Eight

Thankfully, that night did not turn out to be a danger night – though it did come close. When Sherlock came back, John padded him down without mercy, and Mrs. Hudson disposed of the cigarettes right away before Sherlock could protest. However, after the emotionally-draining afternoon he'd experienced, Sherlock did not have nearly enough energy to put up a good fight, so he just went to his room and shut the door. Later, Mycroft would call John and tell him that Sherlock had nearly gone to a cocaine dealer when back in London, but he'd restrained himself.

This both relieved John and scared him deeply. That Sherlock would think of resorting to cocaine after years of staying clean truly made John realize just how deeply this situation with Molly was affecting him. John knew more than most what witnessing something traumatic can do to one's subconscious and equilibrium, so he was keeping his promise to keep a very close eye on his best friend. Lord knows he did not want Sherlock to go down that kind of dark path.

Thankfully – or, perhaps, unfortunately – keeping an eye on him was not turning out to be a hard task. Sherlock had confined himself to the flat for a week, and was making no effort to go out. Lestrade had tried to lure him out with cases, but he refused. No experiments were being done in the flat because he refused to go to St. Bart's (this John could understand). He just sulked around the flat, either lying in bed or on the couch, plucking or composing heartbroken music on his violin, or just pacing and staring, hardly ever saying a word. He was getting plenty of sleep, but only ate when John and Mrs. Hudson would threaten force-feeding or informing Mycroft. On top of that, he was not showering or shaving, and only work his dressing gown, a t-shirt and pajama pants, or a sheet.

All in all, he was behaving like a sulking teenage boy who'd just been dumped, and John knew that if this didn't change soon, he would have to do something drastic. What he did know was that he would not bother Molly with any of this. She had her own demons to fight, and she had been the one who suffered the most in this scenario; Sherlock had brought his own pain on himself, while Molly hadn't. He would not impede or slow down her recovery in any way by dumping all of Sherlock's problems on her. Perhaps when she came back, if she were well enough and if Sherlock's behavior hadn't improved, he would bring her up to date. But only if he absolutely had to.

Bottom line: John considered both Sherlock and Molly very good friends now, and he wanted to do everything in his power to get them well and whole, but the way Sherlock was behaving made him feel quite helpless. And that was something John absolutely hated.


Though the sound was muffled through the closed bedroom door, Sherlock still heard the sound of John's mobile ringing. Irritated, he huffed and turned to lie on his side, his back to the door. No doubt it was Lestrade or bloody Mycroft calling for an update about him and an attempt to get him out of the flat. Well, too bad for them, I don't feel like going anywhere.

To make matters worse, he could now hear John's muffled voice answer the phone.

"Hello? Oh, hey, Molly! Good to hear from you!"

Sherlock sat up and turned to the door so fast it took closer to a millisecond than a second. His face was instantly alert, almost desperately curious. Quiet as a ghost, Sherlock got off the bed, crept to the door, and opened it just a fraction, all the better to hear. It had been a week since the terrible incident and Molly had fled town. Up until now, she had communicated with John through a few texts (which he had read while John had slept) only. Though all of the texts were promising in terms of Molly's recovery, they were all vague and gave no specifics away.

There was never any mention of him.

But now she was calling! Though he always preferred texting, this would surely get him more information, even if he could only hear John speaking.

"Oh, I'm just fair, can't really complain about myself. What about you? How are you getting on? Really?"

Sherlock held his breath during the twelve seconds Molly replied – which was only silence to him.

"Hey, that's completely understandable, I hear you…"

Of course he can hear her, unlike me! What did she say? Is she alright?

"She sounds amazing, Molly. You're really lucky to have someone like that."

Who? Who is he talking about? Is she helping Molly?

"Well, it's good that you're getting a chance to take that up again."

Take what up again? Oh, for God's sake, this is ridiculous! I just want to know if she is alright!

"Oh, well…he's…um…"

Sherlock felt warmth spread in his chest. She's asking about me…she is asking about me! He looked down at himself and felt his scruffy face, cringing. Oh, God…John, lie!

"Well, there's not much to say, you know? Sherlock is Sherlock, and I think that says it all."

Sherlock sighed in relief. John was nothing if not the most reliable person and friend one could have. Though it crossed his mind that Molly knowing the state he was in would inform her that he was not faring well without her, his John-conscience told him that she shouldn't have to worry about him when she had to heal herself first.

Seeing as how she wouldn't have to heal herself at all if it hadn't been for you.

Shut up, John-conscience!

"Well, don't you worry about anything but getting better, okay? I'll talk to you soon. Have a good day. Bye, Molly."

The call had ended. It took Sherlock twelve seconds of standing by the door, perfectly still, to decide his next course of action before engaging in it.


John ended the call with an exhale of relief. He was very glad to know that Molly was getting better, and was glad he had found a suitable answer to give her about Sherlock. But he couldn't deny that he was very glad that she asked about him. It meant that all hope wasn't lost.

Not even a minute had passed after John had put his mobile down before he heard movement in the direction of Sherlock's bed. He turned his head just in time to see Sherlock emerge from his bedroom and go into the bathroom. The door had barely shut before John heard the sound of the shower running. John grinned and felt great relief. Sherlock had not bathed at all in a week, and if it hadn't happened sooner, John would have locked him in the bathroom.

Feeling hopeful, John went into the kitchen and decided to fix up a brunch big enough for two, since he hadn't had breakfast yet and he hoped that, since Sherlock was willing to bathe, he'd be willing to eat.

Thankfully, this turned out to be absolutely correct. A half an hour later, Sherlock came out of the bathroom, freshly shaved and wearing his dressing gown. He was sniffing the air appreciatively, and his eyes sparkled when he saw John piling bacon, eggs, and toast with strawberry marmalade onto a plate. He sat down at the table, and John had barely set the plate down when Sherlock began devouring the contents without mercy.

John laughed and tucked in to his own plate. "The dead has arisen."

"New case," said Sherlock through a mouthful of bacon.

John's already great mood inflated like a balloon. "Really? That's great! I didn't hear Lestrade call you."

"Not Lestrade," said Sherlock, not pausing in his eating and sounding quite comical with a full mouth. "On the website. We're leaving in an hour for Waterloo Station."

"Brilliant! Where are we going?"

John didn't notice the momentary pause and jerk in Sherlock's movements and the way he avoided eye contact when he replied.

"Oh, here and there..."