The dreaded call had come. Usually, Sherlock would have had to endure another appointment with the Rheumatologist to learn the results of his tests. An exception had been made in his case. More to preserve the peace of the doctor's domain than for Sherlock's benefit, to be sure.

"Rheumatoid Arthritis," Doctor Howitzer had pronounced. The rest of the doctor's words, though recorded within his Mind Palace, were lost for the moment in the buzzing that started in Sherlock's mind. Something was said about aggressive therapy and the self-administration of a medication, a TNF-blocker. Sherlock agreed to everything. He even noted his next appoint, two days from now, on a desk calendar. When the call was ended, he made his way to stare out his favourite window.

John noted the tension in Sherlock's stance. "Who was that, Sherlock?"

"Hmm. You were correct. It's RA." Sherlock's voice sounded flat, unemotional.

"You okay there, mate?"

Sherlock didn't reply, he just continued staring out the window onto the street below.

John dropped the paper he had been reading onto the table and considered his next words. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't admit to anything that hinted at weakness, but bloody hell, the man was human so he had to be feeling something. "Listen, Sherlock. Even though we suspected as much, it's still normal to feel shock at hearing the diagnosis. It's okay if you, I don't know, want to yell or something." John forced a smile, "Though I draw the line at shooting the wall."

Sherlock was still completely unresponsive. His face was closed, a carefully bland mask had been crafted and drawn over his face.

Sighing, John rose from where he sat. "How about a cuppa?" It was his default action for times of stress. John went through the ritual of putting the kettle on and, when it had boiled, prepared tea. The entire time, his thoughts swirled around Sherlock and his silence. The man was stubborn, John had to give him that. There would be no forcing him to talk. Not until he was ready.

Silently, John joined Sherlock at the window. He held out the mug of tea and waited. Without glancing his way, Sherlock accepted the drink. "Thank you."

The silence deepened with the passage of time. The men sipped their tea. John waited, willing his presence to offer the comfort that words could not.

"John…" Sherlock still hadn't shifted from his perusal of the street. "What if the medication is ineffective in my case?" A decidedly un-Sherlock-like tremor edged the detective's voice. "I know that I said I deleted everything about the disease." He paused. "I lied."

Despite the situation, John couldn't help laughing softly. "I know."

Finally, Sherlock turned and met John's patient gaze. His very economy of motion disturbed John. Sherlock was meant to be dynamic, a burning fire, not this. On, he could be cold and reserved, but this… It was as if Sherlock's fire had been transformed into something thick and viscous. John recognized it, it was depression. During their time together, it had been obvious that Sherlock had a tendency for depression. The tortured violin could attest to that. This seemed different, deeper.

"Sherlock," John began. This conversation would difficult. He fortified himself against the attack that he know would be forthcoming, then continued. "Since you didn't delete everything, I want you to do something for me, yeah?" John would attempt to engage the other man's intellect.

Sherlock, raised an eyebrow in question.

"You should have the statistics in there for the comorbidity of RA and depression. Tell me what you know and tell me the symptoms of depression." John waited.

The detective began, his usual rapid-fire recital of facts replaced by a slow factual statement of symptoms. "Depression is twice as likely to occur in individuals with RA. In patients diagnosed with both RA and depression, the likelihood of death is again double. Depression is characterized by the following: feelings of helplessness or hopelessness, loss of interest in daily activities, appetite or weight changes, sleep changes, loss of energy, anger or irritability, self-loathing, reckless behaviour, concentration problems, and/or unexplained aches and pains. I'm not depressed."

There was no venom in the last statement. That disturbed John, there should have been biting gall. "Okay Mr. Wikipedia, convince me."

Now some heat entered Sherlock's voice and his speech picked up, "I never feel helplessness or hopelessness. I have never been intimidated by anyone. Loss of interest in daily activities? There is The Work. There has been an appalling lack of cases, however, that is hardly my fault. Concern about my appetite or sleeping habits? Absurd. Likewise for loss of energy. Anger or irritability? I am always irritable, nothing new. You want to know about self-loathing. Nothing that I will discuss. My reckless behaviour perhaps? Nothing new. Concentration problems? My mind is a finely tuned instrument. As for unexplained aches and pains. I. Have. RA. I would not characterize them as unexplained." Sherlock bit the last of hard.

John rolled his head, then decided it was time to press on. "Your analysis is, for once in your life flawed. Let me tell you what I see."

The detective turned to glare out the window once again, but he didn't storm away.

"You don't have to have all of the symptoms to have depression. I know. I've been there. So this is what I see. You said feelings of helplessness or hopelessness. Of course you feel helpless, this disease is beyond your control. You just asked me 'What if the medication doesn't work?' That's feeling helpless, Sherlock. What next, loss of interest in daily activities? No there haven't been any cases, but you haven't been stalking the flat, performing experiments, or torturing your violin. You haven't even been searching for cigarettes. That's loss of interest. I won't argue the point on appetite, but as for sleep changes… Sherlock, you have actually slept the last eight days running. Not just at night, but you curl up on the sofa and you're gone. That indicates loss of energy as well. Yes you're always irritable, but more so of late. And we are going to talk about this 'self-loathing' that you implied later. I won't argue the reckless behaviour either, but concentration problems? I haven't seen you focus on anything in days. I won't argue the pain, either. So that's what," John began counting on his fingers, "seven symptoms." He let that take a moment to sink in. "Now tell me again that you are not depressed."

Sherlock didn't respond except to grasp the edge of the curtain tightly in his right hand.

Again, John let his presence offer what comfort it could. At least Sherlock hadn't made a second denial.

After long moments of silence, Sherlock spoke. "Perhaps."

The one word acknowledgement was more than John had been hoping for. He would take that small victory, for now. He knew it was a minor skirmish won. There would be more battles to come.