"Caring is not an advantage," he'd said. Mycroft must have known, must have somehow guessed this would happen. A brief spark of rage at his brother flares, and just as quickly falters and dies in the black tar of his apathy.
Apathy-was that the best term for this? This, which Mummy once laughingly dubbed his "black day," only to watch in concern as the day became weeks? This crushing, overwhelming dark that pinned him to the couch, frustratingly frozen, until even his mind was deathly still?
The stillness was what terrified him, the most. His mind, his beautiful mind, the whirling storms calmed into sickly green pools. Only now, in the still places, do the deleted memories return, scudding around like withered leaves, nauseating in their randomness. Some are unimportant-books once read, an Astrology test blazoned with an A+, the chemical makeup of the dust in his window. Others, the ones that grit his teeth, are sentiment-a yellow quilt, a man named Victor Trevor, a verdant garden. They rear their heads, leaping dervishes in garish detail. Falling deeper, finding lost remembrances and wishing he hadn't, he grips himself tighter. A broken test tube. No further. Wet bricks in an alley against cracked concrete. What fibres are in the couch? Analyze, understand, distract-filthy hands tugging on his trousers. He should've shot up when he felt this coming. Victor Trevor. Nothing to distract him, just the blackness of his skull. The gritty roof of Saint Bart's. The thumping of his dammed heart, refusing to stop along with all else in his body, resolutely pounding on through the thick black mud of his blood.
Was there any point in struggling against this? This stillness, this disobedient cloud, could this be what everyone else's brains were like? Perhaps this submitting would be worth it, the warm glow of normalcy worth the sickness in his brain, perhaps-
"Sherlock?" The front door shuts. When did it ever open? How could he possibly have missed that? He hears the steady tread of John on the steps, the huffed conversation. "Lestrade said you hadn't responded to his texts, he says he's got a case for you if you'd like." The bustle moves into the kitchen, all soft fabrics brushing and the regular beat of shoes, and Sherlock considers moving to his scarce-used bedroom. Could he make it that far without attracting attention? Could he manage to peel himself off the couch? "Anyway, I got off early, figured I'd head home in case you wanted to take it." Too late, the footsteps move through the kitchen, and John pauses. "Sherlock?" He doesn't turn around, even if he could he wouldn't, couldn't forsake the comforting blandness of the cushion for the taunt of John's face. "Sherlock, what's going on? Are you sick?" The concern in his voice motivates Sherlock just enough that he shakes his head. John shouldn't worry.
There's a hand on his shoulder, warm and wide and comforting. John's breath puffs past his ears. "Sherlock, come on, you know you can tell me anything." Sherlock shakes his head. "Why not?"
"Irrelevant. It will pass." Sherlock hears the tension in his voice, taut and thin like a child fighting tears. The disgusted shudder that follows is surprising in its vehemence. For a moment the hand tightens, then lets go, and Sherlock bites back the urge to turn and seek it. He hadn't known how cold he was until John's warmth touched him, and without it he felt himself slipping further into the frigid waters of his brain.
Until the couch dips under added weight, and John is there, sitting tucked into the small of Sherlock's back, and he's rubbing the center of Sherlock's shoulder blades and he's huffing a breath and he's talking.
"I used to get like this too. When-you weren't here. Probably I wasn't as stuck, as you, at first. It's just start one morning and by night I was frozen at the kitchen counter, or stuck in my chair. I just stopped." Sherlock shakes his head-no, not John. John is so much stronger, better than him. John doesn't deserve any of this. John shouldn't be here trying to comfort his temperamental flatmate, trying to compare his reasonable mourning with Sherlock's childish, unfathomable sulk. "Yeah, I know, dramatic of me, wasn't it? But there wasn't much else to do. You were gone. Not much point." Unbidden, or perhaps conjured by the gruff honesty in John, Sherlock's voice crawls up from the cushions, echoing loudly as it bounces back to him.
"I should have told you." It's the first time in the months he's been back that Sherlock is close to an apology, and the words still the hand on his back. Panic clamps down, and his words tumble over themselves, bumping past his lips in the desperate hope that he can keep John there with just words, just distractions. "I had to jump, had to keep you safe, but I should have told you-I should have been clever enough to stop it, I should have. I should have let you move on-I shouldn't have come back." John's hand is moving to his shoulder, he's pulling Sherlock to face him, hissing through his teeth.
"Don't you dare ever say anything like that to me again. No, nope, no. You have to know, Sherlock, that people –people need people. Even if those people are insufferable. Okay? You know that." There's a soft silence-Sherlock remains still, but stares at John. John the enigma. John the puzzle. "I didn't tell you about-my stuff-to make you feel guilty. Whether you believe it or not, I understand. I'm grateful for what you did for all of us, Sherlock. I just want you to know that I understand. At least a little bit. And that I'm here, alright?"
"I'm sorry." The words are devastated, tiny, and suddenly he's being touched, being held. Everything, from the breath fanning his ears to the heart thudding against his shoulder, is John. John, John, Always and only John. When he speaks again, Sherlock's voice is low and calm. Clean.
"Thank you. For-this." John doesn't say anything, only nods and pulls back, leaning against the arm of the couch as Sherlock mirrors. The quiet is back, but this quiet is softer, and Sherlock's voice is smooth once again when he speaks. "I shouldn't be doing this." He sees the stifled laugh, hears it in John's voice, and the relief of finally being able to see is so strong that he's grinning too.
"Sherlock, you're not doing anything. Actually, you're plastered to the couch. Isn't that the point? Besides, this isn't your fault. It's just-the way things are. These things happen. If a genius like you didn't have bad days, there's be a serious karmic imbalance. It's all fine." And it really was. The stillness would come back, but as Sherlock felt eddies whirl on in his mind, he prepares to delete the memory. Prepares to-until a look across the couch stops him. He could keep this one. Just one. The time when his darkness crumpled around a warm star. The time his darkness only proved the light.