Sherlock wasn't…okay.
If that was the right word. John wasn't sure. The detective still insisted on sleeping in their bed, never receiving permission but usually curling at the end of their bed in the middle of the night; he still followed John around the flat, pretending that he had other business to attend to; he still sat as close to John as he possibly could when watching television or reading the paper.
But ever since Redbeard's "death" nine days ago, the detective hadn't uttered a word.
Not a single sound.
It wasn't that John wasn't trying; he purposely put on shows that were a laughing stock to the scientific community, but Sherlock never bothered to correct it. He would ask questions and only receive a shrug or nod in reply. Once, when John blatantly asked about the silence, Sherlock only shook his head and frowned as though he hadn't the slightest clue what John was on about.
It got to the point that John called Mycroft.
The two were at Speedy's now, Sherlock being watched by a frazzled Mary (Sherlock's obedience had never been an issue for her before, and in the face of no progress she was an absolute wreck) and a likeminded Allison who, already being of quiet nature, had adapted Sherlock's silence two days before.
Mycroft listened to the doctor's story, showing only mild interest, finishing his tea before offering a comment.
"Sherlock was never mute as a child; if you're still searching for psychological implications, Dr. Watson, I suggest changing your perspective. I imagine it's just a reaction to the blow to his head."
"People don't just stop talking," John bit, trying to watch his temper. He was here for Mycroft's help, not an argument. "Especially not after a traumatic experience like this. If I'm his dad in all this, I should be able to get my son to talk."
"He's been eating?"
"Perfectly. No disobedience in any other area."
"I don't know what you want me to say, John. Parenting is a puzzle."
"Mycroft."
The man leaned forward, placing his chin on his hands. "Fine. Assuming psychology could actually be a factor, the loss of Redbeard is fresh once again for him, yes? You have an eight year old who just lost his best friend. Sherlock always chooses odd ways to act out for attention."
"Eight and a half," John muttered.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows, unamused. "Sherlock was a different person after Redbeard. He learned to close himself off. Distance himself. Not get involved. I assume he's simply repeating the pattern. Though mutism wasn't part of that initial change, circumstances are different."
"He doesn't seem angry, though. He's just as affectionate as before. Sadder, sure, but not bitter. I don't think this is for attention; I think it's just a sort of coping mechanism."
The elder Holmes leaned back. "Affectionate?"
"Well, you know. Following me around, constantly touching Mary and me. The usual."
"Sherlock isn't affectionate. Never has been. Not even as a child. He hated being touched."
John shrugged. "That's not who he is. He wasn't that way before the accident, either. He was always touchy on cases, or at home, just in a different way."
Mycroft sighed. "One thing helped Sherlock cope when he was younger. I can offer you the solution, but it may be a bit excruciating for you."
"What?"
John arrived home twenty minutes later, having stopped by 221B on the way.
"Hey, Sherlock. I'm home," he called at the door. The detective was sitting on the floor, examining some files Lestrade had left earlier in the day. He waved a hello and returned to his papers.
"I brought you something."
Sherlock looked up again, eying the bag in John's hand. He raised an eyebrow in question, following the doctor to the kitchen table.
John removed the violin and sheet music from the case. "Would you like to learn?"
Sherlock nodded, running a finger over the glossy edge, gently plucking a string. He smiled.
"Go on, then. Play around for an hour and I'll come listen to the progress you've made."
Sherlock glanced back at the casework.
"They're cold files; I'm sure they can wait."
The detective nodded and disappeared into the living room to fiddle with his new toy.
John sat himself at the kitchen table, sighing. It would prove interesting with a cast still on Sherlock's left arm. He'd hoped the gift would have produced some sort of speech, but no such luck. Mycroft hadn't promised an immediate reaction, only that learning the instrument would be beneficial to Sherlock's mental health. Theoretically, speech would come with it.
The doctor closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the nail-biting screeches coming from the living room. Hopefully this wouldn't be a long process.