Prologue: Monday Night

Sherlock's fingers tapped madly against the armchair, drumming a rhythm in tune with the frantic, racing thoughts going through his mind.

"Sherlock, did you hear me?"

Mycroft's voice echoed somewhere in the corners of his mind, snapping him back into reality, but he could not find his voice to reply.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Mycroft insisted, his tone a mix between frustration, pity, and concern. "Sherlock, I just told you your father's dead."

The rhythmic tapping of his fingers became more frantic. His mind felt like it might explode with frustration, and it was all he could do to not leap out of the chair.

His father, dead. How dare Mycroft ruin his otherwise peaceful evening with that kind of news. He hadn't so much as thought of his father in years. Now Mycroft was sitting here, demanding some kind of reaction from him. He knew the horrors that would plague him if he even for one moment allowed himself to think back to his childhood, and it was all he could do to keep those memories at bay.

His father, dead.

He would have punched Mycroft if his brother didn't look so devastated.

"It's nothing he didn't deserve," Sherlock shot.

"He died in a head on collision!" Mycroft exclaimed.

When Sherlock refused to reply Mycroft sighed, running his hands over his face. His brother already looked so tired. How pathetic. His father was less than six hours dead, and Mycroft already looked as though someone broke him in half.

"Perhaps if he bothered to say anything to us in the past fifteen years I would feel more inclined to be upset," Sherlock said.

Mycroft slammed a fist against the side of the couch, and he was just preparing to shout something at him when the door opened and shut. Both of their heads spun towards the entryway to find John standing there.

"Are you two okay?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyes flashed towards his brother, begging him not to say anything. The last thing he needed was John meddling in this, trying to convince him that he should talk and discuss what he was going through.

Especially when the strange thing was, he really felt nothing.

Except hunger.

Possibly because John was carrying a bag of Chinese take-away.

An alert buzzed on his mobile and Sherlock took the phone out of his pocket. A great relief swept over him as he saw Lestrade's simple message: "new case". Sherlock jumped out of his chair and grabbed his coat and the bag of food from John's hand.

"Seriously?" John moaned. "I just got off work."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed behind him, catching the attention of both John and Sherlock. "Thursday. Ten AM. If you're going to bother to show up."

The funeral, of course. Sherlock drew in a deep breath but didn't reply; he knew John's curious eyes were glued to him.

Three days. All he had to get through was three days and this would all be over. He could handle three days of John's questioning, of Mycroft's concerned phone calls, and he was certain he could handle the thought of his estranged father being gone. He would make it through the next three days, solve Lestrade's case, and then move on with his life.

"Come on, John," he muttered quietly.

John followed, letting out a dramatic sigh, and as they exited the flat he caught sight of his brother hiding his face with his hand.

Three days, that was all.

He had no idea just how hard those three days would be.

Author's Note: I know it's not much so far, but this is just insight on what's to come. I estimate this story will be fairly short, probably four or five chapters. It will deal with some fairly dark themes, but I will warn you when those arise. There's no set timeline for when this story takes place, mainly just somewhere after the first episode of series two. Let me know what you think and if you're interested in reading more!