Crashed

Diclaimer: I do not own!

By the way I am just wondering if anybody knows why there is a Seb in the character choice, I understand he was in ACD Canon but the only Seb ever mentioned in BBC Canon was the old school mate of Sherlock's in TBB, but he has a different last name. So... Any ideas, or am I missing something obvious?

PLEASE REVIEW! =D

URGENT A/N Added 25/01. Okay so the other day I was fic hunting with my friend and read an amazing fic by Jennistar1 (seriously check it out now :) ) and we both thought it had some really spooky similarities and little details, and I had a total panic attack on thinking someone was going to think I plagiarised it - even though I'd never read it before. So I PM'd Jennistar and explained, and it's fine :) - in case anyone notices the similarities and thinks I did. So she totally believes me, and I feel a lot better for it because I hate plagiarism and I would NEVER practice it.

As I said I got this idea from the scene in ASiP where Sherlock is telling everyone to SHUT UP! I got the inspiration for the name and the computer bit from a very good book by Benjamin Zephaniah - Teacher's Dead, and if anyone has read it I'm sure you'll get the reference ;P with the computer thing.


Pure panic.

Pure unadulterated panic.

That was all that Sherlock could register. His mind was going too fast and it needed to slow the hell down. Right now.


Sherlock had always been a... 'unique' child, 'different' you might say. Mycroft knew this; of course, he was 'different' as well, though he was never described quite as 'unique' as Sherlock always was.

Yes, maybe he was a genius as well, but it wasn't the all consuming intelligence Sherlock had. It didn't possess him, it didn't devour him. Yes it made him restless sometimes but he could enjoy the peace, the solitude.

Sherlock couldn't.

His mind was constantly racing ahead, shredding itself too pieces and it needed something to focus on; it needed an objective.

He remembered when Sherlock was a child; when he was young and excitable. He remembered the innocent little sparkle in his eyes as he had an objective or a book, when he had some kind of purpose or structure.

He remembered that brotherly love and joy he would get seeing his brother so content, though he would show it in the usual unorthodox Holmes' way. He remembered that it was almost like having a companion, someone who was the closest to his wave length as anyone would get. So it made it easier for him to understand when things went bad for Sherlock, why he, of all Sherlock's relations, could help the most when there was nothing to interest Sherlock or distract him.

The boredom would trigger the long fits and the bad times would come to pass. He would become sullen and moody, he wouldn't eat or sleep or talk. He would sit in the dark of his room silently as if living was a chore. He would curl up in corners of his room in a near catatonic state, or he would cry and break things even at such a tender age. He would scream and yell. He would become distressed and pull at his hair or pace for hours on end until fatigue would take over.

Mother would worry silently, her pale anxious face helpless. She'd reason for hours, she'd tell him stories when the terrible terrible fits were over. She'd murmur softly to get him to sleep. She would clean his bleeding hands. She would softly try to wake him from his coma like state. She would never ever ever judge, and woes behold anyone who did.

The coma like states were the scariest, they would come after the worst fits, and then he would go silent and unresponsive. He wouldn't see or hear anyone no matter what the person yelled. He would only come back after hours. Sometimes it could be days and the longer it was the more Mycroft and mother worried he wouldn't wake up. The panic attacks were better than the silence.

Mycroft remembered the times when Sherlock would really be alive, like when he had jumped from the roof of that building to prove a point – even though he broke his arm in three different places - he would never forget how Sherlock had looked at these moments. High. There was no other word to describe it, and while in some ways he thought it was wrong, it was hypnotic. Sherlock's eyes would be too bright. His skin too contrasting; his skin pale and his cheeks flushed. Yet he would look so alive, and so eccentrically happy he always let it slide.

Well, nearly.

Sherlock was diagnosed with everything; name it, he's been diagnosed with it. Bipolar, Aspergers, severe Depression, ADHD, ADD the list went on, and, yes, it does include Sociopathy.

They would hype him up on medication that was ineffective, but still Sherlock could not cope. He couldn't cope with the consuming intelligence at such a gentle age - he still struggles now. He couldn't cope with the need, or the fits. He couldn't control them and he tried. He really did try so very hard to be normal.

He tried to be calm and not cry; he tried to breathe and calm down. He tried not to overload, to not hear everything around him; he tried not to observe every minuscule detail. Yet he couldn't, so he would sit and rock for hours and hours. He would play the violin until he was a master at every song forwards and backwards and everything in between.

He would be so distressed he wouldn't eat and would violently throw up periodically.

He needed some kind of relief so he turned to the drugs. Mycroft could see why he thought it helped him – and in some way it did: he would become calmer than anyone had ever seen him and although he was high (and Mycroft loathed admitting it, least of all to him) there was something charismatic about his drug induced state. The drugs showed the man he could have been in another life. Yet, it still hurt everyone and Mycroft realised soon his dependency had gone too far, the fooling around was over and he now needed some real help.

When his crying, distressed state was found on the floor (that was so reminisce of when he was younger) Mycroft had to help. Had to. When his panic attack would finish Mycroft would help him like only he could.

Though he always worried him because his phases was the most awful thing to see, the pure sheer terror and distress was awful, and Mycroft'd do anything, anything at all, to stop it.


Silence? Silence? He liked silence. But there was none.

No.

There was no silence.

Not even the faintest none whisper of the silent silence.

Why wouldn't all the noise stop?

The breathing. In and out. Inhale and Exhale.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

The roar of traffic.

The tap of shoes.

The murmur of voices. Muttering and yelling. Chatting.

The silence of non-silence.

Shut up.

Shut up.

Shut up.

Oh, dear God, please let it shut up.

Noise. Noise. Noise.

Sound. Sound. Sound.

Screams. Lights. Noises. Police. Sirens. Flashes. Rain. Streets. Deaths. Cases. Logic. Shoes. Watches. Tick. Tock. Ringing. Silence.

Thoughts. More and more. You had an idea – it was gone. It was just there. Out of reach. Gone. Gone. Forever.

Think. Think. Had it! Gone. Forever. Silence. Screams. Lights. Neon lights. Flash. Flash. Flash.

Breathe. Must remember to breathe.

Voices hammering and yelling. Screaming.

"Shut up, SHUT UP!"

Voices hammering and yelling. Screaming. Wait – it was you. Your thoughts.

Go away. Please go away. Forever.

Tranquillity please. Stop this storm. Butterflies. Adrenaline that wouldn't go.

High.

Alive.

Please let me be dead. Someone, anyone, kill me. Please.

The answer to this case was there! Right there. He just had to – he fell. He couldn't reach. He had failed.

In the dreary drizzling streets of London he would be conquered. This had happened before in front of these people, and it hurt every time.

He was pale and glistening with sweat. Panting harshly as he tried in vain to catch his breath. His hands were wound tightly in his hair, pulling and yanking. Hard.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Mycroft steps forward and grabs hold of Sherlock's shaking unfocused form, his eyes have that weird glint that always worries him. His hands are gripping onto Sherlock's shoulders and he realises how thin he is, he can feel every bone under his skin, he seems almost like the little boy he could remember - small, desperate and infinitely lonely but loveable.

"Sherlock, look at me." Mycroft says – no, he orders. Sherlock seems to be fighting an internal battle, he begins to shake harder. His brain is going too fast and he is losing focus, his pupils dilate and contract rapidly. "Focus only on me. Only me." Sherlock's eyes slowly – slowly – begin to slow down and focus, his teeth are clenched as he fights for control over his own mind.

His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and his jacket is nowhere in sight, his alabaster skin is somehow paler than normal.

If his mind was like a computer – then he had just crashed.

If only he had some dru-

No.

No.

No.

He had given them up remember? Had he? Well, surely just one shot couldn't hurt?

"Sherlock you must focus on me, block everything else out." A voice commanded him from the fog inside his brain, it cut like a knife – giving him clarity for just one beautiful second, and he knew that voice. That voice was security; plain and simple. He should obey the voice. Just this one time.

He felt hands on his shoulders holding him down; keeping him sane. He wasn't alone if he had something to cling onto.

He began to focus – really focus – all he could see was Mycroft. The noises dimmed down, the flashing was not recognised and all he could hear was his heart beat. The erratic pulse was beginning to get a steady rhythm. His hands were not shaking quite so badly.

He could breathe.

In and out. Inhale and Exhale.

Gods that was nice.

Then the whole world stopped; paused. Everybody froze, and in them seconds he slowed down yet caught up, and then the world carried on and he was there with it.

Sergeant Donovan was staring – boring.

Anderson was sneering – boring.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was looking at him in intense concern – boring.

Mycroft was focused on him, calming him down – interesting.

Mycroft stared at his little brother with an intense unease, that was completely invisible unless you were a Holmes, Sherlock seemed to be better. Calmer. Then Sherlock said nine words that convinced him he was fine – for now anyway.

"I've got it. It was the sister-in-law."