CHAPTER 21 - Driven Out
Once they get home, John watches Sherlock scribble a wad of post-it notes full of case details, and then tack them high on the wall while standing on the sofa. His balance is still off a bit, and from time to time, he wobbles. These days he seems to be careful and calculated in his movements, but when he forgets himself he does get into accidents. John had had to play catch when a carpet had bested him a few days earlier. At least tonight he doesn't fall.
John watches from his chair, wondering just how long Sherlock is going to avoid the subject that needs to be raised: what the hell had happened in the doctor's office? His professional curiosity aside, John can only wonder at the seething anger that seems to be driving Sherlock into hiding in full-on consulting detective mode.
Three times John tries to interrupt, and each time a terse reply "later" is all the attention he receives. He knows that the case always takes precedence, but this time, he is sure that this is also an avoidance strategy - one he is getting thoroughly fed up with. After the third attempt, he just stomps down the stairs, telling Sherlock he needs some air.
After he's walked off a bit of the heat in his temper on the paths of Regent's park, John returns to find Sherlock doing research on his laptop.
"Break in the case?" John asks, peering over the man's shoulder.
Sherlock slams the lid closed when he notices John, but it's too late. The words 'myelin sheath regeneration acceleration experimental treatment' in the Google search field have already been spotted by John, whose heart sinks. That's what the GBS is ultimately about: the protein sheaths surroundings Sherlock's nerve cells have been cannibalized by his immune system, slowing down or downright decimating the ability of the nerves to carry impulses to his central nervous system.
John knows that they have a lot to talk about, and maybe this could be an angle into the conversation. Making it case-related might just coax some engagement. He decides to do it circumspectly. "I don't get it," he starts, parking himself in his usual chair, "shouldn't sports be about health? People who take illegal drugs are risking their careers and their lives in order to look the way they want, to go over the limits of what the human body can do. How could they think it's worth it?"
Sherlock brings the lid of his laptop back up, probably because the screen is no longer in John's line of sight.
"People risk all sorts of things to get what they want. Success in sports can be addictive; you know the impact of endorphin release due to exercise and danger just as well as I do, John. People who think they need to be musclebound can also be extraordinarily vain. They fool themselves into thinking that it's something they need in order to attract the right marriage partner or to further their career or their social standing. In that equation, safety doesn't matter."
"But why do they think they can get away with it without permanent damage? I really don't get it."
This makes Sherlock lift his eyes from the screen and stare at John. "I suspect some people might actually find exhilaration in the risk involved - they're trying to best nature, to rise above the usual limitations of the human body. They get hooked on getting away with it like base jumpers and other extreme sports enthusiasts. People taunt death and decay in different ways - some even risk their lives by volunteering to go to war," he points out, glancing at John pointedly at the end of his statement, "I don't see why the people at the Vault wouldn't use what they had at their disposal to get a head start. I agree that taking large doses and using these substances for a long time are counterintuitive, since it will lead to problems that will ultimately destroy what these users have tried so hard to achieve, but short term, after careful research and under the supervision of an expert I don't see why not-"
"So you think doping is okay, too, then, if it helps a skier to be faster, or a weightlifter to win?"
"Of course not," Sherlock retorts. "If the rules say it's not allowed, then those using such means gain an unfair advantage, and that's why anti-doping tests are all over professional sport. Who I was referring to are people whose motivations come from personally witnessing the results rather than some medal being hung around their necks."
"There is no miracle cure, you know," John says softly. "Even if there were some cutting-edge, phase 1 trial going on for Guillain-Barré, I think Mycroft would have had you enrolled by now."
"I know. He looked into it months ago," Sherlock says in an emotionless tone.
Of course he had. And of course the brothers would have gone right ahead with such a risky move without consulting John. He feels like someone has just turned up the bunsen burner under his temper a notch higher again. He glares at Sherlock, knowing that his deductive skills will tell him more than John can actually put into words at the moment about his opinion on the matter.
"I'm just keeping up to date with the latest research. Things can change," Sherlock points out with a shrug. He's trying to sound nonchalant, but John can sense a hint of defensiveness in his voice. He isn't even looking at John, which means that he's probably not convinced he can win this argument.
Even through the veil of his anger, the undercurrent hidden in what Sherlock was trying to research saddens John - that he is so disheartened by the state of things that part of him is still waiting for some miracle cure. Not for the first time today, John wonders if the meltdowns and mood swings are, in part, a collision between the recovery from GBS and old patterns re-awakened by a nervous system that is re-booting. What else could possibly explain the events of the past few days? Why have the meltdowns come back? The last time anything similar had happened, Sherlock had been dosed with a hallucinogen, but John is quite certain he hasn't been using anything illicit recently. Could it just be the stress, or some residual effect of something his discharge papers had mentioned: high risk of post-intensive care syndrome. John isn't very familiar with it, but he knows it's a blanket term for a cluster of health problems that linger after prolonged stays in intensive treatment units. It can even include something akin to a sub-type of PTSD, signs of cognitive dysfunction and depression. Sherlock had been recovering so swiftly at Harwich, when taking into consideration the severity of his case, that John realizes that maybe he hadn't appreciated this possibility enough back then.
It's probably time to admit depression is definitely on the table. As for PTSD-like symptoms, John isn't sure. No signs of nightmares as far as he can tell, and Sherlock is avoiding talking about everything and anything important, not just his time at the National. As for cognitive dysfunction - the thought seems a bit ridiculous to John. He's doing fine, work-wise, isn't he?
John decides that he's had enough dancing around the topic. It's time to talk. He gets up and then sits next to Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock shifts a bit to put some space between them , but John is encouraged that he doesn't retreat to the opposite end.
To prevent a repeat of every other occasion he's tried to breach the walls Sherlock puts up at the merest mention that something might be wrong, he needs to phrase this just right. He's about to jump right in, to ask if Sherlock himself thinks he needs a bit of help mood-wise, but at the last minute, his nerve fails him. He's terrible at this, exactly like he'd told Molly, but even Mycroft has hoisted all the responsibility onto him, now.
"You were amazing, you know", he tells Sherlock. John knows he should have interrogated Sherlock about what's going on right now instead, and he wants to kick himself.
At first, Sherlock's eyes widen until he seems to catch himself, settling then on a wary and disappointed gaze.
John realises he may have just been severely misinterpreted. "At the hospital, I mean," he specifies hastily. "I told you I'd probably have bricked it during the first days if it was me who got the GBS. I'd have wanted the sedation, to pass the time more quickly. You fought that fucking thing, tooth and nail. And you didn't lose."
A tenseness settles on Sherlock's shoulders, and he starts running his thumb along the side of the laptop that's still on his knees, clearly a nervous tic. "That might be an apt comparison. Particularly the counting of losses afterwards, no matter what the initial thought is about the general outcome. You can win a battle but lose the war."
"What happened at the surgery?" John asks, and encloses the restless fingers of Sherlock's hand in his own. He would prefer to talk more about the hospital days, and what Sherlock has just remarked, but the anxiety emanating from him is discouraging. The past few days must've been hell for Sherlock, and John certainly doesn't want to add to that, but he is puzzled by how irate Sherlock had been upon leaving Dr Goffe's office. Whatever had happened, it must've hit home in a very personal way.
Sherlock slides the laptop onto the coffee table. "Goffe has a tendency for conjecture. You'd not enjoy hearing the details."
"Was it… personal?"
"It was a doctor's appointment, which, by definition, is a personal undertaking," he corrects in a superior manner.
John sighs. Arguing semantics, correcting people and pretending he's misunderstood are common tactics for Sherlock to avoid discussions he doesn't want to have. To get at something important, this is the hurdle he'll always have to cross, isn't it, when he tries to talk to Sherlock about something important?
"We've ruled him out, so we can forget about it," Sherlock announces with what must be an attempt at relief, but ends up sounding more haunted than anything else.
"Assuming there's something you'd want to forget."
"I'd prefer it if you kept private matters out of your blog," Sherlock changes the subject, or at least John thinks so at first until it occurs to him to wonder if that was what Sherlock had urgently browsed on his phone at the surgery, after storming out of the appointment room. It's nothing new that he would disagree with how John recounted their cases, but the only thing he'd posted lately was a short note explaining why there hadn't been much going on with The Work lately. He'd tried to make it sound as though it was nothing to worry about, even reminding everyone that yes, anyone can get sick, even Sherlock bloody Holmes. The Holmes in question would do well to accept that notion himself.
"Readers like it when you sound more human," John says. "I thought it would be easier for you this way, not having to explain why it's been so quiet." In John's own ears this sounds like an excuse. He remembers writing posts before that had mentioned injuries he or Sherlock had received. He has often shown his drafts to Sherlock before putting them on the blog, but mentioning illness or injury have never felt like something that has made him more prone to letting Sherlock proofread. For a man who drags other people's secrets out in the open, it's a little hypocritical of Sherlock to protest such things, but of course he has the right to dictate how much of his own life he wants to reveal to others. Maybe Goffe merely mentioning such a post had made Sherlock feel too exposed. No, it's not the first time Sherlock has taken offence at something he's written, but the GBS must be a subject matter more sensitive than average.
"I don't need a protector," Sherlock remarks and stretches his neck. He looks disinterested and tired. He slides his hand out from under John's, glancing at it with a frown.
John opens his mouth to say something, but then stops. All the possible answers he could give to Sherlock's non-sequitur -like statement seem problematic. 'Yes, you do at the moment?' 'No, but I still want to be one?'. Hasn't he always been exactly that to Sherlock? Wouldn't anyone have that impulse, when it came to the most important person in their life? John had long ago realized Sherlock was rather protective of him. Why was that allowed, but not the other way around? This all leads John to wonder if he actually believes Sherlock can look after himself at the moment. "You don't want to talk about what happened today, then," he finally says, and it's a rhetorical question.
"Good. Your deductive skills are improving."
John leans back on the sofa. "Is this how it's always going to go? You don't talk to me, you don't give in a fucking inch, and it's my job to just smile and take all the bloody abuse hurled at me and try to weed out some vague hints from it about what it is that's bothering you? Just another thing in your life - our life - that you can't be bothered with, and you leave it all to me to sort out?"
Sherlock leans slightly away from his anger, dismayed. "It's you who operates on some naive idea that talking about everything, dissecting things and spreading them open in that manner for everyone to see, leads to anything good. The notion that it magically fixes things belongs in a saccharine fantasy world."
"Would it kill you to try? To test your own hypothesis that it's pointless? I'm not going to leave, I'm not going to get angry by anything you'd say, just- I wish you'd try."
Sherlock's fingers next to John's leg on the sofa curl into a fist. "Can't," he says quietly. "It doesn't work."
"Can't, or won't?" John asks, but doesn't really expect an answer. Sherlock isn't looking at him, instead his eyes seem fixed on something in the bookcase. John feels like he's being zoned out, faded into the background. Something that is obviously more worthwhile and fascinating than their relationship, must have already gripped Sherlock's brain.
After five minutes of strained silence, John gives up and goes to bed, and lies awake for some time. Gradually, anger dissolves into resigned sadness and guilt. It seems that he just pushes and pushes and pushes and somehow, Sherlock takes it as a cue to back off even further, until it all goes to hell. All this leads to nothing but second-guessing everything he has done or hasn't done. Maybe he shouldn't have gone back to the locum work, but what would the alternative been? Maybe they should have left London instead of Sherlock coming home, spent some time someplace else, taken a timeout? Harwich was exactly that, for Sherlock at least, but the two of them being apart during that time hadn't been a good thing. As protective as Mycroft always seems of Sherlock, John does wonder if his influence is always constructive. He has no idea what Mycroft now thinks about their altered relationship status, and whether he'd actually try to sabotage it if he didn't approve. Along with Molly and Mrs Hudson, he's the only one who is aware of it. No one else knows - well, apart from that Doctor Goffe, now. John had wondered why on earth Sherlock had blurted the word partner out to someone they'd only just met. John hadn't minded, really, since the doctor was a stranger they were unlikely to meet again, but in the grander scheme of things there are many reasons he feels reluctant at this stage to be open about it to others. Things are so new, so raw, so unsure, and he has no idea how private Sherlock wants to keep it at this point. This is yet another thing on the list that they need to talk about.
The biggest reason for his hesitation is that he has no idea where they stand. When push comes to shove, Sherlock has been very clear about his intentions and willing to take steps further such as sharing a bedroom, but when it comes to the details that actually make up the daily fabric of a relationship, there's nothing there. He tries to connect, but Sherlock keeps dancing just out of reach. His affection is like a shadow - ephemeral and something John can only make out at the edge of his senses, but it is there, of that he's certain. It's just that John isn't certain how long he will be able to hold onto it, until he becomes too discouraged, too sceptical to even try anymore?
He gives up on sleep, at least for now. The bedroom feels lonely, and instead of the warmth of another body the other side of the bed, the sheets are uninvitingly cold when John pats around with his hand. He doesn't even know why he does it - he knows Sherlock isn't there, but something in him needed that comfirmation to push him into action.
He makes up his mind, drags himself out of bed and shivers for a moment in the draft coming in through the open doorway. He makes his way to the living room, and finds Sherlock asleep on the sofa, two nicotine patches on his forearm. He'd quit them some time after Dartmoor, and John isn't glad to see them, but if they've given Sherlock at least a tiny respite from his worries tonight, then fine. John scrunches up their empty packages which Sherlock had left on the coffee table and takes them to the kitchen bin.
John grabs a pillow, places it next to the sofa and sits down on it, landing unceremoniously on his left hip. He can hear the faint sound of Mrs Hudson's television and the fridge making a quiet whirr. He knows it's basically empty save for some pickles and condiments and probably the leftover of a pizza from last week. No experiments. He needs to pay the gas bill. He needs to sort out rent. He needs to go grocery shopping, because Sherlock isn't going to do any of those things. It's fine. This is how it's always been.
He leans against the sofa and cards his fingers through the unruly curls spilling over the worn cushion that's against the handrest. Sherlock mutters something and turns to face the wall, but he's clearly still asleep. When they'd first moved in together, Sherlock had jumped at even the tiniest noises in the flat at nighttime, assuming assassins or vermin or worse - his brother. Gradually, John's presence - or so he likes to think - had become a reassurance that he didn't need to be on such high alert all the time. The fact that he hasn't tackled John to the floor for touching him in the middle of sleep must mean something.
He'd always liked Sherlock's hair. Even utterly disheveled and coated with dust after hours of being trapped in a former coal mine during a case, it always manages to look… beguiling. He presses his forehead on the side of the cushion next to Sherlock's head for a moment, relishing the closeness he's allowed, even if it's mostly for himself. The bedroom feels even less inviting.
He lets his thoughts wander, closing his eyes for a moment, until Sherlock seems to stir, or so John thinks. He touches Sherlock's shoulder gently, already half-regretting what he's doing, in case it leads to Sherlock waking up completely and not being able to fall asleep again. "Want to come to bed?" he whispers.
He receives no answer so he lets a sleeping detective lie and goes upstairs to his old room. It is no less cold and lonely, but tonight he doesn't want to go back to the bed they both belong in, because being there would be a constant reminder of his own failures. Failure to accept what he had wanted all along - Sherlock, instead of an occasional casual affair with girlfriend-of-the-week. His failure to act on his feelings even after he'd realized they existed. His failure to stand up to Mycroft on the Harwich issue. His failure to address Sherlock's issues much earlier. His failure to tear down the walls Sherlock is constantly constructing between the two of them.
John realises he had no idea it is possible to miss someone this much, even though they are right there.
The following morning, the atmosphere hangs heavy, which seems to have become the default state of things. It leads John to wonder if he's becoming alarmingly accustomed to it already.
Sherlock looks tired but he does get dressed, chew a few pieces of toast and read the newspaper. John had slept, in the end, but he'd had nightmares the details of which now elude him, and he's way too tired to be at the top of his game. Trying to open some sort of discussion feels futile, and there's an undercurrent of bitterness in his mood still.
Sherlock seems to be watching him carefully - expecting what, John has no idea.
The locum agency calls John about a work shift, but at the same time Sherlock gets a text and unceremoniously tosses John's coat to its owner - the case demands their attention. John bids a hasty apologetic farewell to the agency secretary before following Sherlock out the door.
"Coffee, John?" Lestrade asks an ungodly number of hours later, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. It's been a long day for all involved in the Watford case.
"God, yes," John answers, stealing yet another look at Sherlock, who is all fury in shirtsleeves, exhibiting no signs of tiredness. The heavier John's lids seem to get, the more impatient, more venomous and more frustrated Sherlock seems to be getting. The tiredness isn't gone - it has simply been pushed aside by by a rather aggressive sort of impatience. John is almost reminded of a toddler throwing a tantrum because they're tired but they certainly don't want to go to bed.
So much for easing back into The Work gradually after a long sick leave. Today they've barely taken breaks long enough to visit the men's room. It seems that every setback is whipping Sherlock into a more desperately manic frenzy to solve the case. John half hopes he had those sorts of reserves at his disposal - maybe he would have figured out already how to fix the mess that their life has become.
It's doubtful they're going to crack this tonight. They're at the technical division of the Yard, wading through the financial, car and real estate records of The Vault's personal trainers. After Sherlock and John had managed to convince him George Goffe ought not be on the suspect list, Lestrade had managed to push his bosses into getting the warrants they needed. The downside is that they don't extend to client lists yet for some arbitrary judicial reason that the trainers' barristers are certainly exploiting to their full advantage. They're looking to see if any of them have had unaccounted-for influxes of money that would have shown in their purchases of new cars, or other such things. One trainer had recently bought a boat, but the money going into it could be explained by regular savings account deposits over seven years.
John could easily agree with Sherlock's logic that it must've been someone working for the club who was doling out the drugs, since it would be much easier for them to do so than a random client, and to do so without being noticed. Besides, the clients didn't encounter each other much on the premises, and they had very little interaction with the staff apart from their personal trainer. Training sessions would also offer a good opportunity to sniff the air as to which clients would be approachable with such an offer. All that was needed was for a client to be frustrated enough with their slow progress, uncaring enough of their health, or driven enough to do whatever it took to get where they wanted to be...
John realises that sadly, all those attributes could also be used currently to describe Sherlock. He knows he should put a stop to this marathon of a workday by dragging Sherlock home, but he's getting tired of having to remind the man of how things work in the real work and that his current fitness level can't take this sort of a strain. He can anticipate Sherlock's reaction to such a lecture, and he's not in the mood to deal with it.
He follows Lestrade to a bleak break room with an ancient coffee maker. Its jug is half full of what turns out to be over-stewed, bitter sludge. There's no milk, but it hardly matters at this hour.
"How's he doing?" Lestrade asks. "I should've picked a different case, maybe, but it's hard to tell which ones are going to turn hairy instead of something he can solve in less than ten minutes.
"You mean regarding work or in general?" John suggests, "Not that the case is solved yet , but I haven't seen anything that would make me think he can't do it as well as he used to."
"You do realise you're going about it from the negative?"
"What do you mean?" John asks, stealing a stale-looking biscuit from a tray. It does little to curb his hunger.
"You just said that you haven't seen anything that would make you doubt his abilities. Does he doubt them, then?"
John frowns. "I don't know. Why would he? The GBS didn't affect his head, it was mostly just the ITU. Anyone would go nuts in there. It's good to see him back at work, even if he is pushing himself too hard."
"Maybe. It's just that he doesn't really look like he's having any fun," Lestrade points out.
John's hand halts as he's about to bring the mug to his lips.
Somehow, this hits the nail on the head.
Sherlock has been going about the case not with his usual exhilaration, but with an almost manic drive, as though he's making himself do it like he used to. He's acting every bit the lean, mean deduction machine that he used to be, but the playfullness, exuberance and the showing off are gone. He seems to keep pausing to observe the reactions of others to his actions, half-expecting a negative judgment.
John finds himself fearing a repeat of what had happened at Barts and at the Vault. Those times, it had come seemingly out of the blue. Is it something that's easier to keep at bay when Sherlock is actively doing things, or could the added stress levels and the storm he's cooking up right now at the IT department bring it on again?
"The frustration just gets to him at times," John says and shrugs.
"He's getting pretty worked up about it. Must be hell at home." Lestrade's sitting on the edge of the table, too tired to even flop into one of the beat up plastic chairs. "I'll bet he's taking it out on the violin. Whenever he's pissed off, he seems to take it out on that poor instrument."
"I think the problems he's having with the violin have been making things worse ," John reveals, slightly regretting the way he's discussing Sherlock behind the man's back. But, on the other hand, this is Lestrade, who has seen Sherlock in dire straits before John had even met him. Despite probably seeing Sherlock during the worst times of his life, the DI is still willing to see him as a great man. "The violin is sort of part of the problem, rather than a solution."
"He can't play?" Lestrade asks, alarmed.
His unease puts chills down John's spine. "Oh he can, after a fashion, but not anywhere near to his old skill level. Not yet, at least. He's had to start over with a violin tutor."
Lestrade shakes his head. "Oh, Christ. That's so horrible. Even when he didn't even have a flat, he still carried that thing around after he got it during a case. Never could understand why on earth someone would just give him a Strad. He left it with me for safekeeping once, when he'd been kicked out of a halfway house his brother had parked him in. Said he didn't want it on the streets - wouldn't risk the below-zero temperatures harming it. He wouldn't accept my offer to him to sleep on my sofa - he cared more about that violin than himself. He showed up every evening to play."
Lestrade's phone begins ringing with the theme to The Godfather. John smirks.
The DI answers. It's a short conversation, ending with a sigh and the words "we'll be right there".
John quickly swallows the last of his coffee. If it were a break in the case, Lestrade would have sounded relieved instead of exasperated. There's only explanation that seems likely: Sherlock is causing trouble.
They arrive back in the corridor leading to the large open office space reserved for the Digital Policing Unit, also knows as 'the computer guys', according to Lestrade. Just as they're about to round the last corner to where John had last seen Sherlock, they nearly bump into a pair of uniformed officers escorting someone.
When their detainee looks up, John does a double take. The man handcuffed and being lead towards the lifts is none other than Sherlock.
Lestrade comes to the same realisation and tells the officers to stop. "What the hell is going on?" the DI demands.
"Harrigan from Digital called us to escort a visitor out because he was harassing employees."
"It's hardly harassment, if I was directing them to get on with their bloody tasks!" Sherlock snaps and tries to tug his arms away from the grip of the officers. "Unhand me."
"The policy's clear; if an employee requests a visitor be removed on reasonable grounds, it will be done promptly."
"I know the policy," Lestrade says, "but he's not a visitor-"
"I'm a consultant!" Sherlock interjects.
Lestrade gestures to the two men. "Let him go."
Reluctantly, the officers release Sherlock's arms but make no move to remove the handcuffs.
"Are those really necessary?" John asks, glancing at the cuffs which he can now see, since Sherlock is stretching his arms to his right side, craning his neck to see them, presumably to deduce how to get rid of them without a key. He probably could - or not, since that would require his old dexterity.
"He resisted ejection," one of the uniformed officers explains defensively.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Lestrade, sort this out. I need to get back to work." He sounds like he's just about to start shouting.
John steps between the DI and Sherlock, whose icy glare locks onto him now instead. "Look," John says, lowering his voice even though its pointless - the three NSY officers are still standing right next to them. " You're not going to get any answers quicker if you keep breathing down those guys' necks. They're probably shit scared of you by now."
The handcuffs are removed. Sherlock rubs his right wrist with his left hand, grimacing. "Bloody brutes," he snarls at the officers, who make no move to retreat. "Those IT idiots insist on checking credit card statements first. What sort of a moron would pay off Visa bills using drug money?" He is irate, temper barely under control. "They're wasting time, making a breakthrough even less likely."
In all the similar cases they've worked, some signs of excessive influx of money usually shows up if nothing else gives - withdrawals and Tesco visits on the bank statements disappear when the culprit begins to use the cash earned illegitimately to purchase daily necessities, but John cares about none of that right now. He has had enough. He's tired, hungry and not in the mood to be a stand-in to weather what must be Sherlock's frustration about not cracking the case yet. "Not everyone is a genius," he says, "and even geniuses need a bit of rest. I'll stay, if you want someone to be here to see what they find."
"That must be a new record level of patronising condescension, even from you, John. Ever thought of writing an educational children's book?" the sarcasm is so dripping with venom that John realizes Sherlock is nothing short of livid.
John doesn't retreat.
Whatever Sherlock sees in John's expression makes him huff with indignation. His eyes dart around the area as though he'd heard something, and suddenly he yells "SHUT UP!" to no one in particular, pressing the heels of his palm onto his temples and closing his eyes momentarily. Then he seems to calm down, dropping his shoulders and straigthening his spine as though preparing for something.
There's muttering from the officers behind him. John realizes he's staring at Sherlock, too, and tries to shake himself out of a stunned reaction to what he's just seen. Sherlock does regularly talk to himself, or to the skull, or to some alternate version of John he has in his head, but those imaginary presences usually only start irritating him when he's getting so tired he's ready to drop. At that point, the clever deductions usually stop in lieu of tirades towards the incompetence of everyone else. John has seen this before, during long and taxing cases, especially ones the emotional impact of which has been great enough to deeply affect Sherlock. It had been the worst during a serial killer case involving kidnapped children which had dragged on for two months. The media pressure had been immense, and the mother of one of the victims had called Sherlock a monster. After that, all the grandiosity and the flair had been gone for a while.
John remembers once telling Lestrade that anyone who thinks that Sherlock isn't affected by what people think of him are idiots. After that, the DI had been a little more diligent in addressing the insulting remarks his subordinates directed at Sherlock, but especially Donovan and Anderson had proven very resilient and resourceful in still getting those barbs in.
'I'm not a performing monkey', Sherlock had told John once when discussing his abilities, 'it's not a parlour trick'. Still, the way Sherlock tries so hard to prove his worth and to flaunt his talents has made John wonder if it's all an attempt to find acceptance when he thinks that he could never achieve it by just being himself.
John opens his mouth to ask Sherlock if he's alright, but the glare directed his way strips him of any notion that such an inquiry would lead to anything constructive. Questioning Sherlock's state of mind or his abilities while in the presence of others will never work; what had happened at the Vault had been a stern reminder of this. That leaves John with very few options what to do. He knows Sherlock is not going to give up, until he drops from exhaustion or really gets evicted from the premises, so it's down to him now to put his foot down. Even if he can't get to the bottom of some more complicated things, at least he can make sure Sherlock's well-being isn't compromised even further.
He straightens his shoulders into a military attention, conveying silently as best he can that yes, you bloody berk, you do need a protector sometimes. He knows that Sherlock will both detest and pick apart what's going to be said next, so he widens his stance, leaning forward to meet the challenge. "Right. You're going to go back to Baker Street and to bed. I don't care if you lie wide awake or fall asleep, as long as I find you under the covers when I get home. And eat something, for fuck's sake, you're running on nothing but fumes. Your body can't take this sort of thing right now, which should be blindingly obvious even to you. Since you'd rather jump off a cliff than take any advice from either of them, this is not your friend or your colleague speaking, it's your doctor."
Sherlock's gaze narrows, lips part slightly as though he's trying to decide whether to go on the warpath. Then, without a word, he turns on his heel, and stalks off towards the lifts.
"You do realise he's probably not going to go home," Lestrade says, watching Sherlock stride into the lift and slam his hand onto the buttons.
John closes his eyes and shakes his head.