John awoke no better than the day before. Bleary sight blinked back into his sleep hazed eyes, images that were not his duvet alone. If he hadn't been so groggy, he would have pulled away, but as it were-
"Morning, beautiful," came Sherlock's deep murmur. The corners of his mouth turned up at John's incredulous face, and the look in his eyes was nearly... endearing. There were also the circles of Sherlock's thumb being smoothed onto his cheek and the accompanying warmth of his hand resting on the side of his face.
"Since when," John articulated impressively for his lack of coherent thought, "do you call me 'beautiful'?"
"Out loud? The same time you allowed me to do this," Sherlock answered. His low, lovers-tone was breathy enough to strike lust into the heart of a stone. John was making a valiant attempt not to melt with it washing over his face, the source of it inches away and closing.
"No, you're-" John protested. He scrunched his eyes shut and flung them open again. When he did, the breath was gone, the hand on his face, the endearing look, the angled cheekbones, gone, gone, gone. Sherlock was absent, with not even a crease in the covers to prove he had been there at all.
"-not real," John finished. He shuttered, feeling the crease between his brows deepen. The delusions were getting worse.
/p
Breakfast was another hardship. John found himself making more food and setting out more plates than if he were eating by himself. Which he was.
"Could I help?" a small voice asked from the height of his knees.
John inhaled sharply. "Please don't, Hamish."
"But Papa, I-"
"I mean it Hamish!" John shouted. He shook the boy's hands off where they clutched at his trouser leg. Hamish stumbled back, a watery film gathering on his eyes.
"I'm sorry, I-" John saw every crying child at the clinic in the face of his invented son. Hamish choked out a sob and covered his face with fisted hands. One blink of the eye and he wasn't there anymore. Only the early sunlight graced the floorboards.
"Blast it," John muttered. The breakfast he had made went straight from the frying pan to a spare Tupperware container. It still had a label taped on it from last week that read, "for godssake, eat if you're hungry, Sherlock." John had eaten half of it himself and thrown out the rest. His imaginary Sherlock ate even less than the original.
He set it unceremoniously on the refrigerator shelf next to the quart of chocolate milk he had picked up for Hamish. John would have to throw it out soon, no one was going to drink it.
/p
The sight of Mrs. Hudson brought with it a sigh of relief. She was the only other real, certainly existing resident of the building. She was his last shred of sanity.
"Morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said as cheerily as he could manage.
"Good day, dearie," Mrs. Hudson smiled affectionately.
A small, floppy-eared hound followed John down the steps to the door that opened onto Baker Street. John cringed.
"Something wrong?" Mrs. Hudson noticed. She had the keenest eyes when it came to John reacting to his delusions, even if she never put together exactly what she was seeing.
"No, nothing," John answered quickly. "Gladstone, stay," he commanded the dog in a more urgent undertone.
"What?" she was looking at him funny from the middle of the steps. "Did you say something?"
"Not at all," John assured her. "Have a good one, Mrs. Hudson." He casually barred the dog from crossing the threshold after him with his foot. Gladstone whimpered and scratched at the door. John heard the hollow scratches until the door clicked shut, then there was an abrupt lack of dog-related noises.
John took a moment while facing the door to steel himself for the day. When he turned to face the street he was nearly nose to nose with Anthea. John was wholly startled. She could care less judging by her disregard to the civility of eye contact.
"Good day," she mumbled. Her fingers clacked across the keys of her mobile.
"Morning," John answered. He maneuvered around her for a quick escape if he needed it. Mycroft had dropped by a few times since- since a certain time, but he only sent Anthea when he felt the need to fetch John for a more private conversation. John wasn't up to that today, or most days for that matter, and told her so.
"Alright," she said simply. The word sat in the air like the last chicken wing on a party platter that everyone wants but no one will touch.
"Excuse me," Anthea pushed past John when he made no further attempt at argument. "You needn't follow."
"Into my own house...!" he protested, but did not make a move to pursue her. He gathered from the six footfalls (far short of the seventeen it took to reach the actual flat) and the high-heeled air of finality that Anthea had no intention to enter the flat. She had just stopped off for a chat with Mrs. Hudson. Perfectly normal.
Not in the least.
"Who are you?" Mrs. Hudson asked. She wasn't a girlfriend of John's for obvious reasons.
"Dr. Watson's psychologist," Anthea said with a sympathetic look and offered handshake. Her phone and normal, aloof personality were nowhere in sight.
"Oh! You just missed him," Mrs. Hudson nodded toward the door.
"Actually, I was hoping to have a word with you," Anthea explained, her voice slightly hushed. "I need another perspective on Dr. Watson's situation. How has he been, as of late?"
Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. "Not well, I'm afraid. He's talking more, which is good, but sometimes I hear him when there's no one else in the flat. It's not the telly, he spends most of his time writing. Just the other day I saw him leave swatting around his head like he was being swarmed by insects! He was cursing about bees, of all things. I keep a clean place, I assure you, there aren't any pets or pests allowed."
"I see," Anthea said curtly. "Thank you, that's all I need."
"Any time, dearie."
Anthea's uninvolved expression reappeared the moment she stepped off the welcome mat. She shot a quick text to Mycroft to report her findings.
It's worse. More supervision required. -Anthea