… well, no, that isn’t strictly true- Sherlock can hear his voice catching on the words, all shaky and unsure and wrong wrong wrong, so he pretends otherwise. And God, he must smell awful as he convulses and hides his face, he doesn’t want Mycroft to see this, please not–
But a list. A list he can do. And the sound of the pen scratching on the notebook Mycroft silently passes to him is a blessed distraction.
But then. What happens next is pure hell. Mycroft takes the list from him, and he makes a terrible choking sound that Sherlock never would have thought he would be capable of making. Perhaps he is suffocating. Perhaps he is dying.
Sherlock raises his head to see that Mycroft is crying. Honest, wrecked, shoulders shaking, crying. “You’re going to kill yourself,” Mycroft whispers. “Oh God, oh my God-”
“Mycroft-”
“N-no. No, Sherlock. You need to listen. I’m here. I’ll always be here. And, I’m not angry. I’m-”
He breaks off and Sherlock closes his eyes. He can hear Mycroft swallowing back more tears.
“I just want you to tell me the truth,” Mycroft says. “Please, Sherlock. I can only help you if you give me that. Write a list, every time.”
