A/N: I received a request to continue to the end of The Abominable Bride, and I thought, fair enough. So, here is the sequel to my prequel's midquel which extends into the Special. Enjoy. Possible triggers include the previous ones.

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or its characters. :'(

When I left, I was leaving with a brother.

Him and me, all we had was one another.

We were young, it was springtime,

and our dreams of gold were grand.

Oh Kristina, gold can turn to sand.

- Gold Can Turn to Sand, "Kristina"

x

x

Sherlock's mind palace has a certain taste. He's never noticed it before now, but it definitely expels an aroma of rain with an under layer of formaldehyde.

It's raining... it's pouring...

It's not like waking from a nightmare. No starting awake in a cold sweat, panting as he falls back with his heart pounding, but then looking around, relieved that it was only a dream. This isn't a movie, and that was not a dream.

There is no relief here. Drugs do not mix well with memory palaces. Sherlock very well knew this going in. Even if he hadn't... he probably would have anyway. A dead man's inconceivable return? A suicide turned resurrection? Nicotine - even nicotine patches - would have merely slowed him down.

I'm not an addict. I'm a user.

Nicotine helps him descend into his palace. It relaxes him, clouds his surroundings. If he is less distracted by the outside world, less inclined to be pulled from his research, then he focuses better. That is why John must leave the room when he has no aid. But nicotine is very mild in comparison to the mixture currently flowing through Sherlock. A small hand spade to the great bull dozer that digs him deeper and deeper within the recesses of his mind, a dark corner he has never enjoyed prowling through.

Narcotics cause a different reaction. He descends quicker, and can find what he needs in less than five minutes if it's an easy solution. But the harder the problem and more difficult the solution, then the more dangerous his session will be. He spends longer wandering, searching, and eventually forgetting the Now and being forced to confront the Before.

The heavier the dosage, the more difficult it becomes to resurface. It is a side effect of whatever he takes. Doesn't matter what, because it is always the same. He forgets reality, as drugs were intended for, and invents his own. One where his pathetic fantasies draw him in like fishing lures, and if he doesn't have the proper incentive as a grounding tool, he will only fall deeper and deeper into his Wonderland.

But when he is able to wake up, it is a... relief. He is freed from the cage of his design.

Today is different though. It will always be different. Nothing will ever be the same because of him. Wakefulness is bittersweet on his tongue.

The rain is past, and all that remains is the closeness of three people surrounding him. A.G.R.A... Brother Mine...

John.

But... he just - they were just on a...

He's... on a plane? Why would he...

The sensation finally travels up his nerve endings, slowly rewiring themselves back to his hard drive. His transport aches; heartbeat slow, even for him. His skull is throbbing, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Reality is too bright. Why is it so blindingly white?

Then, it all... nauseatingly... comes back to him with one look at the pregnant woman across from him.

John's hand leaving his.

The phone call important enough to bring him back.

Did you make a list?

This could kill you! You could die.

I'm not an addict.

He looks up. John is there. Just like he promis -

Oh no. No, no. No.

The look in his eyes sends Sherlock back to the night he returned, the night John got them kicked out of three food joints because he kept punching Sherlock in his grieving fury. He never thought he would actually wish for John's anger. He would take John's fist before he would ever face this man's...

The bruises on the insides of his arms, hidden under his jacket, sting. John will certainly search the flat when he gets the chance.

Oh God.

Shame wells inside him like a thorn, festering deeper and deeper until it causes him actual nausea. John was never supposed to look at him like that. He wants to crawl back into his mind palace. Crawl on his hands and knees if only John will never look at him like that again.

But perhaps if he can convince him that there is nothing to... worry about. It can go away. It can go back to normal.

"Miss me?" His voice cracks a tad. Just the drugs. He swallows in an attempt to loosen his throat.

Above all, John mustn't know. Never know.

The look changes to concern and the knot of remorse dissipates somewhat. "Sherlock? You alright?"

Not sure. His muscles are stiffening. "Yes, course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You probably just OD'd," Mary says. "You should be in Hospital?"

He shook his head. "No time. I have to go to Baker Street now." He stands. The cabin spins and rocks beneath his feet. Oh. Maybe he... he does need - No.

No, he won't go. He's spent too long in hospital as is. He will be fine once he get back in the game. Once he has the distraction again. He steadies himself, ignoring his shaking legs. "Moriarty's back."

But Mycroft, as usual, blocks his way. The look is on his face. Not quite like John's (doesn't cut as deep). Perhaps it is due to the numerous exposures to his.

I'm not angry with you.

Sherlock doesn't care. Why should he? It doesn't matter. Mycroft has an opinion about everything. He's never approved of Sherlock anyway. He has always been a burden to him. What's one more disappointment to add on to the ever growing list?

"I almost hope he is." He holds up the paper, the hangman's noose, the blade of the guillotine. "If it'll save you from this."

Sherlock yanks it from him, swallowing the bitterness in his mouth. (Just the drugs.) "No need for that now." He rips it in two, then another two, and lets the pieces fall to the floor. There. It's done. No more. They will never speak of it again. "I've got the real thing." He nods. "I have work to do."

He starts forward to step past Mycroft.

"Sherlock."

Christ, will he never make anything easy for him? Could he, just this once, shut up and leave him the hell alone? It was his choice, and Mycroft is selfish for thinking that it was somehow to do with him. It was never about Mycroft. Why can't he see that? Why can't he see, that no matter how hard he tries, he will never change him. Sherlock, no matter if he is thirteen or thirty-eight, will always be the disappointment, the burden, the screw up to Mycroft's unconquerable prowess.

But maybe he too is exhausted today, for he only says two words. "Promise me."

Sherlock stares at him, sweat dampening his back.

...searching... memory/+recent+brother^30m

"I'll wager with you."

He heard Mycroft inhale slowly in the seat in front of him. "Wager?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't had a good gamble in a while."

Mycroft's eyes met his in the rear view mirror. "What are we betting?"

"I bet it takes longer than six."

He could see his jaw tightening. He was grinding his teeth again. Another dental appointment would be made soon. Bad for the enamel.

"You won't get anything. You can't come back."

"Even if the government owes me?"

Mycroft smirked. Good. Sherlock was getting to him. "Your exile entails a wanted poster around all checkpoints in the United Kingdom. You cannot contact any British citizen and if you are caught inside the borders, you will be imprisoned, and there will be nothing I can do to stop them." His eyes hardened, that smirk now a snarl. "You are alone."

The bubble of immature glee that had been growing in Sherlock the last ten minutes deflated.

"Good." He laced his fingers together. "I'll finally be free from this nation of idiots." The car was approaching the tarmac. He could see a small white jet awaiting him. He looked up again at the front seat. "Last chance. You want to miss out on an opportunity to lose a hundred quid?"

Mycroft didn't answer. The car stopped and he stepped out, followed by Sherlock. He had to slow down with every action. Unbuckling, pulling the door handle, even standing. Mycroft couldn't suspect anything, or it would be over. Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff and leaned against the car. Better to avoid swaying.

"Want to smoke?" he said.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Not particularly."

Sherlock shrugged. "Might be the last one I have for a while. If your estimation is correct, then I won't be here for the next Christmas."

After a moment, Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a case and his lighter. "I'm never wrong," he reminded him. Sherlock smirked and reached for it, but Mycroft held it back. "I won't gamble with your life."

"Good." It was never his to gamble with in the first place.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's upper lip curled in anger. "I don't want you wasting it. Especially on a mission like this."

Sherlock blinked and looked around. The car with the Watsons was not there yet. "Oh please, are you actually going to say goodb - "

"Sherlock - "

"Nope." Sherlock shook his head, all amusement gone. "Not this time."

Mycroft glared at him, his hands tightening around his umbrella. "Never again, thanks to you."

Sherlock held out his hand. "Give me the damn cigarette, Mycroft." Thank goodness for his temper; it wasn't shaking.

His brother placed it in his outstretched palm. Before he pulled back, he locked with Sherlock's eyes. "Promise you won't."

Sherlock took the cigarette. "Why?"

The snarl was back. Mycroft angrily jammed his own cigarette into his mouth. "Forget it, you insufferable cheat."

...memory_found+file:emMP ***

Sherlock is confused. Why does he care?

I was there for you before.

But then University happened. His career happened. John happened. Only... now he doesn't have John, because Mary happened.

Who does he have now?

I'll always be there for you.

Sherlock isn't sure whether it's the truth or not. He's always been good at reading people, apart from Mycroft. He has never been able to deduce Mycroft as well as he would have liked. It would have saved him a lifetime of difficulty if he were able.

But he doesn't have time to wonder if Mycroft is telling the truth, or if he cares. Sherlock doesn't care. Why should Mycroft? It won't do him any good. Either of them.

"What are you still doing here?" Frustration is making his throat is close up again. He needs to get out of there. "Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon or something? Like a proper big brother?"

And without another look, he shoulders past, and hurries off this accursed plane, Mary and John close behind. He slides his coat on, the biting air of January cutting into his skin like razors.

He hears John behind him. "Sherlock, hang on. Explain. Moriarty's alive."

"I never said he was alive. I said he was back."

"So he's dead," Mary restates, nodding.

Sherlock blinks. "Course he's dead. He blew his own brains out, no one survives that." He pulls his gloves on. "I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it."

Not true. And John knows it. Fat Mycroft couldn't have kept his bloody mouth shut.

Sherlock straightens his back. He can do this. "Moriarty is dead, no question, but more importantly, I know exactly what he's going to do next." He heads around to the passenger side of the car.

"Sorry? Did you just say you know his plan?" John heads for the other side.

"Yes."

"Course. Course you do." John opened the door in the backseat. "Sure it's not the drugs talking?"

Sherlock nearly pulls off the door handle. Not an addict. He pauses, calming himself and exhales. "Yes."

"So what is his plan? Or, whoever it is that's doing this."

Hasn't this all... happened before? There's nothing new under the sun.

Sherlock leans back in the cold backseat of the car. John climbs in next to him.

"This new player is using Moriarty as a mask."

"How does that help us in planning his next move."

"Because they will be following his pattern. They are new but the game is old. One that I - we - have played before."

"A copycat," Mary supplies.

He sighs. "Precisely." He lays his head back. The sweat has cooled against his lower back.

The driver starts the car up and it pulls away from the tarmac. Good riddance. Sherlock's stomach lurches with the movement. He swallows quickly.

The headache has escalated to a splitting migraine that radiates across his skull with an epicenter just behind his eyes. He leans on his shoulder against the car door and shades his eyes with his hand.

John clears his throat. "'Scuse me, do you think we could stop for some water?"

Another voice. "Here."

"Sherlock."

He opens his eyes. John is holding a bottle of water. Sherlock twists off the cap and swallows. He needs to flush it all out of his system. Another few days of delay.

His head is heavy.

"Hey." A tap on his arm.

"Mm?"

"Can you talk to me?"

"No," he mutters.

John takes the bottle from him. "You need to keep talking."

He rubs his temples. "This is hardly the first time this has happened, Doctor. I am capable of taking care of myself."

"Maybe not, but it is the first time it wasn't an accident."

To that, Sherlock has no response. He couldn't even if were able.

Controlled usage is not usually fatal.

Controlled.

Usually.

Oh John. Sherlock smiles a little. What will he do without him?

And it is then that the anxiety he has been avoiding since the wedding overwhelms him. It has been growing, festering inside him like a disease that he's had to work harder and harder with each passing month to supress. Now, the fatigue and controlled overdose have provided the perfect breeding ground. The pain returns with a vengeance into Sherlock's (heart) brain. The terror of John leaving him, and he most assuredly will this time. He will leave because of the baby, and Sherlock will be...

He shuts his eyes and, to his horror, wet, hot tracks make their way down his face.

He hates everyone right now, no matter how ridiculous. He hates Moriarty for murdering Carl Powers. He hates Mary for being a liar. He hates his brother for confusing him.

But he hates himself more than any of them, dead or alive. He hates what he is. Hates that he still feels things. Hates that he hopes for something that has been impossible since the first moment. For weaving a fantasy in his head about how much better life would be if John was there. How John can protect Sherlock better than Sherlock can. How stupid he is compared to Mycroft. (Mycroft would never have gotten himself in this situation.) Mycroft isn't weak like he is.

He doesn't need a center of orbit. He doesn't need anyone.

There is a hand on his arm, shaking him.

"Okay, stop the car! We need to stop."

He feels the seatbelt loosen around his waist and hears a door open before the car has completely stopped, letting in the cold.

"Shh, Sherlock," Mary is saying. "It's okay. We've stopped now."

The door next to him opens, bright unfeeling daylight drilling into his senses, and two surprisingly strong hands grip him around the shoulders.

"Come on," John grunts in his ear. "Let's - No, stay there, we're fine. Just... give us a minute."

His feet scrape along the gravel on the side of the road. John's hand on his arm, guiding him.

"It's okay. I've got you now. Just breathe. Here." They've stopped. "Let's set you down now. Nice and easy. There we go." John eases him to his knees on the ground. He doesn't feel so lightheaded now, but the ground is still spinning. Like a merry-go-round, the world is going too fast. He can't focus on anything stationary in this chaos. "It's okay. No one's here. Just breathe."

He does. He sits there, hard gravel digging into his shins and knees, and he breathes. He feels John's fingers pressing into his wrist. His pulse thunders under his skin.

"You alright?" John is looking at him, holding his face close. "You've got to calm down... easy now." Sherlock gasps, the air stuttering out of him when he manages to inhale. "It's alright."

His fingers clench in the sleeve of John's coat, terrified that the reason he made him walk away from the car is because John, repelled by his weakness and inability to cope, plans to leave him. He hides his face in the crook of his arm, wiping away the wetness from his eyes and nose. Perhaps if he explains, if he can somehow convince John that he has not regressed, then maybe he will be less inclined to leave him in a broken heap on the side of the freeway.

"Six months is too long to w - "

"Please... don't..." John's voice cracks.

Sherlock's breath hitches and he clings to John's sleeve.

No. Please, John. Sherlock blinks, another burning wetness following the same path as the last one rolls down his face.

John cannot leave him. Not like this.

He looks down at his hands. They're shaking. He tries to still them before John notices.

He swallows. "I wasn't... meant to come back."

John places his hands over Sherlock's. They are so still compared to his.

"I was supposed to leave." He stares at John. His stomach is clenching. He feels like he's going to vomit, but he can't. He hasn't eaten anything in days. John will be upset with him.

"Hey. Hey, now. It's going to be okay." Sherlock gulps down a sob and tries to breathe through his tight chest. John grips his hands. "You're not leaving."

They sit like that, and gradually the merry-go-round slows and Sherlock is able to focus. Once upon a time, he and John quarreled about the earth's orbit around the... moon, or something or another. Once upon a time, he would never have cared about other peoples' orbits. It didn't matter to him. They could orbit their own stupid sun.

Sherlock orbits another.

"We're going to go back to Baker Street now. I'm going to call Molly, see if we can get you right again. And you're going to eat and have a proper night's rest, because it looks like you haven't slept in a week."

Sherlock's laugh sounds like choking. His breaths rattle in his chest. He nods slowly.

"I'm sorry, John," he blurts, and he means it down to the soles of his feet. So sorry. So... incalcuably sorry than he's ever been before.

But he doesn't know how to tell John that. Doesn't know how to tell him that for once, he had no idea what to do. After Mycroft had told him his fate - his hand separate from Sherlock's by an inch of bullet proof glass and chicken wire - he despaired. The wheel had finally circled in full rotation and brought him back where he started. Alone, and not a friend in the world who wanted to help him. Only it was far more painful this time because he knew what had been lost.

There was no one to help him and so he turned to the only comfort he had.

The only thing that can take away six months of pain. (Sherlock has read many studies about subjects who go mad after subjected to continuous torture for a long duration of time.)

To live six months in the foreseeable future never to see his dearest friend again, only to end up gunned down in an East Lithuanian alleyway, or tortured in another Serbian dungeon for information, was unbearable. It would not have been worth his bloodshed this time. He could not mentally endure that pain again. He wanted it to stop.

And for that, he does not know if John can forgive him.

John nods. His eyes are red. "Come here."

His pulls Sherlock's upper body into him, and wraps his arms around the taller man's neck, and... Sherlock freezes. He has not had contact with another human being since Janine, and that was displeasing for him. Even Mummy and Dad felt hesitant to initiate physical affection with him. And now this. He knows what his arms should do. He knows how small John is compared to him. How easy he fits into Sherlock's hold. The question is not if he knows what to do, but what happens when he does it. If he responds, he may never let go. Can he let go?

But he must take that risk, because he wants this. He needs this. Fuck the rehab centers. If he had this, then there would have been a reason to quit. His arms circle John, and wrap tighter and he shifts closer. He holds John, his chin on his shoulder, Sherlock's cheek resting by John's temple. And they stay that way for a long time, Sherlock shaking against John's still form.

"You're going to be okay," John says.

Sherlock nods, wiping his eyes. He can feel John's heartbeat in his temple.

But he's not sure if he will be. Okay, that is.

"I'll stay with you." John squeezes his shoulder. "It won't be like last time."

They pull apart, and Sherlock stares at him in disbelief.

"Mary?"

John nods, understanding. "I'll talk to her." He pressed his lips together. "But I don't want to leave you alone. Not for a while, anyway." He sniffs and clears his throat. "Now come on. Let's get you home."

They stand, slowly because everything is spinning again and Sherlock lets out a shaky breath. He feels himself sway and grabs ahold of John's sleeve. He trails beside him as they walk back to the car.

Mary looks up from her phone and watches them walk to the car from the front seat.

Sherlock stands outside the open door, waiting for John to climb in. A wall of dark clouds accumulates towards the East. There is a storm coming, soon. He closes his eyes and inhales.

It smells like rain.

x

x

So, there you have it. It was intended to be just a one-shot, but a second edition can't hurt. Hopefully everyone enjoyed it. If you did, please review.