Sherlock Holmes was not a sociopath.
Of course, I already knew that, but this moment would have destroyed any lingering doubts.
This man heard his best friend call him a liar, a fraud and a coward. And this man, the supposedly cold-hearted sociopath, shattered.
He was pressing his forehead into his drawn-up knees, his entire back bowed against the emotional pain radiating from him. His weeping, silent at first, flared into sobs, which flared into open-mouthed wails as he choked, "No… no…" over and over.
I sat down beside him, rubbing his shoulders as he heaved with his weeping. I wanted to hold him close, to rock him in my arms as if he was a child, to let that torrent of tears dry against my shoulder, but I'd already broken enough rules that day and didn't think I should push the boundaries of professionalism any further than they'd already been pushed. I settled for patting his back and talking to him in a firm voice. "Sherlock, you're not a coward," I said. "You know that. You're very, very brave. You know that and so does John."
He didn't seem to hear me over the hysterical sounds bubbling from his throat. "I have to tell him the truth," he choked. "He has to know."
He pulled away from me, and then I could see his face: eyes wild, the bandage on his broken nose soggy and peeling, cheeks flushed bright, mouth downturned. The sight of him momentarily paralyzed me.
In an instant he was on his feet, stumbling toward the door, intending to dash outside and escape without benefit of shoes or a coat.
I caught up with him as he was struggling to unlock the door to our flat. "Sherlock, no," I said. "You have to think about why you're doing all this."
He groaned and pushed me aside. "I don't care."
"Sherlock! Think of Greg Lestrade! Think of Mrs. Hudson! And most of all, focus on JOHN!" I forced my body between his and the door and grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Focus, Sherlock!" I nearly shouted the words, but it got his attention. He stopped struggling, his arms falling limply to his sides. His chest heaved with exertion as his eyes locked with mine. Gently, I took his face in my hands, stroking his cheeks soothingly with my thumbs. Sherlock's tears ran hot and wet across my knuckles.
"You can't do this," I said quietly. I hated being the voice of reason, especially when my entire being wanted to let him do exactly that: to tell John, to bring an end to all this suffering.
"Are you listening to me, Sherlock?"
He nodded shakily.
Sympathy welled inside me, making my heart ache for this man. It didn't seem fair. This elaborate scheme, and the consequences of it, were monumental. He had done this for his friends. He had done this for John. And he'd broken both of their hearts in the process.
"Let's go back in your room, all right?" I suggested. "We need to change the bandage on your nose."
He followed me wordlessly into his bedroom, and after I'd mopped away his tears, rebandaged his nose and made him drink a glass of water, I tried to talk him down from his figurative ledge.
"I want to watch this footage again," I said. "And I want you to look and listen.
"There are things people do when they are lying, Sherlock. They give themselves away with what they say and do. Let's look for those signs. All right?"
I picked up the remote control and pressed the "play" button, and John flitted across the screen, repeating the hateful words that had broken Sherlock Holmes. I paused the video.
"His voice is monotone," Sherlock said. "And cold."
"That's right," I encouraged. I hit the "play" button and we listened to John's words again. Sherlock's eyes brimmed with fresh tears as John spoke, and I pressed the "pause" button quickly
"See that long pause? That's where he's picking his words," I said. "He's making this up. The signs of a liar are there, Sherlock. He's lying."
"That's impossible," he said thickly.
"'When you have eliminated the impossible,'" I quoted. "'Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
A corner of his mouth quirked. The quote was his, given to a magazine reporter a few months earlier.
We were interrupted by the knock at the door, signaling our dinner had arrived. I retrieved the tray and brought it to him.
"Hungry?" I set the tray down and whisked away the cover, revealing cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Sherlock's stomach growled loudly in response.
"I know you didn't eat lunch today," I said. "And it didn't look as if you'd touched the breakfast tray while I was away."
I thought about the day before. "Sherlock, did you eat yesterday?"
He just shrugged.
"You're absolutely eating right now." I picked up half of a sandwich for myself and handed him a spoon. "Get started."
He sipped at the soup, making a face. "It tastes like plastic."
"That's the spoon," I said. "Just eat."
He peered closely at the spoon, making a face of distaste.
"Eat that, and I'll go out for pizza tomorrow," I said.
His mouth quirked slightly at my promise, and he took another spoonful of soup into his mouth. I knew he was forcing the food for my behalf, but I was all right with that.
When the bowl was half-empty, he grimaced, laying his palm against his stomach.
I was instantly on alert. "Is it making you ill?"
"A little," he admitted.
I took his bowl away and set it in the office so it wouldn't make his stomach turn.
"You did well," I said over my shoulder. "Tomorrow we'll eat pizza."