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John stayed for a few more minutes but Sherlock then made up some excuse that he wanted to be left alone so John went. He was surprised when Sherlock asked, "When you come back tomorrow, bring my chess set". He wasn't looking at John, in fact he was looking in the opposite direction but John was pleased; it at least meant that Sherlock hoped, or at least tolerated, that John would come back. John was glad for an excuse to come back, even if he knew playing chess with Sherlock was torturous.
John called in take away that night for dinner and ate in front of the telly, mindlessly staring at the program. After he finished eating, he leaned back, pulling a quilt off the end of the couch and trying to make himself comfortable. No matter what he turned the telly to though, he couldn't get his mind to focus on what he was watching. He kept thinking about what Sherlock had said; it made him remember Mrs. Hudson's remark that Sherlock had had a hard life. Was it possible his family had been more that merely cold? Maybe Sherlock came from a broken home….. maybe he had been hurt a lot. The thought was enough to make John's dinner sink into his stomach like a weight. He hoped that was a wrong assumption. When John though about it, he actually knew nothing about Sherlock's family. Other than Mycroft, Sherlock never mentioned any of them; he didn't even know if any of them were still alive. John stared at the telly for the next several minutes, gearing up his courage to do something he never did; willingly call Mycroft.
John pulled his mobile out and dialed the infrequently used number; it rang several times before he heard Mycroft's voice on the other end. "Ah, John. I've been expecting your call" he said tiredly.
Of course you have , John thought as he rolled his eyes. "I'd like to speak to you about Sherlock and….you know, what he's going through."
"I don't have the time right now John to come over there" Mycroft said mildly and John had a nagging suspicion that he did have the time and yet just didn't want to come.
"It's important….."John said. He knew that Mycroft probably didn't care. "I'm trying to figure out why Sherlock's in the hospital."
"Sherlock's in the hospital because he went completely insane and attacked five people" Mycroft said.
John bit his tongue to keep back the response he wanted to say. "You know what I meant….I want to find out why he lost it" John said.
"No good can come from digging around, John" Mycroft said. "Like you said, Sherlock just lost it. There's nothing you can do about it so I suggest that you drop it."
John cursed. "This is your own brother and you don't even care he's in a mental hospital?" he burst out. "I bet you haven't even gone to visit him"
"I care" Mycroft said in that same calm voice that made John want to kill him. "I'm simply cautioning you that nothing can be done for him. There's no magic reason why Sherlock lost it. He's a damaged person….he always has been. I've tried to protect him as best I could but I guess I've failed"
"Like hell you have" John said, his anger bursting forth "You're always following Sherlock around and where were you when he was hurt, when someone did something to him."
Mycroft sighed. "John, it's not unlike Sherlock to leave for days at a time and not tell anyone where he was going or what he was doing."
"Maybe he did that in the past but that's very unlike him now" John protested.
"Why? Because he has you?" Mycroft said smoothly.
John hung up the mobile, knowing he would probably regret it. Mycroft would probably have him whisked away to some warehouse in the dead of night for one of his secret talks. John tossed the mobile across the couch and lay down, clutching a pillow to his chest. He really hated Mycroft sometimes; how could he be so cold? John expected that people from the station would doubt Sherlock and write him off as a nutter, but Mycroft was his brother. John squeezed the pillow. Was he really the only person that believed that Sherlock did this because something had happened to him? Was he really the only person that believed Sherlock wasn't doing drugs or something illegal while he was gone? The thought made John sad; was he really all Sherlock had?
…
"Check mate….again" Sherlock said tiredly but John could see the hint of a smile tug at his lips as he looked over at John. John put his hand to his forehead in defeat and groaned. "This is not even fair" he said.
He looked over at Sherlock who was sitting crossed legged on the other side of the bed, hands knitted under his chin as he hid his excitement. " I agree…..a match of our intellect is hardly a fair fight, but you could try harder." Sherlock shot back, allowing a small smile to show. As insufferable as playing chess with Sherlock could be because he always (always!) lost, it was worth it to see Sherlock actually show some semblance of normalcy and happiness, the first he'd seen in weeks.
"That's right, I'm not trying hard enough" John said shrugging as Sherlock reached over and set the pieces up for another game.
Today had been better; when John had arrived Sherlock was calming sitting of the bed, his eyes closed much like he did when he visited his "mind palace"; John didn't ask him what he was doing. Sherlock had looked up quickly and had greeted John, eagerly setting up the game. They didn't talk a whole lot; it was Sherlock after all. But Sherlock did ask John about some of their previous cases, ones John had helped him with. Sherlock seemed intrigued by hearing the cases and stories that were new to him now and John was glad to keep talking as long as Sherlock seemed content.
Dr. Woodhams had stopped him again on his way in and had asked John how things were going talking to Sherlock. When he had told him that things were going pretty smoothly, that Sherlock was pretty willing to talk to him even if he didn't remember him (he left out the fits and Sherlock's episode of book destroying) Dr. Woodhams was surprised. "That's very good….I'm glad he's speaking with you. He hardly speaks to anyone here; acts like he doesn't trust us"
Not that John could blame him; as far as Sherlock was concerned, in his mind, he'd done nothing wrong to be put here and all these people were telling him he was some sort of psychotic maniac. He couldn't blame Sherlock for not trusting them. But it did leave John wondering why he did seem to trust John; he didn't remember him and yet he tolerated his presence much more than anyone else's, even Lestrade who he did remember.
Sherlock and John played for several minutes in silence before John said tentatively, "So, Sherlock. Why haven't you been talking to the doctors here?"
Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes like a stubborn teenager. "They're all mindless idiots…..they know nothing" he said sullenly.
"They're just trying to help you remember what happened" John said as he moved a chess piece and looked up at Sherlock.
"They can't help me" Sherlock said flatly. "I don't trust them….they probably just want to incriminate me anyway"
John felt his stomach drop when he considered that Sherlock's memory coming back might mean he did get prosecuted, though John thought his defense of insanity at time of the crime would be pretty strong. He chose to ignore that comment. "So why do you talk to me?" John asked.
Sherlock looked up at him confused. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean, why do you talk to me?" John asked pleasantly. " You don't remember me; yes, I've told you I was your flat mate and that we were friends but you wouldn't take someone fully on that"
Sherlock looked down at the chess board. "I talk to you because of the text" he said.
Thoroughly confused, John said, "What? What text?"
Sherlock stared down at his hands, which John was alarmed to see where red and peeling, most likely still from his obsessive washing. "The first morning that I….came back to myself, I suppose is the way to put it…..they were all questioning me and telling me I'd done all these things….it was….not good. It was a lot to take in. Everyone was so….." Sherlock looked down, sadness in his eyes. "At the end of the day I found the small set of belongings they had allowed me to have here. I found my mobile with this text on it" Sherlock reached over on the side table and pulled out his mobile. When he turned it around John saw a text he'd seen before. One he had written:
Sherlock, I hope you are okay. I don't know what happened tonight, but I know that this isn't you. I don't know what will happen with the police, or even if you are okay. But no matter what is going on, I want you to know that I believe in you. I know that something made you do this….I know you wouldn't do this otherwise. I miss you….the flat is too quiet without you.- JW
John felt sadness blossom in him before bubbling down; it was the text that he'd written to Sherlock the night of the attack. The one that he was sure that Sherlock would never read.
"I couldn't believe that someone would write that, that someone could trust someone that much in such terrible circumstances…..especially not me" Sherlock said cynically. "I knew that whoever wrote that must really be spec-" Sherlock caught himself as his face turned blood red and he looked away from John "Different" he said finally. "When you introduced yourself and I spoke to you, I knew that it was you that had written it. And if you wrote that about me, I knew I could trust you. Because…..you're the only one that trusts me"
John felt a flush on his own face as Sherlock looked uncomfortably away. John wondered how long they were going to have to sit in uncomfortable silence when the nurse came in with a dinner tray. John gushed thanks to the woman that had broken the awkwardness while Sherlock ignored her.
Sherlock took one look at the dinner tray and the looked back to the chess set, making his next move. "Your turn" Sherlock said as if nothing had happened.
John looked at the dinner tray. "Aren't you going to eat?" he asked as if it wasn't a stupid question.
Sherlock glanced at the tray for a second but John still saw it; hunger. Sherlock was actually hungry. He'd seen that look on Sherlock so rarely that it was hard to be sure but John had a feeling he was right. "No" he said simply.
"Aren't you hungry?" John asked even though he'd already seen the glance of hunger in Sherlock's eyes.
"No" Sherlock lied again, not glancing up. "Your move" he was more insistent this time. John's concern about Sherlock's eating habits had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Sherlock rarely ate; that was a given thing. He could go days without eating and sometimes only eating then because John nagged him to. But that was because he genially wasn't hungry or at least he wasn't paying attention to his hunger. He never, to John knowledge at least, purposely didn't eat when he was hungry. When John looked at Sherlock and how thin he was and how he was purposely not eating; it gave John a bad feeling. He wondered if he was starving himself on purpose.
After Sherlock won the game of chess (again) John excused himself to go to the bathroom. The hospital was a maze and it took quite a while to find it and find his way back. When he returned to the room he found Sherlock on the floor of the bedroom, back against the bed, legs tucked up, head on his knees, arms around his waist as he was wincing in pain. Something was wrong, John was sure of it; this wasn't just a psychological problem. Something was wrong with Sherlock medically; John didn't have enough evidence to make a deduction as to what. He needed to speak to the about it; John feared Sherlock would end up in the hospital soon if he didn't start eating. John also suspected that this issue went deeper than Sherlock simply refusing to eat.
John was torn between walking into the room and asking Sherlock what was wrong and making a subtle entrance so that Sherlock could compose himself; he finally decided on the latter, opening the door loudly and slowly before coming in. Sherlock was on the bed, face composed by the time John made it in and he walked back over to the bed, resuming the game without a word about Sherlock's weird behavior though he felt his stomach churning.
