I nearly forgot to update! You people, someone needs to remind me. Anyway here you go, Chapter 5.

Sherlock decided to go take a shower. Not because he needed to, but because Mycroft was coming and at least he can delay the 'talk' whatsoever. Also the fact of the silence, that he did not want to address. He can spend days without anyone.

By the time he got out of the shower fully dressed, hair still dripping water, Mycroft was already there, standing, in the middle of the living room, with his black umbrella propped to his side.

"Sherlock," he said, looking up at him.

He only replied with a silent snarl. Mycroft only sighed, as if disappointed.

"So…how is silent life suiting you then?"

Sherlock turned to face the window. He stuck up his middle finger. He heard Mycroft sigh again. How many sighs is Mycroft going to sigh today?

"Sherlock…" he began. He turned to face him. Then he pointed his finger at the door.

"Out," he mouthed.

"But-"

"Get out,"

"Don't you need any help? I know you're struggling to communicate with John and the others. Should I hire someone to be your interpreter? Or a machine to aid you would also be fine…yet the voice will be a bit flat-"

Mycroft was suddenly interrupted by a large crash. He looked down to see that Sherlock had thrown a cup across the room, shattering glass all over the floor.

"I…Sherlock?" Mycroft looked up to see Sherlock's ever so fuming face. He was stunned with Sherlock's anger. He usually doesn't…act like that.

"Sherlock, is something wrong?" He asked, sounding almost innocent to Sherlock's ears.

"Something wrong? Yeah right, something's definitely wrong isn't it?" Sherlock said with a cool smile.

"Sherlock, look, I know you're adjusting to all this but, I can help, okay?"

"No,"

Mycroft sighed for the third time. "For God's sake get a grip of yourself!" He said, voice rising slightly louder than usual. "You can't close yourself off like that forever. Moran and his men are still out there and they would do anything to get ahold of you. You have to-" He was suddenly cut off as Sherlock pushed him straight onto the wall, putting him into an armlock.

"Boys, is everything alright up there?" Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up the stairs.

"Yes, everything's fine!" Mycroft called. He tried getting his arm loose out of Sherlock's grip. "Sherlock," he murmured.

Sherlock loosened his arm a bit so that he can turn his head a few degrees to see Sherlock's mouth.

"I don't need help," Sherlock said, clearly pronouncing every single word silently. He pointed to the door again. "Get. Out."

Mycroft looked dejected but Sherlock didn't care.

"Get. Out." He snarled again. He let go of Mycroft.

Mycroft began to make for the door. His placid hand lingered on the handle for a moment before turning back to Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" he started, "I can help you. I'm not here to harm you okay? Just, if you need any help, text me, I'll always be on my phone if you need me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Why would I ever need your help?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Remember, I can provide a translator for you anytime," he said. And then he turned and left.

—

The next day John still visited. But it was slightly shorter then yesterday's. Only a quick check, seeing if he's doing fine. Sherlock didn't mind. John said Mary's been doing okay. But she's in the hospital right now so visits might be a bit shorter.

"It's okay," he would say. John learned a bit of sign-language over night but it was barely. In the end, he ended up still texting John and hoping that John could read his lips.

Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe he does need a translator, computer or not. He hated the fact of getting help while he was so useless. Lestrade hadn't called him for any case yet. But he checked in on him today. Said he should give a couple of days, fine a way to communicate.

"Anderson learned sign-language when he was in Uni," Lestrade declared after a long period of silence. John had long left to see his wife.

Sherlock scoffed. Anderson? Anybody but Anderson, and why would he even want to help him? He might even be glad that he lost his voice. No more disruptions, no more snide talks.

"I'll give you some time to decide," he said. "you can text, but it's a bit slow. And it's just a suggestion."

Lestrade nodded warmly at him. "Text me when you're ready," he said, turning to leave.

And Sherlock was alone again.

—

It has been four days since Sherlock was let out of the hospital. Four days of utter silence in his flat.

The silence was driving him crazy. No, not crazy. It was just annoying. Plain annoying. He wanted to call Mrs. Hudson but he wasn't sure why. Maybe have someone to talk to? But he couldn't talk. So why disturb her?

In fact, why bother everyone when there's literally nothing to do even with them here? He doesn't need anyone. He's fine alone. He doesn't need help. He doesn't even need a therapist though he knows that John is help seeing one every week.

Then why is he wanting attention?

Maybe it was the silence. He still did experiments. But slowly everyday, he began to realize that he was spending more and more time playing his violin. Lestrade didn't call him to solve crimes. Yet. He said that he needs a bit more time to adjust. Probably a week or two.

And that made Sherlock feel useless. Angry. Frustrated. He couldn't talk, so who needs him to solve crimes? Who needs a mute?

And help from Anderson? When did he needs help like that?

John still checked on him, everyday after work. And he would stay with him for an hour or two, talking to him, making sure he's eating and sleeping properly. But in the end, he always has to leave. Sherlock always reminds him to when it gets past time. His family needs him. Sherlock doesn't. But Sherlock wants him. He doesn't need him but… the silence. Without John.

Mrs. Hudson yesterday to Cardiff. Family reunion she explained to him.

"Please don't run off into some monkey business," she told him while giving him a hug. Sherlock only nodded.

And after Mrs. Hudson left, the entire apartment felt so cold. No more sounds of Mrs. Hudson's humming and singing, dishwashing, cleaning.

All that was left was the silence that replaced it. John still visited. But visits became shorter as days passed when John's baby was born.

That's when he started calling Molly. This was exactly seven days since he was let out of the hospital.

"Sherlock?" She said. "Sherlock, is anything wrong?"

No. -SH

"Um, okay." A little laugh. "Then…why are you calling me? Like, it's fine to call me, you can call me whenever you want but, you know, it's just, I, well, I want to know if you're okay, sorry I'm not making any sense." She stuttered.

Yes, why is he calling her? Perhaps he's bored or perhaps he just needs someone to talk to him.

Bored. -SH

"Um, okay, so…"

Just talk to me. -SH

"Uh, okay, like what?"

Anything, I don't care. Just talk to me. -SH

"Um…okay," she said. "Well, so today I had to do autopsy on another victim that was killed of a type of virus…"

And that's how the nights started. Sherlock would call Molly every night and every night he would just sit there and hear her voice, telling him how her day went, what happened, what did not happen that was expected to happen... Every single day from that on. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe it's just there to fill the silence.

Molly would tell Sherlock about everything that happened to her on that day.

And Sherlock listened.

Hey guys, Izzy here. Is this going to be a slight Sherlolly story? Ideas? It's going to be osm.

Watch Third Star, it's a beautiful movie that BC has done a fantastic job on. MUST WATCH.