So I got a guest review that reminded me that people sort of actually care about this fic. So thank you for that. And I do care about it, I just have trouble writing, ever. Anyway there will probably be 2-3 parts to this chapter. But I have exams so I'm going to try to just update short parts over shorter amounts of time. This scene was torture to write and I'm not overly fond of it but hopefully I made no gross mistakes. Also sorry about the last chapter's formatting - I forgot that ff doesn't keep my page breaks unless I do special raw copy and pasting so it must've been confusing to jump from scene to scene.

The hurt that the heart forgets, the heart will always remember

The hold that the hand regrets, the heart remembers forever

I was put together wrong, still I was made for you

When our stitches come undone, we come together like glue, like glue

His hand on my back.

A simple touch, replicated in a million ways, every day, for every person. The nerve endings receive the sensation and pass it through, a chemical current, through dendrites to soma to axon to synapse to dendrites.

I can feel his heart beat in his hand.

The circular sensation is different.

What does it mean?

Affection, comfort, warmth and

friendship is too little and too much and love is simply absurd and unfair. And it's different from before. He used to do that but John does it better- well of course he does it better. He does everything be-

no, no, that doesn't make sense

stop

stop

blank

blank but noisy

why is life so cruel

oh and now he has stopped.

That is surprisingly disconcerting. What must I do to-

Oh. His hand is so

why won't it stop

it's soft but rough and strong and

his hand is so steady, well of course it is. I'm a danger. I'm a danger.

I'm a

oh he smells good.

No, that's ridiculous. Things don't smell good or bad they just smell.

But he smells - no, no, wrong, tastes- like Irish breakfast tea and cinnamon and earl grey and green tea and

and that is just his mouth.

Oh, his lips are chapped. He does tend to lick them too much with-

no, no, no, delete, delete, back

this is not relevant to- to

no, there isn't room in here for him. Not like this. I can't just-

he always says I'll be the death of him.

How wrong he is.

I can feel it, now. Every neuron firing as my brain utterly deteriorates. This is unpleasant. How is one expected to think with someone else's tongue in their

no

I can't want this it's not

oh, God, I can feel his pulse quickening and that's for me.

Stupid.

Stupid.

I cannot breathe oh my god my lungs feel-

I never meant you any harm

But your tears feel warm as they fall on my forearm

But close my eyes for a while

Force from the world a patient smile

How can you say that your truth is better than ours?

"Mycroft took him."

Sherlock was silent, burning a hole in the wall with his gaze.

"He confessed to everything. He'll probably be locked up for life."

The wheels in Sherlock's brain were turning too soon.

"I know you're probably cross, but-"

Sherlock turned his gaze to John and the cloudy grey-blue pinned John in place.

"Love is such a boring conclusion."

John tipped his head up for a moment and swallowed.

"This wasn't a good kind of love."

"Are any of them good?"

John licked his lips and they turned into a moue. "Not the ones you see."

Sherlock's eyes portrayed surprise for a moment, narrowing slightly in almost-pride at the sharpness of the remark. "And the ones you see?"

John's lips parted slightly and he flexed his jaw, turning away to run his finger along the rim of the styrofoam tea, weak and pale, watered down to provide quantity instead of quality. Wasn't that what love was, then?

"Ah."

John didn't look up. "Well, he's gone now, and you're safe."

"I will not be treated like a-'"

"Well then damn well go off and look for trouble," John spat.

"Come along, then." Sherlock tilted his head down and an omniscient look pased over his features.

"Get some rest." John spoke flatly as he stood and left, dumping the tea out in the bin. Sherlock easily stifled the urge to reach out, not wanting to feel the same bile he had felt all that time ago in the graveyard.

They always come back.

John awoke knowing when he had fallen asleep, and why his bedside table had switched places. And when he sat up, he was not surprised, but comforted by the presence of his flatmate, covered by the thin sheet, curled up tighter than should be possible. Creeping out of the room so as not to disturb Sherlock, John padded into the kitchen, mindful of the broken glass, and filled the kettle. As he flicked it on, he felt the absence in his fist. Clenching and unclenching it, the ghost of fabric of Sherlock's tee slipped through his fingers, and he had to grip the edge of the counter to catch his breath.

The dip of the mattress and the clasping of Sherlock's hands on John's arms, the choked sobs and John's hands curling around Sherlock's skull, grounding him.

The kettle whistled at him and he picked up a cup and put it back down, found the teabags and stared at them. He stared at them and the only thought in his head was, well I, am.

The kettle clicked itself off and the water was cooling down as John stared into the tea cupboard. The cup and teabags were abandoned, and the door closed so softly it almost had never been opened by the time John was flagging down a cab, pulling his jacket on.

"Ah."

John didn't turn around, he stared straight ahead, hands clasped in his lap, legs crossed.

"You've beaten me." Mycroft's smooth tone didn't unsettle John any more than it ever had. The umbrella was stood against the opposite chair, and the briefcase placed slowly on the table. The unsettling part was the familiarity.

"Spare you the trip," John said, eyes tracing Mycroft's movement as he settled himself in the chair. He looked less uncomfortable this time. That didn't seem to ease the tug John felt in the cavity of his chest.

"I do appreciate it." Mycroft smiled congenially. His hands ended up on either armrest, legs crossed, his foot painting small circles in the air. "As happy as I am to see you, John, do-"

"I need his file."

Mycroft swallowed.

"And how is my brother?"

John blinked at him and smiled tightly.

"I know you can't tell me everything."

Mycroft adjusted his tie. Smoothing over the plane of fabric, he looked down at his hands and inhaled sharply.

"I do not think it wise to-"

"You've not thought many things wise and you still did them."

Mycroft met his eyes and ran his tongue along his inner cheek.

"And how," he began, slowly, "is my brother?"

John looked away a moment too long. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. John knew the bastard would record every breath he took.

"He is struggling?"

"Nothing we can't handle."

"Your efforts to protect him from me are valiant, John, however unnecessary."

"Then what is necessary?" John uncrossed his legs and placed his hands firmly on either knee, sitting forward slightly.

"Take care of him. Stay with him-"

"Do you know how many times I've heard that come out of your mouth? Because he wouldn't listen to you."

"And I only say it because it is obvious."

"Mm. I will always stay with Sherlock, because big brother can't help?"

"No."

John's jaw tensed as he watched Mycroft smile smugly.

"Because you will always stay with him."

"Right. Please don't change the subject, Mycroft, it isn't endearing."

"Have we already begun our own rivalry?" Mycroft teased.

"You think it a massive joke, don't you? Let's all just treat Sherlock like a child. Sometimes children do know what they need."

"So, he sent you?"

John pursed his lips.

"Ah. You came because you think it'll help him. He doesn't even know what will-"

"So help me God, I don't ask much of you, Mycroft."

"No, but Sherlock does."

"Mm," John nodded, tongue passing over his lips before he brought a finger to them and narrowed his eyes. "You've let your- rivalry? Feud? Get in the way of…" John splayed his hands out and shrugged his shoulders. "Everything."

"I've done my best to protect-"

"No, no you haven't. Now stop pretending you-"

"Shall we address the shift in your relationship to my brother, then? If we're going to talk about personal situations."

John visibly inhaled before he caught himself and looked off to the side again.

"You wound me in your underestimation of my observational abilities," Mycroft said with a smile.

"I never said I underestimate them."

"You came here, after what? Finally deducing my brother's heart-"

"Right." John stood and made for the door.

"You don't have to act like a schoolboy to get your way, John."

"Oh, and what is it you're doing, then?" John doubled back.

"Inquiring about the health of my brother." Mycroft feigned innocence.

"He's well."

Mycroft raised his brow.

"He's…"

"Struggling through a surprisingly traumatic event by having you join him in bed."

John closed his eyes and nodded. "I'll be going, then, and you can take care to withhold any further observations and opinions you may have on our life," he said after a few moments.

"I am merely trying to aid you in the development of this… relationship."

John barked out a laugh.

"Happy announcements, right? Alright, then. I'll give you this. Either you will give me Moran's file in the next five minutes and I will go home to do your job, and take care of Sherlock, or I will sit here in silence until you tell me everything you know, or physically force me out."

Mycroft's pleasantly condescending face dissolved into solemnity. One long minute passed before he inhaled slowly and swallowed, nodding to the chair. John replaced himself in the seat and clenched his jaw as he kept his gaze locked on Mycroft.

"I trust you told him the very least of the situation."

John nodded tightly, his lips a thin line. Mycroft rubbed the pads of his index finger and thumb together while considering whether or not to lie.

"The majority of what…further interrogation-" Mycroft began, his mouth carefully forming the words to indicate the true underlying meaning, "-supplied us with revolved around Sebastian Moran describing how long he had watched Sherlock. How long he had plotted to eliminate him. Of course, the length of time only drove him further towards insanity. His motives were as you no doubt also extracted from him: he wanted revenge against Sherlock for the death of his boss, Jim Moriarty." Mycroft placed a hand on his knee, keeping it still, leveling his gaze with John's. John tilted his head up minutely, the tendons in his neck stretching. "There was a factor we had not fully considered, of course."

John blinked slowly, silent indication of his power over Mycroft.

"Moran disliked Sherlock ever since his boss fixated on him. And he discovered as many weaknesses as he could. Moriarty may have been the mastermind behind his own plan for Sherlock's demise, but Moran was certainly not just there to put a bullet through someone's brain. Of course, his abilities deteriorated as he- after Moriarty."

"I told Sherlock that Moran cared about Moriarty. There was a certain kind of love and loyalty there. What exactly are we really talking about?"

Mycroft licked his lips.

"Imagine Sherlock in a relationship."

John frowned. "What's that got to do with-"

"Jim Moriarty was possessive, manipulative, and abusive. His relationship with Moran was what an ordinary individual would call… more of an understanding."

"I'm still not seeing how this relates to Sherlock."

"Can you imagine my brother not being possessive and compulsive, if he had a lover, or otherwise?"

"I'm sorry, are you comparing your brother to- no. No- you." John breathed out a disbelieving laugh and paused. "Mm. You are a fantastic bastard, Mycroft. But likening him to Moriarty? Please."

"I am not likening him to Moriarty. I am simply implying that you must apply whatever notions you have about what Sherlock would do in a relationship to Moriarty, and amplify the negative effects. Sherlock, to my knowledge, has never understood love or being close to someone. You are the first person to have ever broken that barrier."

John gave Mycroft a weakly irritated look and cleared his throat. "Well. Mycroft, thank you for your input on that subject. I'll let Sherlock tell me what he thinks, shall I?"

Mycroft hummed lightly and quirked a half-smile, eyes narrowing. "So, you do intend to have a discussion?"

"Didn't say that."

"Are you intending, then, to tell him information about Moran to settle his mind so you may move forward?"

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business," John spoke with a familiar smile. Mycroft's smile turned into a vaguely distressed look, as he remembered their first meeting.

"Yes," Mycroft said, after a few moments. He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and breathed in sharply. "So, will that be all?"

John snorted and raised his eyebrows. "Think that's the first time you've ever asked me if we're finished."

"There's a first time for everything, John."

John studied Mycroft for a minute until he looked down and sighed. "Well, yes, that will be all. Once you retrieve the file."

Mycroft looked away and rubbed his chin before looking back to John and speaking. "That was not the agreement, John."

"Well you haven't given much all the information I'm sure is available."

"It would not do to show him all of it."

"Do you think I'm stupid enough to show him something that could trigger a harmful memory? I am a doctor. Everyone seems to forget."

"Of course not. However, he may not like all of the answers we provide him."

John looked at Mycroft patiently.

After yet another long pause, Mycroft spoke, quietly. "You may not like all of the answers I provide."

"If you're going to tell me Moran is dead, I don't particularly-"

"As I said. Moran gathered information about Sherlock in order to find weaknesses," Mycroft interrupted, raising his voice slightly.

"About his past."

"Yes. And- about you. He, well. He thought you two were rather similar."

John swallowed thickly, remembering.

"In the end, his motives were rather… extraordinarily ordinary. Not ones which would interest Sherlock. But I'm sure you've both figured that out, by now."

"So what did you do with him?"

"Locked up."

"That's it?"

"I'm not saying we didn't do whatever was necessary to extract information."

John nodded. "So… I tell Sherlock that Moran's motives were jealousy and revenge, and chalk it up to a boring ole' 6, throwing in a cup of scandalizing personal information? There's really nothing else you can give me?"

Mycroft stared into John's eyes for a few moments before looking down at his own hands. "Fun."

"Sorry?"

"He thought it fun."

John blinked at Mycroft.

"He and Moriarty did it all because it… because they were bored," Mycroft said ruefully. "Subtract the only friend you have - in this case, Moriarty - and all that's left is the killing."

"Makes them sound human," John muttered.

"Oh, I can assure you. They were very human." Mycroft raised his brow while staring at the floor. "Just not the good kind. And they were psychopaths. Moran still is. Not in the way- well," Mycroft looked back up at John. "Their psychopathy was clearly diagnosed," he finished, sadness in his tone.

John nodded and licked his lips until he processed what Mycroft had said. Frowning, he spoke. "That sounds… leading."

Mycroft weakly smiled. "Mm. Well. Tell Sherlock-"

"Mycroft."

"You will-"

"Mycroft," John said sternly.

Mycroft pursed his lips and gave John an inquisitive look.

"What are you implying?"

"I am…" Mycroft began, and sighed. "My brother is many things." He rubbed his fingers together again. "Rude, arrogant, aloof, unpredictable, manipulative, and controlling. But he is not insane."

John regarded Mycroft. Licking his lips, he again nodded. "Yeah." He inclined his head. "Yes, I know."

"Do not let him believe what Moran thought," Mycroft said, a slightly desperate look in his eyes.

John watched him carefully and closed his eyes in agreement. "I don't."

Mycroft did not meet his eyes again.