Part 2: Captivation
"Holy shit."
John stuttered, stepping into the open flat and gaping at its crystalline windows, "How the hell did you manage this?"
Sherlock glanced at him, unphased. "I don't know. Mycroft I suppose."
"Your brother?" John continued to look the place up and down before staring at Sherlock in awe. "What does your brother do exactly?"
Sherlock actively ignored the question and headed to his bedroom, expecting John to follow him. John rolled his eyes and stayed standing in the entryway. "It's a nice place, but it's disgusting, don't you ever, I don't know, pick up your rubbish?"
Sherlock ignored him yet again and began rummaging through pages and pages of notes. "I swear to god if no one cleans up this place, I will." John grumbled. In the weeks since they had met, John had come to find many a disturbing fact about Sherlock and his somewhat demented lifestyle: gallivanting about London alone, fighting bullies at school, battling what John suspected was anorexia, and for all intents and purposes living in solitude. Regardless, he was infatuated. Who was this character, flug out of space? He was unlike anyone John had ever met, even in his travels, and there was a brilliant light in his eyes when he spoke as if underneath all his arrogance and tattered words there was someone utterly ingenious.
"Sherlock," John started,
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock paused. The room stood so frozen that even the floating dust seemed to cease and the weight of such a simple question made the silence last a long moment. "Fine." Sherlock said, "Shall we head out for tea?"
The following evening Mycroft returned home in a rush, kicking off his shoes and mumbling under his breath before noticing Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room. Her and Sherlock had been playing chess since before lunch and Sherlock was on a six time winning streak. Sherlock didn't even look up from his move as Mycroft lurked over him. "Have we met?" He said, glaring at Mrs. Hudson,
"Heavens, no." She laughed,
"I live downstairs, in 221A?"
"Ah." Grunted Mycroft, "I see."
"You know," she said,
"If you don't want me here perhaps you should pay a bit more attention to your brother. He is your dependent after all, and if I were you I would…"
"Who put you up to this?" Mycroft spat.
"Excuse me?"
"I said who…"
"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted,
"Go back to your whorehouse."
"Don't you dare…"
"Don't you dare!" Sherlock mocked. The two glared with arms crossed before finally turning away,
"Mrs. Hudson, would you like another game?"
"I thought you..."
"Checkmate."
Winter was falling and as the day grew darker and darker, Sherlock spent more time in bed. He wrapped the grey comforters around him so tightly he could barely push out an arm to grab his phone, and for days he would barely move, simply thinking, mumbling, drifting in and out of sleep. It took exactly twenty-eight hours for John to notice. Sherlock didn't bother to answer his phone, knowing if we waited long enough John would just leave a voicemail. His lack of motivation to even move an inch was unparalleled, and he watched the sun rise and fall like an endless dream.
The door creaked open ever slightly as Mycroft stepped in, his gangly figure towering over the double bed. "Sherlock." He said sternly,
"Get up." Sherlock didn't move.
"You can't just lay here for days, do you have any sort of capacity for logic?"
"Give it up, Mycroft."
"Give it up? I don't understand what is wrong with you. How many phone calls do I have to get from your school before you pull yourself together? Who do you think you are? You run around, spending my money, not doing anything at all; if you have such a brilliant brain why don't you put it to use for god's sake?"
"Get to your point."
"My point is, I have a case for you. A case, Sherlock, do you know what that is?"
"I know what a fucking case is."
"Alright, well, get up, because you're coming with me." Reluctantly, Sherlock threw off his blankets and pulled on his coat, following behind Mycroft with his head down. They headed down the frosty street several blocks down to an elaborate store front embellished with gargoyles on the street corner. Once inside, Mycroft headed directly for the back, whispered something to the man behind the counter and opened the door to the stockroom and motioned for Sherlock to follow him.
"A mysterious string of serial arsons have struck London,"
Mycroft began. "Frankly, I don't think it's so unusual at all. But for some reason the police can't seem to figure it out. So please, by God, Sherlock, talk to this man and find out as much as you can about the case."
He whispered, then turned away, exiting the shop and leaving Sherlock in the dark room until someone greeted him,
"Good evening, Mr. Holmes…"
...
Instead of turning towards home, Sherlock turned the other way and hurried past the extra few blocks to John's house. He knocked softly on the door and after a few moments John answered, his eyes lighting up with surprise. "What are you doing here?" He said,
"Why weren't you at school?"
"Can I come in?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah, yeah. My mom is here. For the love of god, please be nice to her." They headed up the steps to the kitchen where a young woman stood with a pink apron, sauteeing something and glancing over her shoulder, "John, dear! Grab me the salt!"
"Um, mom," he said. She paused, turning around to see Sherlock a little and smiling, "This is Sherlock."
"Sherlock!" She held out a hand for him to shake, "Mrs. Watson! But you can call me Margaret." He shook her hand reluctantly. "Is it alright if he spends the night tonight?" John asked. Sherlock glanced at him nervously. Spend the night? "Oh yes, of course! Make yourself at home." She said. John led Sherlock to his room and immediately Sherlock shut the door. "Why did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Ask for me to stay?"
"Um. I don't know, I figured you'd want a night away from your mess of a home. And I thought maybe you'd finally answer some of my questions."
Sherlock slumped into the corner and said nothing. John turned away and began picking the clothes up from his floor. "So now you're just not going to say anything?"
Sherlock sulked. "Sherlock, I'm not going to be your friend if you never talk to me."
"Friend?"
"Yeah, friend. You're my friend, Sherlock."
Sherlock rushed to the bathroom and shut the door. John stood frozen, unsure of what to do. He headed to the door and heard a quiet gasp. He leaned to the door and listened, before he heard Sherlock sniffle. "Sherlock?"
He didn't respond. "Sherlock, did I say something?"
He peeked around the door and found Sherlock huddled in the corner next to the bathtub, sobbing quietly into his scarf. John slouched down next to him. "Please, just talk to me."
Sherlock rose a hand to his mouth and balled himself up further. John held his hand out hesitantly, pushing Sherlock's hair out of his face and lifting his head. Sherlock stared in silence through his tears, his eyes swollen. He looked worn, tired, and downright sick. His hairline was riddled with bruises and his cheekbones, even in his swollen state, his cheekbones jutted out with such sharpness. John simply stared, searching for words. "Are you alright?"
He finally muttered. "No."
Sherlock sobbed, "You know that."
"I know. But I can't help you if…"
"I don't deserve to be your friend, John"
"Stop it. Listen, get up," He took Sherlock's hand and pulled him up from the cold linoleum back into the bedroom and sat him down in the armchair. "John… I..."
"Please listen to me."
Sherlock bit his lip and glanced away. "Sherlock, I'm not stupid. In fact, I know a lot about mental health and I notice more than you think I do. You're depressed, Sherlock. You're depressed and you don't know how to cope and your habits are killing you. How much money do you spend on cocaine? How many hours of sleep do you get every night? Three? Four? When was the last time you ate a full meal, tell me, have you…"
"Stop" He sobbed, "I underestimated you."
Sherlock's lip trembled and he reached out to John's hand, his long fingers pale and cold against the warmth of John's skin. Then finally he collapsed onto his shoulder and held him as tight as possible, sighing as John ran his fingers through his curls and finally mumbled "I'm sorry."
Sherlock woke against the warmth of John's back and pulled himself up, pulling his loose shirt away from his neck. He wiped his eyes and stared down at John below him, his head spinning with regret for the confessions he made the night before. He didn't know what John wanted but for some reason he trusted him. And wrapped in John's warmth he felt more at home than ever before. It all came in a flurry, his inability to understand made everything worse. He never knew what to do.
Mrs. Hudson stopped Mycroft at the door. "Can we please talk?"
She asked. "Come with me."
"What is this about?"
"Sherlock."
Mycroft sat across the table from her in her kitchen next to the window, as the sun shone through the flowered curtains and her plants he tossed his bag on the ground and leaned against the wall. "Mycroft, listen."
"Please, ,"
"No. This is important."
She said sternly. "You need to do something about Sherlock. Do you pay any attention whatsoever to what he's doing?"
"I do, actually."
"Do you, now? Then tell me, have you done anything to help him with his depression? Anything to sober him up?"
"I am fully aware of Sherlock's maladies, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not going to baby him, he's a bloody sociopath and if he doesn't use the huge brain of his to pull himself together, then how can I expect…"
"What harm would it do just to help him?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Hudson, what do you want me to do?"
He sighed, "He has to sort out his own problems. And this new boyfriend of his..."
"Boyfriend?"
"Not yet, I don't think, but yes."
He paused. "I think John is good for him. And I gave him a case. Something to focus on. He's flunking out of school…"
"I'm just saying, Mycroft. Please. He needs you."
"I know."
…
