It didn't take a genius to figure out there was something wrong with Sherlock Holmes.
...
It started at a crime scene, a few weeks after Sherlock returned. Donovan - god bless her - decided to resume her usual routine of berating Sherlock.
"Freak," she spat out as soon as she saw Sherlock.
John followed closely behind his friend, unsure of how Sherlock would react.
Something about Sherlock had been off lately, and John wasn't the only one to notice it. Lestrade was more concerned than usual, and so was Mycroft (if he could be more concerned).
Donovan didn't stop there. "It's a terrible thing you did, Holmes. Putting us all through that."
Sherlock is staring at the ground, transfixed on some unmoving spot. He looked distant, and John worried for a moment that he might faint.
"Are you listening to me!" Donovan shouted, and Sherlock jumped back a little, obviously alarmed.
But the next second, Sherlock was calm and cool and in control again and John wondered if his 'reaction' was nothing more than a trick of the light. "Nothing to listen to," Sherlock replied cooly before he stormed away from the crime scene.
Lestrade called after him. "Where are you going?"
"I didn't die for this!" Sherlock shouted.
...
Sherlock woke up from a dream so sweet he could taste it on the tip of his tongue like sugar.
The only problem is, he didn't remember what the dream is. But it was good. God, was it good. Good dreams were rare, nowadays.
...
From the blog of John H. Watson 23/12/13
Sherlock - as per his usual cheery tradition during the holidays - is very, very depressed.
This is nothing new, of course. Before 'The Fall' (as we have taken to calling it), he used to have fits and ruts and stupors and moods and long periods of just generally being a jerk. Nothing like this, though. This has to be the worst Christmas season yet. He complains constantly about the Christmas lights, as though the very presence of festive decorations literally sucks the life out of him. I don't think it's ever been as bad as this year, though. Honestly, I think if Santa came to Baker Street right now, Old Saint Nick would drop dead of fear at the look of Sherlock's brooding face on the couch.
Another kind of strange (strange even for Sherlock) things about Sherlock lately:
It'd been Sherlock's habit - ever since he 'returned' - to eat ridiculous amounts of food whenever convenient.
This (obviously) led to some problems Sherlock had not anticipated:
1. He's gained exactly twenty-point-seven pounds in the one month he'd been back.
2. His body isn't exactly accustomed to carrying around a normal amount of weight.
3. The strain of his newfound girth seemed to slow him down considerably on cases.
4. (This one was really embarrassing) None of his shirts or pants fit comfortably anymore. He'd had to break into Mycroft's house and steal some of his clothes. I didn't comment on Sherlock's sudden abundance of perfectly tailored dress shirts.
5. They didn't exactly have the most sanitary kitchen in the world, and Sherlock had learned the hard way that keeping ladyfingers next to an actual lady's fingers was not a good idea.
This didn't really become a 'problem' problem until Mrs. Hudson started her annual Christmas baking marathon.
Figgie pudding, eggnog, gingerbread, shortbread, cheese fondue, chocolate fondue, frosting, strawberries, fudge, brownies, hot chocolate, cake - Sherlock was insatiable.
He gained five pounds in two days.
I, surprisingly, didn't notice Sherlock's weight gain until one of the buttons from Sherlock's shirt shot off and hit me on the cheek.
"Ow." I responded meekly. Sherlock was flushed with embarrassment.
We don't talk about. I didn't even ask when Sherlock started casually wearing my jumpers around the flat.
...
John chuckled to himself about his brilliant blog entry. His blog - which had been dead in the water since Sherlock jumped - was suddenly the most popular thing on the internet. He'd gotten almost a million views in the last week, and he attributed it all to the brilliant movement "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes". The entire world, it seemed, was delighted to have Sherlock back among the living.
To the rest of the world, it was as if the last two-years had never happened. John did his best to forget those years as well, but to no avail. Despite having Sherlock back in his life, John still felt like some part of his best friend was missing.
Sherlock's depression - which had once been akin to something of a childish sulk - was now so deep that John actually feared that no murder - no matter how horrible - could pull his friend out of his stupor.
With a resonated sigh, John pressed the delete button on his blog entry and deleted the horrid post he'd written. Sherlock, John decided, was miserable enough without John alerting the public of his alarmingly sudden weight gain.
John sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. There was no point in denying that the weeks since Sherlock's return had been some of the tensest in his life. Sherlock alternated between mania and full-blown depression.
'Thank God for Christmas,' thought John. 'Nothing like some forced socialization to whip Sherlock into shape.' Mrs. Hudson had planned the Christmas party as usual this year, and John anticipated it would be positively disastrous, like years previously.
The thought of the impending chaos made John smile; he'd missed Sherlock last Christmas.
"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock groaned, as he adjusted his flimsy position on the couch.
"Nothing."
Sherlock squinted at John angrily. "You're scheming."
"Am not." John turned away and pretended to check his email. He could feel Sherlock's eyes boring holes into the back of his skull. John suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and decided he needed to get out of Sherlock's intense gaze. "I'm gonna make tea. Want some?"
Sherlock snorted, and John assumed that was a yes, because if Sherlock really, really wanted something, he would actually put in the effort to make a noise.
John went to the kitchen and started preparing tea, mindful of the petri dishes full of mold and coagulated blood. There was also a snake (the snake had tried to bite him once. "It's not really harmless, John." Sherlock has assured him. "Well, not unless you're bitten..."), and the butter dish was full of toenails.
In short, everything was back to normal. (Except not really.)