Stupidsherlockandstupidjohna ndstupidfoodandstupiddietand stupideverythinganEVERYTHING ISJUSTSOSTUPID, Mycroft's thoughts are a mess as he goes into his house, slams his back on the door and sinks to the floor, stupid, stupid, STUPID.

Tears dripped down his face, and he began to mentally insult himself for showing weakness.

You're an idiot, Mycroft, passing out like that. You only had four days without food. Sherlock goes without it longer. You'll never be like him.

He clawed at his face, his stomach, his body.

You're worthless. You may as well die. Nobody would care.

Mycroft sobbed even harder. It wasn't the first time he'd felt suicidal. But he'd never acted on his thoughts.

Oh what now? Your too scared! Pathetic.

Suddenly, Mycroft's phone pinged, indicating he had a text. He scrambled to his feet, composed himself, straightened out his suit, and took a deep breathe. He took out his phone.

You have (1) message from: John Watson (Mobile)

Mycroft sighed, and hesitantly read the text.

SMS From: John Watson (Mobile) to: Mycroft Holmes (Mobile)

-Mycroft, come for a drink. –JW

A drink? What game was John playing? He knew Mycroft didn't have the patience or time to drink- especially with…"friends." Was John a friend? He didn't know. His mind was fuzzy from his break down a few minutes ago.

SMS From: John Watson (Mobile) to: Mycroft Holmes (Mobile)

-Please. -JW

-My treat. -JW

-I insist. -JW

Mycroft caved in.

SMS From: Mycroft Holmes (Mobile) to: John Watson (Mobile).

-If you insist, although I warn you, I am not the one for drinking. –MH

SMS From: John Watson (Mobile) to: Mycroft Holmes (Mobile).

-Worry not.

John sent him the address of the pub he had in mind, and Mycroft got a ride to the area.

It was a small pub, with a few people in it, but it was cozy and pleasant and not too noisy- which was how Mycroft liked it.

He found John sitting in the table at the back, far away from preying eyes and ears. Mycroft had suspected John was going to question him about the cuts on his arms, and this just confirmed his suspicions.

"Mycroft, hey," John said. Mycroft slipped into the seat across from the ex-army doctor.

"Hello John," Mycroft said shortly.

"I'm assuming you know why you're here,"

"It wasn't a hard deduction,"

"Why? How long?"

Mycroft licked his lips. A year is what he should have said.

"A couple of months,"

"Hmm,"

There was a momentary silence, and John said suddenly, "I'm getting drinks. We'll talk then,"

"If you insist,"

John stood up, patted Mycroft on the shoulder, pulled back sharply, then walked away to the bar.

Mycroft considered running off, but John returned before he could.

"Right, you need help," John said.

"That's a bit blunt," Mycroft said coldly.

John ignored his comment, "Did Sherlock ever do this?"

Mycroft flinched at the memory, "Yes, once, in university,"

"Hmmm. Ok. You should see a therapist,"

"I don't need help, John,"

"Is it because of Sherlock?"

Mycroft froze, "Excuse me?"

"Is Sherlock the reason?"

Mycroft took a sip of his drink, trying to think of an answer, "Partly,"

John snorted, "I knew it,"

"He can be…difficult,"

"Difficult? He's bloody Sherlock Holmes; of course he's difficult,"

Suddenly, John phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn't need to take it out to realise who it was.

"Are you going to answer that?"

John shrugged, "I'll tell him to piss off,"

Mycroft pushed the conversation away from him, and they discussed cases, new and old.

It got later and later, and they drank more and more, and Mycroft realised he was very drunk. So was John.

"Mycroft, have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"What?"

John hiccupped, "Or a boyfriend I suppose,"

"Nope,"

John leaned across the table, and pulled Mycroft in, whispering in his ear, "You should,"

"That tickles,"

"You see, you see My, your pretty good looking,"

"Am I?"

John nodded, and pulled Mycroft in closer.

He kissed him.