In honour of Sherlock Holmes Week (30 July – 5 August), a small collection of ~1k word drabbles spanning the week. Oh, and no worries, I haven't dropped 'Breathing;' I'll get back to it soon.
1. Silence
Upon their first meeting, Sherlock had casually warned John that he often went for days without speaking. John hadn't taken him literally, assuming the man only meant he liked to keep discussion to a minimum, or rather avoid unnecessary discussion altogether. John had grown used to men that liked to speak tersely, especially during his time in the service, and he was used to men who secluded themselves for moments of silence and recuperation, typically after a gruesome display on the battlefield, but John hadn't anticipated this. This full retreat the man had commenced – a strange disappearing act in which John could clearly see an otherwise vanished man. Sherlock was unresponsive to all stimuli, including the sharp stab of midday sunlight splashed across his face or the incessant chime of his phone, or any question directed toward him. Taking it upon himself to perform small favours for the detective, John drew the curtains, answered the man's phone – Mycroft calling again – and made sure Sherlock ate, and if he refused food, then at least a cup of honeyed tea.
The first day of this strange behaviour went overlooked by John as he had been busy at work, returning home to what he had then assumed was simply Sherlock rudely ignoring him. He hadn't noticed something was wrong until day two, at which point he was stuck somewhere between worried friend and professional GP. By day four, John was more than a little frustrated. His concern had gradually tapered off to a series of irritated sighs and glances. Sherlock was never one to respond to body language very well unless actively looking for it, so all of the doctor's hints went unregistered.
"Really, if you stay lying on the sofa much longer, Sherlock, you'll become part of it."
No response, as was the new protocol.
"Why don't we go for a walk? It's a nice day out. Maybe we'll see something interesting? The city always has something to offer."
Nothing, again.
John sighed and rubbed at his temples. He wasn't quite sure what all this meant. Mycroft had assured him it was just one of the "black moods" that Sherlock often suffers. The elder Holmes repeatedly expressed his gratitude of having John available to watch over his brother, as when these moods hit while the younger was alone, he tended to forego sleep and nourishment to the point of necessary hospitalisation. "You're going to grow sore, staying in one spot, Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked, sniffed.
Well, at least there was that. The detective hadn't yet displayed enough courtesy to look at John, but at least he was still aware. The doctor had taken Sherlock's vitals again early this morning, as Sherlock's game had truly convinced him something was wrong. The detective was healthy, save for early signs of dehydration – but he was always dehydrated – and the refusal to willingly make eye contact. He wasn't sure whether Sherlock had slept the past few nights, and he wasn't dozing during the day, but he occasionally blinked rapidly for no more than ten seconds at a time which John had initially feared was a seizure, but now guessed may be credited toward sleep deprivation.
John sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. He left his hair sticking up in funny ends on the weak chance that Sherlock might comment like he was prone to.
"Sherlock, if you're upset with me...I'm sorry. I'm not sure what I've done."
The detective shut his eyes and held them closed for a long moment.
John glanced toward the kitchen. If Sherlock was angry, perhaps tea would help. If he was depressed, well, perhaps tea would help. John rolled his eyes skyward in annoyance. Yes, and if it's something as horrible as neurological disruptions like the blinking-not-seizure had implied, then perhaps tea would help. John stood and lightly limped toward the kitchen to put the kettle on, teeth clenched tightly. He sifted the loose leaf tea into the strainer, making more noise than necessary with the mugs to fill the stifling silence.
John returned with two fresh mugs to find Sherlock in the same position, stretched out on the sofa and staring blankly at the ceiling. John tested his own tea, patiently waiting until it was just cool enough to enjoy without burning the tongue. "If you have no problem with me touching you, say nothing at all."
Sherlock didn't say anything. John smiled wryly.
The doctor carefully lifted Sherlock a bit to offer him his tea. The lanky man seemed only capable of breathing and blinking these last few days and he apathetically allowed John to help him drink, offering minimal assistance.
"We're going to have to come up with some sort of system, Sherlock, if you intend to keep this up. I'll not have you soiling the sofa because you felt it too much effort to run to the loo."
Sherlock tilted his head away slightly, indicating he was through drinking. John glanced into the mug to find it half full. He sighed and set it on the table, lowering Sherlock back to the sofa, tugging on him just enough to get the man on his side. John had experienced this kind of behaviour from Sherlock only a handful of times before, but the detached silence as the man pondered a case had never quite lasted this long, nor had Sherlock been near immobile with whatever was plaguing him. Maybe the lack of a case was the issue, but Sherlock had only just finished one a while ago – could that really be the problem?
"If you don't start drinking more, I'm going to have to put you on a drip, Sherlock, and notify your brother. That won't be pleasant for any of us."
Not a word.
John bowed his head and screwed his eyes shut. He'd been fighting against the sense of helplessness that had struck him by the end of day three, but no amount of yelling, pleading or teasing would get a proper response from Sherlock and the good doctor was reaching his limit. He wasn't sure why the detective was so trapped in his own mind, but the meagre acknowledgements he gave John weren't enough anymore.
"You've cut yourself shaving."
"Well, I was distracted; you were still—" John glanced up sharply, fixed squarely in the detective's gaze. The sense of relief that flooded him was enough to make his eyes water. He leaned over the prone man, hugging him to his chest with enough force to lift him off the sofa a bit, ignoring the muffled sound of surprise Sherlock made against his jumper. When the detective's thin arms wrapped round his shoulders, John finally allowed the distressing tension to leave the back of his mind.
"You used my aftershave," Sherlock mumbled sulkily.
John simply smiled.
