A/N: Thanks to all of you who have read up to this point. It'll probably be a few more chapters more before I finish.

This particular chapter insisted on being written RIGHT NOW! So here it is...

This turned into a much longer project than I had originally anticipated! Anyway, from this point on the plot is my invention. The characters don't belong to me, though. This was done for love, not money.

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 7

"Sherlock - "

"Leave me alone, John."

"But Sherlock - "

"Please."

I sighed and got up to make tea. After it was made I offered him a mug. He did not respond. In fact, he refused to speak the rest of the evening. I finally gave up and went to bed.

I vowed to try again in the morning.

I came downstairs the next morning to find that Sherlock had retired to his bedroom. Rather than knock him up, if he was sleeping, I decided trying to talk to him could wait until I got back home in the evening.

All day long at the surgery I kept trying to figure out what about this case could have affected him so deeply. I also kept trying to plan how I was going to approach him. I have to admit that I didn't come up with any good ideas on either issue.

When I got home Sherlock was on the couch again, still in his dressing gown over the t-shirt and pajama pants he had worn the previous evening. I wondered if he had even dressed at all.

"Hi Sherlock."

No response.

"Would you like tea? I'm going to make a pot."

Silence.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Are you angry at me for some reason?"

Zilch.

I sighed and made the pot of tea. I placed a mug on the coffee table next to Sherlock. He didn't move or acknowledge my presence in any way. I started to get mad. What had I done to deserve this treatment?

"I'm going out, I'll see you in the morning."

I got my coat and hat and left, texting Sarah as I walked out. I spent the night at her place.

In the morning I sent Sherlock a text: Going to work - will see you this evening. JW

I didn't get a response all day.

I came home after work to find Sherlock still on the couch, still in his dressing gown and pajamas. As near as I could tell, it looked like he hadn't moved for the last twenty-four hours. Had he had anything to eat or drink? I had no idea. The mug of tea I had made the night before was still sitting there, untouched. I didn't say anything and he didn't acknowledge my arrival. I made another pot of tea and set another mug beside him.

I sat down in my chair and asked, "Dinner?"

No response.

I sighed. "Sherlock, are you ever going to speak to me again?"

That got a response. He looked at me, then reached for the new mug of tea. He took a sip, sighed and said, "I told you when me met, sometimes I don't speak for days. You seemed ok with it then."

I said, "Yes, when you were going to be my flatmate. I had no problem with that. But you're not just my flatmate anymore, haven't been for a long time. So, yes, it does bother me when a friend won't speak to me for days."

He shrugged. "This has nothing to do with you."

"How am I to know that if you won't talk to me?"

"I'm sorry John. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll be alright, I just need a few days to myself."

"A few days without eating, drinking or bathing?"

His eyes flashed. "If that's the way I want it, yes. It's no concern of yours."

I got up from the chair. "Fine, put yourself in the hospital if that's the way you want it. I won't interfere." I went into the kitchen and called back, "I'm going to have dinner, you are welcome to join me if you change your mind."

It didn't work. After I ate some leftover curry I gave up and went to my room. I paced up and down for awhile, until I realized he could probably hear me. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was upset, so I went to bed and quietly fumed there. I was concerned and angry. Concerned for my friend, and also angry that he was shutting me out of whatever it was that was bothering him. I was also frustrated with myself for not being able to figure out a way to get to him. Eventually I fell asleep, still without any ideas on how to help.

Sometime during the night I woke up. I had the idea that some sort of noise had awakened me, but I didn't know what. I opened the door and I heard what sounded like Sherlock muttering in the sitting room. I could see that the lights were still on. I wondered if he was on the phone or something. I started down the stairs, because if he was speaking with someone, I wanted to know who it was. As I got closer, it became clear to me that what I was hearing was not speech, but a series of what sounded like choking sounds. Was he having a seizure from dehydration? I hurried into the sitting room to check on him.

He was laying on the couch, just as I had left him, but his eyes were closed. I could see his eyeballs rolling around in REM sleep. He was clearly having a nightmare, because his body shuddered with powerful sobs. No tears were coming from his eyes, but his whole body shook with grief, in odd jerking motions caused by sleep paralysis.

My first impulse was to rush to him, wake him up and comfort him. My heart clenched in my chest just to look at him suffering that way. But the thought of how he might react stopped me. As I stood there wondering what to do he uttered just one coherent word:

"Mummy."

I turned and hurried back to my room as quietly as I could. I had cradled dying men on the battlefield while they called for their mothers, but that was an entirely different thing. Sherlock was not dying (not yet at least) and certainly would not appreciate someone witnessing him in such a vulnerable state.

I went back to bed and pondered some more on what to do. Clearly, Sherlock was suffering some deep torment. Something that made him call for his mother. But what it could be I couldn't guess. I tried to remember if Sherlock had ever mentioned his mother. I didn't think he had. Then I remembered that first night, the night Sherlock and I caught the cabbie serial killer. Mycroft had met us at the scene where I witnessed their verbal jousting for the first time. Mycroft had chided Sherlock's behavior saying, "You know how it always upset Mummy." Past tense. And Sherlock had replied, "I, I upset her?" Was she dead? It was possible, but I really didn't know. Sherlock and I didn't talk much about our families.

If she were alive, did Sherlock want her? Could she help? I wondered if I should contact Mycroft. I still had his number in my cell phone. But somehow the idea of bringing Mycroft into this was not appealing. I decided that things would have to get worse before I went to Mycroft for help.

It took awhile, but I finally was able to go back to sleep.

The next morning I was coming down the stairs and I heard Sherlock talking to someone. He didn't sound happy. As I got closer, I heard the another voice: Mycroft. I almost tripped and fell down the stairs. Was he some kind of bizarre genie and my mind had summoned him from his lamp?

I heard Mycroft say, "You're being very selfish."

Sherlock replied with extreme bitterness, "You have no right, Mycroft, no right to say that to me!"

I heard Mycroft sigh and then say with more gentleness than I ever imagined could be contained in that cold exterior, "Maybe not. But just remember, when you do this, it's more than just you that suffers."

I shook myself and continued down the stairs. I hadn't intended to eavesdrop and so I wanted to make my presence known. And in this case, whatever my other problems were with Mycroft, I was behind him one hundred percent right now and wanted to show my support.