in a pool of his own blood, Sherlock lying on the floor choking on his own vomit, he could still see that boy. A sudden surge of energy brought about by worry caused him to kick the door, it gave easily under the force of the blow. He ran into the bathroom and the sight he saw both made his heart drop but also gave him a little relief. Sherlock was not dead, that much was good. However the detective was curled up, naked, on the floor of the bath with cold water pouring over him, and he was shivering violently. The water going down the drain was tinged ever so slightly pink. "Sherlock, what have you done?"


	12. Chapter 12

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

After the initial shock of the situation John burst into action. The shower was turned off and John jumped into the bath, crouching down into Sherlock's view. He was conscious which was good but he was shaking uncontrollably and he'd managed to scrape his skin red raw. "What the hell were you doing Sherlock? Come on, look at me mate." The detective complied, looking up at John in desperation, fear and what could only be described as an almost perpetual sadness. It looked so alien on his face but at the same time it looked as if it had always been there, it was weird and it confused John. He was worried, he would not hide this fact, it was evident that there was something much bigger than he thought behind the self-harm. But right at that moment he could not afford to focus on these things, he had to get Sherlock out, dressed and warmed up before anything serious arose from his current state.

"Alright, we need to get you out of here and warmed up. Do you think you'll be able to stand?" There wasn't any response and as much as the doctor in him wanted to get him to speak, to stop him drawing in on himself, he knew it was more important to take care of his physical state. So John helped him up onto his feet, and allowed him to lean heavily on him as he clambered out of the bath. Quickly he grabbed a warm towel off the towel rail and dried his legs and behind before sitting the younger man on the lid of the toilet and getting the rest of him dry. All the while Sherlock just complied silently, never complaining or anything that would make him recognisable as the great Sherlock Holmes.

As Sherlock just stared into nothingness John nattered away, he wasn't really sure what he was doing that for because he was fairly sure that his friend was completely unaware of what was going on at all. However, if a person was physically injured he knew that talking was good; it helped them stay conscious and could also provide a welcome distraction for them. It just seemed right to be doing the same for his mentally and emotionally damaged friend. After Sherlock was dry John wrapped a clean, warm towel around his shoulders then dashed to find some clean warm clothes for him after reassuring Sherlock that he would be back in a couple of minutes. Soon he came back with a pair of sweatpants, a long sleeved t-shirt, a woolly jumper that had always been far too big for him and a hat.

It wasn't long before he had Sherlock tucked up on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket with a thermometer in his mouth. Setting the kettle to boil he grabbed his phone off the cabinet and texted Mycroft that he should come over at about ten and bring a few tubes of antiseptic cream. John certainly did not want Sherlock's raw skin to get infected and he didn't really have enough cream to treat even a quarter of the affected skin.

The thermometer beeped so he walked over to Sherlock (who was still staring blankly at the wall) and removed it from his mouth. 34.5 degrees centigrade. His life was not in immediate danger which was very comforting but he did need warming up some more so while he was making the tea he filled a hot water bottle and tucked it under the blankets hoping that it would do some good. Sherlock did respond to the tea, his hand emerged from under the thick layers of blankets and took it out of the doctor's hand and he proceeded to practically curl around it. John sat down in his chair, his medical kit by his side and the two sat in silence as John debated the best way to approach the subject.


	13. Chapter 13

_This is Sherlock's POV of chapters 11 and 12. Enjoy! _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

_**The detective did not bother to remove the bandages, he just started washing himself, at first with a cloth and ended up using all of the soap, but as the water grew colder he began to claw at his skin, desperate to feel clean.**_

The thoughts just kept on coming, overwhelming him, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else; it was as if they were intent on destroying and consuming him. They never left him alone; the constant noise was often too much to bear. The sudden onslaught caused time to blend together causing several hours to pass by in a mysterious haze. In the shower the memories came over him, he began to scrub at his tender flesh almost completely oblivious to the damage he was causing it, to the wounds he was inflicting on it. He had to get clean, at that moment it was as if getting himself physically spotless would result in the purge of all emotions from his mind.

The next thing he knew he was on the floor of the bath, water cascading down from above. The harsh words from people in his life surrounded him. He never thought that he was affected by them but they had stuck in his mind, crouching and planning, waiting for him to be at his most vulnerable before bombarding him. Somehow the memories manifested themselves in physical pain, each one feeling like a needle jabbing into his skin. The words of his father hurt the most, the man he admired and aspired to just like any other child would, but unlike most children, he was rejected. _You'll never become anything; it would be better if you were dead because then at least there would be more oxygen in the world. Do you know what oxygen is? You're so stupid I doubt you do. Do me a favour and just don't talk to me. I don't want to hear from you._ Words from more recent times seemed to haunt him as well. _Freak, psychopath, machine._ They stuck in his mind prominently. _Machine _was the harshest one out of the lot. John had called him a machine, his John, good old faithful Dr Watson had looked at his with shame and disgust and called him a _machine._

There were hands on him. More than anything he wanted to flinch away but all of his energy appeared to have been washed down the drain with the water. There was a voice calling to him, telling him to look up and he did. There was John, crouching in front of him, his eyes full of worry. **He fell asleep at his laptop, most likely looking for treatments. He is worried, very worried, he slept in this morning, ended up skipping breakfast but made up for it with a big lunch. **The observations kept on flying around in his head. There was no stopping them, he saw everything, missed nothing, a thousand theories flew round his head relentlessly. Lightening quick thinking was both a blessing and a curse, one he often enjoyed but there was no way to turn it off and sometimes that meant irreparable damage. Sometimes, in a completely silent room he could not bear the noise, each little scuff mark, every ruffle in a piece of fabric screamed a story at him. Now he could see John the same thing seemed to be happening, casting him into the pits of his mind.

He was only vaguely aware that something was happening but he wasn't sure what. The detective was far too busy to notice what was going on by what had happened, reading it off the good doctor, seeing it in the room that surrounded him. The only thing he really saw was when John was absent from the room and he felt inexplicably lonely and abandoned. But then he returned, arms full of clothing and the observations started screaming at him once again, engulfing the young man. He knew how old the clothes were, how long since they had been last warm and to some extent could imagine John's thought process as he selected each item. The observations once again blinded him to the real world and he was trapped in the recesses of his mind. The next clear memory was of him sitting on the sofa, a cup of tea clutched to his chest being engulfed by blankets and he could feel the warmth seeping into his body. John walked towards him, sat down and wrapped his arm round the younger man's shoulders and for once Sherlock sank into the touch, John's touch. John, his anchor in the tumultuous sea that was his mind, John, his friend and colleague, John, the only thing that kept his mind from destroying him and the only thing which kept him sane.


	14. Chapter 14

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

There was an eternity of silence, not a bad silence but a silence full of meaning that could only happen to between good friends. The silence was full of meaning and it helped to still Sherlock's manic thinking. For once he was only aware of one thing and that was the steady rise and fall of John's chest as he allowed himself to fall into his embrace, allowing just for once someone to see him vulnerable and allowing them to comfort him. It was Sherlock that eventually broke the silence. "John?"

"Mm."

"Thank you." The doctor smiled and mindlessly began to run his fingers through Sherlock's still damp curls.

"It's ok, just finish your tea and try to get some rest, it looks like you've exhausted yourself. Your brother is coming in a couple of hours so I'll wake you up then." The detective pulled away from John just enough to look him in the eyes, his own full of concern.

"Why is he coming over?" He asked with the slight hint of an edge to his voice.

"I needed some antiseptic cream to treat your skin and I thought he might be able to help with this situation." Sherlock collapsed back onto John.

"I think you will find him most unhelpful." With that the detective downed the rest of his tea and handed the mug to the doctor who stretched across and put it on the coffee table, trying not to jostle his friend too much.

It wasn't long before Sherlock's breathing evened out into steady, deep breaths and for once he seemed peaceful. Carefully the doctor took his pulse and felt his head with the back of his hand, everything seemed normal but he wanted just to check his temperature properly when he awoke. As much as he wanted to sit there his friend was fast asleep and the morning had drained his resources somewhat meaning that he was in fact rather hungry. Cautiously he removed himself from the detective and carefully lay him down on the sofa, tucking the blankets up around his sleeping form to ensure he retained his body heat.

Five minutes later was sitting at the kitchen table, at the corner that for some reason was experiment free, with a bowl of cereal and a newspaper. He then carried on the tasks that would be typical for him in a morning. It was in the shower that he got the feeling that there was something wrong, he didn't know how to describe it and knew how sceptical Sherlock would be of such a thing but he hurried himself up none the less. It wasn't long before he stepped out of the bathroom and was glad that he had hurried himself along as he could he could hear distinct whimpering sounds coming from the settee. Warily he approached the sleeping form of his friend but this time he did not seem peaceful but quite the opposite. His face was twisted in what seemed to be a mixture of fear and pain, soft moans of agony escaped his lips with the occasional _no please _and _don't. _Once again John felt his heart break for the younger man. There was a shean of sweat covering the man's forehead and he thrashed violently against the blankets John had covered him with as if they were holding him captive. The doctor knelt next to the settee and gently called Sherlock's name but to no avail. So when the hand came flying out from the mass of blankets John caught it to try and wake him up and his plan did work. Sherlock's eyes flew open and a heart wrenching cry escaped his lips before he stared, wide eyed, at John.


	15. Chapter 15

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

"Hey, Sherlock, it's ok, you're alright, nothing is going to happen to you, I promise." The detective continued to stare at John, his eyes still wide from the terrors that had haunted him in his sleep. A few moments later he was up on his feet, half running, half stumbling to his room. The doctor endeavoured to follow him, he desperately wanted to help his emotionally battered friend in any way possible, John wanted to comfort him like he had earlier. But instead of being anywhere near the younger man the door was slammed in his face and he heard a lock turning.

"Sherlock, come on, let me in." There was no reply; there was not even any movement from behind the door. "Come on, tell me what happened, grant me that at least."

"Leave me alone John, there's nothing wrong with me." John rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Now both you and I know that is not true. Just tell me what happened. Please, I want to help."

"There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand?" came the angered shout from the other side of the door.

"Fine, I'm going out, try not to do something stupid while I'm gone," John retaliated angrily, storming off from his friend's room, grabbing his jacket and stalking down the stairs slamming the door angrily behind him.

Fresh air always helped him to think and he had an awful lot to process. He had to help Sherlock, that much was clear, but if Sherlock was going to take a fit whenever John tried to help then he wouldn't be much good. In that case would it not be prudent to get him professional help? But that would most likely result in him getting admitted to a psychiatric hospital due to the self-harm and when Sherlock was in a relatively normal state of mind it would be a long time before he got out of there, with permission that is. And the man would not react well to therapists, that much was certain. But was John being too harsh on him in the first place? He had accepted comfort, and gratefully at that, that very morning. At the best of times the man had severe mood swings, it would stand to reason that he'd have them but more extreme now. John really hated this, he didn't know what to do, this wasn't his area. Give him a patient with a punctured lung with gunfire all around and he'd be able to deal with it. But give him a detective suffering from depression in the relative comfort of a London flat he was completely at sea. What he did know was that he shouldn't have left the man alone in the flat by himself; he could have done anything in the time he'd been away. John really needed to get back.

The doctor hurried back to the flat, not quite running but a very fast-paced walk. "I'm back!" he shouted as he re-entered the flat, as he'd expected there was no reply but nothing seemed amiss so he busied himself making both himself and Sherlock a cup of tea. "Sherlock, I made tea," he said calmly through the door, once again there was no reply so John placed it on the floor outside his door. "I'm not going to make you come out of there Sherlock, please just give me some indication that you're still alive." A few moments later there was a smashing sound, the sound of what John presumed to be glass test tubes being hurled at the door. Satisfied he walked away and texted Mycroft telling him to get to the flat as soon as he could. Then he sat down with his laptop and began to research the best ways to help people with depression.


	16. Chapter 16

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Mycroft obliged to John's request, at nine o'clock on the dot he saw a sleek, black car pulling up outside and the elder Holmes, suavely dressed as always, stepped out of the door. There was no tapping on the door, just the sound of a key sliding into the lock. _Great, now I need to get the locks changed _thought John as the sound off footsteps headed steadily up the stairs. "Ah, good to see you Dr Watson," drawled Mycroft handing him a pharmacy bag at which John nodded his thanks.

"Cup of tea?"

"If it's not too much trouble." The doctor set about his task while the British government took a seat in his living room. While the kettle was boiling John headed to Sherlock's room and knocked on the door. "Sherlock, your brother's here." There was no response from the insufferable man. He was about to make a comment about Sherlock's ill manners when he saw that the cup of tea was missing from the spot in which he had left it so instead as he walked away he shouted, "Enjoy your tea Sherlock!" There was another almighty crash and the doctor sighed, there was yet another mug destroyed.

On the other side of the door Sherlock was feeling less than happy; something was tearing at him from the inside out. He was so confused and he didn't know what to do at all anymore. The question that was pulling at him the most was whether or not he should tell John the truth, the main reason which he cut himself. Speaking of which, he could really do with a cut right now. It was his new drug, it used to be cocaine but now it was the sting of the blade and the sight of blood trickling down his arm, often forming intricate trails, the red a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin.

Suddenly he was on his feet and rummaging around his room looking for the blades which he had concealed there but it appeared that every one of them had been removed. "Mycroft," hissed Sherlock, his voice full of venom. His nosy brother really should learn to keep himself out of other people's business. The government official was the only one who knew the sorts of places Sherlock would hide things, inside the mattress, concealed within the seam in the curtain, inside a dark bottle labelled 4mol l-1 hydrochloric acid but in fact only contained water and in the hole in the wall behind his desk. Despite his brother's best efforts one of the blades had survived. Grinning to himself he walked to his door and dug his hands into the pocket of his jacket, just as he'd suspected, he felt the deathly cold steel beneath his fingertips. Nobody would think to look in his jacket, it was too obvious and therefore the perfect hiding place.

However, when he crouched down next to his bed, cutting blade pressed against the porcelain-like skin Sherlock felt something he had never felt concerning his, habit. There was a hint of guilt and hesitance. John had tried to help him, he always tried so hard but the detective always pushed him away. Was it his duty to John to avert this plan? His hand began to shake, at first a small tremble but after about ten minutes he was shaking violently. His legs ached from the length of time he had spent in the uncomfortable position but he could not move. The great detective was paralysed; confusion and frustration ruled his body, holding it in place. The more he wanted to make the cut the more he shook, the more frustrated he became and then he wanted to cut more. It was a vicious circle. Blood was welling up from where the knife was being pressed into his skin harder and harder until suddenly in a fit of anger he flung the knife across the room and it embedded itself in his wall.

Now he was moving again he could do nothing else he was pacing up and down, throwing things off his bookshelf, sweeping all his experiments and paperwork off the desk shouting out in anger. He heard footsteps and shouts from outside his door but could not be bothered to respond to them he just kept on destroying his room. There were loud banging noises from outside his room too, someone was trying to get in. Then as quickly as the energy filled his being it seeped away and he collapsed onto the floor, ignoring the pain. As soon as he made contact with the ground he curled himself into a foetal position, trying to escape from the world and for once in his life he didn't hold back the sobs and he did not move, even when the soothing voices and gentle touches covered him he did not try to hold back his emotion.


	17. Chapter 17

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

The army doctor eased himself onto the sofa opposite the other Holmes brother and relaxed into the soft cushions behind him. Already he could feel the stress of the situation doing a number on his muscles, especially in his wounded shoulder. "Mycroft, I am concerned for your brother," started John, instantly kicking himself mentally as he remembered the classic Holmes' disdain towards those who point out the obvious. However, Mycroft was surprisingly forgiving this time.

"So I gathered Dr Watson. I take it things have not been going so well since the incident. Anything I can help with?"

John considered this offer for a moment. "Maybe, information would be useful. Do you know how this started, when this started, any background to this that may help me figure out how to help him?" The British government looked down at his tea sadly, slowly swirling it in a circle in his mug, the mug Sherlock would not touch, not even for use in an experiment, since it was the one his brother always drank from and he always claimed he did not want to be infected by Mycroft-ness. Sometimes he really could be a big child.

Mycroft's voice snapped him out of his reverie, softer than normal, it was almost sad but it was not even slightly condescending or patronising like it normally was. "When we were younger my Father hated him, he blamed my brother for my mother's death. He never really did anything to my brother, he would occasionally hit him but it was more the fact that he did nothing which frustrated my brother the most. Our father often would not acknowledge Sherlock's existence, subsequently at a young age he often did not get food at meal times giving rise to his bad eating habits. When he was very young he began to draw into himself, ignoring the world and his behaviour began to deteriorate as he began to try and gain my father's attention, when he gained it the attention was normally just slaps to the face that left a bruise or harsh insults. When he was about thirteen he began skipping school, he had an immense intellect then as he does now and had pretty much taught himself what he thought was of importance so did not see the point of going to school. Of course he got bored and that's when he turned to drugs, the first I learned the cutting he was fourteen and I was twenty one."

Mycroft's voice had grown quieter as he relived the memories of his youth. John felt slightly wrong for listening to the Holmes' history but it was something he needed to know. He had always suspected that something had happened during their childhood but Sherlock never spoke about it, he hadn't even known that the mother had died. Although it was hard to listen to he was glad he knew and also felt honoured that he was trusted with the obviously very personal information. "In all honesty I have no idea why he started, if it was the direct influence of the drugs influencing and poisoning his mind or something else. He stopped for the first time at seventeen because I forced him to, after that it was on and off. When he turned thirty he told me he had stopped and I believed him."

"Mycroft, this is not your fault." The brother's head snapped up and looked straight at John. "Of course it is not. It is my brother who has chosen to do it and if someone has hurt him and driven him to this they are to blame also, and once I find out who it was, if anyone, I will deal with them personally. I have the resources to make people disappear. But you are not to blame either Dr Watson, you are not the cause and therefore you are not to blame."

"Thank you."

Before either of them could say anything else there was a huge crashing noise emanating from Sherlock's room, followed by some shouting and then a bit more crashing. Instantly both men were on their feet and dashing across to Sherlock's room, the door was locked and the sound of various objects being angrily thrown to the floor and shouts of frustration could be heard from the other side of the door. "Sherlock, its John, please, what's wrong?" shouted John desperately but there was no indication Sherlock heard, both men started yelling, trying to gain his attention. "Wait, I can pick the lock," muttered Mycroft kneeling down and producing a lock picking kit from his pocket and set to work as the doctor continued to shout. Suddenly there was silence followed by a loud thump. Army doctor mode suddenly set in and John stepped back and kicked the door harshly and it instantly gave under the pressure. Sherlock was curled up in the middle of the floor, his back heaving as he began to sob. Both men ran over and tried to comfort him but he was unresponsive, so wrapped up in his reality he was completely oblivious to the outside world.


	18. Chapter 18

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

For once in his life Mycroft Holmes was completely at sea, he was not good with emotions, he had them but he found it easy to keep them hidden. It was something both of the boys had been taught at a very young age, with Sherlock it was through near-abandonment and for Mycroft, it was just the way his mother and father were, it was what he had been taught. Under ordinary circumstances Sherlock would remain stoic, either that or he would fall into a raging fury which had been known to last for days on end. However, now he was kneeling next to his little brother as he curled in on himself, weeping as if there was no hope at all. If he was capable of such a feeling he knew it would be heart-breaking but to Mycroft, the Ice-man, it was an anomaly, something fascinating and undiscovered that should not happen or exist but somehow it does, Sherlock Holmes should not have emotions but apparently he has them in abundance.

It was an awkward situation, he was completely clueless in how to proceed, he knew he should make an attempt at comfort but how do you comfort a broken man? Eventually he managed to force himself to stretch out a hand and rub small circles on his brother's shaking shoulder. He could do nothing more so he watched John who was far more competent when it came to emotions than the government official. The man had lowered himself to the floor and had taken to whispering words in Sherlock's ear while simultaneously taking his hand and, just like Mycroft was doing with his shoulder, began to gently rub reassuring circles with his thumb. This carried on until the crying died down a little and John put his hand back on the ground.

Carefully, so as not to panic the far too skinny detective, John managed to uncurl his body and pulled Sherlock onto his lap so his face was pointing up towards the ceiling. Mycroft just sat and watched, mesmerised by the clear skill and compassion showed by the doctor. Even though Sherlock's eyes were closed tears still managed to seep their way through between the lids as he remembered the horrors that had been lurking with him his whole life. John could see the sorrow on the supposed sociopath; he could feel a knot forming in his stomach, a feeling of combined sadness and trepidation. He did not want his friend to hurt like this, it was unbearable to witness and he knew the best way to help would be to hear the full story, not just the snippets provided by Mycroft but the actual reasoning, the actual, dare he say it, feelings that Sherlock endured and also the precise events that caused them. On the other hand he would of much preferred to forget about the whole thing so that they could keep on going with their ordinary, extraordinary lives.

Without thinking he began to brush Sherlock's curls back and out of his face, half aware of Mycroft's gaze on him but not really caring in the first place. The action was instinctive, he was the care giver and he had to help in whatever way possible. As far as he was concerned the preservation of Sherlock's life was the reason he lived. As the minutes went by Sherlock began to relax and John noticed as the flow of tears was stemmed and how the younger man's breathing evened out, relieved when the man finally fell asleep. He waited a few more minutes before he looked at the elder Holmes who understood instantly. Together they shifted the younger man onto his bed; John wrapped the duvet around Sherlock's still shaking shoulders and took a seat next to the bed. In the meantime Mycroft went to make tea as all good Englishmen do.


	19. Chapter 19

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

It wasn't for about another six hours that Sherlock awoke, and thankfully he managed to have a peaceful rest as opposed to his horror filled periods of sleep that had been tormenting him. John and Mycroft had been taking hour shifts of sitting by the younger Holmes' bedside, as worried as they both were they did have things they needed to do, John needed to catch up on some much needed sleep and he'd also called Lestrade who had promised to visit as soon as he could after work.

It was Mycroft who was sitting by Sherlock when he awoke from his slumber, obviously disorientated and confused obviously not recollecting what had happened before. "Good to have you back with us little brother," commented Mycroft as Sherlock blinked furiously in an attempt to clear his vision.

"How did I get here?" asked Sherlock, utterly confused as he sat up on his bed, gripping tightly onto the mattress to prevent himself from toppling over as dizziness overcame him and his vision blurred. Apparently the feeling was evident on his face as he felt his brother's hands push back on his shoulders so he was soon lying vertical again. "Just allow me to shout for the good doctor, I think he may be asleep at the moment." Sherlock reached up to stop his brother, he knew John would be needing his rest after helping and putting up with his mood swings but Mycroft ignored him and headed for the door and shouted.

Footsteps came hurriedly towards his room and they were most definitely recognisable as John's footsteps. A few moments later the doctor bustled past Mycroft and sat on the edge of the bed. "Are you alright Sherlock?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

"Um, a little dizzy but apart from that." A moment later John's hand was on his forehead and Sherlock cursed himself as he instinctively flinched away, from the look on Mycroft's face he'd noticed but he was thankful that John ignored it and carried on with what he was doing. He ordered Mycroft to get his friend a drink and surprisingly Mycroft complied with nothing but a small scowl in protest. "You're the only person who has ever managed to boss Mycroft around," commented Sherlock in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he did not like being the centre of attention. Well, that was a lie, he loved being the centre of attention but not when it was because people were concerned about him.

John smirked but carried on checking his friend over, checking reflexes, heart rate and breathing rate. When he was satisfied that Sherlock was in no danger whatsoever he sat in the chair next to the bed. "Do you remember what happened Sherlock?" The detective shook his head in evident frustration at the fact that his mind had let him down. "That's ok, we'll just say that you had a bit of a breakdown. You were crying Sherlock; you were actually crying real, genuine tears. It scared the hell out of me."

At that moment Mycroft came through the door and John silently cursed him, neither of the Holmes brothers were skilled at timing. But he'd made tea, just like John had requested and Sherlock took it gratefully, diverting his gaze away from the army doctor hoping he'd leave him be, this new revelation was horrible enough, he'd been weak in front of his best friend and his big brother. John probably wouldn't even like him anymore, not after seeing a new and previously unknown side to him. It would be surprising if John just up and left. What he did not expect was John's question, and in many ways it was worse than him leaving. "Please Sherlock; tell me what's happened to you. I want to help but I can't if I don't actually know the real problem."

"Leave!" shouted Sherlock, desperate because he knew he would be able to deny John the truth if he persisted. But he did persist.

"I'm not leaving Sherlock, you need help and I am willing to be the one to give it to you if you'll let me, I want to be the one to help. Talking will make things better, and what if someone like Moriarty comes along, what if his man, Moran, suddenly shows himself? You can't beat him like this, not when your mind is in such disarray. That should make sense to you, talk to me, talk to us to keep your mind clear." Sherlock could feel tears welling up again but he forced himself to keep them at bay.

"Alright."


	20. Chapter 20

_I would just like to thank everyone who has reviewed, you are all so kind. A special thanks to SomeoneSarah who seems to give my story far too much credit. I'm not sure how long this is going to go on for, if you have any ideas as to what happens next I would be delighted to know. In this chapter we find out the truth about what happened to Sherlock, well I already know but I felt horrible that my mind could come up with something like this. This is the longest chapter so far and I really hope it lives up to the build-up I have attempted to give it. Enjoy!_

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Both John and Mycroft were surprised at how easily Sherlock had given into John's, what could only be described as, begging. However they did not question it when he launched straight into his story. "My mother died while she was having me, and my father never forgave me for that. For my whole life he has blamed me for her death, he still does actually. When I was younger he liked to pretend I did not exist, either that or he hit me. That happened quite a lot, I learned to hide it pretty quickly so Mycroft only knew about it when he was there when it happened. I was young I couldn't stop him." Sherlock's voice was monotone, the way it went when he forced himself to be emotionally unattached to something, very occasionally he would use it on a particularly harrowing case but never had it been used in such a personal context before.

"He never did more than that though, once he used his belt but most of the time it was just a slap or a punch to the face. As I grew older I began to allow myself to be engulfed by information, science and facts. It wasn't long before I was bored with school and I couldn't stand it there anymore. They dulled my mind so I left. Of course my father was not impressed when he realised I had not been attending any of my classes, that's when he used the belt, he told me I brought shame on the family and it wasn't any wonder nobody loved me." His voice hitched slightly at this part but he kept talking so neither John nor Mycroft said anything. "After that he completely blanked me, I think he probably spoke to at the most once a week after that, it wasn't unusual for me to go days at a time with no food since I was not provided with any. I often was not given meals previous to this but it got a whole lot worse. I didn't care for long though because I found drugs."

There was a brief pause before he continued but the listening men knew better than to say anything or even to ask if he was ok. They just sat their patiently and waited. John could see the pain in his friend's eyes and he wanted nothing more than to make the pain go away but restrained himself, if he did anything now it was very likely that the detective would close up forever. "At first paying for them wasn't much of a problem, I did have money of my own, money Mycroft had provided me with when he discovered father wasn't feeding me. But then the money ran out so my life revolved around where the next hit would come from, admittedly that was not the most dignified time of my life. I started stealing from father's wallet to pay but he found out and I ran away from home, I couldn't stand being around him anymore and it certainly was not a safe environment for me to stay in."

"It wasn't reported as far as I am aware; I doubt father even noticed or cared. My dealer soon realised I was living on the street and took me in, let me stay at his place even though it was dirty, and I hated it. That's when I started cutting, either it was to help distract me when I couldn't get another hit because I could not afford it or usually because when I wasn't high I could tell what was happening to my life, it was hopeless. It was then my dealer let me use the drugs without paying, he told me I could pay when I could afford to so I kept on using, I was hardly ever sober then one day he wouldn't let me have anymore. I was angry, livid even. But then he told me that I owed him thousands and that he wanted it by the end of the week or he'd be going after Mycroft. It was horrible, I didn't know what to do and then he told me he would let me off all my debts and allow me to keep using on one condition."

Sherlock's voice faltered and he looked away, his fingers moved rapidly up and down, almost balled in a fist, in agitation and John laid his hand gently on the detective's. Sherlock looked up, his eyes once again filled with unshed tears. "Do you want a drink?" he asked tenderly and Sherlock shook his head then inhaled deeply a few times.

"He… he told me that the only way… the only way to get out of it was… if I… if I would… if I would, you know…" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably trying to find the words. "He told him I had to sleep with him." The words came out rushed and pained and reality slapped both John and Mycroft in the face. _Rape, it was rape. Sherlock Holmes had been raped._

"I suppose it was consensual, I let him do it, it was horrible. I begged him to stop I really did but he wouldn't listen. I was practically unconscious by the time he stopped. I was bleeding a lot but he didn't care. He just left me there. After that he kept on threatening Mycroft, told me if I wouldn't let him do it then he would kill Mycroft and he wouldn't let me have the drugs. So I let him, sometimes he made me do stuff to him, often I was sick afterwards. I hated myself for letting him do it; I had slashed up my arms and in all honesty most of my body, that pain seemed to be the only thing I was allowed to control. When Mycroft made me quit the drugs at seventeen he still wouldn't leave me alone. I started to fight him off, more than I did before but he forced me, he no longer used Mycroft to threaten me, he'd tie me up and use me. Occasionally he would dose me up and after he was finished he'd cast me out onto the street. That was how Lestrade found me, only he thought I was high of my own accord and I didn't try to make him think any different. He took me into the station and locked me up for the night."


	21. Chapter 21

_I have no idea how this chapter came out, it was more like word vomit than anything. I have no idea where I was planning on going. _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

It was almost as if the use of Lestrade's name had summoned him as the doorbell rang straight away. John quickly ran down the stairs to let him in leaving the two brothers in an awkward silence, neither used to having to relate to one another on an emotional level. Luckily the doctor was not long, he left Lestrade in the living room and John asked Sherlock if he'd rather sit on the couch in the living room, Sherlock nodded, never really keen on letting anyone into his bedroom but John and Mycroft had been an exception, just this once. He was still a little shaky so he leant on John and made his way slowly to the living room. If he was honest he didn't want to talk anymore, he wanted a shower and then watch crap telly with John and half annoy, half amuse him with the deductions he made about the people on it.

However he knew that this simply wasn't going to happen but he smiled as he sat down. Even though Lestrade was an idiot Sherlock did consider him as some sort of a friend, a friend who knew the rest of the story, and that was the important bit. Once they were all settled down there was a momentary silence that the doctor broke. "Could you tell us the rest Sherlock?" The detective hated doing this to John, causing him worry but he knew his friend would not let him stop now. And John was good, as the revelations had started to tumble out of Sherlock's mouth John had displayed emotion on his face but he remained retrained and did not pour them out over Sherlock in the form of pity, he couldn't stand pity or anyone who pitied him.

"Actually I was hoping Lestrade would tell you. I'm, um, not used to this." Mycroft nodded in agreement.

"If the Detective Inspector does not mind that's fine."

"Yeah, sure, what is it you want to know?" he asked desperate to help in any way he could.

"The account of how you met Sherlock." Lestrade nodded, that was a very memorable time in his life.

"Well it was an ordinary night, we'd been keeping an eye on a pub, there'd been suspicious goings on there but we came to a dead end so we left. We walked down a few streets and we came across Sherlock, barely clothed, he had some bruising to his face and he was high. No doubt about that one. I could tell that there was something wrong, something different about him but I had no choice but to take him to the station but he did not like to be touched, he screamed when we tried to help him to his feet and then when we did anyway he began to fight us off, shouting and swearing at us but we're used to it, that's what happens in our job. We managed to get him to the car relatively easily then it all went wrong, despite his drugged up mind he was smart, far too smart."

There was a slight pause in which Lestrade looked uncomfortable as he relived the memory and Sherlock smirked slightly. "It all started with an off-hand deduction, not anything too complicated but it was unexpected. 'You had a cheese and onion sandwich today,' he said to the officer, I think it may even have been Donovan, who was putting him in the car. Of course the comment was unexpected and it caught her off guard, just for a moment and she carried on with her task. The real problem was when he turned to the other officer with me and made his deduction and then vocalised it. 'Are you aware that your wife is pregnant with a child who is not yours?"


	22. Chapter 22

_I felt the need for a little bit of a light-hearted chapter. I am a great angst fan but I just felt the need for a break. Do not fear, I'm sure there'll be some in the next chapter. _

**This isn't how things were supposed to be**

It was obvious from the look on Sherlock's face that he was trying to curb the distinct look of pride he got whenever he made a correct deduction but was failing miserably. That comment was so typically Sherlock in John's opinion and the funniest thing about the whole situation was the fact that Sherlock probably thought that he was being helpful in saying such things. "It goes without saying that the officer was not too impressed," continued Lestrade whilst trying to ignore the amusement that the others in the room were feeling. "Donovan, or whoever it was, I'm sure it was her, got pushed out the way and he was on Sherlock in an instant. He managed to get two punches in before I pulled him off Sherlock, I had to arrest him too then and he was discharged from the force. The worst part was that, of course, Sherlock was correct."

"The journey to Scotland Yard was relatively uneventful, he spurted off the odd deduction about my personal life but I was capable of ignoring him although at that time they still baffled me. When we got to the Yard I put him in a cell, did the necessary paperwork then I went home. It all seemed fine, the next day I was permitted to start a couple of hours later than usual considering my overtime from the night before so I got in at around nine to find the man sitting at my desk like he owned the place, feet on the desk and everything. Somehow he'd managed to break out of his cell, sneak past the guards, guess all of the passcodes, sneak into my office, guess the combination to my filing cabinet and solve twenty of my cold cases with nobody noticing in about five hours if I remember correctly." Sherlock nodded, still looking incredibly pleased with himself.

"I was utterly confused but soon I managed to collect myself before he started hurling the insults and deductions at me. 'You must really be an idiot DI Lestrade, if you were unable to solve these cases, it's a wonder London is in as good a state as it is if the whole force is like you.' It was then he looked at me and I got this unnerving stare and an odd sort of smile. I can still remember it clearly; he deduced what I had for breakfast, how I had my tea, that fact I had been running late and that I was right handed but my girlfriend was left handed. Creepiest thing I have ever known, I was about to take him back to the cells, mainly because I wanted rid of him but also because I knew that they would be looking for him but he obviously couldn't let me do that. 'I wouldn't bother, I've called my brother, I won't be going back to those cells.'

'What the hell, how did you work all of that out?' I asked him completely bewildered. I can still hear the dramatic sigh in response.

"Come now Lestrade, don't be so boring. The real question is why could you not solve these cases? We may as well discuss it, I'm not going to those cells and Mycroft will pick me up in about thirty minutes so we have ourselves some time to kill.'"


	23. Chapter 23

_Don't worry fellow angst fans, we're done with the more light-hearted stuff and back with the angst, I just felt in the need of a little break. Probably won't be too much angst in this chapter but we'll see where it takes me._

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

"There's not too much more to the story really, I tried a few more times to get him back to the cells but he was really quite distracting, solving cases I'd seen the evidence of first hand and still had not been able to solve having had several weeks to try, in twenty minutes at most. All he had was photographs and reports, it was rather, stunning. When Mycroft finally arrived I was told to release him immediately without charge, I tried to argue but he shouted loads of codes at me that I typed into the form and checked them with my superiors, much to my shock he was free to go. Just before they left he told me if I ever had some properly interesting cases he would like to see them, I told him he could only come onto the scene if he sought help for his self-harming problem and drug addiction and he did. He's been taking my cases ever since."

John smiled as he looked around, seeing the other three men with looks of nostalgia evident on their faces. It was a weird thing, especially for Sherlock and Mycroft, and at that moment the doctor had never been more grateful to Lestrade than he had ever been. The man had basically saved his best friend's life. He couldn't express this feeling though, with the men who were there it would have been looked down upon, it would be an unrequired and unwanted emotional response, so he remained silent, hoping that Greg knew how thankful he was to him.

The sharp beeping of an incoming text message interrupted the calm and comfortable silence that had filled the room. Of course, it was Sherlock's phone. Removing it from his jacket pocket he unlocked the phone and read the message he had just received. Much to John's despair he could practically see the storm clouds of depression forming over Sherlock's head once again, a mixture of anger and fear danced across his face and his eyes flickered across the phone screen over and over again as he reread the message hoping he had misread it until he came to the conclusion he had not.

The doctor, DI and the British government all noticed the sudden change in the detective and they waited with baited breath, both unable to predict the thoughts that were running through the man's mind and what his next course of action was going to be. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and then grabbed onto the mantelpiece as he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. Just as John was about to help him back to a seat he stormed off, or the closest he could get to storming off and the three men heard the door to his room slam shut. Lestrade exhaled deeply, the tension had not yet left the room. "What the hell was all that about."

"I haven't got a clue DI Lestrade," replied Mycroft, for once in his life he sounded confused. "Any ideas Dr Watson?" John shrugged his shoulders.

"Whatever was in that text scared him though, that much is obvious."

In his room Sherlock considered pacing up and down but didn't know how long he would be able to keep in up so he sat down on his bed, his fingers moving furiously with nervous energy. He stood up as the slightly broken door opened and John peaked his head round it. "You ok?" he asked kindly.

"Fine," replied Sherlock in a harsh tone, closing the door on his friends face. Returning to his bed he looked at his text once again, still hoping it had been a cruel joke conjured up by his mind but once again it turned out it was real.

_It's nice to see that nice little get together Sherlock, I think I want to join in. Hope that John and everyone else survives my visit, although there is one way to ensure they do. You know where to find me, 1 hour. M_


	24. Chapter 24

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Adhering to Moriarty's offer, essentially his order, could bring nothing good, Sherlock knew that, and John would be angry, John would be very angry. He didn't care about what anyone else thought but for some reason John's opinion mattered. But surely an angry John would be better than a dead John. This much he was certain of but for some reason that he couldn't help but hesitate. Sitting on the settee with John, Lestrade and Mycroft he had felt safe, warm, comfortable and cared for and these were sensations which were completely alien to him but he discovered he could appreciate just like all the 'normal' people. That was the first time that he regretted not being 'normal'. If he had been normal he wouldn't have the trouble upbringing and therefore would not be pestered to talk so much, but perhaps as a normal person he would want to talk. And if he were talking about his troubled past as a normal person he would not have received a text from a deranged psychopath threatening his best friend and then he could still have that feeling of safety. However, he knew he was not normal, he was a freak, and the only way to protect his friend's life was to go and even if he was angry, at least he would still be alive.

John walked back to the living room with a look of concern plastered across his face. "He slammed the door on my face, the lock is broken but I didn't want to make him see me. Could you please try talking to him Mycroft? He obviously doesn't want me there and I'm worried." The elder Holmes was sitting there, spinning his umbrella on its tip.

"As am I Dr Watson but I'm not sure that is such a good idea. You know my brother is prone to sulks, leave him a while and he'll come out of his own accord." John growled, for supposed geniuses the Holmes brothers could be awfully ignorant and stupid at times, especially in situations like this when caring was involved.

"Need I remind you that he is in a wholly unstable state of mind and if he were to see a doctor who did not know him he would be put on suicide watch, I considered putting him on it myself. It is important he is not left alone long enough for him to do something stupid so please Mycroft, I think for all he insults you he does in fact trust you."

"He's right," added Lestrade quietly. "He really does trust you."

Mycroft looked at them both incredulously before standing up and nodding. "Very well, I do not believe this will end well but we can have a go I suppose." As he approached Sherlock's room a feeling of dread fluttered in his stomach. Something was not right, and it wasn't just the fact that him and Sherlock did not talk about feelings because even though this was true Mycroft knew he would do anything for his brother. There was just something slightly odd. Knocking on the door with caution he called out his brother's name and there was no reply, he tried a few more times before he opened the door to reveal the detective's bedroom with no detective in it. His phone was, however, left lying on the bed and the window was open so it was fairly obvious how he had left. "Dr Watson!" he shouted. "Lestrade, you'll want to get in here now." He was aware of the running footsteps approaching and the gasps which were emitted, mostly from John, in horror. "The idiot, he shouldn't have left, why would he leave. He's going to do something stupid Mycroft, we have find him," the army doctor practically shouted in a rushed frenzy as images of Sherlock's bloodied wrists and lifeless eyes filled his mind.

"Let's not jump to conclusions doctor, Sherlock may do something stupid but I do not believe that he poses any life threatening danger to himself."

"And how do you know that?" asked Lestrade in frustration.

"He left his phone; he is never without his phone. He obviously intended for us to find it, probably read that text he just got and then, subsequently, find him. Now I just need to figure out the password…" A look of what could only be described as joy filled Mycroft's face and John watched as he furiously typed in the password thus unlocking the phone.

"Antidisestablishmentarianism," muttered John. "How on earth did you guess that?"

"Never guess John, always deduce. My brother is smart. He knows it is important to pick a secure password but it couldn't be random, he knows that if something goes wrong it is important that I am able to gain access to the information on his phone. This happens to be his favourite word and I think it was the third word he ever said."

"That was the third word he ever said? Really?" asked Lestrade in disbelief. "Most kids say things like Mum or at best teddy but that, I doubt I can say that." Mycroft smirked.

"I used to sit by his cot and repeat it over and over again; I wanted it to be one of his first words." The smile instantly dropped off his face and he gave John and the DI a better view of the phone screen and both of their faces paled as they read it and who it was from.

Sherlock stumbled onto the street; clambering out of his bedroom window certainly did not help his weakened state. He was afraid but ignored the feeling, deeming it as unimportant and unnecessary, the feeling would not help in the situation so he therefore pretended it did not exist. He was happy when he managed to hail a taxi with no problem and he sank into the seat after telling the driver his destination. The journey passed in a blur and before he knew it he was on the pavement once again and the taxi was driving away. This was it, there was no turning back now and for once the detective had no idea how the situation was going to play out. Inhaling deeply he entered the building and stepped into the lift.


	25. Chapter 25

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Unlike the ride in the taxi the lift seemed to be dragging out into an eternity. It just seemed to keep going up, mocking Sherlock, allowing the fear to once again find a home in his stomach making him feel almost queasy. Eventually the door opened with a ping but he had not yet arrived at his destination, he still needed to ascend a flight of stairs but the lift did not go any higher. They were more of a challenge than they should have been and the desire to be with John in the safety of 221b was overwhelming. He had to keep John safe; he needed to keep Mycroft and Lestrade safe but John absolutely had to be safe.

"Moriarty," whispered John in a shocked horror. "He's gone to find Moriarty." The doctor could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest and a surge of adrenaline filled his veins. He looked at Mycroft and Lestrade imploringly, praying for some indication of where Sherlock was. They both shook their heads sadly. "I'll ask my people outside, they may have some clue as to where he has gone," said Mycroft as kindly as he could, the worry an evident underlay to his voice. Stepping out the room he removed the phone from his pocket and held it to his ear. John could hear him talking but he didn't pay any attention. How could he have been so foolish as to let the man be alone, he knew something bad would happen if he did. "Are you ok John?" asked Lestrade suddenly, tearing John from his reverie.

"Um, yeah, absolutely fine," he replied smiling what was supposed to be a reassuring smile which turned out more like a grimace but Lestrade accepted it as a reasonable answer.

"Alright mate, I'm just going to call the yard, send out a search team." John nodded, silently dismissing Lestrade who went downstairs and onto the street to make the call. "Donovan, is that you?"

"_Yes sir, is everything alright?"_

"No, I need a search team out, Sherlock has gone missing." He could practically hear Donovan rolling her eyes on the other end of the phone.

"_Sir, with all due respect, he is a grown man, he is allowed to leave the presence of his keeper if he chooses to do so." _The DI growled down the phone.

"Donovan, its Moriarty. He texted Sherlock and the idiot went to find him. He is in serious danger. If this was anyone I would leave it for the standard length of time but this is Sherlock, you do anything the standard way and he ends up dead. Now put together a team."

_Yes sir," _she replied sounding more than a little annoyed before hanging up the phone.

As he swung the door open he tried to appear strong and in the peak of good health. There was Moriarty sitting on the ledge, looking straight at him. The two remained silent as the detective strolled over to the criminal and stood opposite. "Pleasure to see you," commented Moriarty as if they were friends greeting each other before eating a meal. "Pleasure to see you too," he replied with a similar nonchalance.

"You're not looking too good, please, sit down." Sherlock stubbornly remained standing and Moriarty shrugged his shoulders. "I heard about your illness, terrible business all that, so much blood and pain."

"Such things have never bothered you before, have you had an epiphany or something? Have you discovered that your true calling is to volunteer in a homeless shelter?" Moriarty smiled, obviously amused by Sherlock's act.

"You're right, such things do not bother me, quite the opposite, they serve as good entertainment, a good distraction." John's voice filled his head. _These are human lives, Sherlock. These are real, human lives._ He remained silent watching the maniac in fascination. "Its kind of ironic, you've obviously got a sense of self-loathing and we're standing in the very spot from which you jumped. It would a shame to have another fall, only this time I doubt it would end in quite the same way."

"You want me to jump again?" questioned Sherlock, confused. "A bit repetitive I must say, a little too boring for you I should think."

"Oh no, no, no Sherlock, I don't want you to jump. I don't want you to die, don't be so predictable. I want to break you, to own you, to destroy you."


	26. Chapter 26

_So, here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it. I really appreciate the reviews so thank you to you all. I'm not happy with this chapter; forgive me if it is truly as bad as it felt when I was writing it. I also apologise for the distinct lack of length to this chapter, I've had a hectic day, but do not fear. Normality should be restored tomorrow._

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

It was a restless couple of hours, full of worry and constant pacing that John was sure would result in a severely worn carpet if he carried on. Lestrade went out with his men, trying to track down Moriarty and Mycroft sent his men out on a search, some were ordered to assist Lestrade but many were conducting their own investigation. They were smart; they had to be to work for Mycroft Holmes for any length of time. The main man, however, remained in 221b, partially to keep an eye on John to make sure he didn't go off looking himself, and partly because he did not enjoy doing legwork. Most of the time was spent on the phone, reviewing evidence and the rest of it was spent staring at the text from Moriarty, trying to deduce where the men were.

The time in which John did not know where Sherlock was, although this was a relatively short period of time, was tense, terrifying and seemed to drag on for an eternity. He didn't know what he would do if Sherlock really was dead this time, if he was buried and the proceeded to remain buried. Technically he had never been buried in the first place but it felt as if the man had risen from the dead. Even if the man had been injured, even if was only superficially, he didn't know if he would have been able to forgive himself. He shouldn't have ever been left alone, not for one moment. He would happily risk his life to save Sherlock.

"Stupid, stupid!" shouted Mycroft, half in frustration and half in relief. "He's at St Bartholomew's, obvious really. Come on, we have to go, any time spent with Moriarty can prove to be fatal." He needn't have commented on the last part, by the time he had finished speaking John was half way down the stairs and had his jacket on. The elder Holmes hurried down the stairs behind him and they both clambered into the sleek, black car and they headed off.

Not a single word was uttered on the journey, they were both too nervous, they were aware of the car full of Mycroft's men tailing them but if there was damage to be done to Sherlock it had probably already been done. As they rushed up the stairs at the hospital all John could think was a mantra of, _'Please be ok, please don't be dead._ They burst out onto the roof, weapons drawn and at the ready. "That took you a while Mycroft," said the distinctive, sickly sweet voice. "You're getting slow." The man was Moriarty, obviously, and as he spoke his eyes never left the shaking form of a man as the master criminal towered above him.


	27. Chapter 27

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Things weren't right, Sherlock was well aware of this, Jim Moriarty was supposed to be a distraction, a threat at most. He was someone to entertain him for a while before he destroyed his criminal empire. There was even a chance he would prove to be a mortal enemy, the one to dispatch him from this often mundane, boring and monotonous life into the world of the unknown. Jim Moriarty, master criminal mastermind, was not meant to be slowly advancing towards him, the world was not meant to be going in slow motion around him as all he could focus on was the terrifying, lustful eyes of his nemesis. He was not meant to be pinning the detective up against the wall and Sherlock knew it was wrong when he began to touch Sherlock all over as his breath hitched in his throat. The touches began with gentle, momentary brushes of contacts but they soon transformed into deep caresses. The consulting detective was sure it was wrong when he found the other man's hands down the front of his trousers, under his underwear but he also knew that, considering the circumstances, he knew it was right that he passed out and fell to the ground.

Everything was wrong when he finally came to. The chilly air easily passed through the thin fabric of his purple shirt indicating the loss of his jacket. Air passed down the open top of his shirt, tickling his chest and stomach as it did down the front of his trousers where the belt had been removed and the zipper undone. All in the entire situation struck him as being a bit odd. He tried to stand but found himself being pushed back to the ground violently and then Moriarty followed him but a little more slowly. "We're going to have some fun tonight aren't we Sherlock?" However loud footsteps and voices could be heard hammering up the stairs so Moriarty merged into the shadows.

The look on the doctor's face told him everything that he needed to know about how he looked, even though physically he had not been harmed. There were a few words exchanged and then pools of blood appeared in the corner of his vision, silencer on the gun. He looked up, suddenly panicked and then he relaxed a little when he saw John and Mycroft still standing. There was a gun being pointed in their direction, but alive was better than dead. Both men just stared steely ahead, both refusing to give Moriarty the pleasure of seeing fear. "Tie him up," he ordered Mycroft chucking a piece of rope at him. Mycroft obeyed and quietly whispered an apology in John's ear. After that Moriarty tied up Mycroft, both were gagged and the men were sat next to each other, where the younger Holmes could see him.

The first strike to John's face came as a surprise, it wasn't particularly hard but it was enough to get Sherlock's attention. "Don-" Sherlock attempted but the second blow was very quick. "Stop!" shouted Sherlock desperately. "Just let him go, he's got nothing to do with this." Moriarty looked as if he were considering something.

"Alright, your brother and doctor are set free but you will have to please me whenever you want." It took a while for consideration but in the end the reply was a simple, "Ok." The criminal mastermind smiled his sinister smile and began to undo the rest of Sherlock's shirt buttons. "I know we don't have long but I fully intend to make the most of the time we have." He briefly turned to look at the two tied up men whose eyes looked furious. "I hope you enjoy the show."


	28. Chapter 28

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

The world no longer made sense, not to Mycroft, not to John and certainly didn't to Sherlock. The youngest of the men could no longer concentrate on anything. One moment it was Moriarty touching him, then there would a seemingly perpetual blackness filled with fear, occasionally he was once again that small child living in fear that his father would notice him and then he would be the teenager being abused and unsure of how to escape the ravages of addiction. He simply could not stay in the moment; in a way for this he was thankful, he did not have to be aware of what Moriarty was doing to him. He got the general gist of what was happening in the moments he was in fact himself but there were no details. However, it meant that he could not formulate a plan to escape and he hated himself for not being able to do that.

Mycroft and John could only watch in horror. Of course they attempted to escape their bonds but they were tied too tightly so they could only witness what was being done to Sherlock. They shouted but this made Moriarty more excited so they stopped and were extremely thankful when they finally heard footsteps coming up the stairs. It would take them a couple of minutes to get through the door but at least the end was in sight. The psychopath obviously heard the noise too and he was stood up, quick as lightening, pulled a couple of syringes out of his pocket and used them on Mycroft and John, they were unconscious almost instantly.

Sherlock, who had managed to regain his composure somewhat, began shouting. "What the hell have you done to them? You said you'd let them go, that was our deal." Moriarty smiled a sinister smile and approached Sherlock slowly, menacingly, producing a knife out of his pocket. It was large, with a sharp, serrated edge causing Sherlock's eyes going wide. "Don't worry; they'll walk free as will you darling. I just want to make sure you have a reminder of who you belong to and how worthless you are. We may not get the opportunity to see you for a while."

Sherlock tried to focus on the noises at the door, they were about to try and get through, that meant he had approximately two and a half minutes left with the maniac. A lot can happen in two and a half minutes, this he was well aware of. Unfortunately, now he wanted a distraction he could not get it, he was stuck in the moment as Moriarty sat on his bare midsection twiddling the knife in his fingers casually before laying it on the pale skin on Sherlock's chest. Suddenly he dug it into the skin and Sherlock couldn't hold back the harsh scream that proceeded from his lips. After the longest minute of the detective's life Moriarty cambered off him and chucked his shirt at him. "Put that on, Johnny boy might get a bit jealous." As much as he hated it he obeyed, he did not want to anger the criminal if he could help it, his wrath could be deadly and he was highly unpredictable. He glanced down and hurried with the shirt, he did not want John making a fuss about that. Moriarty had scarred him for life, making it impossible to forget the horrors. He had engraved MINE deep into Sherlock's chest.

When the combination of police, paramedics and Mycroft's men eventually broke through the door Sherlock had managed to get his shirt on. Moriarty went willingly with them, blowing Sherlock a kiss as he left making the man feel sick. He tried to deny the effects of shock but he recognised the signs. Someone handed him his underwear and trousers then stood with their back to him, shielding him from view. It turned out to be Lestrade. "John? Mycroft?" he managed to ask, finding it surprisingly difficult to speak. The DI seemed to understand.

"They're fine, their vitals are ok, they're just on the ground at the moment, I think they're beginning to come around, they should be free to go. You on the other hand, I mean, what the hell happened? You have a hell of a lot of blood coming through that shirt of yours, you'll need to go to hospital and get that checked out." Sherlock shook his head, grabbed his jacket and did it up. However when he tried to walk he stumbled, getting angry with himself. "It's ok," placated Lestrade. "You've been through a lot. We'll get you downstairs, come on, you can lean on me."


	29. Chapter 29

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

For once Sherlock accepted the assistance, he knew his limits even though he liked to pretend that he had none. It would have been unlikely that he could make it down the stairs without his legs collapsing under him if he had no help. The whole ordeal had left him shaking and no matter how hard he tried to exert some sort of control over his body he could not seem to manage it. The more he tried the more he shook and therefore the worse he felt. In the end he simply allowed himself to be led down the stairs slowly. Everything screamed at him for attention, the mud on Lestrade's shoes, the scratches on the wall by the stairs, the cigarette ash abandoned on the steps and the blood stain on the collar of one of the police officer's shirts. He tried to ignore it all but it overwhelmed him, normally he could control it but the sudden emotional vulnerability left him unable to fend off the onslaught of observations and deductions. It wasn't long before there was too much information for his mind to process and moments later he collapsed into Lestrade's arms.

When he regained consciousness there were voices all around him and he could feel a strong body behind him, supporting his fragile frame. Desperately he tried to claw back the solitary calm of his unconscious mind but found himself, instead, dragging his eyelids open. He flinched as the bright light assaulted his retinas but he felt a comforting hand brushing through his curls. This brought him back to the present. Who was the man behind him? More importantly, were John and Mycroft ok?

The second time he opened his eyes the light was much more bearable but unwillingly he allowed a groan of pain pass through his lips. "Shh, its ok." Sherlock would recognise that voice anywhere; it was in fact the only person who was allowed to make physical contact with him.

"John," he whispered groggily. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. You on the other hand…"

"I'm ok, really John, I'm fine. Just could do with a little air."

"Ok, do you think you'll be ok sitting up?"

"Yes," snapped Sherlock, annoyed by his fussing but he instantly felt bad. His logical mind, the part of him which normally dominated everything about him, told him he did not need all of the fussing and the attention. His undeveloped emotional part told him John was trying to help and he knew his emotions were right, he just had no idea what to do about it. The detective looked down, half expecting his friend to stand up and leave but no such thing happened.

It was as if the doctor could read his mind. "I'm not going anywhere, come on, we'll sit you on the back of the ambulance." Sherlock's pride prevented him from accepting any help beyond getting into a sitting position. After that he manoeuvred himself so his legs were hanging off the back of the ambulance and he was sitting on the ledge, John sat next to him and the remained in a comfortable silence. Someone draped a shock blanket over Sherlock's shoulders and instead of shrugging it off like he normally would he hugged it tighter around himself, an action which did not go unnoticed by John. "Hey, you mind if I give you a once over, he wasn't exactly gentle with you?" Sherlock shook his head vigorously, drawing the blanket closer to his chest wincing as he was reminded of the wounds on it. His shirt was very damp with blood and John had definitely noticed. "Where's Mycroft?" he asked trying to change the subject.

"He's gone to deal with Moriarty; he only gave us a mild sedative so we're over it now. Please Sherlock, I just want to make sure he did no lasting damage. If you don't want me to do it let me call another doctor. Please." Sherlock shook his head again.

"All I want to do is go back to Baker Street and get some sleep. Please John, don't try and stop me." The doctor nodded his head in consent.


	30. Chapter 30

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

A few days later Sherlock found himself lying on the sofa in nothing but an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts, John's cool and lying firmly against his forehead. "You're sick," stated John needlessly. The detective could not even find the strength to disagree with the doctor. Without realising it John had managed to get the thermometer in and out of his ear without realising it. He'd taken one which was quick to read temperature because he knew that if he ever needed to take Sherlock's temperature he would not be co-operative, that and it would be harder for the man to use in his experiments.

John frowned, he was pretty sure this was not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill bug, he could recognise signs of infection anywhere and he would be willing to bet just about anything that this sudden onslaught of illness was linked with the events of a few days previous. Sherlock was lying there, sweating profusely, letting out small groans of pain every so often tearing at the doctor's heart each time. "Sherlock, please tell me, is there any injuries you sustained from Moriarty that may have got infected. I need to know so I can get you on antibiotics as soon as possible. Sherlock shook his head.

"M'fine," he mumbled. John nodded his head disbelievingly.

"I'm going out; get some paracetamol for you and perhaps an icepack." The detective muttered something undecipherable. John placed a glass of water on the table next to Sherlock's head before he left with a, "Try to stay hydrated."

John tried for a few minutes to hail a taxi but to no avail so he decided he may as well walk. On the way to the chemist he phoned Sarah to tell her he would be off work indefinitely. She asked the inevitable question and he simply replied that it was because of a family emergency. He knew she knew the truth and he would have to be careful in the future if he wanted to even have the chance of keeping his job. Sherlock was his priority, however, and he knew he always would be.

When Sherlock heard the door banging shut, although admittedly quietly, he opened his eyes. He slowly rolled up his t-shirt to reveal his too-skinny form and eventually the wounds on his chest. Gently he pressed them with the tip of one finger and winced in pain. The skin round the painful word was red and hot. The wounds themselves oozed with pus and the smell made Sherlock want to throw up. It was a green colour and…

All of a sudden he found himself he found his body heaving as he attempted to rid himself of the small amounts of sustenance his best friend had managed to coax down him the last few days. It was painful and disorientating and the smell of the vomit made him feel even worse. It wasn't long before everything had come up and all that was left was burning acid and bile, making a dreadful mess all over his t-shirt and the floor. John was not going to be impressed when he got back. Where was John? His mind had suddenly gone fuzzy.

Looking up in confusion an expression of disbelief and horror painted themselves across his features. Moriarty was by the door, a gun held to John's temple and he was grinning sinisterly. He began touching John in much the same way he touched Sherlock and the doctor cried out in a mixture of fear and pain, refusing to make eye contact with the detective as if Sherlock was not there. As quickly as he could Sherlock grabbed John's revolver out of the desk and fired it at Moriarty but he dodged the bullet. He fired again and again, each time he missed but each time John's agonized screams increased in volume and intensity. His vision went blurry and then he knew no more.


	31. Chapter 31

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Most people have five senses but John Watson felt that he possessed a sixth sense. Most people who believed that sort of thing thought that they could communicate with the dead and know what other people were thinking. However, John's wasn't so common. He was probably the only person in the world who had it, with the exception of perhaps Mycroft but the government official probably ignored it on purpose. John had a _Sherlock has done something stupid and needs your help now _sense. It was on pure instinct that he thought it would be a good idea to hurry up and to get back to the flat.

Mrs Hudson was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up with an expression of fear and worry and it did not take long for him to find out why. The gun shots echoed loudly and John dashed up the stairs. Sherlock was shouting things loudly but it all sounded like fevered gibberish. No real words were uttered but the fear on his face was real enough. The gun was out of ammo so John took the opportunity to approach his friend but he did take it slow. "Hey, what's up mate? What's wrong?" There was no reply. The detective simply turned his attention to elsewhere in the room, levelled the revolver, obviously something he could see that was invisible to the rest of the world. John placed his arm upon his friend's shoulder and Sherlock collapsed, unconscious.

Army doctor mode kicked in, John grabbed the thermometer off the side and stuck it in Sherlock's ear. "40.1◦C, damn it," he muttered in frustration. "Mrs Hudson," he shouted and the older woman instantly ran up the stairs.

"Oh my goodness, the poor thing, is he alright," she asked suddenly flustered, gently brushing the hair from the unconscious man's face.

"Would you mind doing something for me?"

"Of course not dear, ask me anything, anything at all"

"Could you start running the bath, with cold water? And then phone Mycroft and Lestrade and let them know that Sherlock passed off." She nodded before scurrying off towards the bathroom. John smiled; the woman really was a lifesaver.

It was quite an effort to manoeuver Sherlock with his great height. John could feel all of Sherlock's bones beneath his skin as he carried him, wedding style into the bathroom. The water was running and John felt it, it was icy cold so he asked his landlady, not housekeeper, to put a small amount of hot water to it to take the bitterness away. John was strong but after a few minutes of holding Sherlock's limp form he needed to put him down so he just plonked him down into the bath. Hopefully the cold water would help with the raging temperature. He reached over and after a bit of difficulty he managed to remove the t-shirt with the intention of giving his friend a wash and then some clean clothes. However all he could do was stare and the ugly wound on his friend's chest, wanting to look away with all his heart but finding himself incapable of doing so.


	32. Chapter 32

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

All he could think was why would Sherlock not tell him about this? However the answer was obvious, he was Sherlock, and it probably would not have crossed his mind to tell John, his best friend and his doctor about the horribly infected wounds on his chest. The smell emanating from it was tremendous but John was an army doctor, he had smelt, and indeed seen, much worse things so he carried on regardless.

He began to pour the cool water over Sherlock's overheated form, trying to pull him back from the clutches of delirium and unconsciousness. Every so often he would place his hand on his friend's forehead and it was a while before John felt relief when he discovered the burning sensation had disappeared from his head. At some point Mycroft appeared and he seemed taken aback by the wound on Sherlock's chest as John was, at least if Mycroft didn't know he could be confident that he wasn't expected to know.

"Could you give me a hand?" John asked after a few minutes.

"Of course."

"Could you continue pouring water over his shoulders and the back of his head? Try to hold his head in that position and don't get water near his nose or mouth; he's unconscious so he'll just end up breathing it in. I want to treat the wounds on his chest." Mycroft nodded, he would not do anything like this for anyone but Sherlock, he may do it for John but definitely nobody else.

They silently swapped positions and after making sure Mycroft was doing his job correctly John crouched down to get a closer look at the infection ridden flesh. He looked at it closely, gently pressing the area, it was slightly swollen and as he pressed the area pus pushed itself from within the wounds. The whole area was red. John didn't know how much pain it was causing his friend but he presumed there was some, he'd been moving his upper body awkwardly ever since the incident with Moriarty. The army doctor leaned forwards and probed the lymph nodes in his friend's neck and armpits, they were enlarged and hard, that did not bode well. Ignoring the fact Mycroft was there John immersed his arms in the water and felt for the nodes around Sherlock's groin, they were enlarged but not as bad as the others he had checked. Sherlock was going to need some very strong antibiotics. If one thing was for certain John would not be getting much food into his friend any time soon.

It took the full strength of Mycroft and John combined to remove Sherlock from the bath and there was a fair amount of water scattered across the room. By the time he was out Sherlock was regaining some consciousness, he was more like a zombie than anything else. He could support some of his own weight and could move his arms and legs enough for John to dry and change him. Mycroft left to make tea, wanting to give his brother some privacy and to help him retain some dignity. The two men helped the younger man out of the bathroom and onto the sofa. Ideally John would have put him in in his room but the doctor knew what Sherlock's room was like, it was dangerous enough for a healthy man let alone someone ridden with infection. As soon as his friend was laid down John felt a sudden and inexplicable exhaustion take over his body and he collapsed into a chair and instantly fell fast asleep.


	33. Chapter 33

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Mycroft sat in the living room making important phone calls as John looked after him brother. The _mine_ inscribed on Sherlock's chest would scar, especially with the infection and would stand as a constant reminder of all the bad things that had happened to Sherlock. Even after knowing the man for a long time John had been sure he had full confidence in himself, obviously an act on his part so he could pretend to be the way everyone expected him to be. The pain his friend must have gone through caused John a lot of heartache and he knew he would do anything to prevent any more painful things happening to Sherlock.

It was just after the doctor began stitching the wounds that Sherlock began to wake up, causing John to face a dilemma. It was never a good idea to pump a former drug addict full of medication but Sherlock needed rest and John had to be sure that the injuries on his friend's chest were fully healed. With a feeling of guilt and regret John quickly injected his friend with a mild sedative, nothing powerful or remotely narcotic but it knocked him out and succeeded in John feeling incredibly guilty.

It was a laborious task, stitching such ugly and infected wounds. The letters weren't exactly small either, his entire chest was covered. It took him the best part of two and a half hours to complete the job and in that time he had surprisingly been delivered tea from Mycroft, the man was evidently incredibly worried about his little brother's condition. The Holmes' were very good at acting but their inability to understand emotions meant that when they did feel them it was hard for them to cover it up.

After the stitches John poured copious amounts of disinfectant onto Sherlock's chest and then shouted for Mycroft to help with the bandaging. Mycroft walked in, now looking calm and unemotional, as per usual. "How can I help you Dr Watson?" he asked. The worry was still evident in as much as he was offering to help, he was offering to assist with the care of someone, something was definitely off with the whole situation.

"If I lean him forward can you support him, I need to get these bandages on him to prevent the infection from getting any worse." Mycroft nodded and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock.

"Brother dear," he sighed, almost wistfully, as wistfully as a Holmes could get anyway. "What I wouldn't give to hear you making some childish diet comment. It's better than this dreadful silent treatment. You used to be very good at doing that as a child." The army doctor smiled, any fraternal affection between these two men was virtually non-existent and John counted himself lucky that he had been privileged to see such an odd thing happen. After this John worked in complete silence, the silence was occasionally broken by Mycroft muttering some seemingly senseless comment to Sherlock but it probably meant something to the brothers. Once he was done John sat, Sherlock's hand enclosed in both of his and Mycroft sat there silent and stoic, a constant observer and protector.


	34. Chapter 34

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Time in Sherlock's room did not seem to follow its normal rules. In a way this was fitting, Sherlock was never one for rule following or obeying normal social conventions. He did his own thing and time seemed to have a mind of its own in his room. John didn't notice any time pass between sitting down with Sherlock's hand in his and the knock at his friend's bedroom door. John was startled, obviously not expecting anyone but Mycroft appeared completely unsurprised. "Come in," he ordered loudly and Anthea walked in, casting worried glances towards the vulnerable form of the younger Holmes. She handed a large paper, pharmacy bag to Mycroft and nodded as she retreated out of the room again.

Mycroft handed John the bag wordlessly and he peaked inside to find antibiotics, the ones he intended to get Sherlock only Mycroft apparently did not have to go down the usual, conventional routes. Unsurprising really. "How did you know what to get him?" asked John, still surprised.

"Let's just say Sherlock was not the healthiest of children, I learnt quickly what to give him in different situations. I was never good at the bedside manner though, that is something you are far more capable of Dr Watson."

Sherlock chose that moment to start to awaken from the mild sedative John had administered and it obviously was not the most pleasant of transitions. Quiet whimpers escaped from between his lips. Both John and Mycroft were very sensitive to this noise, John picked up the hand he had once been holding and Mycroft stood next to the bed, completely at a loss as to what he should do. Tenderly John felt his friend's forehead, his temperature had gradually crept up to the temperature it had been before and the sheen of sweat was reforming on his brow. "Mycroft, I don't mean to boss you around but would you mind getting a bowl of cool water and a flannel, I think he's going to need some cooling down.

The elder Holmes left the room silently after gently patting his brother on the shoulder. John shook his head but gave a gentle smile. "I don't care what you say to me Sherlock, your brother does care about you."

"John?" came the groggy whisper, something John certainly was not expecting.

"Hey, it's me, you ok?"

"John," he repeated again, sounding worried.

"What is it?" Sherlock was beginning to scare him. "Tell me, what's wrong? Please."

"Moriarty's behind you," Sherlock cried out this time. John glanced behind him.

"No he's not," reassured John gently, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's hand. He glanced up and saw Mycroft was about to walk through the door but he gestured for him to stay put. John wanted to get Sherlock to say whatever it was he wanted, and needed, to say before he tried anything.

"He is John, I can see him. Be careful John, he'll hurt you." There was a brief pause and then Sherlock began to shout in a manner that tore John's heart in two. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please don't do that, please, please, don't make me do that again. I can't, I just can't."

"Shh," reassured John glancing up at Mycroft. The man had not moved but he looked quite pale. "It's alright."

"No, it's not alright John, you have to understand."

"Help me understand."

"But…"

"Tell me."

"He's telling me to do it again John. Please, just make him leave me alone, make him stop."

"What is it he wants you to do?"

"Cut myself, slit my wrists and then bleed out on the bathroom floor. I can't, I just can't, please John forgive me but I can't." At this point, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective began to weep.


	35. Chapter 35

"_What is it he wants you to do?"_

"_Cut myself, slit my wrists and then bleed out on the bathroom floor. I can't, I just can't, please John forgive me but I can't." At this point, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective began to weep._

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

John was stunned; he had never imagined such words passing his friend's lips, not the great, invincible, sociopathic Sherlock Holmes. Such a man did not see fevered hallucinations of a man he fears, he did not begin to cry in fear because the imaginary man was telling him to kill himself. That just wasn't how things were supposed to be. He was meant to be infuriating, running around the place and making impossible and unbelievable deductions but everyone, with the exception of one or two, would believe him because he was Sherlock Holmes. And then he would prove even the doubters wrong and call them all stupid, then they'd go home to 221B and have a brief celebration before Sherlock got bored and started experiments and generally annoying John. Then Lestrade would call with a new case and the whole cycle would begin again. It was never the same, never predictable and never boring. John wasn't bored now but he would rather be bored himself, hell, he'd rather be dealing with a bored Sherlock Holmes than a broken one.

All of this took mere seconds to pass through his mind before he took a deep breath to harden his resolve. He carefully sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, making sure he did not alarm the destroyed detective, and gently laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Mycroft finally summoned the courage to approach the bed and placed the bowl of water on the small table next to John and then sat on the other side of Sherlock, not quite being able to bring himself to touch his younger brother.

John knew he had to proceed cautiously; it would be disastrous to Sherlock's recovery if he lost his trust in John, or Mycroft for that matter. "Sherlock, you've got a bit of a fever so I'm going to wipe your face with a wet cloth. Is that ok?" asked the doctor quietly but if Sherlock had heard he didn't let on. John asked him again, he was fairly sure the detective could hear him so he tried a different tactic. He placed his hand in Sherlock's hand and squeezed it gently. "Sherlock, if you can hear me squeeze my hand would you?" Sherlock did as John asked causing John to smile. "If its ok for me to wipe your face with cold water could you squeeze my hand, just like you did then." The detective squeezed his hand again so, with a bit of resistance on Sherlock's part, John extracted his hand from the younger man's.

The initial contact with the cold water made Sherlock flinch away. "Shh, its ok mate," John reassured him and tried again, this time Sherlock complied. A few minutes later Sherlock's skin felt a little cooler so John dipped the flannel in the water and wringed it out, lay Sherlock down on the bed and placed the cold compress on his forehead. "I'll be back in a minute," he reassured Sherlock before standing up to dispose of the water. This, however, triggered an unanticipated reaction in the damaged detective. He lunged forward, tapping into some energy reserve he did not know about, and clung onto John. "Don't leave John, no, no, no, don't leave. I'll behave, I promise, just don't abandon me, please." He grabbed onto John's jumper, pulling him back onto the bed, he only just had time to put the water down safely.

Slowly John placed his arm around Sherlock's shivering form and he snuggled into John's embrace. No trace of the man John once knew could be seen and John wondered just what the hell was going through his mind. To Sherlock, John meant comfort and safety, normally that was boring but John was not boring, he was fascinating. Therefore safety with John was also interesting. His woollen jumper smelt musty and homey, there was the vague scent of chemicals from when Sherlock had used wool as a new area of study and he revelled in the sensation of being cared for, it was a foreign feeling to him. The scent and the comfort slowly soothed him, calming his frantic and troubled mind and soon, for one of the first times in his life, he felt calm.


	36. Chapter 36

_Before I start I'd like to apologise for not updating yesterday, that is unusual for me but I was at a friend's house and trust me, there was no chance of anything getting written or posted. I'd also like to apologise in advance, in a few days I'm going to Canada (to dance at a highland dancing championships :D) so I will try to update but I am certainly not making any promises, updating will not be high on my list of priorities. I shall endeavour to do so though. There will not be anything while I am still suffering the effects of jetlag, seven hour time difference will likely kill me for a few days . _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

John was not sure how long he and Sherlock were sat there for. He didn't rush Sherlock and Mycroft just sat there patiently, swiftly switching his phone off when it began to ring. The doctor found it slightly funny that there was no telling how important a power Mycroft had just blanked for the sake of his little brother. The first one to move was Sherlock as John decided it would be best if it were him who released the physical contact. He was hesitant, unsure if he wanted to relinquish the comfort he had suddenly become accustomed to. Once again his grip tightened as he felt the original sense of control begin to slip away and he could not bear it but John's legs were cramping and he was happy to loosen Sherlock's grip on him after the man had considered it for himself.

Gently he pried the detective's lanky fingers of his woollen jumper and held them tenderly in his hand. Sherlock dared to look up at him but then instantly looked down, guilt evident in his eyes. "Sorry," muttered Sherlock, voice full of shame.

"What are you sorry for?" asked John, genuinely confused.

"Making you waste your time on me inconveniencing you in such a manner." He sounded more like a child than a great man, a child making a confession to their father before the judgement is made and the promised sentence is declared.

"Hey, there is no need to be sorry for that, do you understand?" Sherlock nodded slowly but remained silent. "No, I don't think you do understand. Any time that you need to talk, cry, get angry or need someone to talk to who will just listen I am here if you need me. There is absolutely no way any human can get through this alone, you need someone to help you along the line and even if that means shooting my brains out with a rifle I will do it. Makes the whole talking to me thing seem rather insignificant. Now, do you understand?" John finished kindly. Sherlock nodded, more convincingly that time, and the army doctor smiled slightly.

"Thank you," commented Sherlock quietly, almost so quietly John did not hear him.

"Well done mate, that was the appropriate response."

"Now," started Mycroft once they had managed to move his brother to the couch. "Your good doctor has been running around after you and has not had much of a chance to relax. He wants to talk to you but is willing to have a break and talk tomorrow. Whichever you refer brother dear." Sherlock shook his head violently causing his brother to sigh.

"Do it for John, he needs one less stressful factor in his life." The detective rolled his eyes, well aware that he was being manipulated but still, he nodded discretely.


	37. Chapter 37

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

"I want to be left alone," mumbled Sherlock and Mycroft nodded in consent and both he and John wandered into the kitchen, talking in hushed voices that the detective didn't bother to try to listen to. The embarrassment was just starting to filter into his mind. The sociopath had shown emotion; that was a paradox if ever he had heard one. He had always prided himself on the sociopath label, even though it was a label he had admittedly given himself. It kept his away from people, he had always revelled in solitude and he much preferred that label to the Asperger's diagnosis he knew John had given him; he'd looked at his internet history.

His grip on the cushions tightened as frustration in his inability to control his normally non-existent emotions hidden. He'd shown weakness in front of his best friend and brother no less. And since when did Sherlock Holmes have a best friend, he had acquaintances, those he was indifferent to, those he hated, enemies, arch enemies, the occasional person he respected, a few people who he kept around because they sometimes proved useful but he didn't have friends. Friends could be used to hurt him, they could be targeted and cause unnecessary weaknesses. They might interfere with the work. He'd had a friend once before and that had ended in disaster, one of the criminals he was chasing manipulated him, making him shot Sherlock and then kill himself, after that incident he had completely isolated himself from everyone except Mycroft. But he didn't think he could get rid of John now he was in his life and he hated himself for it, John would most likely at the hands of someone trying to annoy the detective or trying to get his attention.

In anger Sherlock raised his arm, gripping onto one of the cushions and went to throw it at the wall but a hand grabbed his arm from behind stopping him instantly. Looking up he could see the kindly yet worried face of John and he felt all of the anger melt out of him, it was a peculiar sensation. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern, Mycroft lurking in the background, the constant presence.

"Nothing," muttered Sherlock lowering his arm but then he caught the glare that his brother was shooting in his direction and he thought it best to change his answer in case Mycroft did in fact have to power to make people spontaneously combust, if anyone was to have that power it would most definitely be his brother.

John sat down next to his friend and smiled. "That's called being human Sherlock. I do need to have a serious chat with you as Mycroft said but we can postpone it if you wish, you have had rather an emotionally exhausting day today." Sherlock shook his head.

"If we have to talk about this then I'd rather get it over with, if we put it off then I know I won't let it happen."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock nodded once again and John smiled as a means of encouragement.

"Very well, Mycroft, do take a seat. I have no idea how long this is going to last."


	38. Chapter 38

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

"So doctor, what has been troubling you?" started Sherlock much to John's surprise. Mycroft, however, was not feeling so surprised. Sherlock was feeling a severe loss of control and by initiating the conversation he was gaining a tiny bit of the lost control back.

"Several things if I'm honest with you so we'll start with the one which I feel is presenting the most imminent danger although it is a pretty close call. If I'm honest Sherlock, you're eating habits are, quite frankly, alarming." Sherlock cocked his head in confusion, granted his eating habits could hardly be described as normal but he didn't consider them dangerous or, as John put it, alarming. He didn't eat on cases but that's because digestion slowed him down, a perfectly valid reason. Even the good doctor only made him eat if the case lasted more than four days which it rarely did. When he was off a case he ate when and if he was hungry. No problem.

"You have no idea what I'm on about do you?" mused John, smiling sadly.

"No."

"Sherlock," he said with a slight hint of frustration marring his voice. "You do not eat on cases; I would be able to forgive that, maybe, if all the rest of the times your eating was regular with large meals. Not sporadic and sparse at best like they are now."

"I eat enough, I can assure you, just because you do not see me eating does not mean I'm not."

"I have no doubt that you consume food, you must do to survive and I fully agree that it is possible that you eat when I am not around but evidence points towards the fact that you do not. The only food that disappears from the fridge is food that I myself or Mrs Hudson remove. Either that or it ends up on the kitchen table covered in some horrible chemical or another for an experiment. I think I have probably seen you eat food twice that you decided to eat of your own accord. I don't know how you coped before I got here, who fed you."

"That would be me," said Mycroft.

There was a brief silence before the doctor launched straight back into his rant. "Don't you see Sherlock, you are m best friend and I do not want to see anything hurt you, I do not want to see you starving to death or dying of an infection that your body could have fended off if you'd had proper sustenance. I would like to weigh you but at a guess you are at least ten kilos below the minimum healthy weight limit. Can you not see that there is a problem here, a problem that needs to be fixed?"

"It's never been a problem before," muttered Sherlock and the doctor took this as an admission of guilt so he allowed his voice to drop back to a softer tone.

"It's a problem now though mate so… so please, let me help you." There was a few minutes of silence before Sherlock nodded his head reluctantly in consent

"Thank you," replied John. "I promise, I will not over feed you and I will not push you too far. If I ask you to eat something you have to at least try to, I will know if you can manage more or not. We'll take it in small steps; your body has, unfortunately, become unaccustomed to food consumption."


	39. Chapter 39

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

"What else," demanded Sherlock, suddenly sounding incredibly short tempered.

"What do you mean?" asked John, surprised by the unexpected question.

It is fairly obvious that my eating habits were not the only thing that you wanted to talk to me about and I'd really rather not be here right now so I suggest you get a move on if you don't want me to leave this room right now." The doctor nodded.

"Alright, fair enough I suppose. Sherlock, this depression, the self-harm, we simply cannot allow it to continue untreated. Who knows how much worse it is going to get. Will actually commit suicide one day? I don't know and I have no desire whatsoever to simply sit back and watch."

A tense moment passed between the two men before, much to John's surprise, Sherlock nodded. "I agree."  
"Really?" replied John and Mycroft completely startled at the response.

"Yes."

"You do know what you are saying don't you? If you want to solve this thing you will require Dr Watson's help, probably need medication, months of therapy and if the therapist decides it you may be sectioned for a while if they think you are still a danger to yourself."

"Mycroft!" shouted John in frustration, it was typical, thought the doctor, that the moment he was making any progress with Sherlock his brother instantly tried to discourage him.

"Yes, he will need my help and he will be going to a therapist, whether he likes it or not," he said firmly when he saw the glare shot at him by the annoyed detective. "There is the possibility that some anti-depressants will be requires but he most certainly will not be sectioned. That would be an irrational course of action Mycroft."

"Very well," Mycroft said with his sickly sweet smile pasted on his face. "If that is your professional opinion I will believe you. If there is anything else which you require then do not hesitate to give me a phone call but I really must be off, can't be out of the office for too long."

With that the elder Holmes walked out of the room, picking up his umbrella on the way out, swinging it casually as he descended the stairs as if the events which happened in 221b had not happened and did not matter. John smiled, slightly bemused by Mycroft's slightly erratic behaviour and how similar some of it could be to Sherlock's. But then again, those with the genius level intellect often had to sacrifice a piece of their own sanity without even realising it.

He turned back to look at Sherlock and felt sympathy welling up within him. The man who was so unaccustomed to emotion suddenly found that they were practically being shoved down his throat and he looked lost, scared even. "Are you sure you want to go through with this, if you commit I am not letting you simply give up. Do I make myself clear on the issue?" Sherlock nodded, an intense look coming into his eyes and the doctor was unsure of whether this was a good or a bad sign, he simply prayed that it was a good thing. "Alright, that's good, that's very, very good Sherlock. You can do whatever it was you were itching to go off and do. I'll make us some lunch." When his friend shot him a look of annoyance and fixed him with the gaze that asked 'who the hell are you to tell me what to do?' John looked on unwavering. "Remember your promise," he commented as casually as he could. Sherlock looked at him for another moment, trying to force him to back down but could do no such thing so he turned away, back onto the sofa.


	40. Chapter 40

_I'm back, hope you all missed me! I'm really sorry for the delay but I did warn you. If I am honest I did expect to update at least a few times while I was away but I didn't have a chance. So sorry about that but here's the next chapter. Enjoy. _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Food, it wasn't that Sherlock had ever had a particular hatred for it; it was just that he'd never had a particular desire for it to govern his life. Everything physical came second to thinking and the work, especially food when he considered detrimental in many circumstances. But now John expected him to eat, would he make him during cases? He would not eat during a case, especially on the off chance it was a good one, if he needed to think it could prove disastrous for something as insignificant as digestion.

For the first time in a while John felt as if things could work out, what with Sherlock's promises to accept help. Of course actually helping him would be another matter but he would think about that tomorrow. Sherlock had agreed to eat if that were possible with the infection, soup would work. He cracked open a can of soup and poured it into a saucepan then buttered a few slices of bread and put them on a plate.

Looking out of the kitchen to check on his friend he gave a small smile. He was lying in his sulking position on the settee, a position John had become very familiar to, but from his deep breathing he could tell that he was fast asleep. As much as he would hate to do it John would wake him up when the soup was ready, food was more important than sleep.

Quickly he padded across the room deciding that Sherlock sleeping provided the perfect opportunity for him to take his temperature. It turned out that it had dropped slightly, much to the doctor's relief but was by no means normal. It could easily rise again and most likely would.

Sherlock flinched as John gently patted his face, tearing him away from his slumber and then glared when the scent of chicken soup assaulted his nostrils. "Not hungry," he murmured folding his body so his face was further buried into the back of the sofa. For a moment he thought John had given up but then he felt two strong, no-nonsense arms on him and he was easily pulled upright into a sitting position despite his efforts to fend his friend off.

"I know you're not hungry but look at me Sherlock, do you really think that I give a damn right now? Because I don't, but I made this for you and its not much so at least try to get some of that down. I know you're unwell so I'll give you a bit of slack but just try, please. At first John's voice had sounded firm and angry but by the end he was pleading, something which annoyed Sherlock so he began to eat it simply to prevent John from speaking anymore.

John sat down and switched on the TV and the two of them settled into a scene that, had anybody else been watching would have seemed relatively normal. John eating his soup enthusiastically as Sherlock reluctantly picked at his bread and choked down the occasional handful of soup. Occasionally he would mutter the odd deduction or get annoyed at the presenters idiocy but finding he was too drained to get properly angry.


	41. Chapter 41

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

It was only about ten minutes John turned to look at Sherlock; the man had kicked up relatively little fuss about what would be, in his mind, considered to be force-feeding. Of course he could be having a sulk; this was very like the consulting detective even when he was being swallowed up in the deepest of depressions or at his most emotionally vulnerable. The sight that met the doctor's eyes, however, was not one of a sulking man and it took all his self-control to prevent himself from bursting into laughter. However, he did not have the power to prevent himself slipping his phone out his back pocket and taking a photo of his friend, fast asleep, the end of his nose dipped in the soup.

After he felt a little guilty for taking the picture since it was probably the infection that had worn his friend out so much but he did not actually feel guilty enough to actually delete the photo. Grabbing a cloth he gently rubbed the soup off Sherlock's face, removed the bowl from his lap, and lay him down on the sofa, not feeling strong enough to actively carry the man to his room. He went to Sherlock's room to get his duvet and then laid it over the younger man.

Within ten minutes the washing up was done and the doctor was just heading to his room when he heard a noise coming from the sofa. Cautiously he approached it, recently Sherlock's sleep had been plagued with nightmares and the fever probably wouldn't help matters in that respect. It was evident that Sherlock, was in fact, dreaming but it didn't seem to be completely distressing. There were just mumbles. Without realising John laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and moved his thumb in a circular pattern over his shoulder. "Shh," he soothed his friend. "You're ok, shh." Sherlock seemed to calm almost instantaneously falling into a silent slumber.

Being extra careful to make more noise John took himself into his room and slipped into a pair of loose trousers and a t-shirt before heading back to the kitchen to grab a cup of tea. It seemed his friend was once again mumbling and muttering in his sleep and John knew that would most likely, very soon, descend into something filled with horror. The kettle boiled and John made his tea. Tiptoeing back to his room there was a sudden noise from the sofa. "John!" Sherlock shouted as if he were awake and trying to get his attention, in fact John did think the detective was awake.

"I'm here Sherlock," he replied, he went over to the sofa when there was no reply. The skinny man was laying there, fast asleep, eyes flickering wildly under the closed lids. Sighing John put his mug on the coffee table, pushed Sherlock's form forward, and sat on the sofa behind him, supporting Sherlock's body with his own. Drinking his tea he thought about how much he would give to have his old Sherlock back and when his friend became distressed he rubbed comforting circles on his back and very soon he calmed down. That night John Watson did not sleep but Sherlock Holmes was oblivious to the world.


	42. Chapter 42

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

It was about eight in the morning when John finally decided to ease himself out from behind his friend incredibly grateful that he had managed to sleep the whole night through peacefully. He did, however, now crave coffee because he was going to need a hell of a caffeine boost if he hoped to make it through the rest of the day. As always the kettle seemed to take a long time to boil so while he waited he watched the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. A small smile graced his lips to see his friend finally at peace although he did seem to have a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead. When John was sat behind him he hadn't seemed particularly warm so it was probably just his imagination.

Once the kettle was boiled John headed off to the bathroom to have a shower, reassuring himself Sherlock was fine and he'd check on him later. The hot water fell on his tender skin and he revelled in the feeling of being clean, the water seemed to wake him up too. However the feelings resulted in him spending longer in the shower than he had initially intended. Still he did not move quickly, the lack of sleep making him more lethargic and have less of a sense of urgency than usual. All in all he was in the bathroom for forty minutes, more to the point, Sherlock had nobody with him for forty minutes.

Sherlock's eyes drifted open slowly and suddenly he was filled with a feeling of panic due to John's absence be instantly calmed when he heard the shower going. His mind was feeling a little fuzzy and he was still on edge from his previous visions and experiences with Moriarty. Cautiously he moved himself about a little testing to see what hurt and what did not hurt. Mostly he was ok but his chest felt as if it were burning whenever he moved it. It was like that time five years ago, when he was working on one of his cases for Lestrade, and wasn't as clean as he claimed he was, when he was doing an experiment and ended up spilling nitric acid all over his chest.

With all due trepidation Sherlock took a quick peek at the damage caused to his chest and felt slightly sick at the sight of it. Of course, that could be the symptoms of the infection itself, but most likely it was not. He did not want to be there when John took a look, Sherlock knew himself that it was 'a bit not good.' Apart from his chest he felt alright, perhaps a little warm but nothing major, except for an incessant, dire thirst which seemed to be plaguing him. John was in the shower and had left nothing for him to drink. Conclusion; John did not expect him to wake up any time soon and Sherlock now had a good excuse to remove himself from the damn couch. It took a long time, and it was far from pleasant, but he managed. With a brand new feeling of confidence the detective slowly made his way across the living room towards the kitchen. He was half way there when his vision began to trickle away into darkness and he felt a distinct sensation of nausea come about him. "Not now," he muttered to himself whilst kneeling to the ground in an attempt to remain conscious. However his attempt was in vain and the detective toppled forwards.


	43. Chapter 43

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

The cold air in the flat slapped John in the face when he finally emerged from the bathroom and he shivered slightly deciding the first thing he needed to me was put the kettle on and check on Sherlock while it was boiling. His plans were cut short when he almost tripped over a surprisingly inconspicuous heap of unconscious consulting detective. His initial reaction was confusion but the realisation struck and the army doctor dropped to the floor. Hurriedly he flipped Sherlock onto his back and vomit flew out and there was a puddle of it where Sherlock had been lying. A horrible, wet choking noise emerged from the detective's throat as his whole body convulsed in an attempt to relieve the clogged airway.

With a steady hand John took two fingers and swiped the vomit from his friend's mouth and then lay him on his side so anything still remaining in his windpipe could easily spill out, thus minimising the risk of the stitches on his chest tearing. John could only feel a sensation of sympathy for his friend. He knew what it was like to have something traumatic happen and to fight off fear, injury and infection, only Sherlock seemed to have gone through it his whole life. He just hoped once the whole thing was over he could show Sherlock again what it was like to be able to enjoy life. They had enjoyed life before the whole situation kicked up. Well, until the self-harming had restarted that is.

Through the fabric of Sherlock's t-shirt John could feel the heat of the fever radiating off him, it was as if there was a nuclear reaction occurring on the surface of his skin. Gently John slapped Sherlock's cheeks seeing if would respond to the stimulus. "Sherlock, come on, open those damn eyes of yours. You're starting to scare me." There was no response and John felt his heart sink a little but refused to acknowledge that feeling. "Mrs Hudson!" he yelled suddenly as loud as he could. "Mrs Hudson, Mrs Hudson!" He stopped shouting as he heard her feet scurrying up the stairs. He was suddenly insanely grateful that his landlady was an early riser.

"What's wr-" she started as she opened the door to 221b. "Oh, what happened to Sherlock dear?" John smiled at Mrs Hudson's motherly nature before he got down to business. "He lost consciousness when I was in the shower, obviously he was feeling nauseous." The doctor couldn't bring himself to use the word 'fainted' in reference to Sherlock. It just didn't seem fitting. "He's got an infection in some wounds. Could you give me a hand getting him to the couch and then fetch some things so I can give him a quick wash, cool water though, and some boxers from his room. Sorry, there's just quite a lot to do."

"Not a t all," she said smiling reassuringly at the army doctor. "I want to help." Together they lifted the sick man to the couch. As Mrs Hudson carried out John's requests once again John took Sherlock's temperature. "39.5 degrees," he muttered to himself. "Damn it."


	44. Chapter 44

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

John was on auto-pilot, Sherlock's life was not in danger but he knew that he could not afford to think about the fact he was currently treating his best friend. There were rules preventing doctor's from treating their own family members and there were reasons for that rule. The doctor considered the detective and him to be closer than he was to any of his family members.

As he had removed Sherlock's t-shirt he had grimaced, bones appeared to be becoming more pronounced by the second and the wounds on his chest were getting close to the festering stage. Unfortunately the genius could be incredibly foolish when it came to his own health. At that stage he heard Mrs Hudson gasp, he'd forgotten she was there and he knew his friend would not appreciate a spectator. "There's a bottle in the bathroom cupboard labelled chlorohexidine, it's in a brown bottle with a white top. Would you mind fetching it and bringing some cotton wool with you, that's in the cupboard too?"

She nodded and scurried off into the bathroom while John carefully inspected the infected area. She returned and he smiled at her in thanks. "I really don't want to be rude Mrs Hudson, you have been a great help, but I don't think Sherlock will want an audience." She smiled and John was grateful for her understanding personality.

"No, I don't think he would dear. I'll be right downstairs if you need me."

"Thank you, I'll call when I'm done, it can't be good him lying on this couch. I'll need help moving him, I can do it myself but it's not good for my shoulder."

"Of course, just give me a shout."

Carefully and meticulously John cleaned the wounds, checking the stitches in each were holding and much to his relief, they were. Next he washed the sweat and the grime off Sherlock's much too skinny form, hoping that that the cold water would help ease his raging fever. John knew the next bit would be awkward and he would not tell Sherlock if he could help it, but it had to be done, he was a doctor anyway, nothing he hadn't seen before. He was just glad nobody could see them. The detective recently discovered the latest camera Mycroft had attempted to hide in the flat.

With all the care and respect he could John removed Sherlock's trousers and his boxers then began to wash his lower half with military efficiency. Within no time his friend was clean and in a fresh pair of boxers. Next on the agenda was to make sure there was no junk on Sherlock's bed, which there was not. He really couldn't be bothered making sure he knew where every little thing went which is what he would have to do if he touched any of his friend's stuff, Sherlock would be angry if he didn't. After shouting to the landlady the two of the carried Sherlock to his room and deposited him on his bed, the doctor collapsed on the chair exhausted while Mrs Hudson fixed a cup of tea for them both.


	45. Chapter 45

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

The next week was a nightmare for all those who were involved. Sherlock's condition continued to get worse, and the fever increased until it spiked at 41◦C. At that point the flat was alive with people bustling about, fetching ice, water and appropriate medication, all a desperate attempt to get the temperature down to a more amiable, yet still not desirable, 40◦C. John, Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had agreed that it would be a bad idea to take Sherlock into hospital but at that moment John had the phone in his hand and his thumb was twitching above the 9 button with the extreme urge to press it. At that point Sherlock was unmoving, his eyes were open, flickering but completely glazed over and unseeing.

It was a tense twenty minutes, trying to lower the detective's temperature, he was completely oblivious to their desperate efforts. They couldn't even coax him into swallowing tablets so the medication had to be injected into his system. They'd been constantly wiping sweat off his body with cold water, reluctant to move him to the bath in such a fragile state, and ice packs had been tucked all round his body. Luckily Sherlock had needed them for a few experiments including body parts when, much to John's horror; they were too big to fit them in the fridge.

Eventually his temperature had lowered by a satisfactory amount and Sherlock had been moved to John's room, now that his own bed had been soaked through in their efforts. He had slept for twenty-four hours before the hallucinations began and John couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. He constantly muttered away to himself, deducing people who were not there. Often he'd be crying out in pain or fear, or a mixture of the two, thrashing out at a threat that wasn't actually there. Most of the time he did not respond to comfort offered, it would just send him into a further frenzy, thrashing out, a couple of times he had to be restrained.

A particularly hard time had been when he had been screaming, suddenly he'd sat up and began punching the wall, his hands had become a mess and John and Lestrade had to hold him down on the bed while Mycroft tied medical restraints round him to prevent him further hurting himself. When John had tried to take a look at his hands, one finger obviously broken, he strained against the restraints, not responding to John's voice at all, so he had to placated. The medication did to affect him for long, just enough for John to bandage and splint two fingers.

He had spent the night listening to Sherlock's whimpers and pleas for help, calling out his name. However, whenever he responded Sherlock's eyes would go wide and he would be cast straight into the throes of a panic attack. In the end his simply had to sit on the floor, his back against the bed listening to the distraught and feverous cries of his best friend.

Of course there were the times he did recognise those who tried to offer him help and they were, if possible, more heart wrenching than when he didn't. It had happened five times to John, twice to Lestrade and once to Mycroft. John wouldn't let Mrs Hudson in; Sherlock wouldn't want her seeing him like that. He would cry out the person's name then grab them, with John he'd bury his face into whatever woolly jumper he happened to be wearing. He'd mutter apologies, begging the person not to leave him, and in the process breaking the heart of everyone who was with him.

In the moments he was more lucid John would do his best to coax some lucozade down him, to try and prevent losing any more of his very sparse body mass. Almost exactly a week after John had found Sherlock on the floor and things were getting desperate, John and Mycroft conceded that if he had the fever for another twenty-four hours that they would take him to the hospital. The antibiotics were taking their time to work and on several occasions John had to insert the IV after Sherlock ripped it out in a panic. That night Mycroft was watching sadly as Sherlock thrashed around and everyone else was sleeping. Within a space of five minutes his lively movements died down to the occasional twitch. Concerned, the elder Holmes took the younger's temperature and was horrified to find it at 40.5◦C. The flat erupted into a flurry of activity again as plans were implemented to get it back down. And once again, twenty minutes later his temperature was taken, it was at 38.3◦C. A wave of a mixture of relief and exhaustion flooded John, Sherlock still needed an eye kept on him but that was the lowest it had been in the past week. The fever had broken.


	46. Chapter 46

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

After the excitement with Sherlock's temperature John decided to stay up with him, just to keep a close eye on him. The likelihood was that Sherlock would be fine now, he would be exhausted for at least another week and John wasn't to get up for anything except the loo for that week, at least. In fact, John was right, at nine in the morning Sherlock was lying, sprawled out across the bed. A thin sheet that John had put on after his temperature had reached a relatively normal 37.4◦C. Mycroft walked cautiously into the room, looking his usual suave and sophisticated self. He had not been like that last night, jacket removed, umbrella abandoned, shirt sleeves rolled up, red in the face as he maneuvered his little brother to fit as many ice packs around and under his body as was humanly possible.

Silently he gestured to Mrs Hudson to follow him in and she obeyed, brow creased with worry as she laid eyes on the man, who in many ways, was her son. "How's he doing?" asked Mycroft, his voice soft and quiet so as not to wake his brother.

"He's alright, been sleeping undisturbed for a while. About an hour ago he started shivering, I took his temperature and it's gone down significantly from last night so I put the blanket over him. I hate to do it but we need to wake him up, get some soup into him, I hope his stomach is up to it but he really does need something."

"Is that necessary dear, I mean, he looks so peaceful while he is sleeping. Never looks like that, can't you just wait until he wakes up?"

John shook his head sadly, "Unfortunately his bad habits as of late mean we cannot afford that time delay." Carefully, so as not to disturb the man, he pulled the sheets carefully down to his waist. He wanted to show Mrs Hudson the seriousness of the situation and check up on how Sherlock's wounds were doing.

"Oh dear, that's not very good is it?" she commented as she saw the skin stretched over the skeletal figure. "What kind of soup would you like?" John smiled at her motherly nature.

"It's ok Mrs Hudson, don't you worry about it. I'll sort it out."

"No, no, you sit right here and keep an eye on him. You've all be wearing yourselves out. I'll do a big pot of chicken soup, that way you can reheat it later and have some for yourselves if that is what you would like."

"Thank you Mrs Hudson, that's very kind," Mycroft interfered. The landlady smiled kindly and hurried out the room.

John looked at Mycroft; he didn't really like imposing so much on the woman, she did rent the flat to Sherlock Holmes after all but it couldn't be an easy feat, even when what Sherlock forgot to pay her was subsidised by the elder Holmes. "We shouldn't make her… crap, don't let her look in the fridge!" John shouted and Mycroft ran out the room but it was too late. A shrill scream filled the flat and there was a distinct noise of the fridge door slamming. John cringed, he had not been using the fridge recently, they'd long since run out of milk and everything else they needed came from the freezer since the thing with Sherlock had started. Even the army doctor, who had seen inexplicable things in the war and was used to finding things in the fridge, found his friend's latest experiment particularly grotesque. He hadn't even bothered asking what he was experimenting on.

Molly, curse the woman, had provided the detective with another head. This one had its eyes removed and then half of the skull and brain. When one opened the fridge they were met with a face with two dark holes and the brain sliced and exposed. It really was most disconcerting. "I, um, I think I'll, um, make the soup in my flat instead," came the shaking voice of the traumatized land lady.


	47. Chapter 47

_I am very sorry; I have no idea when the next update will come. I am off to Ireland tomorrow so, if there is no update soon then, when there is an update it should, hopefully, be several chapters. It's the best I can offer I'm afraid. _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

There was a slamming of a door and then the sound of footsteps rapidly moving down the stairs. All of the noise had woken up a sleepy Lestrade who came wandering into the room. "What was all the noise…? What the hell! He's not meant to be that thin is he?" asked the DI sounding absolutely horrified.

"No he is not," replied John disparagingly. He really needed to check up on Sherlock, having Mycroft, his brother, in the room at the same time was one thing, something most doctors including himself would frown upon, but he did not want Lestrade viewing what he was doing too. It would be too much for his friend to cope with if he was awake.

"Sorry Greg, would you mind checking on Mrs Hudson for me, she had a bit of a fright?" asked John.

"Yeah, I heard the scream, what happened."  
"She looked in the fridge, Sherlock has an experiment."

"Ah, of course I will then. I know how, um, disconcerting that will be."

"Cheers." With that he vanished out the door and John set to work removing the bandaging from Sherlock's chest. "So Mycroft, where does Sherlock get his love of dead bodies and body parts from?" asked John, trying to start a light-hearted conversation, Mycroft obviously did not feel obliged to keep it up.

"From hours of being left alone in the garden, locked out the house and the only thing he had to entertain himself was the remains of dead animals," he replied frankly, eyes fixated on what John's hands were doing, as if he were making sure the doctor did not harm his brother in any way.

"Do you know what I love most about our conversations? It's the light-hearted nature of them." Mycroft glared at John but the doctor had spent too much time with Sherlock to feel at all deterred by the Holmes death glare. "You'll be glad to know that the antibiotics are starting to take effect, the infection is clearing up nicely. It looks worse than it is but it is definitely better than it was." John stated as he gently probed the area and then the lymph nodes in his friend's neck. "Most certainly getting better," he muttered to himself. Next he moved onto the self-inflicted wounds, pretty much forgotten during all the recent excitement but now John had time to think he remembered them. They too were clearing up nicely although. John stood up, "He's getting a lot better."

"What are we going to do about his weight Dr Watson?" demanded Mycroft suddenly.

"Well, we'll put him on a special diet. Technically I'd like to refer him to a dietician but I know he would not appreciate that, I know the basics so I'll get that sorted. Ah, if we were in a hospital I'd put him on a food chart, actually, that's not a bad idea."

"And how will a food chart be beneficial?"

"It'll allow us to calculate roughly his calorie intake, if he's getting the right amount of vitamins he's going to need for this healing process and it'll allow us to easily make changes to the new diet if some aspect has been overlooked."

"Very good, I shall procure one for you Dr Watson."

"Oh, right, um, thanks I guess. I was wondering if you could do me one more favour Mycroft, if it's not too much trouble."

"Tell me what it is and I'll let you know."

"I was just hoping that when you get the chance, simply because you think in a similar way to Sherlock, if you could search his room for me. I need to make sure that there's nothing sharp he can cut himself with and you're much more likely to find something than I am." Mycroft smiled one of his creepy, fake smiles.

"Of course Dr Watson, I'll let you know if I find something."


	48. Chapter 48

_I'm so sorry, I really, really am. I lost the memory stick this was saved on. Clearly I found it again but I am very sorry for the delay. _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

Mycroft had gone above and beyond his call of duty. Instead of simply looking for sharp objects in Sherlock's room he took it upon himself to check every single room of the house. John was not happy when he walked into his own bedroom to find his possessions upturned while Mycroft scrabbled around under the bed. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Searching for sharp objects, just as you requested."

"I specifically said in his room, not mine."

"Where better to hide such a thing than in your sane flat mate's room?" John had been unable to answer that question and, had in fact, thanked the elder Homes when three blades had been discovered.

Sherlock began to heal, sleeping for most of the day, exhausted from the infection and healing the wounds. The doctor found himself having to wake his friend to get soup down him but often found not much of it was being taken, Sherlock simply fell asleep, sometimes mid-mouthful. Instead both John and Mycroft decided it would be prudent to purchase some lucozade and high calorie food. They decided on forticreme yoghurts, something John often used with malnourished patients when he worked in a hospital. He'd feed the detective a few mouthfuls every time he woke up. The doctor prayed it would be enough to sustain him until he recovered enough to take down proper food.

The detective had taken to murmuring in his sleep, normally it was indecipherable nonsense but to John it seemed like he was protesting, trying to escape from something. That was probably quite likely considering what his friend had been through but John had to ignore it even though sometimes it killed him to do so.

Sherlock's periods of wakefulness did not seem to increase until a week had passed and the wounds were well down the healing process. This came as a relief to the doctor, to see Sherlock awake for up to two hours at a time. Unfortunately it meant he was more able to refuse help, and food for that matter. Luckily all it normally took was a reminder of his promise to John to get him to eat half a bowl of soup and a forticreme. He was obviously desperate to get out and about again, he would jiggle around in the bed, itching to be able to move but John would not let him. The man still slept for inordinate lengths of time and he would not last well out on a crime scene, the last thing he needed was for the likes of Anderson or Donovan to see him in a weak and vulnerable state.

So life went on in Baker Street, the increasingly wakeful detective became increasingly more frustrated towards his doctor as the man was the only thing standing between him and freedom. John didn't really mind this, he was used to the man's anger but he did get concerned after another week. Sherlock was agitated, this was not surprising, but he began to claw at his skin, leaving previously undamaged skin and the healing wounds raw and bleeding. Of course the doctor tried everything he could think of to stop him doing it, he talked to him, and got Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to talk to him but the stubborn fool wouldn't listen. He simply kept on clawing and scratching mercilessly at his skin. John even tried putting mittens on the detective. Of course that had gone down as badly as he'd anticipated so eventually he resorted into asking the DI for some cold cases. So long as his mind was kept busy during his relatively short, wakeful periods Sherlock should be ok.


	49. Chapter 49

_I was suffering writers block I'm afraid and I kind of forced myself into writing this one so it's short and probably not that good. Just see how it goes. Normal service should soon be resolved very soon. _

**This isn't how things are supposed to be**

The plan worked to an extent but it wasn't as good as John had hoped it to be. There was interest at first, for the first time in too long (as far as the detective was concerned) he got to solve a mystery. And solve mysteries he did, he got through about fifty, not all at once since he got exhausted still, before the distraction wasn't enough. There wasn't enough stimulation there, he couldn't parade his brilliance in front of fifteen odd ignorant police officers, he couldn't go and look at the position of a corpse in relation to the window as all he had were photographs, he couldn't use his senses to help him and that was what he truly enjoyed doing.

"What idiot thought that these pictures would be of any use to anyone in the future?" Sherlock shouted in frustration caused John to jump and throwing tea all over the front of his woolly jumper. Next there was a file of papers hurtling through the air, flying open and scattering sheets of paper all over the room on impact, Sighing John calmly set his cup of tea down on the table and set to work scrutinizing Sherlock under his doctor's gaze.

The man was lying on his back on the settee, clawing desperately at his arm, brow furrowed in frustration. The skin on his previously healing skin was marred with red-raw nail marks, in some places drawing blood. Quietly he stood up and hurried into the bathroom where he grabbed some cotton wool and a bottle of antiseptic. Upon his return he called Sherlock's name but if the detective heard he hid it very well. Carefully, almost reverently, the doctor placed a hand on the hand that was attacking Sherlock's arm and the man looked up, startled by the gentle physical contact. Hand stopped, suspended in mid-air. "What do you want John?" he growled.

"Let me get a look at your arm first ok, then we'll talk about what happens next."

"I don't want to talk."

"Well give me your arm now and when we're talking you're just going to have to get over it, get what I'm saying?"


End file.
