A/N: The standard disclaimer, I do not own Sherlock, John, or any other character from BBC's Sherlock.
"Surely, you must know, Sherlock."
"Know what, Mycroft?"
"This – state – you've allowed yourself to muddle into. This condition. It can't last."
Sherlock was staring ahead at the wall in front of him, but he turned at that comment to stare at his brother's face, his own lips pressed tightly together. He would not dignify that with an answer.
"I'll be keeping an eye on you, Sherlock." With that comment, Mycroft Holmes swept out of the door, umbrella swinging at his side.
That was a different time, a time before John. Mycroft thought about the days since the good doctor has graced Sherlock's life with his presence. Danger nights came less and less often, but in the early days, it was still better to err on the side of caution. He recalled one of those nights.
"Mycroft". John held the phone to his ear as he sat down in front of the kitchen table.
Mycroft answered on the first ring. "John. What's wrong with Sherlock this time?"
A beat. Then, "He's gone missing."
"I'll be right there."
Mycroft was as good as his word. Within twenty minutes the older man was sitting in the living room at 221B, with a frown firmly etched onto his face. "Tell me what's happened, John."
John was feeling a little bit silly, surely he was only over-reacting. But something wasn't sitting right with John, something was off, and he wasn't sure what. With Sherlock, it was hard to tell what was normal and what was not. He knew that Sherlock had said that he would go for days without speaking. Apparently he also would go for days without eating too, but that wasn't really hard to deal with compared to…well, he wasn't sure what.
"Sherlock's been in some sort of a mood for the past few days. I'd say it's been more like two weeks. We haven't had any cases, and whereas at times he'd be pacing up and down pouncing like a wild cat at a chance to smoke or deduce the life out of anyone he could meet, this time he was listless. Totally listless." John paused as he recalled the scene he saw every morning for the past fourteen days. He'd come down early from his room only to find Sherlock flopped on the couch, his violin lying lazily against his side. He called his name, but no response. Some mornings he'd get a grunt. By afternoon, Sherlock would have moved into his bedroom, the wailing of the violin drifting through the cracks of the door. At night, Sherlock was back in the living room, his mood more foul than ever.
"I've tried to distract him – tried to drag him shopping, or even lure him with an idea of some new experiment, God help me."
Mycroft smirked at that last comment.
"This evening when I came back from the clinic, Sherlock wasn't where he normally parks himself. I thought that maybe he'd actually gotten some new case and was finally up and about – until I heard a loud twang and an angry snarl coming from his bedroom. It was his violin."
Mycroft's face actually blanched at that. If Sherlock actually broke his violin…
"I think one of the strings broke. I heard a crash, and before I knew it, Sherlock was flying out of his room and was rushing past me before I could stop him. He was gone." John looked distraught for a moment and he looked down at his hands.
"Mycroft, my gun is missing."
John said that last part as a helpless plea, and he looked up.
Mycroft gave John one good look before he took action. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, John. I'll have the CCTV cameras checked for my brother's whereabouts." He stopped for a pause. "Dr. Watson, I'm not sure how informed you are of my brother's past…experiences." Clearly Mycroft was alluding to Sherlock's darker history, his use of John's title meant he was all business.
John looked at him half expectantly. "I assume – you're going to be filling me in on a little of that now?"
"Sherlock has always been secretly proud of the fact that our maternal grandmother was an artist. He's always said that art in the blood can take on the strangest forms. His mind runs in ways that eludes even me." Mycroft let himself have a small smile at that. "While I may surpass him in the abilities of deduction – his artistic streak runs wild in ways I cannot always contain. He can become prey to the blackest of depressions, for example."
The doctor nodded, his own suspicions solidifying in his mind. Now his fears really started to grow, churning a hole in his stomach.
"Doesn't that mean that we should be out looking for him, then? Is there something we can do?"
"I'm afraid I've tried everything, Doctor Watson. Sherlock escapes me. Though, it has been a long time since he last succumbed to himself." Mycroft's eyes took on an almost wistful expression and then, as if snapping himself out of his reverie, he took a sigh, smiled, and stood up to leave.
Later, John kept his vigil in the kitchen, not daring to go anywhere lest he should receive urgent news of his flatmate. He thumbed through the manila folder in front of him, a strange collection of pictures and writings and reports neatly filed within. Mycroft had deemed that John should be…briefed…about Sherlock's past a bit more comprehensively. There were childhood drawings, a few diary entries that were written for assignments for school or the doctor, medical reports, all dating back to when Sherlock was very young.
One poem stood out to John.
Some time ago I asked you
(I under an old oak tree, you by the river side),
"If I stay a moment longer
and count the evening stars with you,
will imagination overcome
those dark and endless nights?"
But the answer was swallowed by the wind
and the plight of the rapids breaking free.
The poem itself was slightly surprising. John would never think that Sherlock was into poetry. It looked normal – filled with the kinds of sentiment that poetry is usually made for. Of course, this was exactly what made it not normal at all. A more in depth review of the reports written by the counselor gave an explanation of sorts.
"Sherlock has an over-active mind. He gets overloaded with words in his head, and it is difficult for him to express himself sometimes. Puzzles and rules help him to put a focus on his words and that's why I've assigned him to write a little poem whenever he finds it difficult to speak."
The piece, it had no title, was quite vague. John could not tell the mood of the author in it. What was alarming, however, were the notes. Little scribbles were written on the margins and in the body of the poem itself with a red pen in Mycroft's writing. Just like Mycroft to bypass doctor-patient confidentiality without even batting his eyes. John looked more carefully.
The first letter of the first line, the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, etc. were all circled. John took in a sharp breath when he saw the pattern – s,u,I,c,i….'suicidal'.
John glanced at the other reports; the date of the poem preceded a hospital report just by two days. John sighed and rubbed his hand across his face, then glanced at the clock. It's been two hours since Mycroft had left him here.
Suddenly a click could be heard, and footsteps, slow and steady, came up the stairs.
