John stared at his friend, frozen on the spot. Just when he had thought his concerns had been groundless – but why –
"Sherlock?" he asked, moving towards him.
"Kill me" he repeated. There could be no mistaking his words. John looked at him with horror, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
"It's alright" he said soothingly, "just take a few deep breaths". He had calmed down countless patients during his time as a soldier and later working in the hospital, but he was at loss what to do. He couldn't leave Sherlock alone to call help, that much was clear. He was earnestly begging him to kill him. If he left the room, he might harm himself.
He could only hope to keep him as calm as possible while he waited for Mrs. Hudson to arrive. She was sure to drop by eventually.
"You – don't – understand" Sherlock pressed out, and John wondered if his friend was in real pain. He certainly looked like it, but it was impossible to say where it came from. They had to get him to a hospital fast.
"What is it?" he asked, still in the same soothing tone, more because he wanted to pass the time than because he expected a real answer.
"Moriarty" Sherlock continued, and even though his breathing was laboured, there was still something of the condescension he reserved for people who didn't understand him quickly enough in his voice.
"What about him? Is he behind the break-in in Mycroft's office?" John demanded. Maybe he had got a text and the proof that the consulting criminal was alive had been a shock. He had never seen Sherlock like this, but he had supposed Moriarty was dead, like they all had. Maybe it had unsettled him to a degree that he had temporarily lost his usual calmness when confronted with unexpected news.
"Yes" Sherlock answered through gritted teeth, and John would have thought he was right, if the look in his friend's eyes hadn't been so desperate, more desperate than even Moriarty coming back from the dead could explain.
"I'm sure we can – " he began, trying to soothe him, when Sherlock continued, "Not alive".
"What?"
"Moriarty – not alive".
"Are you telling me he broke into Mycroft's office from the grave?" John asked, fearing more and more that Sherlock had slipped into some kind of episode. Had he missed symptoms of mental illness that he had been displaying? But he would have noticed, he had to have noticed. And even if he hadn't, Sherlock would have known something was wrong with his mind. Sherlock would have said something rather than risk becoming mad. His work meant everything to him. He would never have put his career in jeopardy because he couldn't function anymore. And this – this was bad. When John withdrew his hand from Sherlock's shoulder because his friend was shaking his head violently and he didn't want to hurt him, he saw that it was shaking again. His tremor was back, like it had been at Sherlock's grave.
"Not from the grave" Sherlock managed to say, and John was completely lost. He didn't understand what he was trying to say, he doubted even Sherlock himself did; he couldn't imagine what –
And then he saw the change. Later, he wouldn't be able to describe it, even if he looked right into Sherlock's face as it happened; he couldn't explain what had changed exactly either, only that something – maybe Sherlock's eyes, maybe his expression – hardened slightly and he sat up straighter, although his breathing was still laboured and he didn't appear to feel much better.
"I am sorry for scaring you" Sherlock said, but his words didn't match his expression or his demeanour at all. John was too shocked to say anything as he stood up, told him he needed to lie down, and staggered to his room.
John knew the gleam he had seen in his eyes. He knew it so well that it haunted him at night, taunting him with the possibility that everything he had could still be taken from him at the blink of an eye.
It was the gleam he had seen in Moriarty's eyes at the pool.
But that – Sherlock couldn't have meant that. Sherlock couldn't have meant that he had broken into Mycroft's office under the delusion that he was Moriarty –
What was he thinking? He was the mad one, not Sherlock. He could not be honestly thinking that Sherlock had meant Moriarty was in his head. How had he even got the idea?
They needed help. Quickly.
He was already dialling Greg's number before he had noticed he'd pulled his phone out of his pocket.
"We need you here. Now".
The DI asked no questions, just told him he'd be there immediately. John wondered if he should call Mycroft. The British Government could bring in specialists, could find out if it had really been Sherlock who'd committed the break-in; but –
But.
If he did this and the press found out Sherlock's career would be over. Everything he had worked for, everything he had sacrificed two years of his life for, and it would all be gone because John had overreacted when Sherlock had been confused, and understandably so, after finding out that Moriarty was alive. All it took was someone like Kitty Riley. And if he called Mycroft and they brought Sherlock somewhere, not even he could suppress the news. Someone would find out. And the witch hunt would begin anew. No; he would wait for Greg; they would talk, they would observe Sherlock, they would get Mrs. Hudson's opinion; they would find a way around telling anyone. Sherlock couldn't have gone mad suddenly. John should have noticed before. He was simply – yes, he was just confused, like John had thought. And John was confused as well. What was this strange that had suddenly come into his head, about Sherlock acting like Moriarty? It was incredible. Ridiculous. His friend would never do something like that. He just had to wait for Greg and everything would become clear.
He had never heard John like this. He had come close to sound like this once, right after Sherlock's death, but there had only been pain and resignation in his voice, not the panic he had barely able to conceal when he had informed Greg they needed him. He didn't know what was wrong, but he didn't care. He simply left his office, not answering Donovan's questions, and went to his car.
He barely remembered driving there when he arrived at 221B, having been too busy with coming up with various grim scenarios on the way.
Mrs. Hudson took one look at him when she opened the door and decided she would accompany him upstairs. He was glad for it. If John was as concerned as it seemed, they could need the calming influence.
The doctor visibly relaxed when he saw Mrs. Hudson, proving that Greg had done the right thing. John glanced at the door of Sherlock's bedroom and whispered, "I think he's gone mad".
It would have been funny if he hadn't looked so serious. It was Mrs. Hudson who asked, in a steady voice, "What do you mean?"
John gestured towards the door as he drew Mrs. Hudson into a corner, whispering to her. It was clear that he wanted him to form his own opinion, and Greg crossed the room and opened the door.
Sherlock was lying on his bed, his eyes closed.
"Sherlock? John called me".
It was then that he received the greatest shock of his career.
He had been a police officer for almost thirty years. He had interviewed suspects, collected evidence, solved cases, and in the course of his life he had, almost unconsciously, catalogued every mannerism of his friends'.
Whoever had just opened his eyes and was smiling at him to soothe his worries wasn't Sherlock. But it was him – but it wasn't –
"He really shouldn't have. I didn't drink enough in the last few days, and the possibility that Moriarty might have committed a break-in sent me over the edge. I just have to rest for while".
He was talking laboriously, as if he was struggling against some unknown and unseen assailant, and Greg tried to school his face.
This gleam in his eyes – he'd never seen it before. The tone was off too.
This was not Sherlock. He felt it deep in his gut.
"I am glad you are alright" he was quick to assure – whoever this was. "I'll let you rest".
The grin was too eager, too pleased. He left the room with his heart beating wildly.
He looked at John and shook his head. Then, to explain, he hissed, "Who is this?"
"I was hoping – " John whispered back "I thought I was – you are not telling me –"
He broke off. Mrs. Hudson patted his arm and shot Sherlock's door a scared glance.
All Greg could do was inquire, "What do we do now?"