Sherlock played his violin for hours that day, not seeming to notice he was still in his pajamas and dressing gown.
He was so tired from the disturbances of the night before, and he desperately needed a nap. However, he was determined to stay awake until John returned the voice mail I had left for him. Sherlock craved the sound of his best friend's voice, even if it was only through an overheard cellular conversation.
But John hadn't called back yet, and Sherlock's worry grew with every passing moment, until his mouth was downturned and his fingers trembled against the violin's strings. Although I tried to convince him that John could have been napping or having dinner or visiting with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock insisted something was wrong. When I reminded him that PTSD also brought a heightened level of anxiety arousal, he played his violin louder in an attempt to drown me out.
He stopped short when my cellular finally rang. He froze where he was, still holding his violin in position, careful not to make a sound as I answered the call.
"Hello, this is Dr. Middleton…"
"Dr. Middleton, it's John Watson."
"John, I was hoping to hear from you." And, I silently added, Sherlock was about to jump right out of his skin.
"I appreciate your calling me back. I'm…" I could hear John taking a long, ragged breath. "I'm not doing very well."
"Would you like to make an appointment?" I asked. "I can meet you today even, if you'd like."
There was no answer.
"John?" I asked. "John, are you still there?"
All I could hear were the quiet exhales of someone sobbing so hard they couldn't speak.
By this point, Sherlock had set his violin down and was pacing the floor in front of me.
"John?" I repeated.
Sherlock was growing more agitated by the moment. His entire body was beginning to tremble and his eyes were locked on me.
I feared they would both fall apart completely and I wouldn't know which one to catch first.
Finally, John whispered, "I'm sorry." I heard him take a deep, tremoring breath. "I'm sorry. It's just… it's hard."
"It's going to be all right," I told John, but my eyes were on Sherlock, trying to reassure them both.
I made arrangements to meet John at my office in an hour's time, and as soon as I hung up the phone, Sherlock exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath for a long time. Knowing Sherlock, he'd probably been doing exactly that.
"Sit down," I urged. "Try to rest, all right? I'll go to him now."
He nodded, suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline drained away. He sank down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling.
Once he relaxed, I was confident he'd take a nap while I was gone. I gathered my purse and coat and as I was leaving the flat, I reached to arm the security alarm.
"Don't bother," Sherlock yawned. "I could disarm it in my sleep."
I thought of asking why he'd forgotten to disarm it the day before when he had set off every alarm in St. Bart's, but decided to let it slide. I had no doubt that with his brilliant mind, he could disarm the most complicated lock with ease. What he did when he panicked, however, was what worried me.
For my own well-being, I armed the door behind me anyway.
"Sometimes I forget to breathe," John said.
We had been sitting in my office for a half hour, but so far all I'd been able to offer is tissues and a gentle touch to his hand.
He was vacillating between sorrow and anger. As he ran out of tears, the anger surfaced. "I just want to know why," John said. "You know? I would like to just drag that man out of the bloody grave and restart his heart and ask him why. Why would he do this? How could he do this to his family, to his friends… to me…" The anger gave way to sorrow; John's face seemed to crumble and the tears began again.
"Maybe he just couldn't tell you," I suggested. "Maybe he didn't have the words."
"That doesn't answer my questions," John said. "It was all fine until just a few weeks ago. How could it go downhill so fast? Suicide, isn't that something people contemplate for a long time before they just do it?"
"Let's talk about your breathing," I said. "Tell me what it's like when you forget to breathe."
He nodded, dropping his gaze as if ashamed. "I think it crushes me, the idea of doing this every day. I think that's when I stop."
"'It?'"
"The… grief. It's too much sometimes. It's like the pain is so heavy I can't breathe under it.I don't even notice until I start gasping."
"What do you do when that happens?"
John shook his head. "I try to distract myself. I try to look at patient charts or do research. Anything to distract myself. But my mind starts drifting and then the cycle starts over."
We talked about breathing exercises and other distraction techniques to use when the pain became unbearable. I offered to prescribe a medication to take the edge off, but he refused.
The appointment went longer than our normal sessions but neither of us cared. Before we parted we talked about Sherlock's headstone. It was to be placed in the ground the following morning. John said Mycroft must have pulled some strings to have it finished so quickly. Outwardly I agreed, but wondered exactly when the headstone had been ordered. Most likely it had been weeks earlier.
John said he and Mrs. Hudson were going to visit Sherlock's grave the next day. "We're going after lunch," he said. "She thought it would be easier if we saw it for the first time with full stomachs." He chuckled, but the sound was mournful.
"Please call me tomorrow, then," I said. "And let me know how it went."
It hadn't been an easy appointment for John, but I was glad he was reaching out for help. Still, it was exhausting caring for John and Sherlock on such intense levels, and I was grateful when the cab I'd hired pulled up in front of St. Bartholemew's.
I thanked the cabbie and tipped him well, and as the car pulled away I tilted my face to the sun overhead. We didn't get much sun in London, but being underground for the better part of the last week had made me crave what little we did receive.
I opened my eyes, gazing at the beautiful architecture of the building before me and admiring the hand-tooled marble, the lettering carved so many centuries ago.
But then my blood ran like ice in my veins.
A lone figure stood on the roof, balancing precariously on the scalloped ledge.