PANCAKES AND ICECREAM

Two more days passed and other than for the bathroom, Sherlock didn't leave his room. John came in twice a day with food and questions. Sherlock replied to them with monosyllabic answers; with his brilliant mind warped by the illness it was about all he could manage. Sherlock's mind had been keeping John away from the truth but, he knew it wasn't long before he asked.

It was about two in the afternoon when John walked into Sherlock's room with a glass of milk and a bowl of soup. Sherlock didn't even glance over when John walked in, he was sat on the edge of the bed in an over-sized white shirt and a pair of black trousers, he looked pale and John noticed that his hands were shaking.

John sat down next to him on the bed and they sat in silence for a minute before John spoke.

'Sherlock'

'Yes'

John sighed but, he had to do this. To help him.

'I-is there something wrong with you?'

Sherlock sighed. He didn't want to hide it any more. What was the point?

'Yes'

John looked into his face but Sherlock continued to stare at the wall. They sat in silence again for another one hundred and eighty seven seconds (Sherlock counted) and then John spoke again.

'What is i-?'

'I think you already know, John'

'…depression?'

John's lip trembled as he continued to study his friend's face, he could see the lines of tension across his brow and the dark sunken circles under his eyes. And john came to a resolve.

John took Sherlock's hand in his and Sherlock's eyes flicked down to where John's hand supported his, he could feel John's pulse and it felt like the world surrounding them was crumbling, except for John still there beside him. His eyes finally met John's and followed the tear slipping down his cheek just as one slipped down his own.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, because even though he couldn't feel anything. He felt John.


John stayed at home for a long time, often just sitting with Sherlock in silence trying to understand what he was going through. He'd seen this illness cripple so many with its persistent void. He couldn't stand to watch what this was doing to Sherlock and he desperately wanted to make it stop.

John knew that Sherlock barely slept at night and generally woke around 4 a.m if not earlier. So having set his alarm for 03.30, John woke to the beeping and groggily lifted himself off the bed.

Sleepy but determined, he walked to the kitchen in his t-shirt and boxers. He wanted to make Sherlock breakfast but now that it came to it; he didn't know what to make. He really didn't know what Sherlock enjoyed eating or used to enjoy eating when he was younger since he only seemed to use his body as a vessel for brilliance nowadays and John doubted he would care what food he consumed.

He decided to make a few things in the hope that that Sherlock would at least eat one of them.

First, he made a batter mix and cooked some small pancakes balancing three of them on a plate, with sugar, lemon juice and golden syrup in three separate pots at the side. He then boiled two eggs placing them on a plate full of neat little soldiers and then fried two more, grilled some bacon, made toast with a light spreading of butter, jumbled up a fruit salad and finally, scooped a bowl of vanilla ice cream with a separate jug of hot melted chocolate to the side.

It was 04.15 by the time he had finished and he set it up on a wooden tray, overlapping a few plates to fit it all on. Quietly, he pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom unlatching the handle with his elbow, careful not to up-end the tray.

He was right, Sherlock was awake. He was lying on the bed cocooned in his white sheet, staring up at the ceiling. When John came in he flopped his head to one side and his eyes travelled over the full breakfast tray and then over John's messy hair and old clothes.

Sherlock smiled. Small tugs at the corner of his lip, a ghost smile, but it tugged harder at John's heart.

'John I-'

'Don't worry about it'

He placed the tray down on the bedside table and Sherlock sat up slowly aching his muscles into movement, John sat next to him on the bed and talked him through his options.

'I errr don't really know what you liked food-wise so I just kind of… made it up.'

Sherlock's eyes scanned John's platter and he was touched by the effort he'd put into it, there were small details that made him happy, for instance the way John had sprinkled icing sugar over his pancakes or how he had cut his toast into neat triangles.

He ate more than he had in days and John watched him with contentment, he noted that the ice-cream was what seemed to disappear the quickest and that when Sherlock poured the chocolate over the ice-cream watching it solidify the crinkles in his face smoothed and the years seemed to drip away from him.

By the end, Sherlock had left half the toast, all but a bite of the bacon, both of the fried eggs, the orange in the fruit salad and only one of the pancakes. John looked on at him and he was happy that he might be helping Sherlock even if it was only like this, but he knew that there was still a way to go.

Severe depression wouldn't disappear at the sight of a few pancakes.