A/N I know it's been quite some time, sorry for the three year absence! I was recently re-watching Sherlock and wanted to continue this fic. TW for minor self-harm.

Sherlock, Mycroft, and Charlie fell into a familiar routine once they reached Mycroft's flat.

Mycroft went ahead and took all potentially dangerous objects out of the common areas and locked them in a box that he kept under his bed.

Sherlock kept his arm around his sister, who was still stewing in a stony silence.

Charlie focused all her energy on breathing, and distractedly ran her finger over a large scar lining her right wrist.

When Mycroft was done with the sharps, he rejoined his siblings. Wordlessly, he led them to Charlie's room. Not the safe room, but the one that she, or on the rare occasion Sherlock, would use to stay the night.

The room itself was lovely, done up in purples and reds and yellows. Though she would often use this room for social visits, the precautions her brother insisted upon remained. There were two full size beds, no mirror, and a bathroom that did not lock. Charlie felt like a prisoner.

Charlie shrugged off Sherlock's arm from her shoulder, and moved unsteadily towards her bed. She sat cross legged on the edge of it, staring a bit distantly into her hands.

Mycroft cleared his voice, breaking the tenuous silence they had fallen into. "Charlie, can you do some rates for us?" She nodded. "One to ten it for me, hun. How dissociated are you right now?" Mycroft asked.

The safety scales the siblings had worked out moved to the forefront of all their minds. They had all hoped to never need them again.

"Maybe a four and half," she answered quietly.

A four and a half they could work with. Anything above a five and a half, there was a great risk for self harm. Anything above an eight and a half usually lead to a black out. She usually lost her ability to speak around seven or so, and her ability to hear meaningfully around an eight.

Sherlock moved closer, and stood straight backed next to his brother. He loathed the need for these questions. He loathed that man who had hurt his sister. He wished to remain pleasant for Charlie, but his sentiment and rage betrayed him. He laced his fingers behind his back, and squeezed his hands together. He tightened his jaw almost imperceptibly.

"Alright," Mycroft smiled tightly and took a breath. "How badly do you want to hurt yourself?" He continued, his voice assuming a terrible casual air, as though these questions didn't chill him, as though he didn't fear the answer.

There was a pause in which the brothers forced themselves to remain still, while Charlie lowered her head. "About a seven," she mumbled.

"Ok." Mycroft tensed and Sherlock looked sideways at him. "That's good to know."

Hurriedly, Sherlock spoke, knowing full well that this high a score warranted a chaperone. "Well then, who do you want to stay with you, Char?"

Charlie just shook her head.

"You know the rules, sister mine," Mycroft said, not unkindly.

They listened to the clock ticking for several moments. Charlie sighed, and finally pointed at Sherlock.

Mycroft forced a smile into his face. "Well then," he said, with a false cheer that clashed horribly with the mood. "I'll expect you to get some rest. Sleep well."

Charlie nodded miserably, face still tilted downward. Mycroft's face grew strained with sadness, and he stepped towards her, putting his hands lightly of either side of her head. Showing a rare amount of tenderness, he kissed her on the forehead. Charlie smiled tiredly.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "I have to be at work tomorrow I'm afraid, but I assume you can take some time off from your... consultations, brother?"

Sherlock waved a hand at him, "Yes, of course."

Mycroft cast a glance to Charlie who had begun to take off her shoes. "Do get me if you need anything," he said, voice low.

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft left, looking back to Charlie once more as he exited the room.

As soon as Mycroft left the room, Charlie's face crumpled and her frame shook with sobs.

Sherlock's face softened immediately, eyebrows knit together with concern. He hurried to sit next to her on the bed, put an arm around her and pulled her tight against his side.

She leaned into him, turning to clutch his shirt and cried heavily into it.

"Sherlock," she started, "I can't do this, I can't do this anymore. I can't do this again. Please Sherlock."

Sherlock held her even tighter, feeling unsure of what to say. He channeled John, dear gentle John, said simply, "You're going to be alright. I promise."

At this, Charlie choked, but nodded and continued to cry, increasingly softly, until she had tired herself out enough to fall asleep.

Sherlock shifted Charlie under the covers, tucking her in lightly. He reached to put off the light, and sat himself on the other bed. He tented his fingers beneath his chin, and watched with sad eyes, the furrowed brows of his sister, restless even in sleep.

Charlie shot up in her bed, leaning forward, hair half covering her face.

She looked around her, a bit wildly, and saw Sherlock in the other bed, slumped with his neck tilted against the headboard.

Guilt tore up her throat as she realized he had fallen asleep watching over her.

As quietly as she could, she rose from her bed, kicking at the sheets that have woven themselves around her ankles.

Her socked feet hit the floor, and she began to make her way to the door of her room.

Her pulse raced erratically, and she shoved a fist inside her mouth so she wouldn't scream out.

Once outside the room, she slammed herself back into the wall, sliding down it until she was folded against the baseboard. It was here that she tried to regain her breath.

The events of the day pressed hard against her skull. He had touched her. He had grabbed her shoulder and said terrible things.

It wasn't your fault, she said to herself. It wasn't your fault. Her breath hitched. It wasn't your fault…right?

She banged her head, just once, against the wall. The pain gave her a moment reprieve away from the line of thinking that had given her so many broken nights. She rose to shaky feet and made her way towards the kitchen, hoping for a glass of water.

Her hands shook and shook as she reached for a glass and clumsily turned on the tap, struggling not to drop the glass on the floor.

She downed the water quickly.

She glanced to the glass, and the idea took hold of her.

She hadn't had nightmares like this in some time. It had been so real, so much like before.

She looked around her and seeing no sign of either of her brothers, she wrapped the glass in a dishtowel to dampen the sound, and hurriedly slammed it into the tile floor.

She knelt quickly, opened the towel, and found with a trained eye the perfect shard to use.

She pushed up her sleeve and placed the glass to her inner arm.

Everything around her was so surreal, so terribly close to her, so far from her understanding. She was small and lost and the wounds she had been trying to heal for years felt raw and torn apart. She felt delicate and abused, like a butterfly with its wings torn off.

She took a deep breath in. Something in her screamed for her to stop, and something a bit quieter reminded her she hadn't hurt herself in 4 years.

In her mind, she saw his face. She heard his words, louder still.

"Shut up," she said out loud. Still she heard his voice. Could feel his warm breath on her. Time started to warp and lose meaning, her chest burning. "SHUT UP!" She shouted, the tip of the glass pressed into her arm as she clenched, just enough to form a single droplet of blood.

She startled as the lights in the kitchen came on, Sherlock standing with his mouth just ever so slightly open, his hair tussled and unruly from sleep.

"Charlie," he said, taking a slow step towards her. His voice caught, imperceptible to anyone other than a Holmes. "You don't want to do this. Please, put that down now."

Charlie replied with one sad, broken syllable, "Lock." She loosened her grip on the glass.

In two long strides, Sherlock made his way to her. His heart was pounding, and his chest uncomfortably tight. He knelt in front of her, looking at her inquisitively as she avoided his eyes.

"Charlie," he said, his voice so quiet and kind. "Please. It's alright, let me see the glass." He held his hand out, and Charlie raised her eyes to look at him.

A tense moment passed, and she relinquished the shard of glass into his hand. He placed it behind him and threw his arms around her, as her tears increased in urgency.

By this time Mycroft had found his way into the kitchen, disheveled in his dressing gown and sleeping outfit.

"What's happened?" He asked, making his way to the twins. He looked to Charlie, saw the spot of red on her still outstretched arm. Without conscious effort, names of therapists and treatment facilities and connections he could use to provide the best care flew through his mind.

"It's alright Mycroft." said Sherlock, pulling himself back to study his sister's face once more. "A nightmare, right Char?" She nodded miserably.

Mycroft spun on his heel to retrieve the first aid kit, and came back.

"I'm alright, Croft. It's alright." Charlie said, squirming away from Sherlock. She pulled her knees up to her chest. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." She began to cry in earnest.

"Now, it's alright. Let me see your arm." Mycroft knelt before her, cleaned the wound carefully, cascading her with soft words. He placed a bandage over the mark.

Mycroft shifted and settled back on his heels. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Charlie kept her eyes down. "No, n-not right now."

"Tomorrow, then," said Sherlock, making his way to stand, helping his sister up.

"Tomorrow." Said Mycroft.

A/N Thank you so much for reading this. More to come soon. Please review!