Psychosomatically Part Two

Going to Harry's place had been an awful mistake. Distance is what kept them civil, he realized all too quickly. "Look, Harriet, I really don't want to talk about Sherlock." John was sitting at the table, hands wrapped protectively around a cup of black coffee.

The woman rolled her eyes and flopped into the chair at the dining table. "You obviously like him. I don't see why you left. He was doing you good. You'd been writing in your blog about all the fun times you've had, your limp is suddenly gone two days after you meet him, and I see what goes through your eyes when you mention his name." Harry laughed, a sound surprisingly womanly. "You're both bleeding ignorant."

"What's that s'pose to mean?" John asked. He had grown to associate such blatant insults to his intelligence from Sherlock. It was disconcerting to be hearing it from his sister. He furrowed his brows at her, creating creases in his forehead.

Harry leveled a thick glare John's direction, setting her tea cup down rather precisely. "Just what I said, ignorant."

"Oh sod off," John said pushing away from the table and snatching up his coffee. It's too early for this; seven a.m. was much too early for arguing. John went to the guest room he'd claimed as his until he found his own place. That would be much sooner than originally thought, he was sure of it. Sitting at his computer and turning it on to access his blog, John felt odd. What was he supposed to write about? Especially knowing how many people now read it. He'd been shy at first, just writing about the interactions with Sherlock and the cases, but that had come naturally. Writing about how he'd run out on the one person he had strong feelings for and then to have Mycroft and the whole of the Yard to read about it was…unsettling. It wasn't their business what happened between him and Sherlock.

He sat his coffee off to the side and started to type away anyhow. It was mostly about Harriet, and how they'd already started to argue. That's a bad sign. John couldn't stay here; he and Harriet would be worse off for it. But where…

Afghanistan…

The thought was so quick had John not been sitting there alone, the thought my have passed by unnoticed. Perhaps that was a good idea though. As John sat at the computer, left hand resting on the desk top, he noticed the tremor was back. He clenched his fist up tightly and flung it out, attempting to shake the tremor away. Mycroft had been right, of course, and now that the stress involved in living with Sherlock was gone the tremor was back and John's leg was bugging him again.

"And they said Sherlock had problems," John breathed out, hitting his tense left hand against his right leg. He would have to get in touch with the Army commander and try to get back in. That would ease up some of the tension he was sure. It would certainly keep him too busy to be thinking about Sherlock Holmes.

The silence was piercing through Sherlock's eyes and ears deep into his brain, creating pinpricks of bright red in his thoughts. It was too oppressive. There was a violin somewhere in the flat. But where? Sherlock's eyes shot to the floor next to his chair. It was not there, only the remote. Pointless telly… It had to be here somewhere and that would break the silence. At least for two days. Maybe three if Mrs. Hudson didn't interrupt him.

Clean, the place was too clean and empty now that John wasn't here. Sherlock pursed his lips tightly and swept around, royal blue dressing robe flying out behind him. Damn that violin! It couldn't have just flown away. Sherlock uprooted the couch cushions and stared down at the dirty tan canvas beneath. So that's where the cotton deterioration experiment had gone. It was sometimes hard to locate them when they didn't smell. He huffed and stamped a foot onto the hardwood floor like a child. Perhaps his room.

Drifting towards it in a flurry of blue robe and book-pile-dodging feet, Sherlock pushed open his door and peered into its dark depths. He could make out the random stacks of books, newspapers, journals- everything but his violin. The bed was a mess; the comforter piled at the foot of it covered in what looked like blood. Of course it wasn't really, just a close fabricated substance for the sake of noting drying patterns of blood spill on different materials. Still not a violin.

He turned around and nimbly vaulted a book stack before thundering up the stairs to John's room. Old room, there was no John, not any more. Sherlock's long instrumental fingers wrapped around the handle and his arm tensed as he was about to open the door. Just push it open, he may have taken it to get you to stop. His hand and arm shook slightly but the wooden door eased open with the tell-tale slight squeak in the lower hinge. It needed to be oiled. John normally- There was a violin perched against the middle of the headboard of John's bed. The bow rested at the violin's base, the horse hair loosened in its resting state.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow skywards and moved in. There were no book stacks in this room, no blood stains, projects, or anything of the kind. In fact, it was rather dull and bland. "And I'm the sociopath?" He let out a huff of breath. Perhaps the room had driven John away. It was so dull and lifeless, much unlike the lifestyle John liked to follow. "Room, don't be ridiculous- I need rosin."

He lifted the violin like a parent would cradle a newborn. Sherlock smiled and set the violin under his chin, enjoying the familiar bite of plastic under his jawbone. He held it there in expertise as he raised up the bow to tighten. Holding the bow in one hand and re-cradling the violin he trapezed his way out of the room and took the stairs in quick vaults. His body craved the feel of the chair. He needed to graft himself into its essence again and create something. Perhaps he needed drugs for this. An original symphony was floating –note by note- before his eyes and if he couldn't keep his hyper state of mind going he might let those chords float away.

Quick detour to the kitchen cupboard that housed many of the components of his experiments, including the big box of nicotine patches. He thumbed through them and grimaced. No, Nicotine helped thoughts, not his visual symphony. He pushed the box aside and looked into a bin. Of course John hadn't known what he kept in here. He would have whinged about it had he known. Grabbing the drug of choice, Sherlock made quick work of getting it into his system and his eyes popped wide. Yes! There it was, the notes were still there but laid out on a line of sheet music right before his eyes. Beautiful. This would pull back that pin-pricking silence, retrieve the little needles from his brain and make sure nothing leaked out. You could plug that sort of wound with music, of course.

John was sitting comfortably in a large chair before an Army psychiatrist. The nameplate on the desk proclaimed the name "Dr. Wright" in black across the copper background. "Heh," John mouthed under his breath. He pulled his gray-hazel eyes from the block letters and up to the actual doctor, who'd asked him a question. "Yes, I have the medical doctor's testimony to my health right here." John lifted his hand and held out a folder to Dr. Wright.

"Good. It would seem, with this testimony along with my chats with Ella, that you're very likely to get back in, Dr. Watson. We're very much in need of some good doctors back in Afghanistan." Dr. Wright smiled. "I just have to go over some of the usual questions, you know how it is."

John nodded and folded his hands in his lap. His hand trembled less when it was tucked underneath the other.

"You've kept quite the company after you left the military. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade…seems you couldn't keep to a quiet life." Dr. Wright smiled. "It is hard to adjust back to civilian life, isn't it?"

"Yes, a bit. With the excitement the Holmes family provided though, it wasn't so bad." John twisted one of his fingers tightly and kept his voice steady.

Dr. Wright nodded and marked something, a quick scribble in a notebook, then looked back up. John's eyes strained to remain on him and not drift to the notebook. "You've helped out Scotland Yard with a lot of cases, kept in practice as well. That's good."

John nodded again and felt his nerves jumping high. His knee was throbbing and he bent it, looping his foot around the leg of the chair tightly. Tedious, I'm bored. I wish he'd hurry this up, or get to a damn point… He took in a significant suck of breath. "Mhm."

"Why are you going back, John?" Dr. Wright asked. He was leaned forward in the chair and his fingers were interlocked, lying out across the desk.

The question made him pause, made him think again. I can't stand not feeling like me. I need to get away from them and gain my sanity by, apparently, blowing things up. "I don't feel as useful here. The surgery is nice enough, but I'm overqualified." Sarah had been right about that. Perhaps she'd been right about a lot of things…

Dr. Wright smiled. "That makes sense. Very good reason and we could definitely use you. The MERT teams there are really lacking in trauma doctors."

"That would be perfect. I can handle working under the combat conditions." Hearing himself, adding his internal thoughts, John wondered if he was actually making a wise decision. Too late to back out now. And what would you do anyway? Move back in with-

"I have a bit of paperwork for you to fill out, a recruiter you need to meet with, and then you should be all set. I'll fax my recommendation to the recruiter and get a hold of your new commander." Dr. Wright pulled open a drawer with a loud yank and produced a fairly thick stack of papers. "Technicalities, you know how it is."

Being a doctor, yes, John knew all about the paperwork that went along with the profession. People's conditions, both physical and mental, had to be documented carefully. A lot to do with pay, medals and the like. He nodded his head again and reached out silently for the stack. There wasn't much more for John to say, so he offered a warm smile then took the papers and stood up. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and headed for the door. As he wrapped his hand around the handle he paused and turned, glancing over his shoulder. "Thank you, doctor."

"Glad to help," Dr. Wright replied.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock growled at his brother from his reclined state on the couch. His phone was lying on his chest, speaker on. "I don't want you to come over here. You're missing the basic point here. Will you just hold on one moment and let me speak?"

The voice on the other end was smooth, calm, and glistened with amusement. "Sherlock, I think it is in your best interest were I to come over and make you tea. You are obviously distraught over John's absence and it is the responsibility of the older brother to help you out."

"I- I don't want you here. I know you can order John out of the Army and back here." Sherlock lifted the phone and held it nearly to his lips before yelling into it. "You control the whole damn government, get me John Watson!"

"Tush, tush Sherlock. It's not polite to yell. Mummy taught you better than that," Mycroft crooned. "I'll be over in just a moment. You keep still."

When the phone clicked at Sherlock he tossed it across the room. Hearing a satisfying clunk, he rolled over onto his side and wrapped the royal blue dressing robe about him. If Mycroft were coming over he at least wouldn't have to look at him from this position. It truly was just a moment before the door eased open and the heavy footfalls, marked pointedly with the tap of the end of an umbrella, announced Mycroft's presence. Sherlock just listened, hearing his brother make his way across the flat and to a chair just a ways from Sherlock's brooding couch.

"Oh little brother, how your sociopathic antics do amuse me." Mycroft's voice was a flutter of musical notes as he practically sang to his brother. "You know very well that John Watson is not yours. Didn't we have a talk already about owning people?"

The scoff from the couch was muffled by cushions but still unmistakable. "You own Britain. What's the difference? He's only one man."

"Ah, 'only one man' who can put you completely off your game. It's rather a convenience for me, wouldn't you agree? Now I don't have to worry about my baby brother running around getting himself strapped to bombs." Mycroft shifted in the chair, pressing back further into the worn in cushion. He reached out with his umbrella and firmly stuck the point of it into Sherlock's hip. "Come now, manners Sherlock. Honestly, must we go back to grade school teachings?"

"Mycroft, unless you're here to discuss getting John back where he belongs, I'd much rather angst in peace. Besides, John was the one strapped to the bomb." Sherlock pulled up from the couch, bored with the position. "And keep that bloody umbrella from my hip, hmm?" He dropped his robe finding it irritating and restraining while his brother was here. He couldn't believe the man was invading his space again. God, now all that was needed was another fake drugs bust and Anderson's ridiculous face then Sherlock would be in the mind-frame for murder. Of the actively pursuing murder variety, not actively pursuing a murderer. "Where is the damned phone…" Sherlock flew across the room, scanning the ground and coming up cellular-less.

"Here," Mycroft voice floats through room. "It was near the chair." He's holding out Sherlock's phone in stout, steady fingers. His eyes are sharply focused on his brother as he waits.

"Mmns," Sherlock muddles the possible gratitude. He runs his finger over it, bringing it to life and checks his messages. He searches rather pointedly for one number- nothing. Damn that it wasn't still in his phone. "Computer…" He grabs the laptop, not giving the minutest of glances at Mycroft. "Hmm, problems with Harry. Good- but Afghanistan- Mycroft, today. It has to be today."

Mycroft takes in a deep breath and lets it out in slow noisy huff. "No, Sherlock. I'm sorry."