"Hey... it's, uh..." sigh "it's me again. Sherlock, please pick up. I'm sorry." sigh "I'm worried. So's Mary. So's Mrs Hudson – she says she hasn't seen you in days. But I know you're there. Just... please pick up."
A pale hand floated just above the phone, contemplating.
"I know that you're going through a hard time, but... I'm your friend, Sherlock. And if you can't talk to me, who can you talk to? The neighbours'll think you're insane if you go around muttering to yourself again." A slight sound like static as he chuckled slightly. "Although I suppose they already think you insane, huh? But... anyway," sigh "please just... just call me back, ok? I am here for you, I promise." beep beep
The hand rushed down all of a sudden, making a desperate grab for the phone and yanking it up to his ear.
"John?" But he was already gone.
…
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Sherlock? Open up! I've had enough! Either you open this damn door or I
I'll break it down!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Sherlock!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Alright, you've asked for it! I'm breaking it down!"
"You're paying for the damage, young man."
"Yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. Now, stand back."
Ba-bump! Ba-bump! Ba-bump! Ba-bump!
"Jeez!"
"Are you ok?"
"Yeah, it's just this door is hard."
"Yes, well it's thick wood."
"...yes. I gathered."
Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes. More mumbling and the sound of Mrs Hudson's heels clip-clopping along the landing, but he tuned it out. Would they ever leave him alone? It wasn't like he was locking himself away just so they could come and ruin his peace. All he wanted was to be alone for a while. Was that too much to ask?
Ba-bump!
Apparently, so.
Sighing again, he heaved himself off the sofa and trailed over to the door.
Ba-bump! Ba-bump!
"Who is it?" he called pleasantly.
"Sherlock?"
"No, actually. This is the current Prime Minister."
"Open the door, Sherlock!"
"Why should I?"
"Because I've had enough of your sulking!"
"That's not a reason, that's your opinion. And anyway, I'm not sulking."
"Fine then, I'll break down this door and you'll have to pay for repairs!"
"How tiresome." he muttered – a phrase he had stolen from his brother, he noted irritably. He unlocked the door and swung it open with rather much more force than was necessary before stumbling back to the sofa and resuming the position he was in before.
"Good god, you've let yourself go, haven't you?"
"Hmm?" It had been a while since he'd seen John, that much he was sure of. How long, he had no idea. It had to have been more than a few days though.
"Why have you got all the curtains closed?"
Because I dislike seeing myself any more than I absolutely have to.
"The sunlight was hurting my eyes."
John strode over to one window and threw back a curtain. Wincing, Sherlock sat up and glared disapprovingly at him.
Appraising the room, John strode over and sat beside him on the sofa. He didn't comment on the bloodstained bandage that hung from Sherlock's arm, or the ripped pyjama bottoms and ratty dressing gown that he was sporting. Instead, he sat and gazed in the same direction as him for a minute or so. Then he turned and looked at Sherlock. Just looked at him. Nothing else. It wasn't like he was attempting to seek reasons in the lines of his face, or trying to make him talk first without saying anything like he might usually do. John was just looking at him, like an uninterested spectator watching TV when there was nothing good on. Just flicking through the channels, looking.
For some reason this looking compelled him to speak. He found words spouting from his mouth before he'd even planned them – a rare occurrence.
"John, I am so sorry that I didn't call you back. Believe me, I was going to, but... but I got sidetracked." he stopped himself, suddenly confused. "How long has it been?"
"About... two weeks." John smiled, but his eyes were dangerous. Sherlock had come to recognise that look. He was angry.
"Two weeks? Well, no wonder I'm bored, then. Two weeks without a case..."
"What about that one you were all excited about?"
"Oh, I solved that."
"Mmm, of course you did."
He looked at John for a second, wondering if he was going to start shouting yet.
"Did I hear Mrs Hudson?"
"She went downstairs to get me a paracetamol." Apparently not. But he would. Soon.
"Well. Have you come across any interesting cases recently?" he stood, straightened his stiff back, wincing at the pain in his legs and arms that stretching inflicted.
"Two weeks, Sherlock!" There it was. The anger. Sherlock never could work out how he managed to wind John up so much. It just always seemed to happen, somehow.
"Yes. A fortnight. I'm sorry. I didn't realise it had been so long." He found it just a tad ironic that he was the one apologising to John after John was the one who yelled in the first place.
"Oh. Oh, you're sorry. Well that makes all the difference then, doesn't it!" Sherlock turned. John was standing as well, a furious expression on his face. It had taken him a while to master facial expressions – it was just always so tricky to read human behaviour; they had so many expressions and such a lot of body language! – sometimes he still found it difficult (which was ridiculous. He was a world-renowned detective that couldn't recognise when someone was happy or sad!), but with John it was always fairly obvious. You could read him like a book, and Sherlock had taught himself a lot about facial expressions from that book. Right now he could tell that John wasn't just angry, or upset, he was sad as well. The way he held himself made him appear confrontational, and territorial, like a leopard with a bad taste in sweaters fighting for land, but it was also drawn back, wary. He was hurt. Sherlock had hurt him. That was ridiculous – he had only ever wanted to hurt himself, not John. Never John.
"I am sorry, John. I honestly didn't realise." Now. How to go about fixing this. This sort of thing was not something Sherlock excelled at.
"Two weeks. Two bloody weeks!" John's voice cracked. Uh-oh. "I thought you were dead!" Sherlock frowned.
"No you didn't. Otherwise why would you have carried on calling me?"
"So you did get my calls? I thought you'd killed yourself, you BASTARD!" Suddenly, John was lunging for Sherlock. He tried to sidestep, but it was too late. Bracing himself, he waited for a punch to the jaw or stomach, but it never came. Instead, Sherlock found himself encircled in John's arms as the other man buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder and muttered "you absolute bastard," over and over again.
"Um... what are... uh?" Finding himself unable to form complete sentences, Sherlock gave up and started processing what John had said earlier as an alternative.
"You thought I'd killed myself?"
"...bastard..."
"I'm far too fond of myself for that. You should have learnt that already."
"..."
"Ah... John?"
"..."
"Can you let go of me now?"
"..."
"Uh... please?
"..."
"...John?"
Just as he was beginning to wonder if he would have to extract John himself, Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway.
"Uh, I've found the para- oh. Have I walked in on something? I'm sorry, I'll just leave you two, shall I?" That roused John sharpish. He jumped away from Sherlock as if burned and glared at the landlady.
"Mrs Hudson, I'm married!"
"Oh, I'm sure Mary won't mind, but just to be on the safe side I won't tell her, alright? Mum's the word." She tapped her nose conspiratorially.
"I'M NOT GAY!"
"Any louder and the people in the city centre may have heard." Sherlock muttered, collapsing backwards into the wooden chair by the table, wincing at the movement. Had he really inflicted so much damage on himself that the simple task of sitting down caused him pain? He must have been really out of it, he decided.
John twirled back to face him and pointed an accusatory finger. "Careful, you. I've only just forgiven you, ok?"
"Alright."
He didn't listen past that point. Like before, he tuned out the unnecessary sounds of his friend and his landlady bickering. Instead, he took refuge in his Mind Palace: built from the memories and experiences he carried with him. Whenever he needed to find something stored away, or simply wanted a quiet corner away from the bustle of everyday life, he would take refuge in it's infinite walls and rooms.
But this time something was wrong. The walls shimmered with a sickly light, lending everything an eerie yellowish glow. No matter how much he tried, the light just would not disappear. This had happened before, of course, but usually with a little willpower he could make it fade away so he was barely noticing it. This time it was in every room, down every hall, making the imaginary wallpaper contort into devilish faces, jeering and snarling.
"Oh dear..."
Whirling about, Sherlock was faced with Mycroft, that infernal brother of his. Why did he always have to appear at times like this?
"What are you doing here? Get out of my head!"
"Oh dear..." Mycroft's eyes were hooded as he glared down at his cane, and then back up to Sherlock's face. "You have an addiction, Sherlock-"
"No. No, I don't want to hear it! Leave me alone!" It was the same words as the last time the two of them had seen each other, and a chord of panic flared up somewhere within Sherlock's ribcage.
"-I never thought I'd have to say this, but it's the truth. Your want for pain is far greater than anything I've ever encountered..."
"Don't say it. Don't you DARE-"
"Brother mine."
Sherlock leapt towards him, but Mycroft seemed to blend in with the shimmering wallpaper, and all of a sudden, he wasn't there anymore.
"Oh dear... You have an addiction, Sherlock."
"STOP SAYING THAT! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT!" Sherlock twirled about in circles, searching frantically for the source of his blasted voice, but all he could see were the mocking faces of the wallpaper as it shivered and flickered in his line of vision.
"...but it's the truth-" Sherlock took off running. He didn't know where he was going; he couldn't concentrate properly. Only very few times before had he ever been brought to the edge of panic like this. He found that breathing was impossible – he was drowning! How was he drowning? Surely that wasn't possible?
Hurtling along corridors, down stairs, through tiny broom-cupboard sized rooms, until he finally found himself in a great extravagant ballroom, shimmering and sparkling so Sherlock felt as if his eyes were going to explode with the pure craziness the scene brought to his retinas.
"...Brother...Brother...Brother..." From all corners of the vast room came Mycroft's voice, echoing and merging with the wallpaper. His voice shimmered all about Sherlock's head, and Sherlock spun, again and again, trying to get a grip on where it was coming from, but he couldn't breathe – oh God, why couldn't he breathe?
Suddenly, right beside his ear came a hiss: "Brother mine."
Sherlock cracked his neck attempting to seek out his quarry, but all he saw was a slight movement that didn't fit in with the shivering walls. Glancing up, he was just in time to see the chandelier falling, as if in slow motion from the vaulted ceiling, glittering and shining. It was heading straight towards him. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but it was too late. He was aware of Mycroft standing slightly to his left, watching in disapproval as his little brother struggled with reality.
"You have an addiction... your want of pain... addiction... addiction...addiction..."
…