Sanity is a madness put to good uses. -George Santayana
Molly gaped at him the next day, then grinned widely.
"What changed?" she asked, leaning forward, her notepad quite close to John. He didn't read it though.
John sighed. He knew what it was going to sound like. "Sherlock," he muttered.
Molly sat back. "It seems he's been a good influence on you," she noted, not entirely pleased. Or unsure. She sounded unsure.
"He's been... something," he said finally. "I'm not sure what."
Molly looked thoughtful. "How many friends have you had since you came back?"
John looked away. "None," he admitted.
"And how many friends have you had since you were here?"
"Two," he sighed.
Molly smiled. "Quite right. What was the difference?"
Forced social interaction? Confined quarters?
"I'm not sure," he said finally.
Molly considered that. "I think you're adjusting," she told him. "Recovering. Adapting. Civilian life is hard to readjust to. Have you thought about writing like I asked?"
John shrugged. "I'm not very good with words. And my handwriting's rubbish."
"Are you better at typing?"
He laughed. "Ah, no. Computers and I never really got along. Technology and I seem to be at odds."
Molly blushed. "Right..." she whispered, making another note, out of John's line of sight.
"Have you met Carl before?" Sherlock asked John over another meal he wasn't eating.
"I don't think so. Is he on this ward?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Floor above. I met him on my little trip there."
"It was not a little trip, Sherlock," John interrupted.
Sherlock waved him off. "Whatever. He's quite fascinating though, he thinks-"
"Hang on," Lestrade said, cutting him off. "How come you can't remember my name, but you meet this guy once, and you know his?"
"We don't know that it actually is his name," John pointed out, gesturing with his spork.
Lestrade chucked. "True." He motioned for Sherlock to go on.
"Carl thinks he's dead," Sherlock finished, looking more than a little annoying at Lestrade.
"I've heard of that," John commented, around a mouthful of food. "Cotard delusion. Why is he upstairs then?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. He obviously wanted to impress them with his knowledge, and was irked that John spoke first. "Because he also believes that in addition to being dead, he is immortal. He keeps trying to kill himself to prove it."
"Nice," Lestrade quipped. "Sounds like a lovely guy."
"How does he think he died?" John asked, swallowing.
Sherlock grinned. "He thinks he was murdered," he said smugly. "By one of the nurses."
John's stomach dropped. He didn't like where this was going. "Yes, but he's obviously not dead, is he, so he must be wrong," he stammered, shoving his plate away. "I'm done," he declared, and stood up. "I'll see you later," he muttered, leaving before Lestrade could ask.
He avoided Sherlock for most of the rest of the day, not wanting to feed his delusions. Not sure what to think about his delusions. If they were even delusions.
He mostly didn't know what to think.
(So he didn't.)
John accepted his nighttime meds, frowning.
"Changed them again?" he asked Mrs Hudson.
"I just give them out dear," she told him. "Other people are the ones responsible for prescribing and distributing them. That one has the name John H Watson on it, so I give it to you."
John shrugged, and swallowed.
He showed his empty mouth to Mrs Hudson, and handed her the cup back.
"Don't you be sticking your tongue out at me, young man," she teased.
John smiled. "I'm off to read. Night!"
She waved to him, and moved onto James, who was next in line.
"I heard you playing today!" she exclaimed. "It was lovely!"
John smiled at the traces of conversation he could hear as he headed off to his room.
James was excellent at playing the piano, he reflected, crawling into bed with his book. Absolutely brilliant.
John hadn't read this much for... he couldn't remember the last time he'd read so much.
He finished the book he was reading, a young adult novel by an American author. The ending was terribly sad, and he couldn't help but dwell on it as he fell into an uneasy sleep.