My Manic and I

Chapter 1

Sherlock had not been himself since the fall. Some days, he'd just sit there and think, other days he would be gone, and, on very rare occasions, he would get very strange; If you can imagine Sherlock any stranger. Sherlock's 'strange' was, somehow, 'normal'.

He would make coffees and teas, talk to me, watch crap TV, discuss the weather, watch football, get the shopping. It almost felt like he had died when he'd fallen off St. Bart's.

This behaviour had started several months into him living at my flat. He had been away for a couple of days. I knew something was wrong, immediately. First, he didn't perform one of his 'stroll-through-the-door-at-god-knows-when-o'clock ' rituals. It was 9:30 at night and I had just started to drop off; It had been one of those days at work where I had spent half the day thinking about how cosy my sheets were and the other half worrying about Sherlock ( I had to remind myself that it was a special occasion when those two objects didn't appear together in my daydreams.); he came through the door very quietly and put his coat down with a quiet 'flump'. The next thing he did was almost too weird.

I heard my bedroom door creek, slowly open, then Sherlock peered around the door and I could feel his blue eyes boring into my side. When he knew for certain that I was there (which was, again, surprising behaviour for Sherlock, as he'd normally be able to deduce that I was there from 'the age of the coffee stain on the rug') he walked over to my bed and sat down. He sat there for a couple of minutes, rambling, quiet, unintelligible nonsense to himself. Then, Sherlock reached a hand up to my exposed shoulder and stroked it gently with his thumb. I tried to control my heartbeat desperately. If he couldn't hear it then he definitely wasn't himself.

He got up leaving me 'sleeping', I heard him stop at the door and say the only real words I had heard from him in several days;

"I'm sorry Molly"

This was totally and utterly abnormal. I had been living with Sherlock for 5 months now, and he had never come to check on me after I had fallen asleep, acknowledged my personal feelings or privacy and he had NEVER; I repeat NEVER; said 'sorry', especially without being asked to or without good reason. Something was up and I was going to make sure I found out what.

The next morning, I became the detective. I was so filled with desperation to find out what made him act that way, so driven with a deep-down-feeling that something was definitely wrong, that when I got up the next morning I creeped into the living room, where he was lying, almost unconscious, on the sofa. I searched through the pockets of his coat.

Nothing.

As I put the coat back, I somehow managed to trip over my own feet. I fell hard on the floor, hands first. I looked up, expecting to see him looming over me. However, I doubt he even stirred. He looked so relaxed sleeping there. So normal. Like a child, so at ease.

After he had fallen, he had worn a constant look of stress on his face, He very rarely ate or slept and was becoming thinner and more disheveled by the day. I worried about him constantly. The worst thing was that there was nothing I could do. If I tried to cook him a meal he would complain and say that it was useless him eating, 'a waste of time'. It bought me to tears somedays, seeing him this way. I wish I could just walk over to 221b and tell John and Ms. Hudson and Mycroft. Shout it from the rooftops if I could.

I wanted to know how he had coped before anyone like John had been there for him. I suppose, maybe this was what it was like before any of us. Maybe he just ate when he wanted to, slept when he wanted to and did whatever he liked. To be honest, it wasn't like anyone had ever stopped him; no matter how much John and Ms. Hudson tried to suppress his habits. Somehow, I felt there was a difference. The usual sharpness in his eyes was blunted. There was a longing there. I knew John had something to do with it. He needed a friend. I know that I am there for him, but Its not the same. I'm just the quivering, mousy, pathologist, who can't control her feelings and has thin lips and small breasts. I do love Sherlock, not just in a girly, jelly-knees way, but I have a crush on him for a reason. He is a good man and special. Sometimes you do feel like punching him square in the face, but that is part of who he is and I'd hate to see that change.

I thought all this as I stood over his silent body. It was like I was back at the morgue again. For a second the thought that he may have died crossed my mind, but I saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest against his slightly loose dark-blue shirt. He had lost at least another pound in weight while he'd been away. His dark curls fell across his face, they had grown slightly longer in the time he'd been living with me and he refused my many offers to cut his hair. His cheekbones were ever-more prominent as his gaunt face caught the morning light seeping in from behind the curtains.