The First Time…John Met the Black Dog

The black dog.

That's not what John called it back then. That's not what Sherlock called it either. They didn't have a name for it, not until later. Not until it had caused four fights, a broken tea mug, enraged silence, and at least one bout of apology sex that was without a doubt the worst sex they'd ever had.

The broken crockery, the yelling, the rage, all of it was John's fault. He's used to feeling useful, is John, but it's hard to be of use to a man in a mood so dark that he will sit for hours in shallow-breathing silence, indifferent to your words, unresponsive to your touch, seemingly blind even when you're on your knees in front of him begging.

They'd been married nearly three year the first time the black dog came for Sherlock. Later John would have a name for it—situational depression. Later he would come to understand the triggers—a prolonged lack of engaging cases or, much worse, the sense of worthlessness Sherlock often felt when he failed to solve one of the more brutal crimes.

Why the depression was kept at bay for so long John couldn't say (Sherlock told him once, but John doesn't believe he could possibly be that interesting, not for five years), but once it emerged it did not tip-toe into their lives. No, the dog came howling from the dark, a sharp-toothed monster that could consume all the air in a room, all the hope in their hearts, all the patience of one exceedingly patient man.

"Tell me what's wrong, Sherlock, please."

Like grief, there's no right way to go about depression. Some people sleep too much, others too little. Some eat, others starve. Some get reckless, others don't. The one almost-unifying symptom is the silence.

"I want to help you."

It's not a willful thing, this silence. It's not even apathy. It's an almost literal inability to form the words that say, "I am in so much pain that I am numb…all of me…my heart my head my mouth my tongue."

So John didn't understand it the first time, how could he? He'd lived with this wildly willful, impossibly strong, ridiculously vibrant creature for so long that of course he thought the silence was a choice, that the empty eyes were some strange game, maybe ploy, certainly experiment.

"I'm not fucking kidding, Sherlock."

John's ashamed to remember how quickly he moved from understanding to shouting to threats that first time.

"Fine, whatever, I'll be back later. Maybe. Play games on your own time."

Only after he'd returned at three a.m. to find Sherlock still sitting in that same chair by the window, staring at nothing, did John realize something was truly wrong. Only then did he go to his knees at Sherlock's knees and apologize, at first with words, then with silence, then with tears.

It took two more visits from the black dog—and those four fights, that bad sex, the broken mug—before there was an actual diagnosis, advice, coping strategies.

Time, as it turns out, is the only real remedy that works, but they do what they can with what they have.

Sherlock can be heard to self-talk when he thinks he's alone, reassuring himself that he's done everything he could in a particular case.

John holds interesting cold cases in reserve and strews them in front of Sherlock like a carpet of grim little daisies when he senses his sweetheart is feeling darkly bored or useless.

They both attempt to be communicative and exceedingly patient with one another and often (though not always) succeed.

And when the black dog is at Sherlock's throat despite all of this, he will muster every last bit of energy in him and he'll lay himself down on their bed and he'll wait. After awhile John will find him and he'll stretch out on Sherlock's back and tuck his face tight against Sherlock's neck and though the black dog won't let him say it, not then, at those times it's the only thing that can make Sherlock feel…anything.

I promised a ribald post for this second entry of The First Time… but Livia Carica created artwork that is so relentlessly beautiful I needed to write something for it and wanted to post when she did. Please tell her what you think of her beautiful artwork which can be found (minus spaces) at: http:/ livia-carica. livejournal. com/ 20022. html

Next time we'll go silly and sexy and very much public. As a matter of fact, let me be a complete vain idiot and say that if I receive ten comments today on this entry, I'll post the sex tomorrow instead of Thursday like I planned. Now I will sit here and tremble my lower lip because if I get only two comments my ego is going to fucking cry. (I appear to be talking out loud again, don't I?)