"What's wrong with me?" Sherlock asked wearily.
We were sitting across from each other the next morning, the breakfast tray sitting untouched between us. Neither of us had slept the night before. Sherlock had been inundated with nightmares and bouts of sleepwalking, and every time I'd soothed him back to sleep, it would take me another hour to drift off. It seemed the moment I'd close my eyes, Sherlock's eyes would fly open.
By morning we were exhausted and numb, and neither of us was in the mood for cognitive therapy. However, neither of us could handle another night like the one before. It was best to start "talking it out" immediately.
"You have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," I said. When Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, I held up my hand to stop him. "No, you're not a sociopath. You feel things deeply. You might even feel them more deeply than others do. You just choose to force those feelings deeply inside yourself. It's how you cope with life.
"Unfortunately, when you try to force down too much, you can't do it. Your emotions will start bubbling to the surface whether you want them to or not. And because you've been fighting all these symptoms- the loss, the depression, the fear- throughout the day, those feelings are coming out at night when your defenses are down."
From across the room, my phone began to buzz, vibrating against the surface of my desk. I tried to ignore it, but Sherlock stared at it as it skittered across the smooth surface. "Aren't you going to answer that?" he asked.
"We're in the middle of a session," I said. "It will go to voice mail." When the buzzing had ceased, I asked him, "What do you remember from last night?"
"Nothing." Even if he hadn't been swallowing hard and avoiding my gaze, I would have known he was lying. I felt a pang of frustration. "Suit yourself," I said. "But if you keep all those memories bottled up inside you, eventually they're going to come out again. And then when they come out, they'll be more violent and frightening than they would be if you chose to-"
The phone buzzed again; this time, Sherlock insisted I answer it.
"It's John!" he said urgently. "It's John! Help him!"
"Sherlock, it could be anyone," I reasoned. "We're in the middle of something-"
Sherlock leaped to his feet and stalked toward my desk. He stopped only when I raised my voice. "Sherlock, do NOT pick up that phone!"
The phone fell silent. Sherlock turned to me, his eyes glinting with emotion. "It's John," he hissed. "A typical voicemail is one minute in length. After that time, the mailbox terminates the message regardless of whether or not the caller is still speaking at the time, therefore the caller has to redial the number and resume his message on a second recording. After a minute, the same thing will happen, which may necessitate the need for a third phone call.
"John is extremely long-winded while leaving voice mails," Sherlock said. "It usually takes three calls for him to say everything he intends to say. If that phone rings a third time-"
The phone rang a third time.
I knew I wouldn't be able to keep Sherlock away, so I motioned for him to wait and walked across the room. As I was reaching for the phone, the vibration caused the little cellular to skid off the edge of my desk. I grabbed for it, but it still fell to the floor.
The buzzing stopped as I snagged it with my fingertips. Sherlock was nearly in tears, running his fingers through his hair with great distress by the time I'd retrieved it.
"It's okay, dear, I've got it." I walked to his side, just long enough to pat his shoulder. He gulped, nodding his understanding.
I stepped away, dialed into my voice mail and heard the polite, automated voice tell me I had three new messages.
As Sherlock had predicted, the first one was from John.
"Dr. Middleton, it's John Watson. I wanted to, ah… apologize for my behavior after Sherlock's… after the church service. My behavior was inexcusable. I don't know what came over me.
"I mean, I do, of course, but…"
John's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat noisily.
The voicemail system, sensing the absence of speech, cut him off.
The second voicemail message was also from John.
"Hi, Dr. Middleton. John Watson again. Sorry about that. Anyway, I just was wondering if we could talk soon. I thought, maybe when the…" He paused, and I could hear him suck in a deep breath. "When the funeral was over I thought I could start putting the pieces together, but… now… Now, it's just worse and I… I just don't know what to do, a-and…"
The voicemail cut him off again.
The third message was the shortest, and most heartbreaking of them all.
"Dr. Middleton… could you just… call me, please?"
I heard a quiet sob just before the phone line went dead.
I quietly locked my phone and turned to Sherlock; I had stepped away from him in the hopes he wouldn't heard the voicemails but obviously he had heard every word; he was sitting in the chair, thumbing tears away from his eyes.
"All right," I said quietly. "I'm just going to step into my bedroom and talk to John. I'll be back in a minute."
I turned away, intending to slip out of the room and give him a moment of privacy, but my foot caught on a blunt object and I stumbled, muttering as pain shot through my toe. I glanced down to see what I had struck and discovered a small, brown suitcase tucked under the sofa.
I remembered the suitcase appearing after Mycroft's first visit, and at some point during the week I had tucked it out of the way and had promptly forgotten about it until my big toe had reminded me of its presence. Now I pulled it out and set it on the table.
Despite his tears, Sherlock's attention was drawn to the case. "That's mine," he said. "Where did you get it?"
"Your brother dropped it off, I think," I said. "The first night after you… well." I cleared my throat. "After."
He reached for the case, turning it toward himself and unzipping it. He lifted the lid with trepidation, and when his face crumbled I stepped closer, intending to pull the case out of his sight if it caused him any more pain.
But it didn't. Inside the case was a collection of neatly folded clean socks and underwear, but they were serving more as a disguise than a necessity. Nestled in the middle of the clothing was a violin case.
With the utmost of reverence, Sherlock opened the case and took the beautiful instrument in his hands. It was maple in color, intricately carved. Lying it on his knees, he picked up the bow, rosining it from an amber-colored cake. When that was done, he toyed with the tuning pegs a bit, and then, satisfied, settled the violin against his shoulder and chin.
The man and the instrument seemed to flow together as the pure, sorrowful notes began to flow. I listened, mesmerized for long moments, as the pain seemed to lift from his body. The tears dried on his cheeks, his eyes slipped closed and a half-smile came to his lips.
He had missed his music.