IV. THE (RELATIVE) CALM BEFORE THE STORM (2/?)

The next morning, John found Sherlock lying as so often on the sofa, but still wearing his clothes of the day before, which was sadly tell-tale enough about how the night had gone and how the day would turn.

John went to prepare breakfast, which genuinely felt odd since Sherlock usually took care of that nowadays. John would have liked it to simply mean that Sherlock was 'striking' as a sign that he was still sulking, but he knew unfortunately too well that it just meant that it was one of those days. Sherlock hadn't prepared breakfast, not because he wanted to make a point or because he was too bored to move a finger or because he was fully engrossed in a case, but simply because he was too far away to notice anything at all (and thus least of all probably that it would have been time for breakfast).

Sherlock's state of mind right now went way beyond locking himself up in his mind palace for a case. This was the 'sometimes I don't talk for days on end' mood Sherlock had warned him about from the start and which John had come to realise was actually even worse to deal with than the 'I'm soooooooooooo bored' whiny mood and its inevitable very, very infuriating consequences. This was Sherlock totally cut off from the world, and so withdrawn in himself that John couldn't reach to him.

It had happened twice since they shared the flat.

The first time he had found Sherlock in such a state, shortly after The Pool Incident, John had been worried sick. He had first feared it to be drug induced, but he had quickly realised that it wasn't (thanks God). Then he had tried being patient; he had tried talking; he had tried yelling; and he had even tried touching. But he had gained nothing from any of it, and it had truly scared the hell out of him when it had dawned on him that Sherlock wasn't ignoring him nor feigning indifference, but was simply and truly inaccessible, as if he had been switched off. He hadn't dared to do anything after realising that, fearing Sherlock might indeed get brain-damaged if he was shocked awake out of such a deep trance (so throwing water or so really hadn't been an option, huh).

It had been two very long days, you bet, before Sherlock had startled him, suddenly telling him "John, you definitely look like you could use a good sleep" as if that was the most natural thing to say right on recovering from some zombie-like episode.

The second time, at the very end of the summer, there had been a giant neon sign switching on in John's mind (Sherlock had referred to the past consequences of being in such a state during their short awkward chat about Sherlock's past drug's use, so…). Sherlock though had assured John afterwards that he shouldn't worry, because those episodes had used to be far more frequent before he had met him.

But John really hated those days; not only were they literally painful to witness, but, worst of all, they made him feel useless. There was nothing he could do, except waiting for Sherlock to emerge out of it on his own terms.

So yes, this was once more a critical time. John though believed that their flat was clean. And John knew from experience that Sherlock wouldn't be 'available' for hours, in the best case scenario — he had noted during the last crisis that the 'absence' periods could extend to seven hours, with short periods of (silent) awareness in between, mostly used to walk from the sofa to the armchair or the reverse before resuming staring into nothing. And John realised now too that he had in fact an ally in taking care of Sherlock: he had never initiated contact with Mycroft before, and he still wasn't keen about it; but they had an agreement now, since their exchange of the day before. And Sarah had told him they could really use his help for this week — it was a holiday period, and several colleagues had taken a few days off.

So John put a glass of water on the TV table, just in case, and told Sherlock he was going to work — it felt wrong to leave without saying, even though the chance that Sherlock would register any of it was akin to zero. Then he went out, taking his phone out as he closed the door and texting Mycroft, not even minding about eventually disturbing the British Government: "Do contact me if needed."

/

Coming home from the surgery, after having made a quick detour to do the necessary shopping after a few days away and buy a pack of cigarettes (it might definitely turn out handy really soon), John was relieved to find Sherlock still on the sofa but now in his trademark statuesque 'deep thinking' position. He noticed though with a sigh that the glass he had set near him upon leaving had stayed untouched.

He went to the kitchen and unpacked while eyeing Sherlock in order to see how many patches he had on (there had been none (yet) when he had left, but the deep thinking position regularly included several of them).

Sherlock was apparently present enough now to perceive his surroundings — and the unconscious slower-than-usual pace of his unpacking betrayed John's thoughts, of course.

Sherlock dismissively answered the unasked question, without even opening his eyes. "Three, John. You made your opinion quite clear on the subject yesterday already, and I have no time to lose, so I figured we could spare ourselves the discussion." Then he confided, probably thinking that the knowledge would get John to stop worrying for the time being but missing how the too obvious regret in his voice would create just the opposite effect: "More than three wouldn't work anyway now."

John dropped his attempt at being discreet and took a full look at his friend. He was glad that Sherlock was 'back to the world' enough to be talking, but it was clear that he wasn't fine yet, not by a long stretch. And he was using far too many patches for John's liking lately.

John stopped pretending that his attention was solely taken by filling their cupboards and sighed tiredly, feeling a bit guilty as always but unable to deny that he was right now hoping for a call from Lestrade for his friend's sake.

Naturally, Mycroft would have plenty of cases to keep his brother occupied too; but John knew that Sherlock couldn't be bothered by 'petty' politics and that he would only take a case from his brother (even if first putting a show pretending not to, of course) if it meant helping preventing a real potential disaster, huh…

So, that let John wishing either for a murder or for impending doom, and he had decided long ago that he preferred the first scenario: there was at least always a chance for the victims to be some kind of 'bad guys' instead of thousands of innocent British citizens. John wasn't proud of thinking that way, but he had sadly seen more than enough (far too much, to be honest) to be realistic enough about the human nature and to know that he would never be able to save everybody. But he had to save Sherlock, even if from himself sometimes; personal feelings aside, the world would lose a too valuable ally otherwise.

"You need a case."

Sherlock sharply answered, probably annoyed at the disturbance. "I AM on a case."

John crossed his arms and leant against the counter in a 'this is important and we're going to have a talk whether you like it or not' attitude Sherlock would probably recognise with his ears if not with his eyes. "No, you're not. Moriarty is off again, and you won't get anything more than what you've already deduced from replaying it over and over. He played us — that doesn't mean he'll win in the end; but we need new leads to get to him. Until then, it has reached a dead end. And I know it's frustrating, but overdosing on your patches won't change that fact, so you might as well take them off."

Sherlock kept silent, stubbornly ignoring him. John hesitated a second, but decided desperate times called for desperate measures. He took the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and threw it to Sherlock, hoping for a repeat of Mycroft's trick.

"I bought those for you."

Sherlock gave a look at the offering on his lap, and then met John's eyes, something like gratitude quickly turning in offense in his gaze. "Very attent of you, John, but I can't accept them."

John was naturally disappointed by the refusal, but even more puzzled by the curt tone. Then it clicked: Sherlock could accept, but from Mycroft only, apparently.

A sneer, breaking his train of thoughts: "Oh, look! He's made a deduction!" Then Sherlock resumed his imitation of a marble gisant.

John hadn't been able not to wince at the cutting blow. Sherlock regularly commented on his brain's (dis)abilities, but it was generally matter-of-factly (at the worst), or (most often) with a teasing half-smile or a kind of indulgent, nearly affectionate twinkle in his eyes; but this time, it had been the razor-sharp edged tone usually reserved to Anderson and alike.

John though reminded himself that he shouldn't let it affect him: he should have known better after all. First, Sherlock looked tired — when was the last time he had actually been sleeping, huh… Then, he was really irritated — at having been deceived by Moriarty, at the lack of new leads to locate the consultant criminal, at the repeated attempts at conversation from John which disabled him to relock himself in his mind palace, at the reminder of his brother's last in date show of control, AND at John trying to repeat said control (even though he knew that Sherlock hated feeling nannied, and that his constant efforts in keeping him in a healthier shape than the 'I just eat drink sleep etc etc the necessary minimum required to keep the shell hosting my wonderful mind alive and good-working' he had used to live by were only accepted because they were subtle and never commanding). To finish, there must be a very serious reason for the odd power (which should have appeared comical, especially for someone aware of their usual relationship) the oldest Holmes had over his brother, so John was sensing more than probable damage and hurt under the anecdote; and Sherlock hated feeling vulnerable. So yeah, with such an explosive mix of reasons, of course he'd bite.

John finished unpacking in silence, wondering about 'the cigarette thing' but following his rule that, about really personal matters, if he had to ask, then he didn't need to know. The choice to open up about it, or not, was Sherlock's; and Sherlock's only.

/

THE REASON (because I just can't see Sherlock telling all this aloud, even to John; at least not that fully, and surely not now, when he's literally on the verge of boiling over… but I can share the secret with you, huh )

On her death bed, Mummy had taken both her boys' hands in hers and had ordered them to always follow the paths that would make them happy (she knew they both had different but very peculiar interests). Then she had had Sherlock promise her to not follow her example and quit smoking. She had turned to Mycroft and had had him promise to try to laugh once in a while. Then she had smiled at them both, had told her eldest that she trusted him ENTIRELY as far as Sherlock was concerned, had closed her eyes and had released her last breath. Sherlock had been furious about being given 'a nanny', but he had understood that she knew him to be a loose projectile and had only acted out of concern, and he had learned to live with it — there was just no way he would back off on his mother's last wishes. He had been surprised the first time Mycroft had offered him a cigarette (when he had finally broken down days after Mummy's funeral), but he had then realised that it was indeed not breaking his vow, if it came from his brother. He hadn't accepted every time Mycroft had offered him one, but sometimes, he was happy with the release it would give him and silently thanked her mother for that gift.

Love was never easy-going on the Holmes' family. But love there was, definitely.

/

John quickly decided though that there were more pressing matters at hand than why's and pondered instead on another way to get Sherlock's patches' use down a notch right now: if he wasn't allowed to use Mycroft's trick, he would just find one of his own, you bet.

He knew that distraction was generally his best weapon, suddenly got a silly idea and went for it — he had realised long ago that he should never overruled an idea without testing it first; with Sherlock, sometimes, the sillier his strategy was, the better it worked.

John made for the door, "I'll be back in ten, with a case." Sherlock's eyes shot open, and John couldn't help but grin — Sherlock was actually predictable, on some accounts; and between the perspective of losing his audience and the promise of entertainment, you bet John had now his full attention. More important though, it was a good sign about Sherlock getting back to his usual.

Judging from his eyebrows, Sherlock was eyeing him with interest but was unable to deduce his plan though, and John enjoyed the very rare occurrence: surprising Sherlock was hard enough already, so having him actually puzzled always felt like a boost to his ego. He added teasingly before passing the threshold: "A colonel, a professor, a doctor, a housekeeper, a young actress and a rich widow are involved, so don't tell me it doesn't sound promising." Then he went out, without giving Sherlock the chance to utter a word.

John went to the toy's store two streets away and came back with Cluedo. And he was actually glad (he would take 'normalcy' above a distressed Sherlock anytime, no doubt) to be glared at accusingly on his return — "It's been twelve minutes" — by a now attentive, responsive, curious, sitting Sherlock. John opened the game's box while presenting 'the case', which luckily turned out to be fascinating enough for Sherlock: "Parents buy that for their kids? And I am the sociopath?"

John though had a hard time trying to get Sherlock to follow the rules, and finally just gave up when Sherlock came to the "logical" and "undeniable" conclusion, "because it was the only solution which fitted all the facts", that Dr Black had accidentally killed himself with the candlestick in the billiard room while plotting on how to have Mrs White (she had stolen his silver collection and replaced it by facsimiles, and dared believing that he was too dumb to notice) accused of the murder he intended to perpetrate on Colonel Mustard, who had sworn to create a scandal to put a stop to the very promising career of Miss Rose (she had humiliatingly laughed at him as she had refused his advances) — who was in fact, even though she had no clue about it, the secret daughter (and parental love had always been one of the most vicious motivators, right) Dr Black had had with 'her aunt', Mrs Peacock, while her second husband had been 'mysteriously' thinning away to his death (with the more than probably unknowing help from that poor Prof. Plum, who had always been far too smitten with her to guess the real motive behind the passion she shared with him for poisonous plants and their antidotes) — by helping the (how none of the other characters were aware of that fact being clearly impossible by the way: "Really, John, LOOK at his collar!") former Reverend Green to get in her good graces, and hopefully in her bed.

John told himself that arguing about a board game was definitely too childish, took a deep breath and dropped it; but he passed on the offer of a second game, thanks.

/

And he'd always pass afterwards.

John's money though hadn't been completely wasted on buying the Cluedo. After a while, Sherlock just found another use for the board: he would occasionally pin it on the wall and throw knifes at it, "to work on his aim" — the billiard room of course would be the one he always tried to hit.

AN:

I know the whole cigarette thing is (more than) a bit far-edged, but it's evident in the show that Sherlock doesn't want to smoke (he DID pay people for not selling him any), and it can't be out of consideration for his health (he really doesn't care about being healthy in general: he eats and sleeps the strict minimum, has done drugs, etc etc); and the only time we see him smoke is when Mycroft gives him a cigarette, so…