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Sherlock looked down at the body of the 17 year old teen. They had been too late to save her. He had been too slow in his deductions.
"It wasn't your fault, you know," John said quietly.
"Of course not." The detective spun on his heel and turned up the collar on his coat against the sudden cold. It felt as if the temperature had dropped off several degrees. He walked away from the crime scene, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead.
"John?" Greg quizzed as he ran in through a side door. He saw Sherlock leaving and glanced at the broken body on the floor. "Where's he going? The killer's still out there."
"It was her father," John said softly, "Sherlock worked it out yesterday, and he just needed more proof."
"So why didn't-"
"It was little more than a hunch, but don't tell him I said that. You couldn't have acted on what little he had." John shook his head. "And now he'll beat himself up over it and pretend nothing's wrong. The worst part is, I can do fuck all about it."
"Couldn't you… no, I suppose not." The DI sighed. "I'll see about getting the dad arrested. Will he want to talk to him? Will it help?"
"Only he can answer that."
"And he's God knows where by now," Greg finished.
"No, he'll be outside, sat by the wall waiting for me."
With that, they parted ways. John found Sherlock right where he expected to find him, but with the addition of a cigarette between his lips. The doctor sighed, but didn't say anything about it. "Shall we go home, then?"
Sherlock nodded and allowed the doctor to pull him to his feet.
"What do you fancy for tea?"
Sherlock shrugged, more than aware John would make him eat no matter what. He'd probably shove Jammie Dodgers in front of him. With a sigh, the detective hailed a cab. He held the door open and let John get in, told the driver the address, then closed the door still standing on the pathway. The cab pulled off and Sherlock melted into the crowd, determined to walk back to the flat alone. Sherlock made it half a block before he literally bumped into John. He had had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and was scuffing his shoes as he stared at the ground.
"Nice try." John fell into step beside the detective. "But you shouldn't be alone."
"I'm fine."
"Right."
"Really."
"I'm not arguing." John sniffed and looked around, pointedly not giving Sherlock a concerned look.
Sherlock sighed, he let his hand slip into the older man's and he held it tight.
His boyfriend holding hands in public? John rolled his eyes, no, definitely nothing wrong, this time his concerned glance couldn't be diverted.
The fact that the detective didn't seem to be observing everything that was going on around them was worrisome. He was simply walking with his eyes downcast.
John knew he needed to speak with Sherlock, he needed to somehow get through to him that emotions were not a crime and talking about them with someone you trusted was the way through them. What he didn't need was so long to ponder everything so this time he hailed a cab and didn't let go of his hand as they climbed into the back.
The detective just looked out the window of the cab, not really seeing what passed by.
"Want to talk about it?" John asked.
He didn't get so much as a glare in response.
Sighing, he lifted himself up and dumped himself on Sherlock's lap.
"John-"
"What? You're comfy."
The detective pushed at him ineffectually for a moment, then surrendered. It didn't matter where John sat, after all. Sherlock ran through the events of the last few days, trying to figure out what he could have done differently. He should have told the DI about his suspicions, but he would have just called them flimsy at best. Which they were… at the time, at least. And now another victim was dead because he was too god damn slow. Sherlock's fists were balled so tight, his fingernails were digging into the palms of his hands. He didn't care. He had retreated to his Mind Palace and was looking at the young woman's dead and staring face. Her face was full of accusation as if to ask why he hadn't done more.
"Sherlock. Oi, Sherlock! Hey!" John slapped him this time and he jerked alert.
"John?"
"We're home."
The next thing the detective really knew, he was throwing himself down on the sofa. He grabbed the Union Jack pillow and covered his face, his back to the room. Surely John would take the hint and leave him alone.
John didn't want to let him out of his sight, so he dragged his armchair over and collapsed into it.
"Would you please shut up?!" The detective pulled the pillow onto his head tighter. "You're thinking too loudly. In fact, go away. Go clean or make tea or do any of those other inanities you find so comforting."
John wanted him to be like this. At least talking, he wasn't brooding so individually. Deciding on the spot that Sherlock definitely needed a distraction he got to his feet and climbed onto the younger man, laying down.
"Get off me!" The detective bucked and wriggled, but couldn't dislodge John. "What are you doing? Even an idiot like you should be able to see that I want to be left alone."
"What you want doesn't come into this."
Somehow amidst the struggling, Sherlock ended up flat on his back and John laying on his tummy. The doctor lent forward to kiss him again and again.
Sherlock put up with it... barely. "Why do you insist on behaving in such a fashion?"
"I'm trying to kiss you better."
"There's nothing wrong with me. I don't see how you can fail to understand that."
"Because I hate it when you sulk."
"Yeah… well… sod off."
With that, John climbed off him and walked out of the flat, not sparing him another glance. It was that or lose his temper entirely and the doctor didn't want to do that. He knew Sherlock would be safe enough with Mycroft's surveillance on the flat.
Sherlock stared at the ceiling, viciously glad that John had left... and completely devastated at the same time. It served to prove that he really was worthless as a detective and as a boyfriend.
3 days later Mycroft made his way up the stairs, his umbrella tapping each one. When he got to the top, the door was open and he could see his brother quite clearly, laid out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
Sherlock knew his brother was standing there, likely judging him, looking down his superior nose at him. "Sod off, Mycroft." His voice was barely above a whisper but he didn't care. He heard the tell-tale signs that the umbrella had been dropped and then his brother's footsteps across the room.
"Lock, what have you done?" Mycroft asked quietly.
"I killed a girl," he choked out.
Mycroft frowned at those words. He had been hoping that John had been exaggerating the situation, but alas, not. Quietly, he crossed to the doctor's chair and sat.
"What are you going to do then, Mycie? Phone Greg? Have him arrest me?"
"No," he said softly. "Why would I do that?"
"Because it's my fault!" He hissed.
"I know precisely what happened. I know whose fault it was... and whose it wasn't." The government official let his head fall back against the cushion.
Sherlock didn't comment.
Mycroft sat in silence for a moment before he leaned forward and dropped his hand in his brother’s curls. "It wasn't your fault, Lock."
The detective bit his lip, still refusing comfort.
"Do you remember the Nielsen episode?" Mycroft asked softly.
"It wasn't your fault, Myc, you couldn't have-"
"This is the same thing, baby brother." He stroked Sherlock's curls gently, noting how his brother's eyes had grown watery.
"No, it's not, it's-"
"Shh," Mycroft soothed. "It is. What have you learned after all these years, eh? I'm always right. Always."
"I don't want to care, Mycroft." Sherlock brought his hands up and wiped at his eyes. "I'm supposed to be a sociopath. I'm not supposed to care if someone dies, right? I'm not supposed to even care how people feel."
Mycroft sighed and whispered one word. "Redbeard."
"He doesn't count," he mumbled as a response.
"Stay right there, I'll get you a drink."
When the elder Holmes came back, it was to find Sherlock perched on his chair, his knees drawn up to his chest. Mycroft shoved the drink into his hands. "Drink that, little brother. You need it."
Sherlock's eyes flickered up to meet his older brother's and the no-nonsense look there told him there was no point arguing. He downed the glass in one go. The burn as the liquid slid down his throat and settled in his stomach was welcome. After a moment, he held out the empty glass to his brother, hoping for a second drink.
Mycroft smirked. "It's like you're 5 again."
"You used to like looking after me, don't lie."
This time he chuckled and reached forward to ruffle his hair again. "That I did, little brother." Mycroft poured another drink and handed it to his brother. "Take this one a bit slower."
Sherlock took the drink and held it, staring at the amber liquid. "It hurts, Myc."
"Yes, because John said he left three days ago, despite coming back on numerous occasions it was to find you not moving and ignoring him. So you haven't eaten, nor drank in all that time."
"I wasn't ignoring him. I was in my Mind Palace."
"Flagellating yourself over the victim's death, no doubt. Locking yourself away in your mind with a dead body isn't the answer, Lock."
"Then what is?"
"John."
"But he's gone."
"He didn't want to lose his temper with you." Mycroft sighed, "But like I said, he's been back to check on you."
Sherlock set his drink aside and curled up on his chair. He had his face hidden in his arms. It was suddenly too much - the dead girl, being alone, no John. The detective started crying quietly.
Mycroft moved over and started petting his brother's messy curls again. "Go ahead and feel it, Lock, and when you're ready, let me call John."
Sherlock shook his head, not sure what to do or say. Mycroft lifted his head up momentarily and slumped into the gap left on the sofa, Sherlock's face was immediately buried in his lap. They sat like that for a long time, the elder Holmes letting his brother cry it out. There were years of pent up self-loathing behind his tears.
Mycroft needed to phone John but his brother had eventually fallen asleep on his lap. He didn't want to disturb him, this was likely the first time he'd slept in days. He was saved the trouble, though, when the door opened and John appeared.
The doctor met Mycroft's eyes. Silently, he mouthed, "How is he?"
"Better, I believe," the government official whispered back. "He let himself cry."
John nodded once, he didn't know what to do now. He had expected world war three to be in his living room, not this. This was… different.
"It's been a long time coming, John. We both know that." Mycroft sighed. "Would you be willing to put on tea? I don't believe I'm going anywhere for a while."
Sherlock didn't so much as sniffle or twitch. He kept sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.
John nodded. "Of course." As he made his way into the kitchen, he let his surprise show. He should have known Mycroft would be the one to sort it… or at least help in a way he couldn't. He liked to think he knew Sherlock better than anyone else - 33 year old Sherlock maybe, but child-like Sherlock, he couldn't compete with the British Government.
When he had finished brewing the tea, he carried a mug through to Mycroft. "Thank you. He was hurting so much and I just seemed to make it worse-"
"I don't think he'll keep his feelings from us again. Well, he'll try, but we won't let him, will we?"
"No, we won't."