Hours later, John returned to the flat with a takeout bag containing a sandwich. John was careful when opening the door. Who knew what kind of fit, discovery, or spasm Sherlock could be having. Silence. The creak of the door was loud in Watson's ear. He stepped into the room to find Sherlock on the couch. He had not moved a muscle in five hours.
"I brought you some supper," John called into the living room from the kitchen. The sandwich was placed in the fridge beside the jar of thumbs. After a couple years, John didn't jump or squirm at the appendages.
"Sherlock?" John called louder. It was no use. He walked into the living room and up to the couch. The light was now draining from the room and John couldn't tell if it was the glare from streetlights that was making his friend so pale, or if the man was that white.
"Yoo! Hoo!" No response. "Sherlock!" Nope. Clap! Nothing.
With a better look, John could tell that Sherlock's chest was slowly rising and falling, but his eyes were open, as if in a trance. Even from an army doctor and best friend's point of view, Sherlock Holmes was a mystery. All he could do was pull the blanket from the top of the couch and drape it over his awake-looking friend.
The next morning, John opened the door using his key and knocked on the doorway. Stepping in, he could see that the blanket had been draped back over the couch, meaning at some point, Sherlock had gotten up and moved.
"Hey!" John called into the silent apartment. "It's me!"
Tea was prepared and John walked over to the fridge to get milk. Laying right where he left it was the sandwich. There was nothing else to eat in the apartment, unless Sherlock helped himself to some thumbs, but they were all there.
Where was he?
John peeked into Sherlock's bedroom, the bathroom, and livingroom. No sign of the detective.
"Not again," though John, as he thought up all the places they'd found Sherlock. Bart's. He'd start his search there, at the hospital.
Stepping out of the cab, scanned the street. Molly may have known where the lost man had ended up.
In the cab, John had called Inspector Greg, Anderson, Mary, and that weird guy, Billy, who seemed to just follow Sherlock around. No one had seen . Usually, when the man worked on a case, you could find him on the couch, in his Mind Palace. Other than there, Sherlock could be anywhere. And in the search for Moriarty, the man would go to Antarctica to assure Jim was really dead.
The elevator to the lab had always been too slow. When the door dinged, John stepped out into Molly's place of work. Scientific equipment John couldn't begin to understand covered all the counterspace.
It was almost 9:00am. Molly was supposed to be there. Just then, John could have sworn he heard a voice. Marching through the glass doors into a conference room, the doctor saw Molly.
"Molly, have you seen-" John was cut short, as he saw the look of disapproval and shock on her face. Moving around a conference table, John could see him now. Leaning up against a wall, Sherlock sat there bouncing a rubber ball against one of the desks.
"There you are!" John exclaimed, then confusion filled his eyes. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock wasn't looking up. He sat there with his eyes fixed on the floor and head tucked low. It was almost as if he was unresponsive and awake...like the night before.
"What's wrong with him?" John asked Molly, hoping she would have some answers.
She just shrugged her shoulders.
"I came in and turned on the lights," she began, "That's when I heard the bouncing."
John knew she was talking about the rubber ball. The man had only seen Sherlock bounce that ball in that manner once...right before the roof. John pushed that memory aside.
Molly continued, "He hasn't said anything. Hasn't looked up once. His eyes are dilated like a mad man's."
Molly was right. With further examination, John could see Sherlock's pupils. He had to try something to help his friend. John snatched the rubber ball from midair, expecting a reaction. Some sign of annoyance in John ruining Sherlock's pattern, but no such luck. Sherlock's hand continued to make the throwing and catching motions without a flaw or interruption.
"Creepy," squeaked Molly. She was right. John's friend had to be in some serious concentration to ignore the lack of rubber ball, Molly's talking, and John's hand waving in front of his face.
"Should we move him?" John asked.
"I don't see why not."
With both Molly and John grabbing an arm, they were able to hoist Sherlock into a chair. Because of the holding back of his bouncing arm, Sherlock seemed to shake out of whatever trance he was in. A chorus of "What happened?" echoed around the lab.
The detective knew that they wouldn't believe him.