He was trying to work but his thoughts seemed to slip past him and dissipate like mist. When he tried to catch them, to form them into something coherent, they were simply not there. Now and again, he still felt a flash of anger at the road workers who had damaged the water pipes and had ultimately got him caught. That lasted less than a second before he shook it away. He couldn't deflect the blame.
The sound of the key in the lock made Sherlock look up with only mild curiosity, because he knew it wasn't John. John was at work and unlikely to have another day cut short due to some minor catastrophe. He thought he should have been annoyed at the intrusion, especially since he didn't know who it was. He hadn't even heard anyone on the stairs because he hadn't been paying attention.
He growled, dipping his head into his hands, then recomposed himself the moment before the door swung open.
Sam let himself in, moving assuredly. Sherlock felt a stab of surprise and raked his eyes over the Interpol agent who was evaluating him with the same quick appraisal. Sherlock thought that was inappropriate; that was his job, and Sam had no business being in his flat anyway. It appeared Sam didn't like what he saw because his eyes narrowed a touch and his expression darkened around the edges.
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He felt irritation replace the frustration at not being able to work and let it out a soft sigh between his lips.
"You don't have a key to our flat," he said bluntly.
Sam arched a light eyebrow and threw the deadbolt closed behind him.
"You gave me one so I could take care of your fish if you're away," he said and there was a slight mischievous gleam in his green eyes.
Sherlock stared at him.
"We don't have fish," he said.
"Yes," Sam sighed, crossing the room to sit himself on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. "I know. Mrs. Hudson gave me her keys."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed hard.
"Why would she do that?" he asked icily.
"Because she knows who I am – I make sure to talk to her every time I see her and ask after her sister. I told her I hadn't heard from you in over a week and I was a bit worried. She had no problems giving me her keys then."
As proof, he held up a set of keys that, indeed, belonged to Sherlock's landlady. Sherlock did roll his eyes now.
"I could have had the police break down your door," Sam pointed out. "I almost wish I did, because they'd have called an ambulance just in case. Sherlock, what the hell is going on? You look like shit."
"You break into my flat on the rather feeble basis that I haven't spoken to you in several days and now you insult my appearance. You're not earning any kind gratitude, Agent Mitchell."
He saw Sam's nostrils flare and felt a stab of fear and regret – he'd made another mistake, angered someone else. Sam's green eyes flashed but he smoothed over his expression with that blank look he did so well, then relaxed.
"You can snap at me all you want," he said almost kindly and the tone made Sherlock more irate.
"Sam, just leave," he sighed, glancing away.
"No."
Sherlock's eyes darted back to the younger man who was watching him with calm equanimity.
"What?"
"I said no," Sam replied.
"I could telephone the police," Sherlock pointed out coolly.
"Fine, do. I'll remind you I'm on a first name basis with some of the brass – one of the perks of being an Interpol liaison officer. They're not going to arrest me. You, on the other hand…"
"They can hardly arrest a man for sitting quietly in his own home."
"No, but some well placed calls, including one to Lestrade, could get you into a hospital overnight for observation, although given that John's a doctor, I'm going to guess you're not sick. Seriously, Sherlock, what's going on? Nine days I haven't heard a single thing from you."
"I'm not required to keep in regular contact with you. You're neither my minder nor my secretary. If I choose not to speak to you, that is my decision."
Sam laced his fingers together, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes flickering over Sherlock's face.
"Yes," he agreed. "Except that, since I came back to London, the only time you've gone more than five days without talking to me was when I was on my honeymoon and your mum died, which is understandable. You always want something, Sherlock, even if it's just to make sure Interpol hasn't put me back undercover somewhere and you'll never see me again."
Sherlock started and stared but Sam kept speaking.
"You think I don't know? You spend all of your time observing everyone else but never think about who might be observing you in return. Granted, you're much better at it and I'm not a genius, but nor am I an imperceptive idiot. I have training in this, you know. Pretty extensive training. And you're my friend. Why wouldn't I want to know things about you? Right now, I have to say, I'm not happy with what I see – a man who can't afford to lose even one pound and you look like you've lost about five. What's happening?"
Four, Sherlock thought dully.
"Nothing," he replied in a clipped tone.
"Bollocks."
"Nothing that concerns you."
"I'd have to say I'm pretty concerned when you look like death warmed over, Sherlock. When was the last time you ate anything?"
Sherlock shrugged one shoulder – it might have been at breakfast with John, but he may have just pushed his food about on his plate while the doctor ate. He didn't remember because it wasn't important.
He had hoped that when John had returned to sleeping downstairs again that things would begin to go back to normal, that John would start to trust him again, but John remained distant, closed off, as if waiting for Sherlock to do something. And Sherlock had no idea what. How did he regain John's trust? John, the one person left whom he trusted completely.
But John had said this wasn't true.
It didn't feel untrue.
He didn't know how to explain that to John, to get his husband to understand. Sherlock knew why John thought this, but he couldn't comprehend it. He knew he shouldn't have lied, but even during each careful step, it had not felt entirely like a falsehood. It had felt like he was sectioning off an unpleasant part of his life from the good parts, giving it only the smallest of spaces in which it could exist so that it could no longer overshadow everything else.
He became aware that Sam was no longer sitting in front of him but now in the kitchen, uninvited, pulling open cupboards and then the fridge. Sherlock turned his head toward the sound and simply watched; he could make out Sam moving about but didn't know what he was cooking.
He came back a few minutes later with a plate of beans on toast and passed it to Sherlock, who just looked at it neutrally.
"Sandra's the cook, not me," Sam said, half apology, half statement of fact.
"Not hungry," Sherlock replied shortly, a scowl flashing across his features.
"Eat it anyway or I'm not leaving."
"If I eat it, will you leave?"
"No."
"Then I see no reason to do so. The outcome is the same regardless."
"Don't make me cut it into small pieces and feed you," Sam said in a dark voice. "Because I will. You want to act like you're three and having a tantrum, I can treat you like that."
Sherlock's lips curled in distaste but Sam didn't move, standing in front of the detective with the plate in hand, a pointed look on his face. Sherlock wavered inwardly for a long minute, then sighed to admit defeat with bad grace and took the food. He ate slowly, glaring at Sam the whole time, but the Interpol agent just sat back down on the coffee table, seemingly unbothered by the fact that this was not an appropriate place to sit. He watched Sherlock eat as though keeping score.
"Good. Now tell me what the hell is going on. I know John's okay at least physically, because I checked."
At this, Sherlock's nostrils flared and Sam held up a hand to forestall any protests.
"I checked, Sherlock. I didn't send one of my people round to check for me. I know how you feel about that because of Mycroft. I didn't let him see me, I just wanted to make sure he was upright and breathing and all of that."
"That was unnecessary," Sherlock snapped.
"Was it?" Sam asked, arching an eyebrow.
I'd have called you if something had happened to John, he thought, and then was surprised by the thought. He hadn't called Sam when Sibyl had died; he'd let John do it. But if there were no John… Sherlock gave himself a mental shake, unable to finish the thought.
"Did you two have an almighty row or what?" Sam asked.
Sherlock sighed, eyes flickering away, and he heard Sam echo the sigh but with a different tone and tenor.
"Really? All right, let's have it, what happened?"
Not "what did you do?" Sherlock noted. He was vaguely surprised by the lack of immediate judgement since he'd been heaping it on himself the past week and he was certain John and Tricia were as well.
"Nothing," he replied.
Sam snorted and the sound made Sherlock's eyes flicker back with irritation. Sam held his gaze hard, green eyes locked with grey and Sherlock scowled, trying to get Sam to back down, to let the matter drop.
"Believe me," Sam said softly, almost gently, "I've sat through worse with myself. You can't make me give up."
Sherlock's eyes shifted away then back and he expected triumph in his friend's expression but there was only patience. Nothing like the look Mycroft would have given him if he'd known; Sherlock was suddenly grateful he'd leveraged the cessation of surveillance years ago. He had no desire to explain this to his brother.
Nothing like the look he was sure to get from Tricia either.
So he explained in a flat, detached tone, keeping his voice level and his words neutral. Sam listened without interruption, his expression still without reverting to that blank look at which he so excelled. When Sherlock finished, Sam stayed silent, his eyes shifting away thoughtfully. Sherlock waited, forcing his hands not to tense on the arms of his chair.
"Well?" he finally snapped.
Sam returned his gaze.
"Do you want my advice?" he asked simply.
Sherlock opened his mouth to snap back a retort then stopped, realizing what had been asked. A lifetime of living under Mycroft's overbearing good intentions made the question come as a surprise. In his experience, people were always willing to provide advice utterly unasked for and unwelcomed.
He closed his mouth again, hesitated, then gave a curt nod.
"Okay," Sam said, then looked away again, frowning. He was silent for another moment before looking back. "Is there anything else?"
"What do you mean?" Sherlock snapped.
"Is there anything else that you should be telling John that you haven't?"
"Why would there be?"
Sam just raised an eyebrow, his expression still fairly neutral. Sherlock held his gaze hard.
"No," he said flatly.
"Then you need to tell him that. Straight out. You can't just let him assume it, especially not now."
Sherlock stayed silent, glowering. He disliked that Sam was probably right.
"If you want things to go back to normal, it's on you," Sam sighed. "Don't just sit here, Sherlock. Go back to work. Do the things you normally do when John's at work because he doesn't need to know you're just sitting here all day. Then, when he gets home, do things with him. Talk to him. I'm not saying sit down and hash this out every night, but frankly, you're an expert in the silent sulk and it's really not his place to have to make things right. Pay attention to him."
"I pay attention to John all the time," Sherlock growled.
"And this past week?" Sam asked pointedly.
Sherlock glared and tried not to fidget. Now he just wanted Sam to leave again.
"If you want things to be the way they were, it starts with you. Believe me," he added forcefully. "I know. Listen, John loves you. He loves you, get it? The man who runs about like a brilliant madman. If you need things to be normal again, that's up to you. I know it's hard after something like this – I mean both the row and your mum's death. And things won't always be good; they aren't meant to be."
"That's what he said," Sherlock snorted softly.
"Well, he's right. He's a smart man. You wouldn't have it any other way. Stop waiting for him to give you clues as to what to do. You know what to do. You maybe don't want to do the work is all. Because it's hard and it's not fun."
Sherlock caught his lower lip between his teeth and sighed.
"And start eating again. I mean it. Or else I will keep getting on your case and I'll do it in my very specialized Interpol agent kind of way. John doesn't need to add worrying about your health to his list of things that concern him at the moment. You haven't been taking proper care of yourself, which started this whole thing in the first place. Don't make him work for it. That's your job right now."
Sam gathered the plate Sherlock had emptied and stood, going back into the kitchen and leaving Sherlock to consider his words. Sherlock heard the sound of the faucet being run for longer than necessary to rinse the dishes, then heard the faint click of the kettle being turned on. Sam was back with a cup of tea for him a few minutes later.
"All right?" he said, passing off the mug.
Sherlock took it with a faint scowl.
"All right," he muttered.
Sam nodded.
"Good. I'll talk to you in a few days and you will call me, unless you want me breaking into your flat again."
Sherlock sipped his tea and didn't reply. Sam let himself out, locking the door again from the other side, and Sherlock listened to his tread on the stairs. A few minutes later, the front door open and shut again.
He finished his tea, forcing himself to think about what Sam had said even though he was inclined not to. The idea of putting in any effort right now was exhausting. What would John do? What if he dismissed any attempts to set things right as insufficient or just uninteresting? Sherlock could not even tell which was worse.
His phone distracted him and he pulled it quickly from his pocket, happy to see a text from John, then disappointed at the message.
Meeting Tricia for coffee. I'll be home in a couple of hours.
Sherlock stared at it a minute then realized John would want him to reply. He wavered on what to say, wanting to snap back but that would certainly not help matters.
Have a good time. I love you. SH.
John didn't reply again for a few minutes and Sherlock told himself this was likely because he was busy finishing up his work for the day. Normally he would not even notice the delay, but each second that slipped by came with a dull, constricting fear.
Love you too, John finally texted back.
Sherlock put his phone aside and finished his tea, returning the empty mug to the kitchen. He did the washing up Sam hadn't done, resting the dishes in the drainer next to the plate and cutlery Sam had cleaned. Then he cast around for something to do, wondering if something else needed to be cleaned. John usually knew, but Sherlock felt it would be defeating the purpose if he had to ask.
He managed to occupy himself for almost an hour with tidying random things while trying to keep his mind quiet. The silence in the flat was almost deafening and Sherlock refused to check the time repeatedly. John would be home when he said he'd be home.
His phone rang again and Sherlock snatched it out of his pocket then scowled, hitting the ignore button. He had no desire to speak with his brother. Mycroft would determine immediately that something was amiss and insist on coming round and making things all the worse with his presence.
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed with a text message. Sherlock checked it with a sigh, unsurprised that it was from Mycroft. But he thumbed it open nonetheless, because it didn't require him to respond immediately. Or at all.
It was a picture, which was somewhat surprising – Mycroft was usually not given to texting and especially not to picture texting. But the contents were not his usual fare, either.
It was a picture of a wall, someone's house and the house of someone fairly wealthy, judging by the painting hung on the wall, the skill with which it had been framed and the quality of said frame. The wall itself was painted an unassuming off-white, but someone had taken a blue permanent marker to it. The writing looked as though it had been done quickly, almost as an afterthought, but Sherlock doubted this, given the message.
The word "hello" was written in block letters above a brief sketch of two houses, the style Sherlock recognized easily even now. Two squares each topped with a triangle for a roof, smaller squares for windows, rectangular doors and chimneys with a squiggle of smoke emerging from them.
Hello, Holmes.
He stared the picture a moment, then read the message Mycroft had sent with it.
We have a problem.