I Am Sher-Locked Up

From the Beginning

John

The flat had never seemed so empty.
John literally has no idea what to do with himself while Sherlock is...away. He's been given time off at the hospital for "bereavement leave", but he knew it was mostly because his supervisors (correctly) thought he couldn't deal with the fact that Sherlock had been there not two days ago, barely clinging to life.
John sighs. Cases weren't much hope without Sherlock, and although he knows it would help, he doesn't try to contact anyone such as Ms. Hudson or Mary.
Mycroft...
John is struck by this idea. Certainly not for comfort, just to know how the hell Sherlock had gotten this bad.
He reaches for his phone, but he draws back in surprise as it starts ringing of its own accord.
"Hello?" His voice cracks a little from disuse.
"John, I was wondering when you'd call. Meet me at the restaurant on High Street by the Fox & Hound pub in three minutes. Ta."
The line clicks off, leaving John slightly annoyed at the pretension of Sherlock's older brother, but mostly glad because he didn't have to ask for Mycroft's help. Instead, it was being offered to him.
John hails a cab and makes it to the restaurant in 4 1/2 minutes, which is sure to piss the other man off, but John doesn't care. All he cares about is Sherlock.
"You're late," Mycroft states predictably.
"Well spotted, Mycroft. I see where Sherlock got his deduction skills," John retorts, unable to hide the saltiness that stress was inducing.
Mycroft uncharacteristically stays silent, his gaze going right through John.
"John," he begins after a minute of uncomfortable silence, "I'm sure you know why I called you here, we both knew this was going to happen eventually, but now that it's happening, I don't quite know what to say."
John sits in the booth seat across from Mycroft and clasps his hands together in front of his mouth, inhaling deeply through his nose. "Just...just tell it to me from the beginning. Everything. I want to hear it all."
"I think it would be best if Sherlock--" Mycroft begins, but John cuts him off.
"Sherlock has proven that he doesn't know what's best. I need to know everything, Mycroft."
Mycroft nods, "Well said. I guess I better start at the beginning, shouldn't I?"
John says nothing, allowing Mycroft to go on,
"Sherlock was a rather troubled child. He was incredibly intelligent, as you might guess, but this caused more problems than it resolved. He...he heard voices. Deductions. He used to tell me that he could find everything out about someone just from what the voices told him. Needless to say, this did not go over well when my parents found out. They had him sent to a psych hospital at the ripe old age of four, and while he was there he developed a pattern of hitting himself when he heard the voices, trying to train himself not to hear them. It didn't work, as you can see, but hitting developed into pinching, which evolved into scratching and using friction from rubbers to burn himself, which eventually led to cutting and starving. It was a form of punishment, really, and then an addiction, just as much if not more so than narcotics and cigarettes. You know..." Mycroft says shakily, his emotions threatening to break through his well-constructed dam of narcissism and intelligence, "I used to envy him. The way he could do things like that to himself and be seemingly unaffected by it. Me, I prefer to let others do my work so I don't have to get my hands dirty, which I suppose can be seen as cowardly. But Sherlock, he had an amazing will. He wasn't in control of his life in the slightest, but he was bound and determined to do whatever the task at hand was, be it finding something to cut with or devising ways to lose weight without us knowing, or recovering. He always wanted to recover, I know he did. I think that's the one thing he didn't know how to do, though. Admit he was wrong. Admit that there was something wrong with him."
John's color had completely drained from his face, and a lump was constricting his throat with tears that he swore he would not shed.
"Mycroft..." John says, not even sure where to begin.
"Don't, John. Your emotions are too high for you to say anything remotely reasonable right now. You need to--"
"I love him, Mycroft." John blurts. He didn't mean to, but it was out there now with no way to unsay it.
Mycroft blinks, but soon regains his composure, "Well. I can't say I'm not surprised, but I didn't expect you to come right out with it. Good job, I suppose, getting him to love you back. He does, I'm sure of it," he adds, seeing the shocked look on John's face, "not many--or any for that matter--of Sherlock's admirers weren't unrequited. However, getting Sherlock to admit to himself he loves you...that's going to be something else entirely."
John doesn't know whether to shout or cry or laugh, Sherlock loves him too! As long as this remains true, they can battle through anything together. John feels warmth expanding in him, and for the first time in a long time, he feels hope.
"Right. So, good chat" Mycroft stands to leave, and John begins to follow him out the door, but as they part ways, Mycroft reaches out and catches his jacket sleeve.
"John..." Mycroft says, his voice brimming with uncharacteristic emotion, "Please visit him. He's going to act like he doesn't want you to, but he does. He really does. He won't want me there, I'm too much like him, but you...you are what he needs right now."
John nods, the army part of him recognizing the orders being given to him. "Yes, sir." he says softly.
Mycroft smiles slightly, not enough to be classified as happiness, but enough to serve as a thank you.
The two part ways, off to fight the coming war.