Thank you all for contributing your opinions to my list of prompts. I now have my priorities straight and a rough publishing schedule, which I'll finalize by the end of this story and share with you.

Chapter 37: Still Sherlock

John could hear the sobbing. He wished he couldn't. He really wished he couldn't. He wished he could block it out and forget about it. But he couldn't.

He'd never heard Sherlock cry before. The man handled onions without so much as a watery eye. But he couldn't blame him. He'd done his fair share of crying during the aftermath of his shoulder wound, and what Sherlock had endured was at least a thousand times worse. His instincts told him he should do something to help, to somehow alleviate the pain.

Over the years, John had developed a mental rulebook for dealing with Sherlock. If it were on paper, it would probably be the size of War and Peace. In the past, when Sherlock sulked, human contact would only make it worse, but this was different. Unfortunately, there was no neatly-labelled subsection for a post-leukaemic Sherlock, so he'd have to figure it out as he went.

First, he put the violin and bow gently back into the case. Seeing it would only remind him of the incident that had caused this meltdown. He had several options for the next step. He could wait until the crying subsided, until Sherlock had calmed himself down some. However, he might be more combative and reluctant when he wasn't actively weeping.

He could storm in there right now and demand Sherlock tell him exactly what was bothering him so he could do everything humanly possible—and then some—to fix it. He couldn't be sure that Sherlock would comply, but he was more likely to do so in this state than any other. John remembered that he'd been more open to both physical and emotional contact since he'd gotten sick. They'd had so many heart-to-heart conversations in the hospital, what was one more?

Finally, John decided his best bet was to go inside. If he didn't know already, this would remind Sherlock that John would always be there, not to judge him, but help him through tough times like these. John Watson was no fair-weather friend.

He marched up to the door and slowly reached for the knob. He slowly turned it and eased the door open, trying to make his entrance as quiet as possible. Sherlock was sprawled out across the bed, face buried in a pillow. John's felt his heart constrict with pity and sorrow for the poor man in front of him. He'd never seen the detective cry like this before.

He'd also never managed to sneak up on him; the detective saw and heard everything that went on in the flat. He feared he might startle him if he approached too suddenly, so he made his footsteps strategically louder to make his presence known. The sobs hitched for a moment—Sherlock noticed he was here—but didn't stay silent for long. John knew that a meltdown like this could never stop suddenly.

John walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down on it next to Sherlock. He debated whether physical contact would be appreciated or hated in this situation, and the memory of Sherlock asking him to hold his hand for the nasogastric tube insertion replayed itself in his head. He decided to go for it; worst case scenario, Sherlock didn't accept it and kicked John out.

He gradually edged closer and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. He felt Sherlock instinctually tense up, but eventually relax into John's touch. He rubbed comforting circles around his back, hating how prominent his vertebrae were, even through the fabric of his shirt. Many would consider the gesture intimate, but frankly, John didn't care. Sherlock was suffering and if this would even somewhat alleviate it, John would do it without second thought.

With every minute, the crying subsided until the two of them were left in silence. John's arm was getting tired, but he wouldn't stop until Sherlock didn't appear to need the comfort. "You're still Sherlock," he stated, deducing what had upset the detective in the first place. "Nothing's ever going to change that. You've told me on many occasions that Transport is stupid and you'd sooner be a brain in a jar."

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, facing away from John and muttered in a voice hoarse from crying, "Maybe I am, but now this jar is broken."

"Unfortunately, you're exactly right. But that doesn't do anything to change what's in the jar. A broken jar of jam still contains jam."

"Are you equating me to pulverized fruit?"

"Sherlock, stop over-evaluating metaphors. You understand my meaning perfectly; you're just being difficult. I noticed you were upset, so I came in here to help you. Are you going to let me?"

"'M not upset," he mumbled.

"I may not have your mind for deduction, but I'm not stupid. Please let me help, it hurts me to see you unhappy and I want to help fix whatever's bothering you."

Sherlock hesitated, probably contemplating how much of his strife he wanted to relay to John. John would gladly bear all of it, but suspected Sherlock didn't want to completely yank the lid off of this Pandora's box.

"John, I'm so much less now," he admitted, almost choking on another sob.

"Less than what?"

"Less than I was before all this shit." Sherlock rarely used profanity, seeing little meaning in stigmatized words, but John couldn't think of a more appropriate word to describe what had happened to him.

"Sherlock, that's literally the dumbest thing I've ever heard. And I live with you. If anything, you're infinitely more than before."

"That's ridiculous."

"No, it's not. And I will tell you why if you stop interrupting me. You have inanely high expectations for yourself. I'll put this in terms you can understand: physics dictate that once dropped, a ball doesn't bounce back to the height it started," John began, thinking of the metaphor he'd used earlier.

"Not helping," Sherlock muttered.

"You didn't let me finish. It won't bounce all the way back, unless more force is applied to it. I'm sorry, but you will not just magically recover without working for it. You've been doing really well with your physical therapy, but unfortunately it's going to take time. Your body's been ravaged by infection and illness, it needs to properly put itself back together. Some pieces of the puzzle might be permanently missing, but this is not the end of the road. You've still got a lot of getting better to do. But most importantly, leukaemia did absolutely nothing to that brilliant brain of yours. I couldn't care less if you can't play the violin anymore, I understand how hard it would be with scarred and missing fingers. We'll find another outlet. As long as you still deduce everyone you meet with absolutely no regard for social etiquette, you'll still be Sherlock. As long as you fill our fridge with the disgusting subjects of your experiments, you'll still be Sherlock. As long as you're inordinately happy when there's a murder, you'll still be Sherlock. As long as the game is on, you'll still be Sherlock."

John panted with tiredness from the long soliloquy. He'd meant every word of it, and he hoped it resonated with Sherlock. He watched him and waited for some sort of reaction, but none came. But what did break the silence was John's phone ringing with Lestrade's ringtone.

A case.

~0~

Lestrade was stuck. This case was utterly unsolvable. He and the team had been working on it for nearly a week now, and they'd made no progress. The man had been found dead in his own flat; he'd apparently collapsed suddenly and for no apparent reason. At first it looked like nothing more than natural causes, except his phone and wallet were conspicuously missing. On top of that, autopsy had revealed no underlying medical condition likely to cause sudden collapse like that. He appeared to have asphyxiated to death, but the cause was unknown. Lestrade had first suspected poisoning, but the autopsy had yielded absolutely nothing. He was a perfectly healthy man, and nobody could come up with a reasonable explanation for his collapse and subsequent death.

To make things even more difficult, the victim—Anthony Rogers—was an only child with no living parents, so they had limited ways to find information about him. Currently, Lestrade sat at his desk running through all the facts in his head again, and achieving nothing. A knock at the door startled him out of his reverie.

"Yes?" he inquired. Donovan opened the door and stepped inside.

"Still no leads on the Rogers death?" she asked.

"Nope. But I'm convinced it was murder. There's no medical reason for him to have just up and died like that."

"You're starting to sound like him, you know."

"Like who?"

"Do you really need me to elaborate? Our resident murder-fanatic," she stated.

"Sherlock? He'd agree with me: there's something fishy going on here."

"Why don't you consult him? Isn't that what he does? Consulting detective?"

"You know why I can't do that right now. John would have my head."

"Is the good doctor keeping him caged up to recuperate? I'm sure he's loving that."

"It's for his own good. You know how he gets on cases, he'd run himself into the ground. Only it would be even more dramatic than usual because of... recent circumstances." Everyone at Scotland Yard was reluctant to discuss Sherlock's illness. While they usually possessed no aversion to gossip, they possessed enough basic decency to give the detective some respect.

"You know how he gets, though. I'll bet he's bored out of his mind. If you let him on this case, it might be the best thing that's happened to him in a long time."

"That may be the case, but John won't let him help so soon out of hospital."

"Lestrade, you need him. At this rate, you'll drive yourself crazy trying to solve a case which is clearly too much for you," Donovan delivered the insult easily. "You can tell him—and John—that he has to take care of himself to be allowed to work on it. If he doesn't, we'll kick him back to Baker Street."

"I guess it's our only option. Unless you came in here to tell me you've solved it?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"Wishful thinking," she replied, turning around and leaving Lestrade alone with his thoughts. He truly did need Sherlock's help on this case, but would he be up for it? Of course his endurance wouldn't be what it once was, but he would still be of use. Right? Lestrade violently shook his head back and forth to rid himself of such terrible thoughts. Sherlock in peak condition was miles ahead of everybody else, even a compromised Sherlock would have twice the intellect of a typical person. Of course he'd be of use. He'd probably have the whole thing solved before Lestrade could even tell him the name of the victim.

Somewhat reluctantly, he picked up his mobile and dialled John's number.

~0~

Sherlock perked up instantly upon hearing the ringtone. Usually, Lestrade texted Sherlock about cases, but John figured he was using him as a buffer to ensure Sherlock didn't get overexcited. The detective looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer it. Somewhat reluctantly, he reached out and picked up the phone.

Lestrade's familiar tone greeted him on the other end: "John."

"Yes?" John replied.

"Listen, I know it's soon, but there's a case, and we could really use his help." John didn't want his end of the conversation to reveal too much to Sherlock—who was listening intently—so he tried to keep his responses as nonspecific as possible.

"Could you tell me a little more than that?" he requested.

"A man asphyxiated to death in his own flat, no medical reason or traces of any poison that could've caused it. Either he lost them both, or his phone and wallet were stolen from the flat. As Sherlock would say, balance of probability. My gut tells me it's murder," the DI explained. John was about to decline, when Lestrade added, "No legwork, just brainwork. I promise." Sherlock could really use some reassurance that his brain still worked like it was supposed to; that he wasn't worthless or broken. It didn't sound too dangerous, with little chance of ending up chasing a serial killer through the crowded streets of London. John decided it was worth minimal risk to let Sherlock work again.

"Okay," John acquiesced. "Scotland Yard?"

"Yes. Whenever you get the chance. I'll be here all night. Thank you." Lestrade hung up, leaving John to reveal the news to Sherlock.

"What was that all about?" Sherlock asked.

"Lestrade's got a case. It doesn't sound like it would rate very high on your interest scale, but you might want to start with something a bit easier to ease your way back into it."

"Details?"

"Asphyxiation with no apparent cause. Do you want to give it a try? Lestrade says we can head over any time we're ready."

"Well, I suppose it beats wasting away in here any longer," he said, planting his feet on the floor next to the bed. He paused a few seconds before standing, probably to avoid a head rush. John remembered days long ago when he would literally leap out of his chair at the promise of a good case. John forced the reminiscence away and picked himself up off the bed to get ready. He grabbed his coat and silently prayed that this would all go well.

He waited at the door and watched as Sherlock gathered his coat and scarf. It wasn't particularly cold, but the detective almost never ventured into the great outdoors without his signature outfit. Sherlock began to approach the door when he paused to stare at the deerstalker, perched lazily on the edge of a chair. John could practically see the inevitable conflict inside his head. Sherlock looked from the hat, to John, and back to the hat, but continued to the door without picking it up.

"You sure?" John asked. He knew what it was like to be stared at—he'd had a severe psychosomatic limp for longer than he liked to remember—and didn't want Sherlock to suffer the same scrutiny from the Yarders.

"Battle scars," Sherlock replied simply, before charging out the door. John followed him somewhat in awe of his perseverance. Within seconds, Sherlock had hailed a cab and stepped inside. John told the driver their destination and stared out the window for the majority of the silent ride, stealing quick glances at Sherlock. The detective had put on Molly's gloves; whether it was to protect himself from the cold or the imminent scrutiny, John wasn't sure.

~0~

Sally Donovan hadn't wanted to bring up the Freak to Lestrade, but they were out of options at this point. She couldn't watch the DI drive himself crazy any longer. But if she was honest with herself, she was afraid. Afraid she wouldn't be able to control her reaction when he arrived. She feared she might say something inappropriate by mistake and incur John Watson's wrath.

Everything she knew about what had occurred at the hospital since her last visit came filtered through Lestrade. He hadn't disclosed much, wanting to protect Sherlock's privacy, but Sally was smart enough to know some real shit had gone down. The Freak was lucky to be alive.

She mentally chastised herself for using that old nickname. Before it was a somewhat mean-spirited tease, but now using the term would just be bullying. Sally Donovan was a lot of things, but she wasn't a bully.

As she stood awaiting John and Sherlock's arrival with Lestrade, she tried to rid herself of all the negative thoughts she had about the detective. If she slipped up, Lestrade would never forgive her. Neither would John, and she would absolutely hate to get on his bad side. As she heard them approaching, she took a deep breath and clenched her left hand into a fist so tight her nails dug painfully into her palm.

It wasn't enough.

She barely managed to conceal a frightened yelp as a hiccup, so she knew her face revealed everything. Unfortunately, the only coherent thought that came to mind was: the Freak now looks the part. He took one look at her reaction and blushed heavily, turning his ghostly pale cheeks deep pink. Sally felt Lestrade's gaze boring into her, and knew she'd royally screwed up.

She thought of all the times she'd wished Sherlock would just go away, stop intruding on their official police investigations. She'd thought so many terrible things about that man, had wanted him to suffer. Well, now he'd suffered immensely, and she couldn't help but believe her imaginings had somehow caused it. She tried to banish the image, but his likeness had burned itself into the inside of her eyelids. Everywhere she looked, eyes open or closed, she saw Sherlock staring back at her flushed with embarrassment for something that wasn't even remotely his fault. God, she was a terrible person.

~0~

Donovan's little scene made John instantly regret allowing Sherlock on this job. It did not bode well for the rest of their visit to Scotland Yard. Before they'd even arrived, word of the detective's return had somehow spread throughout the building, and people John'd never spoken to—some of which he'd never even seen—walked by just to 'catch a glimpse.' Sherlock must've felt like a literal freak show, people stopping by to stare at him. Thank God for Lestrade, who noticed the predicament immediately and ushered them away to his office.

John glanced over at Sherlock, whose cheeks were still hot with humiliation. He should've come alone and simply Skyped Sherlock back at Baker Street. Why did he think this was a good idea?

"I'm sorry about them," Lestrade said sincerely, giving Donovan the stink-eye. "If it's any consolation, they're just afraid they'll lose their jobs now that you're back to solve all the cases for them." John silently thanked the DI for such a well-constructed excuse. However, it did little to calm Sherlock, who was already nervously fidgeting with his missing fingers.

"It's all right, Lestrade. I suppose that is something I must get used to," Sherlock sighed resignedly.

"Anyway, let's focus on what you came here for. The case. Obviously, the scene's already been cleaned up and the body taken care of, so you'll have to work only on the evidence we gathered and saved from the scene. As you already know, tox screen yielded nothing."

"Did you test for rarer poisons? Clever murderers don't use anything that would be detected on a basic screen."

"Yes, several. Still nothing."

"Any suspects?"

"None. The guy was ridiculously unattached: no parents, siblings, children, or close friends we could find."

"Great. No wonder you've gotten nowhere. With so little evidence, I can't promise a solution." Sherlock never started a case with such a pessimistic mindset, but John suspected this warning was as much for him as it was for Lestrade. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to solve it; lack of evidence had nothing to do with it. He'd solved many cold cases on even less.

"We can show you the photos of the scene. I know it's not much, but if anyone can get anywhere with this case, it's you."

Lestrade grabbed a file and plopped it down on the desk. Sherlock took a seat in one of the chairs and opened the folder. John noticed that he still had his gloves on, even though he normally took them off indoors. John glanced up at Sally, who was watching Sherlock intently as he rifled through the photos. Her gaze was focused on his right hand—of course it was. But the look in her eyes was one John had never seen on her before, one he'd never expect her to direct at Sherlock. Pity. Sally Donovan pitied Sherlock Holmes.

"You said he asphyxiated?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes."

"Was there any sort of rash or hives present on the body?"

"No, I don't think so. If there was, it wasn't noted."

"Did you look at his medical records?"

"Yeah. There was nothing to suggest a cause of sudden asphyxiation like this."

"Interesting." John could tell Sherlock was onto something. He always took on that tone when he had an idea. Not that John had ever doubted he'd still be able to deduce, but he still felt a rush of relief knowing the detective was as keen as ever. "Do we still have access to the flat?"

"The corpse isn't there anymore, Sherlock," Lestrade explained.

"I know that! I'm not an idiot, but I still want to see the flat. There is so much to be learned about our victim by observing his living space."

"Yes, we can still get in the flat."

"Are all of his things still in it?"

"Unless the killer decided to come back and take some more, yes."

"Excellent. Let's go."

Sherlock stood up from the desk and started towards the door. John and Lestrade scrambled after him. Typically, Sherlock adamantly refused to go anywhere in the police car, and this time was no different. He asked Lestrade for the address and promptly hailed a cab; John barely managed to leap in after him before the taxi set off for Rogers' flat.

John wanted to comment on how wonderful it was to be back to their old routine, but Sherlock was clearly not in a mood to talk. He was thinking. John could tell that any attempt at conversation would be scorned and ignored.

When they arrived at the flat, Sherlock sprung from the cab—with noticeably less ease and grace than usual—and left John to pay. Some things never change. John followed him and Lestrade as the DI unlocked the door. They entered the flat, and Sherlock set off for the kitchen like a bloodhound on a scent.

"Oi. If you're that hungry, we could have stopped for something," Lestrade said. "It is still stealing, even if he's dead."

"Shut up," Sherlock remarked, rifling through the cabinets. He opened every single one until he found one filled with food. He sifted through it methodically, searching for something. John wondered if he'd gone crazy. How could there possibly a clue in the man's snack drawer? His eating habits weren't exactly going to tell them how he died, were they?

Despite this, Sherlock continued to go through the cabinets. He glanced at the ingredients on many of the things he pulled out, but John could not discern any sort of pattern to the items he was assessing. Just as Lestrade was about to suggest Sherlock focus his efforts elsewhere, he pulled something out and held it up eagerly.

"Found it!" he exclaimed joyously. "The answer to your murder lies right here!"

"Sherlock, I don't understand," John admitted. "Peanut butter?"

The "Still Sherlock" speech in this chapter is one of my favorite Johnologues. I realized that I wrote a lot of emotional speeches for John, so I decided to give them a clever name. Johnologue fit perfectly :)