DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock. Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. The original source material is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Authors note: Thank you to everyone who has followed/favourited this story, and an especially big thanks goes to lorusgra for leaving a review. All of your support is appreciated, and has encouraged me to write/upload another chapter. This is quite an angsty chapter, so I suggest not proceeding if angst isn't your thing. Other than that, I hope you enjoy it!
John had witnessed Sherlock's quiet spells before; those long bouts of silence where Sherlock had done nothing but lie across the sofa in 221B and mope.
Back then life had been simpler. It was a time that preceded Moriarty and his sick and twisted games, before the fall, before the two years of grieving, and the incident with Magnussen.
The silences had meant the great detective was thinking about a case, absorbed in trying to piece things together. He'd often reminded John of a human statue, barely moving, only showing signs of being present when a cup of steaming tea was placed next to him.
This time was different.
Sherlock Holmes wasn't just quiet, he was positively lifeless.
It scared John more than he liked to admit.
It was exactly one week since Mycroft had sent the younger Holmes to rehab.
It had felt like one of the longest weeks John had had to endure. Even Mary was suffering. She'd tossed and turned in bed for the past few nights, unable to settle, and not just because of their child keeping her up. It was Sherlock. They were both worried about him.
For the first few days visitors had't been allowed. This was, John had been informed, something that the centre called a cooling off period. It was supposedly a time used to settled in the patient, and allow them to adjust to their new situation.
Understandable, John mused. It had been enough of a culture shock to walk in the doors himself. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to be weighed down by the knowledge that you could not leave the place. At least John knew what waited for him at home; Mary, a pint with Greg, a cup of tea in front of the fire. What did Sherlock have?
Nothing.
Once they were certain Sherlock was settled, John had received a text from Mycroft to give him the go ahead for visitation rights. He'd been showered and dressed within ten minutes of his phone alert going off. He had time to grab a piece of toast and peck Mary on the lips, but had hurried to the black car waiting outside for him without hesitation.
The security guards that hovered near the visiting room door were making John a tad apprehensive. This was no ordinary rehabilitation centre, but then, Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary man. He needed more than a locked door to keep him inside the same four walls.
Considering how much shouting had taken place when Sherlock had checked in, John would not have been surprised if Sherlock tried to escape the confines, but all of the security and high tech CCTV ensured that even the genius wouldn't be able to attempt a disappearing act.
Somewhere out there John was sure a certain government official was monitoring Sherlock's every move.
The rehab centre itself seemed very…tranquil? And nice. Yes. Everyone was very nice here. If Sherlock was in a speaking mood, John was certain that he would have described it, and the people as 'boring'.
That made John smile a bit more than it should have done.
The private nurse assigned to Sherlock was very chatty and her personality was warm and bubbly. Sherlock probably hated her. Then again, Sherlock probably hated everyone right now. John couldn't say he blamed him.
She filled John in on everything he'd missed, which apparently hadn't been much, as there had been no change in Sherlock.
The world moved on and Sherlock Holmes remained motionless. Always staring. Staring out of that bloody window like it was the one focus point of his attention. Like he wasn't even aware John was in the room with him.
He was so very far away from the man John Watson had been introduced to. Even his appearance was different.
Couldn't they have at least given him him the dignity of keeping his clothes?
Sherlock didn't have any of his belongings with him. He was in a blank room. With blank walls. And a blank ceiling. And a blank door. The only light that seemed to filter into the white room came from the one oval shaped window positioned in the middle of the room.
The window overlooked a large stretch of green land, but on the outside iron bars were nailed to it, obscuring the view and preventing Sherlock from smashing the glass. It was a small window, but John wouldn't put it past him to try and wriggle his way through the space, if it weren't for the bars obstructing the escape route.
Sherlock was dressed in rehab issue clothes which were as white and as dull as the room he was sat in. The outfit consisted of a thin T-shirt, baggy pyjama trousers, and a pair of slippers (that Sherlock seemed to have decided were not meant for feet) as they lay on the other side of the room from where he was sat.
The room was only sparsely decorated. There was a bed, a bedside table, and the chair that Sherlock was occupying. John had to make do with standing, even though his leg was aching today.
There was something about seeing Sherlock like this that brought the symptoms of his PSTD back in sparkling form. There was a tremor running through his hand,too, but he managed to at least disguise that symptom by clenching his hand into a fist.
He leaned in to inspect his friend, surveying him with the eyes of a doctor, but studying him with the worry of a friend.
"So," he said after a moment of not getting any response out of Sherlock. "You're not talking, you're not eating, and apparently you're not sleeping. I can only presume you're thinking then. Do you want to talk about that?"
Nothing. Not even a grunt of usual annoyance. Not a nose wrinkle or a blink. How Sherlock was able to go without blinking for so long was frankly disturbing.
John leaned closer and frowned. Sherlock's eyes were listless. The spark that made Sherlock, well, Sherlock, had all but faded into non existence. He'd never seen the man look so…deflated? Defeated?
John wanted to touch him, just to make sure the man was still real, but he quickly shook the idea away. Ridiculous. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the fuss.
John had never felt so out of his depths.
It was frightening how incapable he was of breaking through whatever depression had hold of Sherlock. Usually, he'd be able to get something out of him, anything, even if it usually was a snarky comment or an exasperated sigh.
He didn't know where to look. Sherlock's thin, tired face? Or down at the ground where Sherlock's equally thin feet were splayed out. Wherever he looked, it didn't make a difference, his stomach still clenched in response to how indifferent Sherlock was.
He didn't know what to say.
If Sherlock was a coma patient, then John would have taken his hand, squeezed it, talked to him for hours in the hope that he would eventually get through to him. But Sherlock wasn't in a coma. He was right here…alive…conscious… but at the same time it felt like the man was barely registering as a blip in the world.
He couldn't comfort Sherlock. Couldn't hold his hand. Probably wouldn't be allowed to, even if he did try. There was literally nothing John Watson could do to end the pain his friend was in.
Had this been the right thing to do? Sending Sherlock to rehab?
John had asked himself that question time and time again. He'd repeated it over and over in his head like a mantra.
Yes, Sherlock needed help. The list Sherlock provided Mycroft with on the plane was proof enough of that. All of those drugs…taken without a care…with the intention to…god, it hardly bared thinking about.
The question was not whether Sherlock needed to seek help, for that was obvious. The question was specifically whether a rehabilitation centre was the right choice for him. Rehab wasn't a suitable environment for everyone, after all.
He'd seen this before, with Harry. He'd tried to fix his sisters alcohol addiction, but rehab had pushed her too far, and now they barely saw or contacted each other and John wouldn't be surprised if he got a call one day telling him she had died from alcohol poisoning, or by choking on her own vomit.
He didn't want Sherlock falling into the same pit of hopelessness. He couldn't bear the thought of him falling so far, and so hard, or the thought of Sherlock pushing everyone that cared about him (especially John) away.
John clenched his jaw in determination.
He was not going to let that happen. Not on his watch.
He was too late to save his sister, but he would be damned if he couldn't stop the destruction of Sherlock Holmes.
"If you're trying to protect me, it won't work." He said, voice tight with grit. "Tell me what you're thinking Sherlock. I don't care if that involves shouting, or insults, or-" John wanted to say that he didn't care if Sherlock broke down in front of him, but that seemed too insensitive, so he stopped himself. "Sherlock? Please. This is getting scary now."
Nothing.
John felt a pang of disappointment in his chest.
Perhaps he was expecting too much of Sherlock. It was, after all, very early days.
The buzz that penetrated the air signalled that visiting hours were over. The shrill noise made John flinch. It was too soon. He hadn't made any progress. Sherlock was exactly the same as he had been when John first entered the room.
Somehow, the lack of time John had been given seemed deeply unfair. What he'd give to make some kind of deal with the universe, just so he could stay the night with the pale faced man. Even if Sherlock didn't know he was there, it would at least help put John at ease.
"Times up I'm afraid, Doctor Watson."
John turned around and smiled weakly, out of polite habit. The muscles in his face pulled and tugged, reminding him that he really wasn't in a smiling mood.
It was the nice nurse. The one assigned to looking after Sherlock. She was here to see him off.
John took one last glance at Sherlock, sighed, then steeled himself enough to walk to other side of the room and slip outside the door.
"You will look after him, won't you?" He asked the nurse in a low voice. Just because Sherlock was choosing to ignore all external stimuli, did not mean he was deaf, and John was almost embarrassed to be heard fretting so much.
Sherlock would never let him hear the end of it.
Though even Sherlock's taunts might be nice right about now…
"Of course. We'll have him feeling more himself in no time at all, you'll see."
John recognised her tone of voice. It was the same as the voice he used to reassure terminally ill patients.
"Right," he sighed. "I'll try and come and see him again soon."
She waved him off and he left the way he had arrived.
He'd hoped to feel more positive about the current situation when he'd left his flat in the morning, instead he felt a tug and pull at his gut, and his heart was clenching so hard in his chest that he was fearful he was suffering palpitations.
A sleek, black car was waiting for him outside, and he gladly slid onto the posh leather seat, hoping that he would be able to will away his worries before he got home to Mary.