He went to their bedroom first, picked up his rucksack and went to the bathroom. Panting, he yanked his penknife from his bag, stuck it under the hot tap and waited for the water to be close to boiling. He was not aiming to die. When the blade was thoroughly disinfected, Mycroft dried it and sat down against the bath. He rolled up his pyjama sleeve and looked at the freshly healed scars, the physical reminder of his weakness. He had almost hurt Sherlock. He was like his father. The image of his baby brother cowering away from him, fear clear on his face, was burned into Mycroft's mind. He gritted his teeth in self disgust and pulled the knife violently horizontally across his forearm. The blood spurted slightly and then seeped out, trailing down his arm until it got to his fingers. All the rage, the confusion, the disappointment, the disgust at himself for being such a pathetic weakling, the regret from almost hurting Sherlock, all seemed to begin to leave in that drop of blood and the searing pain in his arm. He cut the skin again just above the first, taking more care this time, splitting the skin almost gently, with surgical precision despite his shaking hand. Less blood fell, and it mingled with the last drops. Mycroft felt his emotions drain away with that line of blood racing down his arm. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he relaxed agains the bath tub, blood oozing from his cuts, breathing heavily.