Anxiety

Irritability

Depression and mood swings

Light-headedness

Dizziness and balance problems

Fatigue

Flu-like symptoms

Headache

Loss of coordination

Nausea

Nightmares

Tremors

Trouble sleeping

As John looked over the list of possible withdrawal symptoms from the medication he'd had Sherlock taking, none of them looked particularly pleasant or appealing. But even if they did occur, the psychologist at the hospital had assured him that they would pass in about a week. And that was a hell of a lot better than just letting him live like he was now.

That wasn't living.

About four days after they had begun reducing the doses, John was almost glad to receive a call from Lestrade about a possible third victim in the string of not-suicides. He could only hope that the prospect of casework would incite some sort of reaction from the detective—anything.

Anything would be better than the doleful, unresponsive silences and the long hours he spent motionless in the living room.

Even anger would have been easier to contend with.

John had no idea what do for him when he was in this sort of blue funk.

But then, that wasn't all it was.

It wasn't like the usual sulk.

It wasn't just boredom.

Just how many of the withdrawal effects, if any, he was experiencing, John couldn't tell. Sherlock wasn't exactly in a talking mood, and hadn't really been for the last week. Not that he would have told anyone if he was feeling like shit anyway.

That just wasn't how he operated.

When at first he'd mentioned the case to him Sherlock had turned his head to look at him, finally breaking his gaze away from the window, but otherwise hadn't responded much. It had taken a bit of encouragement and goading from John to at last convince him to go, but he eventually obliged.

None too soon, either.

This would at least be an excuse to make sure he showered and changed his clothes.

Once he made sure Sherlock cleaned up a bit, he tried to get him to eat something before they went, but the detective simply wasn't interested. With a muttered promise to try again later, or so help him god, John gave up and followed him out to the street, where they hailed a cab.

The drive to the victim's flat was a silent one, broken occasionally by John trying vainly to get Sherlock talking about the case, but in the end he was content to just look out the window, sometimes mumbling an offhanded "hmm" in response to John's words.

When they arrived Lestrade was waiting for them. He led them upstairs to the scene, which turned out to be a modestly furnished flat, and the victim a young woman who had apparently died of blood loss from lacerations on her arms.

Anderson was working on the forensics team, and he scowled at them as they entered the room, no doubt still harbouring a grudge against John for punching Donovan.

Sherlock took no notice of him.

"Okay, so, same as before?" John watched as Sherlock took stock of the flat, his eyes scanning over everything carefully.

The detective walked off into the other rooms, and John would have followed him if Anderson hadn't volunteered an answer to his question, still scowling sourly.

"Yeah. It looks like the same sort of thing we saw before. We're only here because we're on the lookout for this sort of situation, and this one seemed suspicious because we don't have a motive for the victim to off herself."

"A motive? Isn't that kind of…"

Anderson rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"No. Not really. I think you mean a reason, not a motive. She wasn't a murderer."

"Well, somebody was! She's dead alright, and it looks like she did it, but since it's suspicious we're going to have to hold out on deciding that." His lip curled derisively. "Dear Sherlock still insisting it was Moriarty?"

John was about to open his mouth to answer when Sherlock came back from his venture around the flat, walking right up to him and looking at him pointedly. "No."

"Sorry, no what?" John looked up at him and frowned in confusion.

"This wasn't Moriarty. Not this time. This was just a suicide."

"What do you mean? It fits the pattern for the rest—"

"No, it doesn't." Sherlock's voice came across a little more forceful than he'd meant it to. "Look at it. She was depressed. It's obvious."

Anderson cocked his head sceptically. "You can't tell that just by looking at her flat."

"Yes, I can! Look. There's a bottle of medical grade hydrogen peroxide by the sink—It dissolves blood, and disinfects. Cleaning agent. It's sitting out because it was useful. In the kitchen, it isn't tidy, things are lying about everywhere—but every single one of the knives is put away in a closed drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, not really, but I digress. Why would she do that? Because she didn't like being tempted while she made her tea in the afternoons. The medicine cabinet is bare of all but the essentials, except for bandages and antiseptic. None of her pencil sharpeners have blades. The bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen floors have been scrubbed well—bloodstains. She's got very new towels, but nothing else has been recently replaced, so she obviously wasn't remodelling—more bloodstains. If her arms were in better shape you'd be able to see countless scars on them. So you see, if you would just look for more than two seconds and pay some damn attention, you'd know!"

Anderson just stared at him, and John bit his lip.

Sherlock could see because he knew exactly what he was looking for.

Exactly.

"Well…" Anderson was clearly gearing up to try to offer some 'brilliant' ideas of his own. "You're saying she was trying to kill herself for a while now? Like, practicing?"

"NO!" Sherlock looked positively taken aback, and John began to wonder if they might end up with two bodies on the floor if Anderson didn't wise up soon. "DON'T BE AN IDIOT! I know that's a pretty tall order for you, but at least try!"

Fearing the worst, John made the decision to try and redirect the conversation, and took a step between them. "Okay. So it was a suicide. Sherlock, they think it's suspicious because they don't know why she would have. I suppose they asked some of her friends already. Any ideas?"

Sherlock paused as his focus on Anderson was momentarily broken, and he seemed to be thinking fast.

"I… She was an introvert."

"How can you tell? And that's not really a reason for this."

"Look at her flat! She spent a lot of time in here, by herself. And no, it's not, but she recently graduated from university, great student but probably not especially popular, judging from the state of her clothes. Not a judgement on her, exactly, just that she didn't have anyone to show off for. She was clever… but not good with people. She… probably had fairly low self-esteem, so to compensate for that she acted haughty and even conceited. Perhaps she felt like she was the worst, so she acted like she was the best."

"Now hold on!" Anderson broke in loudly. "You can't tell me you figured that out from something in here! You're bluffing!"

"No. I'm just making an educated guess." With a cold look, Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked out of the flat, leaving John blinking in his wake.

It took a few seconds for John to gather his wits about him again, but when he did he hurried after Sherlock without another word to Anderson. He caught up with him in the downstairs foyer, where the detective had paused by the door, leaning a hand against the wall for support.

"Sherlock?" He didn't answer, and John took a step closer, trying to get a look at his face. "Dizzy?"

"Mm…"

"Come on. Deep breath." He offered him an arm. "Let's get you home, and you can lie down if you need to. I'll even make you tea."