"You were about to say it, weren't you?" John's voice was cold and sad. It made DI Lestrade cringe.
"Say what?"
John snorted, reminding Lestrade of a bull not for the first time. "Don't play the fool with me, Lestrade. As if I don't know what the whole Yard thinks about Sherlock and me."
"No—"
"Christ!" John shook his head, falling further and further into disbelief. "For starters you think I sound as paranoid as he does."
Lestrade dropped his gaze, cleared his throat with a cough. The shame of the Yard— Anderson, Donovan, the merest copy girl who had ever pitied John as the man fate had so royally fucked a hundred times over— twisted poisonously inside of him. He didn't try to protest again; any "No, no, never on your life" would come out weak and insincere. John didn't deserve that. Lestrade found enough self-respect there to grit his teeth and meet John's accusing eyes once more.
John pressed his lips together and nodded. "The Holmes family has a history of schizophrenia." He paused and then determined, "But you already knew that." His brow furrowed, demanding an explanation.
Lestrade nodded slowly, "We've known for some time." He spoke softly and slowly, pausing long between his words. He was treading on a minefield of combustible emotion. There was no enemy here besides the disease; neither John nor Lestrade could say where the bombs lay lethal underfoot. If only the war could be fought with evidence and investigation instead of patience and pricey medication. If only there were a perpetrator to lock up.
"What— What do you mean? How long is 'some time,' exactly?"
Lestrade took a blind step forward. "John, Sally has been trying to convince you that he was mental since the beginning. You would never have listened to us."
"I still don't." He stared at Lestrade, daring a challenge. "He's not just a nutter."
"John—"
"Look." John leaned forward over the desk, rapping it with his knuckles for emphasis. "I know that with his family history and his past and everything it's a poor prognosis. I know. He may never be the Sherlock I first met again. But he's still Sherlock."
Lestrade let out a constrained breath. He tried again. "John, I—"
"Please, Lestrade. Please, what harm could it do?"
Lestrade did not like to see strong men plead. He believed himself to be a moral man with moral convictions, one of which being that good people should never need to beg. Such convictions had compelled him to join the force long ago.
"Fine. As you said, what harm could it do?"
"Thank you," John said quietly. "This means a lot to us."
Lestrade nodded. "Yeah," he said, with the same quietness. "Yeah."
"If there were a fire?— But why would there be a fire? Arson, matches, electric, iron, cigarette, toasting marshmallows—"
"Sherlock! I'm home!" John closed the door with his hip as his hands were laden with curry take-away and the shopping. "Anyone in?"
Mrs. Hudson emerged from the back. "That smells lovely," she said by way of greeting. "Is that from the new place just opened?"
"Yeah, thought I'd give it a go. How is he?" He put down his bags to shed his coats.
"Oh, the same. A lot of muttering, a shout every now and then, so I suppose he's quite himself, actually. Gives me a start all the same. Not an hour ago, I was about to put—"
An explosion ripped through the air. "Oh my God!" shrieked Mrs. Hudson, hand flying to her heart.
John sprinted up the stairs, visions of a blood-streaked corpse with Sherlock's features lying sprawled on the carpet flashing through his head. "Sherlock!" he roared, shoving the door open.
Sherlock was standing on the coffee table. He grinned at John proudly, twirling a certain standard army issue handgun in and out of his grasp like a Wild West cowboy. "Gunshot, John! Also highly flammable!" Then he thrust the gun up to the ceiling and pulled the trigger again.
Mrs. Hudson screamed. "I'm calling the police!"
"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson! We're alright!" John shouted down.
Sherlock was regarding the bullet holes above him critically. "Only in certain cases, obviously," he appended to his earlier proclamation. "Phosphorous bullets," he murmured, tapping the muzzle thoughtfully against his thigh regardless of the metal's fresh heat.
The unnatural extreme angle of Sherlock's bent neck disturbed John. He held out his hand. "Can I have it back now?"
"Yes." Sherlock swept down from the coffee table, tossing the firearm to John. His untied robe fluttered around his bare white chest and billowed behind him magisterially. "Don't let the curry sit too long. You'll regret it if you have to reheat the rice."
"Do you plan on playing with weaponry again soon?"
Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft ordered a bazooka yesterday, didn't he?'
John blinked. "Umm, did he?"
Sherlock was kneeling in front of the household paraphernalia jumbled in a pile under the sink. He glanced at each label for warnings of combustibility before tossing them over his shoulder. He took a break to poke his head up and scowl at John over the table. "Oh, come on, is it that hard? For the near future, the answer is no, I won't. The very near future." He snapped his fingers at Jon thrice in quick succession. "Make the connections, John! Even the stranger looking at you from across the road has meaning, if only you kick the neurons into action!"
He ducked back down and continued his pillaging.
Mrs. Hudson met John on the landing with the takeaway. "Ah, cheers, Mrs. Hudson," he began. "I really can't apologize enough, I—"
"It's alright, John, it's alright; you boys aren't evicted yet. I'm worried out of my mind, but not only for this old house." She regarded him pointedly, her comfort edged with soft reprimand. "We all need to take care of ourselves. Especially you, Doctor."
"Of course, of course," he said. "I could've sworn I left with the key to the safe this morning; he must have pick-pocketed me. I'll get someone round tomorrow to look at the pipes and everything." He started backing away.
She took pity on him and moved in to rub his arm with sad affection. "Oh, love, it's never simple with Sherlock, is it? You do your best now, and remember I'm always just downstairs if ever you need to chat. My cousin Letty went through something similar a few years ago; she always said a listening ear did a world of good." She smiled encouragingly.
John smiled back, thanked her and wished her a good night, shutting the door with a final "Sorry!" Then he thunked his forehead against the door's cool wood and clenched his teeth. Damn all those helpful people. Damn them to hell. John was sick of consolations, prying queries, suggestions and sick beyond sick of platitudes. No, patience was not one of his virtues; no, he was not a saint; no, his stiff upper lip was too sore to sport today. And maybe tomorrow was another day, but that didn't mean it was a better one. Fuck all the nice people. Fuck all of their useless, pathetic, interminable niceness.
In the end, the man he loved was sick and only getting sicker.
