It had been six days since they had met Moriarty at the pool and nearly lost both their lives. By John's count, Sherlock had not eaten so much as a biscuit since then. They had both been silent on the way home from Scotland Yard, after recounting the story in detail numerous times to numerous police officers, each man too caught up in recovering from his own private nightmare to say any more. When they reached 221B, John made the tea. "You never got the milk," he commented, his face deadpan.
"I never do." John swore there was a hint of a smile on Sherlock's face, but it faded quickly. They drank the tea without milk and without speaking, and sat motionless for minutes after they finished, too tired to go to bed. Finally John roused himself to go upstairs. Sherlock seemed lost in his own thoughts, but there was nothing unusual about that. John patted Sherlock's shoulder stoutly on his way past.
"All right then?"
"Mm?"
"I said are you all right? I'm going to bed."
"Yes, fine, of course, doing the same." But Sherlock made no move to stir. John shrugged, murmured good night, and dragged himself to his room. He fell promptly into a dreamless, battlefield sleep, the sleep of a soldier with a mission accomplished. He awoke several hours later, sometime before dawn, to hear footsteps in the hall outside his room. One, two, three, four, five, six. Stop. One, two, three, four, five, six. Stop.
John listened for several minutes and then began to get annoyed. He got up and opened the door. Sherlock was pacing the length of the short hall, still fully dressed in yesterday's clothes. He paused when John opened the door, then resumed his pacing without so much as a glance in John's direction.
"What in God's name are you doing? It's four in the morning and after what I've been through I don't think a little sleep is too much to ask." John was furious in the way only a man awakened prematurely after a near death experience could be.
"Pacing. Helps me think."
"I know you're pacing, that's what woke me up. But can't you think downstairs? I'm used to you keeping the hours of an alley cat, but must you do it right outside my door?" John sighed. He was too tired for this.
"Air is better up here for thinking. Floorboards springier. Can't think down there. Stifling. And filthy."
"Maybe you should direct your nocturnal energies to cleaning up, then."
Sherlock ignored him and continued without a break in tempo, hands clasped behind his back, fingers worrying at each other. John could see he was getting nowhere. With a noise of frustration he slammed the door, threw himself back in bed, and pulled his pillow over his head. He slept fitfully the rest of the night, the rhythm of footsteps echoing in his dreams.
That had been nearly a week ago. Sherlock had barely said a word since then. He hadn't left the house, had only changed his clothes under extreme duress, and refused to eat. John had taken a leave of absence from the surgery, as they preferred their doctors not to work on patients immediately after being taken hostage and nearly blown up, and was staring at two full weeks at home with nothing much to occupy him except a flatmate who appeared intent upon turning himself into a skeleton.
For the first few days, John had just assumed he was in one of his moods and largely ignored him. He had tidied up, updated the blog, gone to the movies with Sarah, and fielded requests for them to work on new cases. Sherlock turned every one down with an enraged "No!" as if he were shocked John would even suggest they attempt to solve a crime. After the third day, and a refusal to even be tempted by a case in which the victim had been somehow exsanguinated in a locked basement room, with no trace of blood or murder weapon, John truly began to worry.
Meanwhile, Sherlock alternated between pacing, sitting motionless staring at nothing, and occasionally committing random acts of destruction around the flat. He was normally thin and bony, but now he grew positively cadaverous. He did not appear to sleep and took only tea. John resorted to pouring as much milk and sugar as he dared into each cup, in an attempt to get some calories into the man. He was desperate to get out of the flat but was fearful of what Sherlock might do if he wasn't there.
Sherlock had taken to shadowing him as well. Despite completely ignoring John, he also managed to never be more than a few feet away from him. It was maddening. He paced the upstairs hall every night. All night.
On the morning of the seventh day, John fairly slammed Sherlock's tea down in front of him, along with a piece of toast slathered in jam. "Eat, damn you."
"Just tea," Sherlock said absently, without glancing at the table or at John.
"Sherlock, if you don't eat something I swear I will have you sectioned!"
Sherlock shook himself out of his trance, startled, and finally looked at John, his grey eyes taking a few seconds to focus. "What are you going on about?"
"You haven't eaten in days, you barely speak, you won't take cases, and you drove off my last date so viciously I'll be surprised if it doesn't end up in the papers. You grumble when I go out but refuse to acknowledge me when I'm here, other than to silently stalk me through the halls of the flat! You haven't got a pound to lose, either. If you don't start taking care of yourself I'm going to have do something about it. Don't think I'm joking."
Sherlock irritably grabbed the cup and the toast, and took a swig and a bite. "Ugh. Strawberry," he threw the piece of toast across the room where it stuck to the wall for a moment before sliding down to the floor, leaving a red streak on the wallpaper. "And is there actually any tea in this tea? It tastes like a cow regurgitated a sugar factory."
John held his temper. "That's the most you've said to me or to anyone else in over a week. I know this has something to do with what happened at the pool. It shook us both up. Just talk to me."
Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, drawing his legs more tightly to himself and running his hand through his hair, pulling at it. He finally met John's gaze. "He beat us, John."
"We're still alive, Sherlock. We're both fine. He didn't beat us."
Sherlock snorted and leapt to his feet, pacing the kitchen with increasing speed. "We're alive because he didn't feel like dying that day, and found something better to do. He was in control the entire time. The only option for us was whether or not we wanted to take him with us when we died. He beat us, he beat me. And then he got away. He just…vanished."
"We'll find him," John said confidently. "Or someone will. The entire police force and half the government is looking for him now. He may be smart, but he can't hide forever."
"He's more than smart," Sherlock snarled, rounding on him. "He's a genius. And he controls more people and money than even I can calculate. He won't be found until he wants to be. I've gone over everything, every detail, and there's nothing that would lead me to him. Not a fiber, not a fingerprint, not a smell, not a mote of dust. I'm sure he's watching us, but we won't see him until he decides it's time to finish the game."
John wanted to be reassuring, but knew in his heart that Sherlock was probably right. "Then all the more reason for you to keep your strength up and your wits keen," he said, bracingly.
"My wits are always keen," Sherlock said. He put his hand suddenly to his forehead and inhaled sharply.
"Yeah, well, I can see that. Headache?"
Sherlock nodded tightly.
"How long?"
"Three days. Four days. I don't know! What do you suppose he meant?"
John was bewildered. "Meant by what? By trying to kill us?"
"No, no, no! When he said he'd burn the heart out of me. I've been turning it over and over in my head and it won't fit anywhere. What does it mean, John?" He collapsed back into his chair.
John shrugged. "Maybe it doesn't mean anything," he said, lamely.
"It means something. Moriarty doesn't say anything without a reason. But what does he mean by my heart?"
"I don't know! He's mad, Sherlock."
"And I'm not? There's truth in madness too. What of mine could he possibly burn?"
The question was left hanging there. Sherlock looked at John almost pleadingly, as though he was out of his depth. John awkwardly put an arm around his friend's shoulders. He could feel every bone, every vertebra. Sherlock jumped at his touch, as if he had forgotten the other man was there, but didn't move away. Finally John said, "If I make some eggs will you eat them and take some medicine for your headache? Then maybe you can sleep."
"Fine!" Sherlock said moodily, shrugging him off at last. "If it means that much to you. But no sleep. Can't sleep." He returned to stalking the length of the kitchen, once again in his own private world.
After Sherlock had eaten and taken the pills offered, John felt like he could go out. He still didn't like to leave with Sherlock in this state, but he needed a break. Mrs. Hudson was home, and he'd scoured the flat for alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs, although he'd left a couple nicotine patches in easy-to-find locations. Anything that would calm Sherlock down at this point, he thought. He headed to Sarah's. He had nowhere else to go.
