A week.
He waited a week.
The two of them hardly spoke for a week before John couldn't take it anymore. Everyday he would leave for work with Sherlock in the chair with his eyes staring blankly at the television. He would return to a figure who had appeared to not have moved an inch in ten hours. Sherlock wasn't eating, hardly sleeping and unwilling to do anything but check out.
The experiments that John had preserved in the kitchen still sat on the counter, ready to be picked up and finished. John marched up next to them.
"I'm going to toss these," he said.
No answer.
"Did you hear me?"
Sherlock laid his head against the back of the chair.
"Is that okay with you."
"Do whatever you want," Sherlock said.
He'd been patient. He'd held his tongue and let Sherlock wallow in a sea of self-pity but he couldn't do it anymore. He grabbed a beaker and smashed it on the floor. It shattered in a hundred pieces and scattered across the room.
"I'll keep doing it," he said as he grabbed another beaker.
Sherlock didn't move.
John grabbed another beaker and threw it with more of an arc. The pieces flitted into the living room but still no acknowledgement of what was happening.
"Get up," John said as he marched towards Sherlock.
"Leave me alone," he said.
John grabbed him by the arm and pulled him forward. "You are not doing this."
Sherlock pushed away from John's grip but he was weak and exhausted. "Let me go."
"This is a dangerous road you're going down, you know? I did it. It's not pretty."
"Just go," Sherlock said.
John let his grip loosen and he could see the pink indentations that his fingers had left on Sherlock's skin. "Let me help you. You can get back to where you were."
"No," he said. "I can't."
"Yes you can."
Sherlock shook his head. "I tried to call Lestrade," he said quietly.
"You did?" John said with surprise.
"I couldn't…think of the words," he said in halting speech.
"That's normal," John said. "It may be temporary."
"No," he said. "It's over, John."
A bottle of wine later and John was on the phone with the hospital. If Sherlock couldn't help himself then he would need to go behind his back and implement so drastic measures. After calling in all of his favors, he was able to get an appointment with the best speech therapist in the city for the next morning.
Tracy Goodman was to come around the flat at nine the next day. He gulped down the anticipation of how Sherlock would react to a stranger coming to help him. As the wine wore down his defenses, John placed his head on the pillow and felt proud of himself. He'd done for Sherlock what Sherlock had done for him. He had found a way to snap him out of his tailspin.
It would work.
It would have to.
He woke to shouting from the living room. John peered at the clock next to his bed.
9:15.
Shit.
He threw on a pair of jeans and raised out to where the commotion was centered. Sherlock was standing against the windows as Dr. Goodman stood at the door.
"I don't need your help," he shouted again.
John walked into the living room and in between the two of them. "Sherlock, I should have to you. But Dr. Goodman is the best. She can help you."
The betrayal was written all over his face. John had never done anything like this before. He had never subverted Sherlock's wishes and there was precedent for this in their relationship. "I don't need her," he said.
John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, which was briskly jerked away. "You do. It'll get you back to what you used to be."
"I told you to leave me alone."
"I know, but—"
Sherlock stepped forward and their shoulders collided which shook John off his footing and nearly caused him to crash into the chairs. Sherlock strode towards the doctor and looked her dead in the eyes. "I don't need you," he said. "Go away."
And he was gone.
John stood in disbelief. It couldn't have gone worse if he had planned it that way. "I'm so sorry," John said.
She smiled. "It's okay."
He'd known of Tracy since medical school. She was a year younger than him but she was an overachiever and was in the library from dawn to dusk. He'd always sit near to hear and watch her bite the end of her hair in frustration or chug six cups of coffee just to finish a reading. She hadn't changed much since then. Still the effervescent sweetness that burst through even the face of impossibility.
"No, it's not. He shouldn't talk to you that way."
"I've heard worse. This is a tough time. I can understand that he's upset."
John slumped into the chair with the air of a hangover looming on the horizon. "I thought this would help."
She joined him in the adjacent chair. "He's a stubborn one I imagine."
John laughed. "Stubborn doesn't even begin to describe it."
"Then give him time," she said.
"He lost what made him who he was," John said.
Tracy nodded. "I can see that in him. He's very frustrated."
"I don't know what to do with him," John said.
Tracy tapped her foot against the floor. It brought him right back to the library where her pink sneaker would pitter pat against the carpet as he studied chemistry.
"I'll come back. I'll keep coming back, okay?"
"I don't know if-"
"I'm stubborn too," she said. "I'm not going to let him get away. I want to work with him. I've read all about him—he's fascinating."
She'd read his blog. He couldn't help but smile. "He's a pain but he's brilliant."
Tracy got up and patted him on the arm. "I'll do what I can. But just be supportive. He needs a friend right now."
John wanted to give up and give in but he knew that he couldn't. Tracy was right. No matter what, he had to be there. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat.
He had to find Sherlock.
He had to make this right.
