Watson escorted his absolutely shaken friend back to Baker Street with one arm wrapped around the detective's shoulders to entire walk. Without his coat to cover him Watson felt the chill of the night but ignored it in favor of allowing his emotionally shattered friend the comfort of the warm coat. Pushing open the door to their flat and ascending the seventeen steps to the second floor, the good doctor helped Sherlock to enter the study that adjoined their private rooms and sat him down in his large leather chair across from the second chair before the cold hearth.

Sherlock sat hunched in the chair with his arms limp over the armrests at his sides. The normally exemplary posture of the detective was but a memory as he sat completely unaware of the world around him.

"Holmes? Holmes, do you know where you are?" Watson knelt before the detective and examined Sherlock's glazed over eyes. Slipping his coat from around Sherlock's shoulders he left the garment on the floor beside himself. "You're home, you're safe."

Sherlock was abjectly silent. His eyes hollow and face blank.

"Wait here for me," Watson stated as he stood upright and put a hand briefly on Sherlock's blood stained arm. "I'll get some water."

Sherlock hadn't heard Watson speaking to him. His every thought, his every feeling was for his murdered brother Mycroft. The sight, the smell of the blood was still fresh in his mind. The feeling of Mycroft's cold body going limp in his arms was still tangible. The horrifying silence that filled the room after Mycroft died in his arms was still deafening.

The detective's senses and even his heart had been overwhelmed by this devastating personal tragedy.

"Here we are." Watson addressed the catatonic detective as he knelt down before him again with a bowl of clean, warm water and a clean white cloth. Dipping the cloth into the water Watson used it to wipe the sticky blood from Sherlock's hands in very gentle swipes. The white fabric of the cloth as well as the water steadily turned red as the blood was washed away. "Let's get you cleaned up. Don't want you to get sick."

Sherlock stared through Watson, stared through reality, as he become lost in mournful regret and the all consuming feeling of failure.

"Need to get to your neck." Watson informed the detective as he finished wiping the blood from Sherlock's palms, fingers, fingernails and the backs of his hands. As he reached the cloth upward to wash Sherlock's neck and face he saw the distant stare and became alarmed. "Holmes? Can you hear me?" Waving a hand in front of Sherlock's face Watson noted the lack of reaction as a reaction itself. "Don't worry my friend, I'll see you through this. You just need time..."

The quiet repose of Sherlock remained untouched by Watson's voice.

Watson looked down at the crimson colored water in the bowl and the irredeemably red stained cloth in his hand. "I'll fresh this up."

Sherlock's cleaned hands remained motionless as they rested atop the armrests. The blood stains that still marred his sleeves contrasted his freshly washed skin in a sickly ominous manner.

Carrying a fresh bowl of water and an untouched cloth in one hand, and a clean glass of water in the other, Watson returned to the study swiftly. Standing next to Sherlock where he sat in the chair Watson placed the bowl down on the small table that was situated between the two chairs and held the glass of water out toward Sherlock's chin.

"Drink some water, you'll feel better."

The detective didn't react or even look at the offered water presented before him.

"Holmes. Please."

Still nothing.

"Very well." Watson placed the glass down on the table and resumed wiping the remaining blood from Sherlock's neck, chin and the side of his face. "We'll try the water later."

It was all a timeless blur of motion and muffled sounds as Sherlock allowed Watson to clean the blood from his skin. The shaken detective didn't even react when Watson slipped off his hat and blood soaked shirt. Moving almost autonomously as Watson guided him up from the chair and into his personal room Sherlock sat in the chair facing the window that overlooked the alleyway behind the flat.

"Sit here a moment." Watson instructed as he waded the ruined blood stained shirt into a ball and tucked it under his arm. Opening the nearby wardrobe Watson retrieved Sherlock's red robe and carefully slipped the garment over Sherlock's arms, one at a time, and up around his shoulders. "Better?"

Same as before there was no reply to the simple question.

Watson cleared his throat as he looked to the wadded shirt under his arm. "I'll dispose of this."

Sherlock stared out through the window and at the brick wall of the neighboring building as if it were a puzzle just waiting for him to solve it. A rush of thoughts of the past, the present and the possible future filled his emotionally shattered psyche as he sat idle in the chair in silent self-induced isolation.

"I'll check on you later, Holmes." Watson stated softly as he stepped through the doorway and pulled the door partially shut behind him. "Try to rest."

Motionless and lost Sherlock remained where he sat for hours on end, his eyes never moving from that one wall.

All that night and morning every hour, on the hour, Watson would quietly, discreetly push open Sherlock's door and look in on his friend who remained where he sat in the chair looking through the window. Sherlock hadn't budged an inch, his presence was eerie; like a statue. Whenever Watson entered the room he was greeted by silence and absolutely no response to either his arrival or his questions.

Knocking at the study door drew Watson out of the room and to the unexpected guest. Opening the door Watson found himself face to face with Inspector Lestrade.

"Inspector."

"Doctor." Lestrade greeted with his hat in hand as he stepped inside the study and let Watson shut the door behind him.

"What can you tell me about the... 'case'." Watson was trying to avoid using the term 'murder' out of some unknown need, as if he could somehow protect Sherlock from harm; even though he was too far from his friend to risk him eavesdropping.

"Not much." Lestrade admitted despondently. "We can't directly link the, uh, 'case' with this Rathe despite your statement. Only Holmes himself saw Rathe in the warehouse, and even then we can't use his statement as he is too personally connected to the 'case' itself."

"I see..."

"I'm sorry. But without physical evidence there is nothing we can do to avenge Mycroft and bring his killer to justice." Lestrade craned his neck as he looked toward the partially opened door to Sherlock's room. "How is holding up?"

"Not well." Watson admitted somberly. "He's been completely unresponsive since last night. I'm worried he's gone completely catatonic."

"Is there anything that can be done for him?"

"Aside from working on the case and finding a lead that'll convict Rathe for Mycroft's murder, he needs time. I'll do my best to see him through this but I fear the only person that will bring him back to his senses will be himself." Turning his head slightly he looked toward Sherlock's door as well and sighed. "I just hope I can reach him before he becomes too lost to be saved."

...to be continued...