Mycroft blinked, slowly grasping just exactly what Sherlock had said. 'No.'
'I don't deserve to live!', he shouted, his lip bleeding more profusely as he moved it. Mycroft shook his head, trying to calm the child. 'Sherlock, whatever you did –'
'I killed him,' he whispered, and Mycroft reflexively squeezed him tighter. 'You don't know that, Sherlock.' There was a short lull, where the hums of the coffeemaker and the ice chip machine made a lonesome harmony. 'You set the fire, then?'
'I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I just wanted to leave.'
'You could have just told Mother and Dad.'
'They wouldn't have let me leave. You know how insistent they are on my being around other people my age, on making "friends." I'm doing a brilliant job, am I not?'
'Sherlock -'
'If I have only been more like my older brother Mycroft,' he said, mimicking the tone of a particularly loathed teacher. 'You always knew how to work people. The one person who's ever shown me the remotest kindness at this school, I've just put in a hospital. Good God, Mycroft. What am I?' His tears dripped onto the sleeve of Mycroft's pullover. 'I am a monster, and a freak, and a psychopath, just like they all said I was,' he sobbed, and Mycroft scowled.
'That's not true!', he snapped, regretting his tone immediately. An increasing amount of purple in Sherlock's hand distracted him. 'You've broken your hand. Don't pull away, Sherlock, you need to see the doc.... what's that?' He turned his brother's face toward him. 'You've got a burn on your neck. And your other hand. Brother dear, you need help.'
'No, I don't.'
'You don't want to live with a broken hand and a gashed lip,' he protested.
'I don't want to live at all.'
'Sherlock, stop saying that, please,' Mycroft huffed. The younger glanced dully up to him, noting a misty look forming. 'Why are you crying?'
'Why do you think, stupid,' his big brother muttered. Pulling them both up off the floor, he said decidedly, 'Your loss would break my heart.'
Sherlock twitched, pulling away slightly, a strange expression of confusion and distaste on his face. 'What the hell are you talking about?'
'Needed to do something to get you to stop blubbering.'
'Scaring me with your morbid sentiments doesn't help the situation.'
'You've stopped, haven't you?'
'Mycroft -'
'We'll get this sorted out, Sherlock, I promise.'
Sherlock refused to leave the surgery until the doctors gave him word that Sebastian was stable. When they did, he insisted he be let in to the room. Stumbling up to his bedside, he winced at the mass amount of bandages covering the boy. 'He's sleeping, love,' the nurse beside him said. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and knelt to the ground beside the bed. His eyes were burning as he whispered to the unconscious teen. 'I'm sorry, Seb. I'm so, so sorry.'
