"MYCROFT!" Sherlock yelled as he stormed across the Diogenes Club.

Several members silently gasped and began to send fierce glares at the man who disrupted the silence. Sherlock, however, couldn't care less. His face was red, and he was breathing deep, angry huffs. With his fists still clenched, he yelled his brother's name at the top of his voice once more. The security guards approached Sherlock, but Sherlock remained locked in place. If looks could kill, the entire planet might have disappeared into a dark flaming black hole. An irate older brother came next, and he grabbed Sherlock tightly around the arm and dragged the detective into his clean office.

"How many times have I told you, Sherlock? The Diogenes Club is no place for such childish behavior," Mycroft scolded as Sherlock continued to radiate hot anger. "What is it now? I have other things to do besides taking care of an annoying young brother."

"You said you would look after him," Sherlock snarled. "You said he was fine!"

Mycroft froze, and said slowly, "If I had told you of his condition, it would only have led to dire consequences. If I had told you, you would have put everyone in danger by revealing yourself."

"I could've handled the situation," Sherlock growled.

"Yes, just like how you handled The Great Game! Moriarty has shown he has the ability to get to you very easily, so you needed the element of surprise. If I had told you, you would've gallivanted back to London and therefore let the rest of Moriarty's web place you back into their crosshairs," Mycroft sighed.

All of the energy before was gone. The dark haired man sagged in his seat. Sherlock knew that was exactly what he would've done. Caring was a terrible feeling, and Sherlock had ultimately fell for it. Caring is not an advantage. It had left him feeling hollow and dead to the world. He dimly wondered if this was how John had felt when he watched his best friend die. Sherlock could remember the exact conversation of the phone call, and it started to replay several times in his head. A deep chasm opened up for the second time in his life, and it felt as if all of the excitement of the world drained out. Mycroft could practically smell the loneliness of the man before him, and he let some of his own sadness show onto his face.

"What do I do now?" the dark haired man whispered to the room.

"You should continue to solve crimes. It's what he would've wanted," Mycroft murmured.

"I wish to see the photographs, and the report," Sherlock muttered quietly.

Mycroft had anticipated this for a long time, so he went to the second drawer of his perfectly polished, wooden desk and pulled out a sand colored folder. With a hesitant hand, Sherlock took the folder. It was lighter than he had thought, for he felt as if the folder would've contained every bit of sadness that seeped out of his pores. He opened it, and a crystal clean file of one John Watson greeted him. The picture clipped onto the file was of when John was still in the army since the vast desert skies in his eyes were still twinkling with the prospect of danger. This John wore heavily dusted army fatigues that seemed to wrap around him, as if they belonged there. The photograph was taken out on the dry, barren desert. John had the expression of pure concentration, but even then, a small smile was able to crease his lips.

Sherlock never read John's file, for he had already found out everything that was to know about him just from the day in the morgue. The detective now held an expression of deep thought as he pulled out the report of The Day. A picture of the scene greeted him. John, in his cream jumper, was lying dead on the floor, eyes closed. His gun was gripped loosely in his right hand, and the grey powder burn could be seen on his hand. A pool of scarlet blood pooled behind his head. The blood had soaked into the carpet, and colored the wood. The pool of blood was red, like Irene's lipstick, and it reflected the room like a mirror that only showed tragedies. For the first time, Sherlock felt the urge to look away from the bloody scene. He wanted to vomit.

Sherlock dimly noted the wrinkles that told of sleepless nights. He saw the nightmares that haunted his friend etched onto his pale face. Only this time, it wasn't about the war. A light stubble showed drunken nights and how far John had fell. The dark haired man's stomach rolled and tumbled like a washing machine. The photograph screamed at Sherlock that it was his fault, that he had drove his doctor to suicide. It was his fault.

Sherlock hadn't noticed his hands were violently shaking until Mycroft called out his name, softly, as if they were children once more and Sherlock had climbed up to Mycroft's bed to seek comfort. Sherlock turned the picture and read the report. Gunshot through the mouth. Suicide. Nothing out of the ordinary. No note. John was dead, and there was nothing he could do. He forcibly wiped his overwhelming emotions, shoved the file back at Mycroft, and stalked back to Baker Street head throbbing with locked up feelings.

I hope Sherlock and Mycroft weren't OOC. Like I said before, 7ish chapters. Up next, more angst and the mysteries begin!