Fragility

One had to look closely to see any weakness in Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective's genius and overwhelming ego pervaded his every action. But little things he did could be observed, if one cared to look closely enough.

For example, when he was hungry, Sherlock would slowly and contemplatively lick his lips in a slow circle, starting with the left corner of his upper lip and ending at the right corner of his lower lip. It was not to be confused with the quick wetting of lips that he did when in the heat of action. When he was tired, Sherlock would blink rapidly in succession and sometimes give a quick shake of his head. When Sherlock was feeling sick or put out, he would go quiet and very still, bowing his head and lowering or closing his eyes. His hands would fall to his sides and hang there limp by his hips. Somehow, this made the tall man look very, very small.

In the rare times when he was afraid, Sherlock would do nothing but talk—usually nonsense—in a high, concerned voice. When Sherlock was lonely, he would amuse himself with some complicated experiment, the long words and difficult phrases acting as the tears Sherlock had stopped crying long ago.

John Watson had come to slowly understand Sherlock's weaknesses. As a doctor, he was good at assessing people and coming to quick conclusions about their mental and physical health. His pride would never let him admit that he learned some of Sherlock's weaknesses only after something negative had occurred, like the time Sherlock fainted after a criminal's arrest or the time when he ran to the toilet to puke before he even saw the body. But John would never admit, and didn't even think, that Sherlock was a fragile person. Sherlock wasn't even a normal person. Sherlock was a Sherlock: in a league of his own.

Even knowing all he did about his flatmate, John still jumped when he woke one morning to find Sherlock standing about six inches from his bed. The younger man was "half-dressed," meaning the suit jacket, coat, and scarf were absent. He was wearing a purple shirt and black dress pants, as per usual. But he was disheveled.

His shirt was rumpled and half untucked, his hair wild like he'd just crawled out of bed. His hands were cut and bloody, and there were a few scratches on his face. His eyes were bright, but the dark circles under them indicated tire. His lips were firm and set, but the corner of his mouth leaked blood. He looked at John, apparently unsurprised at John's reaction to his presence.

"Goddammit, Sherlock!" John breathed, calming himself down by pressing a hand to his chest. "You scared me, you git! How long have you been watching me sleep?"

Sherlock blinked but said nothing. His posture was stiff and unrelenting, much the way he had acted around Moriarty at the pool. He wasn't relaxed, out of his element, cleverness doing nothing for him now.

John sighed. "Okay, Sherlock. What's the matter?"

Sherlock stayed quiet, his bright eyes trained on John. The doctor couldn't quite figure out what Sherlock's silence was supposed to be telling him. John yawned and took a closer look. Sherlock's shoulders and hair were slightly damp, but there was no mud on his trousers or his shoes.

"You were out last night, I see," John observed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes amused. John took that to mean he was on the right track. "Injured a bit," he indicated Sherlock's mouth. "You don't just let someone slug you in the mouth. You were caught off guard." Sherlock did that thing where he became limp and small. Except he didn't look ashamed of himself or terribly sick.

He looked like a porcelain doll. Every feature painted, breakable. Fragile.

John started from the sheer shock of it. "Who hit you?" He asked softly.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head as John stood, his eyes soft and sad. John slowly pushed him towards the door. "C'mon, you. I have to get dressed." Sherlock shook his head and strode across the room to the window. He wasn't leaving. John sighed. "Okay, then." He began to dress. "You're impossible, you know that?" The doctor could almost feel Sherlock smiling.

"Okay," John said at length after he'd dressed and brushed his teeth. "Who stole your voice, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned from the window and shook his head. "No. Still got your voice, then?" Sherlock nodded. "You just won't talk." Sherlock shook his head. "Why?" Sherlock thought about this one and then shrugged. "You don't know." Sherlock blinked. "Well, this helps. At least text me. I hate it when you leave me out of things." John took his phone and waved it sarcastically at Sherlock. Then, he went downstairs to make tea and toast. Sherlock followed.

"If you're off the case, you should really be sleeping, you know," John went on, uneasily. It was a bit unnerving, having Sherlock so damn quiet. "And eating, too." Toast popped out of the toaster. John buttered it and walked into the other room, holding it out for Sherlock. "Here. Eat." But Sherlock shook his head. John withdrew the plate. "Feel sick?" Sherlock never ate when he was sick. John checked Sherlock's temperature with the back of his hand. "No fever. Nauseous?" Sherlock rolled his shoulders: yes and no. "There must be a good reason you're not talking." John took out his phone and placed it on the arm of the chair. "Tell me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pointed at his coat. John looked. "Yeah, your coat. And?" Sherlock pointed at John's phone. John sighed and retrieved Sherlock's phone. Sherlock began typing. John's phone buzzed.

Thanks. –SH

"I'm right here. You don't have to identify yourself."

More typing. I was attacked.

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock hesitated. Yes.

"No you're not. You're not speaking."

Don't want to speak.

"Do you want tea?"

No.

"You look like you need sleep."

I'm fine.

John shook his head. "You don't look 'fine' to me. Please talk to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock got up and picked up his violin. He plucked at the strings a little before sitting down again, the instrument in his lap. "Okay, John," he said, his voice quiet. "I couldn't sleep, so I climbed up to the roof and jumped to the next one and traveled that way. I—I wasn't physically attacked…" He hesitated. "I bit my tongue and it bled a little."

John leaned back in his chair, happy to hear his best friend's voice again. "Are you okay?" He asked again.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, but he was lying. John saw his body go small and limp. And again, John thought that Sherlock looked fragile.

"You had a nightmare," John concluded.

Sherlock nodded. "I couldn't save you, John. You died." He looked away. "I was alone."

John smiled. "But I'm alive," he comforted, knowing how powerful nightmares can be. "And you're not alone. Okay? Now, how about some breakfast? Hmm?" He handed Sherlock the toast again and went into the kitchen to prepare tea.

He was relieved when he heard Sherlock bite into the toast noisily. It meant that things were back to normal.

Except John had learned that, for all his strength and ego and genius, Sherlock was just as fragile as everyone else.

And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had a reason to hide his fragility.