What have you done?

Tell Him

Sherlock feels the air around him get slightly warmer. There's noise, a few movements, muffled talking. Someone's breath is fluttering lightly over his face, his lips...

Has he been found?

"Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?"

Oh god it's John. His beautiful, desperate John. Running his hands all over his chest, stroking his face, pulling back the hair that's clumped together on his forehead. How on earth did he get here? How did he find him?

Sherlock groans loudly and tries to turn his head to the wall. Shame and relief rolling around in equal measure in his stomach, crashing against each other like tidal waves. It's the worst feeling in the world. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or absolutely devastated.

More talking surrounds him. More words he can hardly hear. It's like there's foam in his ears or an invisible layer of glass separating him from the sound. He can only make out a few syllables, snippets of a sentence.

"...what have you..."

But the noise varies in pitch. Dips and differs as it floats down from somewhere above and echoes inside his eardrums. It appears there's a second voice, one that's lower than John's, more sombre.

Oh god.

The feeling of dread crashes into him like a high-speed train. Please don't let it be Mycroft as well. Anyone but him. His big brother. The one person who will be most disappointed, the most upset.

Sherlock throws his hands to his face, whimpering quietly as more tears trickle down from the corners of his closed eyes. He can't stand the fact that the two people he loves most are actually seeing him like this - the worst he's ever been. Regret sinks heavily through his whole body, his chest, like an unfathomable weight that's crushing him into nothing. He just wants to disappear. To die right now so that all the pain is over, to end the suffering, to-

What's the matter Sherlock? Feeling embarrassed about all this now? That's a bit human for you, isn't it?

"Go away!" Sherlock grinds down on his teeth and inhales sharply. "Please, I'm begging you." He tosses and turns on his back, digs his nails into his palms so hard they start to bleed.

Who, me?

A venomous laugh vibrates inside his ears as the image of Jim sliding a blood-soaked tongue over his lips flickers before him. The world's only consulting criminal is moving closer, his imaginary thighs straddling Sherlock's hips as the blood from his mouth drips steadily onto the other man's pale skin. His eyes flame brighter than Sherlock's ever seen them.

Oh I'm not going anywhere Sherlock, just because our little soldier and the Iceman have found you... doesn't mean you're safe. They can't see me remember, it's all in your head. They have no idea what's going on. Besides, they can't do anything...

"They'll call an ambulance," Sherlock pants, turning his head sharply from side to side to try and clear the image of Jim from his mind. But it isn't working, nothing is, and Sherlock's yelps and whimpers as Jim starts to creep closer, his nose now only inches away from Sherlock's lips. As he grins his fiery breath brushes like hot steam over Sherlock's face, scalding it. Sherlock swears he can taste spearmint.

Huh? Oh don't be so naive Sherlock, you know the ambulance isn't going to get here in time. You're too far gone already, darling. I reckon you've got less than ten minutes left...

***