BBC Sherlock: Almost Christmas
Chapter 3
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19 December 2021
They continued their brisk walk down Baker Street as Sherlock provided a spirited, uninterruptable summary of other investigations John had missed in the past year. The speed at which he spoke matched his swift strides, nor had the alacrity of his pace winded him."…and of course, while you were off, dispensing arm-jabs, there was the recovery of more than £550,000 worth of stolen jewelry, watches and handbags from burglars targeting the unoccupied homes of the wealthy who chose to lockdown in other more posh locales."
"Hmmm…" John answered in a faraway voice.
Sherlock darted an inquisitive look at his companion. Where is John's focus? He's but half-listening. My provocative 'arm-jab' remark has failed to spark a reaction.
"Perhaps you'd be cheered to know," Sherlock switched to something sure to regain John's interest, "that I uncovered the schemers who installed more than 180 steel monoliths across the globe…."
No reply.
Talkng about investigations usually engaged John's curiosity, but nothing he had shared in the past ten minutes had solicited more than monosyllabic responses nor smoothed the pronounced worry lines creasing John's forehead. "Still, I feel my contributions that assisted the Met in apprehending the culprits of vaccination counterfeit schemes were by far my greatest achievement this year."
"No doubt. Good that."
Another automatic reply. Sherlock gripped John's forearm, forced him to stop, and faced him.
"Huh?" John arched his brows sheepishly and met his friend's gaze. His thoughts had been preoccupied by the recent "tidal wave" of Omicron patients at the surgery and his attention had been drifting in and out; Sherlock had noticed, of course.
"Whilst these are cases, John, that you might consider blog-worthy at a later date, now I'd prefer to redirect the focus away from my adventures to something more pressing."
"More pressing?" John cleared his throat and returned his full concentration to present company.
"Elaborate on what you meant earlier…" Sherlock proposed, "… about these mental-health and emotional-resilience issues in the wake of the pandemic'..."
John's eyes widened at the uncommon look on Sherlock's face—he appeared concerned.
"You say people feel off, moody, lethargic …" Sherlock ignored the surprise in John's eyes "… 'Their memories, their overall functioning have been impacted...'" His glance intensified as he looked directly at John, "… is this happening to…you?"
John found himself dead center of Sherlock's scrutiny. "Me? No… no… I'm fine…" He looked past his friend at their reflection in the storefront glass, before diverting the topic from a subject he had been avoiding with himself since the height of the pandemic. "Nevermind me. Might this depression tie in with Fairdale Hobbs' abduction case, then?"
"It may not be a factor to explain his delusion." Sherlock released John's arm so they could resumed walking. "Still… context is what I need to better understand what is causing the behaviors I have seen."
"You're referring to Pandemic Fatigue."
"An accurate assessment," Sherlock agreed.
"No. That's what it's actually being called, Sherlock. Pandemic Fatigue. The evidence is in the numbers of people suffering from inexplicable fatigue, derived from feeling isolated, hopeless, ineffective…."
"Continue." Sherlock bowed his head to listen.
"Context? Where do I begin?" John scratched his forehead to gather both his thoughts and those collective opinions of his colleagues, including psychiatrists and psychologists. He looked away and sighed in frustration. It was difficult to explain. The pandemic had had an enormous impact on mental health, no question. Studies revealed that quarantine worries have contributed to stress and adjustment disorders, even symptoms of grief, and PTSS in children. Among adolescents, anxiety, depression, substance abuse, eating disorders, and sleeping disorders had increased. Individuals with underlying medical conditions—vaccinated or not—showed a lost of trust in the efficacy of the vaccines against mutations. "Well," John simply stated, "it's affecting the reward-seeking behavior of people."
"I am familiar with this psychological reference." Sherlock nodded.
"Of course you'd know. It's how you feel when you have a challenging case. You're excited, exhilarated, motivated, driven…and you are rewarded by the intense thrill of the investigation. But when you don't have cases, you become despondent, you mope, wallowing in melancholy for days on end…needing to fix it… or tempted for a fix… to bring your mood back up."
"Not the danger it once was," Sherlock assured John. "There are natural methods available of which you would approve..."
John threw his friend a hopeful look. "Good. You know, then, what I am on about. You also know, then, that exercise, sleep, meditation, the power of positive thinking—to name a few—are usually helpful in stimulating the right kind of brain chemistry."
"These conclusions are drawn from data and supported by evidence from facts," Sherlock agreed.
"Quite. Soooo," John continued with a sad shake of his head, "what I'm seeing now, more than a year after the first waves, is a low mental state. And this is not just in my long-COVID-19 patients. Conspiracies that say the pandemic is a fraud and that COVID-19 vaccinations are killing people undermine the truth and perpetuate confusion. As the virulent variants mutate—Omicron is just the latest—and cause breakthrough cases, people are afraid. You can't blame them. Many have lost loved ones or their livelihoods to this pandemic. They feel grief stricken and are no longer actively seeking social opportunities... When pubs, shops, the workplace had opened up again, a number didn't return. And the lastest variant wave is no help. It's as if their brains have been chemically altered and their pleasure centers suppressed. Those I've questioned tell me they've lost the incentives to seek out activities they used to enjoy. It all seems empty …unrewarding …monotonous."
"Curious," Sherlock murmured. "To lose hope in scientific truths… "
"That's the problem. Lack of confidence in the science, along with how the authorities had handled the initial outbreak on a global scale, and then, later the vaccine rollout issues, well… all this is adding up. We're deep in the second year of a pandemic that doesn't appear to be going away—ever. So much for restoring joy in the disheartened…" As he spoke John's visual memory recalled sad face after sad face among his patients; he was powerless to dispense prescriptions for hope.
"And now?" Sherlock prodded when John's long silence had become wearing.
"Ah, yes." John shrugged. "Another summer's over and still we are facing a winter with uncertainty. The return of inclement weather brings depression, despondency, lethargy. This past week alone, the reported number of new daily COVID-19 cases has been alarming. I wager that the same mental malaise we saw last year will be back, like winter doldrums on steroids."
"I see…S.A.D., Sherlock mulled. "Seasonal Affective Disorder and fear of evolving mutant strains with higher levels of transmissibility are external factors that are causing depression. Coupled with internal ones in which reward seems more elusive than ever, there is your mental health crisis."
"Exactly, Sherlock. It's hard when everyone feels they can't mingle. We're social creatures. We need to get out, do things that improve our mental health, too. Rigorous exercise gets our blood flowing…but that's hardly feasible in near-freezing weather, unless one is truly motivated... and motivation is what's lacking. A vicious cycle."
Although they had been walking at a good clip, Sherlock suddenly quickened his pace.
Wondering what spurred Sherlock's acceleration, John lengthened his stride and increased his tempo, swinging his arms to keep up. "And it's NOT only patients, Sherlock. The toll on frontline healthcare workers has been staggering—especially nurses—but not just them. Hospital staff morale's been and continues to be a profound concern. Some are showing signs of PTSS."
As they sped up, John was thankful his cardio workouts on the treadmill, though monotonous, had kept him in shape. After a deep breath, he continued, "Too often, we worked multiple shifts where risk of exposure was high. We were overwhelmed by staff shortages from illness, equipment shortages, not just PPEs, but ventilators. And if we made one mistake in our precautions, we risked getting it, or worse, spreading it—"
John's account had shifted from third person to first person plural. This affirmed what Sherlock long suspected, although they had never discussed it. During the pandemic's escalation and its numerous lockdowns that followed, Dr. John Watson had ministered to the afflicted in ICUs. Along with thousands of heroic healthcare providers fighting to contain the virus, he had done so despite the ever-present threat of contracting the virus himself. This took courage of the highest order, especially as he was the sole surviving parent of a young child.
"For the longest time…" the pace Sherlock now set made John's voice breathy. "…it felt like we were failing to provide adequate end-of-life support to patients. Families couldn't visit and patients were dying without their loved ones sharing their last moments ….utterly heart wrenching… Sometimes, all we could do was hold their hands until …until...they passed. Yeah, we just couldn't let them die alone. We did our best, though…hmmmm." He cleared his throat.
"Of that, I'm certain, John."
Sherlock's tone prompted John to glance at his friend, except Sherlock was not looking at him.
With back straight, chin up, Sherlock peered ahead, ensuring there were no oncoming pedestrians as they rounded the corner into Oxford Street—like a pair of racing walkers in competition.
"Sorry. Hadn't meant to go there…" John huffed before inhaling deeply.
Sherlock nodded an acknowledgement and increased his pace incrementally.
Surprised, John hesitated fractionally but charged forward to catch him up. It was strange to be walking so fast. Stranger still was their unhampered, high-energy jaunt through the city which would have been impossible if the pre-pandemic Sunday-morning London crowd had been present.
Whilst John's legs propelled him forward, his thoughts carried him back. He had not had much opportunity nor inclination to revisit his ICU experiences, much less bare them to anyone. Even though the pandemic survival rates were much better and he had ceased his ICU service, he could not forget those months and his sense of helplessness. In consequence, it had always felt wrong to whinge about his troubles; he had been far more fortunate in enduring the pandemic than so many others. At the end of every day, no matter how terrible, he had shed his sorrow at the threshold of his home and let go the losses that threatened to linger in his mind and heart. He owed his daughter that much.
Like many of his colleagues, John Watson had buried those haunting memories in his subconscious. Not unlike his own bouts with PTSS, he recognized the disturbing dreams that startled him from sleep were his reactions, climbing back out of their too-shallow graves. That he was not alone in this melancholy became John's raison d'etre for not burdening others with his weakness. His failure. He was—had been—a soldier, and he would continue to serve his country as he had been trained to do, without complaint.
For more than a year, John's hectic diary had precluded ringing or texting Sherlock to inquire about cases. Neither would he ring up Sherlock to share his minor and private tribulations. It wasn't their thing. It never had been. Nor had the detective pressed him for details or his companionship, until this morning.
Here they were, on this pell-mell rush through London and John was opening up, talking about those things he had repressed. It surprised him that Sherlock's scant prompting had unlocked his Pandora's Box of concerns. And now, keeping pace with his friend, his heart thudded in his chest, his lungs pumped efficiently, and the emotional tension that had weighed on him for months had gone. He felt… he felt… exhilarated… He hadn't felt this good in a long time.
"Aha! We're done!" Sherlock announced with delight, stopping in mid stride to check his watch. "We've made good time, too, John."
"Huh?" John had overshot Sherlock by a few paces and spun about to face his elated friend. "Done? Done what?" he gulped.
Sherlock grinned at his friend. "You should be feeling it now! The chemical release of endorphins, John. A sure remedy for melancholy, they say. Or would you have preferred a vigorous swim in icy waters? That, too—vagus nerve stimulation for better mental health—has worked for me many times..."
"Hold on!" John leant forward, braced his hands on his knees and inhaled deeply. After, he began chuckling. "Where did you…learn about the vagus nerve? Is that…" He heaved several more breaths…"why you….had us ….racing like... You planned this?
"I need my partner in optimum mental shape when we embark on a case," Sherlock explained, satisfied by the change in his friend, especially the laugh lines edging John's eyes.
"So…where are we now?" John puffed, bewildered. His eyes darted from Sherlock to the unmistakable Tudor-revival façade of a well-known establishment in Great Marlborough Street. "What the bloody hell, Sherlock? Liberty London Department store?"
"Filled with high-end fashion and luxury homewares, with its own fabric line…" Sherlock smirked, quoting the store's website with a graceful sweep of an outstretched arm towards the rather over-wrought front entrance, "...since 1875."
"Seriously? You're taking me to shop for Christmas?" John's eyes lost their haunted look of moments before at the absurdity. He hooted in laughter. "What, you can't deduce appropriate gifts for Mrs. Hudson…? Don't tell me you're exchanging gifts with Mycroft! Can't imagine you've gone this soft?"
"Of course not!" Sherlock's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Besides, it's not yet open. Noon for Sunday, although the doors actually open at 11:30."
"Half nine." John checked his watch. "So why are we here? How does this have anything to do with Fairdale Hobbs and his alien abduction claims?"
"Come. They're expecting us round the corner—Kingly Street."
"Who's expecting us?" John left off examining the extraordinary architecture of the emporium. When he received no answer, he wasn't actually surprised to see Sherlock striding away.
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