June 15th, 2005
Sherlock's POV
Several hours pass with him playing his violin in his room before his new minder knocks lightly at his door, staying just outside his room.

Lowering his violin slightly, he turns so he can look at him, studying him as he considers why he is here.

-Dinner is done, if you are interested.- Jim tells him before heading off.

He frowns at the spot the slender agent had just been standing, his mind swirling the facts around as he is drawn out of his apathy towards the situation. Why is the agent using sign language? He is certain the dark-haired man can speak, and yet he is not. He should ask and see what sort of answer he gets or doesn't get.

Putting his violin away, he heads downstairs, surprised and happy to see that it is just him and his brother in the dining room when he gets there.

"Good evening Sherlock," Mycroft murmurs softly, "I had Miranda make roasted chicken and steamed vegetables for dinner."

He nods, settling on one of the chairs and glancing about trying to bring himself to say something, anything. Only it doesn't seem to work, twice he opens his mouth to ask about his newest minder. Particularly why he reads so much like Mycroft. Both times it feels like his throat swells shut and he cannot force himself to speak no matter how much he really wants to. It's very frustrating.

Closing his eyes, he shoves those thoughts away for a moment.

"I have an appointment to speak with Doctor Watson about further measures I can take to assist you in being comfortable. We will not be discussing anything beyond that," his brother's lips quirk in a smile, "I have a feeling that even if I was to try and get the doctor to discuss your visits he would not, he strikes me as the stubborn type. It is a shame he cannot hear, he would have made an excellent agent."

He can feel his own lips curving in a smirk of his own. John has surprised him several times in the two times they have met so far.

Actually, with John is where he feels the most comfortable.

Before he has a chance to start reflecting on that again, Miranda comes bustling in, chattering as she does so about how pleased she is to see him back, how he just needs to make a list of things he wants to eat and they will be added to the menu, and on and on she goes to the point his ears start to hurt.

"Miranda, quiet please, you are aggravating Sherlock further." his brother calmly but firmly orders.

Her mouth snaps shut quicker than he thought possible as she sets the plates in front of them before retreating to the kitchen once more. A few minutes later she returns with her shopping list paper and a pen, setting both down beside him with a little message written at the top.

~I'll make your favorites as long as you'd like, just write them down.~

The small smirk that had curved his lips earlier returns as he picks the pen up and jots some of the things he likes best down. He doesn't actually expect her to make them daily, but maybe he will get them occasionally. That would be nice. She's always had a bit of a soft spot for him judging by all the times she has snuck him treats even when she wasn't supposed to.

Dinner goes quietly. He is rather thankful that Mycroft does not want to speak further because he really doesn't want to listen to his voice any more. He is still trying to understand why his brother is even trying, pretending to try, or whatever this is. Of everything going on in the last few days, his brother is probably the most confusing. Not that is surprising, even when they actually liked each other he found his brother confusing, why would he find him less confusing now that his brother hates him?

Just before they are done with dinner Miranda announces that dessert is nearly ready by popping her head in the dining room for a moment.

For a moment he debates whether he wants to sit there through dessert or not. Things have been quiet so far, but at the same time it feels wrong, awkward, off. He wants to know why . But he cannot bring himself to ask, not with sign language, aloud, or by writing it down.

Pushing his plate away, he pushes the thoughts away too. He is not going to think about that right now. His mind would just go in way too many circles.

He has just set his hands on the table to push away when Miranda comes back in with a large piece of mixed berry pie smothered in cool whip for him, and a much smaller piece for his brother.

"Here you are, you need more meat on your bones, so I have more in the kitchen for you," she tells him as she sets it down in front of him.

He blinks at her, nodding once slowly, a hesitant smile twitching the corners of his lips.

She beams at him happily, sets Mycroft's pie before him, and bustles out of the dining room.

"She's my cook but she likes you better," his brother mutters, despite the words, he can hear the attempt at humor though it falls flat considering he doesn't understand why his brother is trying and it really is not natural for the older man. "She made this for you since I would have preferred cake or cupcakes."

He can feel himself trembling as it becomes too much again. Standing, he grabs the plate and bolts, hearing his brother calling after him but he doesn't stop until he is in his room, door closed, and he is curled between the dresser and the end of his bed.

Why is everyone so loud? Can't they understand he wants silence? Quiet? Just to be in the same room without it feeling like he has done something wrong? Just to be accepted as is, without words? Is it really that hard?

He is startled out of his mind by Jim setting his violin by his feet.

Blinking rapidly, he doesn't understand why the agent did that, particularly when a moment later he withdraws from the room, closing the door behind him and leaving him to his own devices. Slowly he uncurls and reaches for the instrument, brows furrowed as he tries to work through the chaos rushing through his mind.

Setting the violin on his lap, he strums it gently, his focus narrowing on the way the strings move, the vibrations he can feel through his fingers, the low notes that it produces with each motion. It allows him to break past the chaos and the noise, to just find something that brings him comfort. As he unsteadily gets to his feet, his body exhausted from the emotional turmoil within his mind, he clamors up on his bed and curls around the instrument, fingers still lightly pulling at the stings.

His last thought before unconsciousness claims him is: how did his minder know to give him the violin?

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