Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.

Chapter 6: The mental deterioration of Mr Holmes

The days passed quickly, one getting lost in the other, and soon Irene had stayed with Sherlock at Baker Street for two weeks. Though it went against her nature, and the man's belief, the woman had managed not to misbehave in that time.

Despite of the challenge she presented and the amounts of cases Lestrade presented to him, Sherlock found his outlets made him restless. As a result, he returned to his nicotine patches in a desperate attempt to get his kicks, but they offered little comfort to his under-stimulated brain. This, in turn, resulted in him attempting more and more experiments in between cases.

For one such experiment, Sherlock decided he needed a live subject. During a bleak January evening, the great detective arrived home with his purchase.

"Evening, Sherlock," John greeted from one of the armchairs as he heard the door close and the distinctive sound of wood creaking as the detective climbed the stairs.

As most free afternoons, the blond man had come to pay his friend a visit - hoping to find him working on a case he needed help with. Instead, he'd only found Irene, who'd entertained him with a cup of coffee while they both waited for the extraordinary man. John had brought his laptop, as it was, and was working on a blog entry from his old arm chair. Irene, seated in the other arm chair, looked up as the flat owner reached the top of the stairs, and her eyebrows rose at once. Her reaction caught the doctor's attention and he frowned at her in confusion as an unexpected sound broke the silence. It was the sound of a cat's frail meow.

"Oh, please tell me Sherlock just has a cold," the blond man sighed and hesitated to turn around. At last he did and was met with the sight of his best friend, still clad in coat and scarf, holding a black and white kitten in his arms as if it was a brick and not an animal.

"Oh, for the love of-" John sighed, put the laptop on the floor and stood to meet the spectacle. "What do you intend on doing to that cat?"

"I have an important experiment-"

"That will what? Put the cat in a coma? Hmm? Kill it?" John remarked as Sherlock stepped into the room and dumped the cat in the woman's lap.

The tall man ignored his friend's words as he told her, "Don't cuddle with it while I prepare. I don't want it distracted."

"No!" John protested fiercely. "No experiments on live subjects, Sherlock! This is not a pet laboratory! What's gotten into you lately?"

The detective gazed down at his short friend as if he did not understand the question, "'Gotten into me', John?"

"You've done some intimidating and weird experiments in the past, Sherlock. I'll admit to that. But you've never experimented on a live thing," the blond man remarked and glanced at the purring kitten in Irene's lap. The poor animal had no idea what cruel fate it could meet in one of Sherlock's experiments, and truthfully neither did John.

"Would you prefer I tried my experiments on humans, John?" the dark-haired man asked and cocked his head to the side.

"Heaven forbid! We don't want a Frankenstein's monster on our hands… Besides, we both know you do those experiments already, but in utmost secrecy. Thank you again for that lost Wednesday..." the man muttered and sighed at length as Sherlock moved to take off his coat and scarf. The detective, pretending he hadn't heard the doctor's words once more, then walked over to Irene and looked down at her wordlessly. He held out an expectant hand but the woman pretended not to notice.

There was a soft pling from the laptop at that moment and John bent down to retrieve it. He opened it up and noticed he had a new message. Or that was to say, Sherlock did.

The doctor frowned down at the screen as if it was his enemy. "You confiscated my laptop again, didn't you? How did you...? I'm not even here every day with it anymore! You have mail, Sherlock."

He held out his hand with the computer for the other man, who, upon realizing Irene wasn't about to give up the kitten, had opted to glare down at both cat and woman. Without saying a word in reply to John, Sherlock reached back a hand to receive the computer.

He swiftly turned on his heel in stiff frustration that neither John nor Irene seemed to have his back, and walked over to the desk with the laptop. The tall man sat down and John glanced over at the consultant detective. There was the slightest hesitation as Sherlock opened his mail. A wide image suddenly consumed the screen and John frowned as he stepped closer. He noticed the stiffness to his friend's shoulders and how the man seemed to have paused living as he glared, without blinking, at the image before him. The blond man leaned over his shoulder to have a look himself.

The image was of Moriarty and Sherlock, the sooner appearing joyous and the latter drugged and confused. The whole thing seemed bathed in the unappealing glow of the camera's flash and on the detective's dark curls rested the same party hat that now dressed the skull upon their mantle piece. John realized it must be an unwanted memory of the latest new year.

"Sherlock…" the blond man started slowly.

"What is it?" Irene asked but her her voice held no interest and she didn't join the men by the computer.

"Moriarty sends his love," Sherlock replied at length and there was something off in the man's voice. John desperately wanted to be able to read his friend, but knew it was pointless. The tone could mean anything from anger to fear to excitement of a challenge. The doctor just had no clue.

"There's a quote," he remarked instead and squinted at the text written in the bottom hand corner of the image. He quoted the words, "'I think it's time, don't you?'"

There was the soft sound of fabric moving as Irene stood from her armchair and walked over to the boys. Wordlessly, she handed the cat over to John's unsuspecting arms and leaned down until her face was close and parallel to Sherlock's. The short man could see she pretended to glance at the image out of boredom when curiosity clearly shone in her pale eyes.

Sherlock suddenly stood up swiftly and without warning, and both the others jumped out of the way as he crossed the room. The detective took out a pack of nicotine patches from his coat pocket without showing a single expression. John sighed at the melodramatic response to the received image as the man rolled up his sleeve and pressed four patches to his forearm.

"A little redundant, don't you think?" the blond man tasked and held onto the kitten, which uncomfortably moved about in his arms as if restless. Sherlock didn't reply but merely closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if micro-mediating on his problems. When he opened his eyes once more, there was serenity in them for a brief second before a storm gathered in his bright, blue eyes. His gaze immediately found Irene's and he pointed a finger in her direction.

"You know something about this," he accused simply.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the brunette said and shrugged her eyebrows. "I've told you already; I don't work for Jim Moriarty anymore."

Sherlock shook his head in obvious disbelief and crossed the room in three steps until he stood close in her personal space. There was something in his eyes that tried to penetrate Irene's barriers but failed miserably. Not accepting his defeat, the tall man took a rough hold of the smaller woman's arms.

"Why? Why did you return when you did? I need answers."

Irene confusion deepened as she saw the man's desperation. "I've already told you."

The man shook his head and spoke in an unkind voice, "No, that's the point. You haven't. You've danced about it, pretending you've told me all the details I need to hear, but we both know you haven't. Why?"

"You don't need to kno-"

"I need to know!" Sherlock's sharp words echoed in the small room, taking the shape of his undeniable rage.

"Lay off, Sherlock," the blond said with a frown on his face. "It's just an image. There's no need to reach-"

"Oh, shut up, John," the detective snarled back. "We all know the photograph is more than just a cherished memory. This means the beginning of something. I want to know what. Ms Adler knows what. So don't tell me to 'lay off'!"

The woman roughly pulled free from his grasp. "Why would I know something about it?"

"Stop playing the victim, woman," Sherlock warned and pointed his finger at her once more, like a teacher might warn a pupil for behaving badly. "You didn't react at all when I told you it was from Moriarty, which first of all suggests you weren't surprised. Second of all, your reaction when hearing the quote suggests you recognize the words. What is it? Some kind of code from Moriarty to you? To set off some elaborate game and ensnare me? It won't work, Ms Adler."

Irene took a defiant step closer to the man and returned to his personal space as she rose onto her toes "Of course I wasn't surprised. We both knew Moriarty would be in touch sooner rather than later. As for the picture, he did brag to me about that little part of his plan when we met in the basement. But that is also all I knew of his plans concerning you. I haven't talked to him since that day. And if I was working for him, why would I betray our plans by so obviously showing interest now?"

The woman hesitated for the briefest of seconds, but the detective noticed at once. His hyper mind pushed him into overdrive, as he grabbed her upper arms again and shook her. "Tell me," he commanded more roughly than he needed.

Irene's eyes were cold and just as frustrated as the detective's when she continued, "I do recognize the words. But I don't know what he means by using them."

"From where? From where do you recognize it?"

"I used the exact same words once to him," the woman explained and truth shone in her eyes. "When I first wanted to see you four years ago. That's all."

"Liar."

Irene squared her shoulders and raised her chin as her face moved even closer to Sherlock's in plain defiance. "Read my eyes, Mr Holmes, and tell me I am lying when I say I've turned my back on Moriarty once and for all."

John did think Irene was a good liar, but there was no sign of deceit in her open, cold eyes now. The detective didn't seem as convinced.

"It's too much of a coincidence," he argued and squeezed her arms harder. "Tell me the whole truth."

"I've already told you all I know," she argued right back and it was clear her own frustration was gaining.

"I'm not playing Moriarty's game again, Ms Adler, so just tell me!" Sherlock suddenly shouted and John saw pain flash in her eyes as the man's grip tightened.

"Sherlock!" the blond man warned and the cat meowed in his arms as if sensing the tension as well.

"You believe it, too, John. I know you do," the dark-haired man spoke to his friend though his eyes didn't leave Irene's, as if doing so would risk her slipping through his fingers once and for all. "You came back just in time for Moriarty's own return. You worked with him once and you almost won by collaborating. Now you tell me you've abandoned your alliance for what… Love? Lust? As if you know how to-" Whatever Sherlock had been about to say was abruptly interrupted as the woman shrugged loose once more and slapped him hard across the jaw. Her actions stunned all three into silence and the only sound was from the poor kitten still attempting to escape John's gentle grip.

With her point having been made in the most final of ways, the short beauty shoved past the detective and walked out of the room. The door to the bedroom slammed shut not long after and the tension lingered in the air.

The detective glared past John, at the closed door, as the doctor cleared his throat, "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Of course, I am. Why? Don't I seem alright?" the man asked and his friend couldn't quite deduce if there was sarcasm or simple oblivion in the other man's voice.

"Eh, Sherlock… Listen. Ehm. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Which part?"

"Either one." This was another one of those times the doctor had no idea how to act or deal with his friend because there was no telling what reaction would come next. In fact, John thought even the show he had witnessed just minutes ago seemed to suggest a Sherlock Holmes very much on edge.

The tall man searched the shorter one's eyes and finally frowned. "If you have something to say just say it, John. Attempting to figure something out that is beyond your comprehension doesn't suit you."

"Fine," John sighed. "You seem to be overreacting, Sherlock. We did know Moriarty would be in touch… we did, Sherlock. Is he getting too deep under your skin?"

"Don't make yourself even more stupid and average than you already are," the tall man scolded in his most unfriendly voice.

"There's no need to attack me, Sherlock," the blond doctor said as his own frustration grew. "I get that you don't trust Irene, I do. But I still think you're acting, well, unlike yourself."

"There are things going on here, John, that you can't even begin to comprehend with your petty mind. Just... be quiet. You're giving me a migraine," Sherlock said and with those words walked over to his arm chair and sunk into it as if the weight on the world was on his shoulders.

John glanced down at the kitten in his arms and then up at the detective. "Listen to me, Sherlock. As your doctor I recommend you rest a couple of days. You're could be showing symptoms of overexertion. As your friend… I want you to stop with the patches, Sherlock. You know they're no good."

"No need to worry for me, John. I'll manage. Moriarty hasn't killed me yet."

The doctor frowned at his friend but once more found he had trouble reading the man. "And with your track record, he won't this time either. Just… don't overreact."

"Fine," the detective sighed and drearily turned his gaze up to meet his friend's. "Was that all, doctor?"

John hesitated a beat. "No. I'm taking the cat back, too. There. Done."

"We need to talk, Mr Watson."

John felt discomfort take physical form somewhere in the depths of his spine. It was the day after Sherlock's little stint, and the man in question was currently not at Baker Street when his friend had opted to pop by for a quick check-up. The blond man had rather intended not to stay, but not found himself lingering at the top of the stairs. "... What about? I really need to go. Mary needs me for... pregnancy stuff."

The woman rose from the arm chair and stepped towards him. Her eyes were clear and her words to the point, "I know you've warned me about his mood swings and Aspergers. I still think he's acting abnormal, even when considering what is normal for Sherlock Holmes."

John knew his friend didn't find the cases as interesting as they should be, judging by the complexity of most of them. It was true, he had suffered the wrath of a bored Sherlock Holmes before but John slowly grew to believe this was different. Though it had been a bit rocky, Irene and Sherlock had patched their unique relationship together, though the doctor never did care to ask how. Still, he knew the woman noticed the deterioration of Sherlock's mood, too, especially since she was most often the object of his irritation and suspicion, not to mention that she was stuck with him on a daily basis.

The short man wet his lips and ultimately shrugged. "I don't know. He can be pretty wild at times."

"John…" Irene's voice was suddenly soft, though the man guessed this was only an act. "I know you're his best friend, but you're also a doctor. What if Moriarty's return is too much of a strain on his mind? He has seen a lot of things over the years and been forced to fake his own death. Could this be the final straw?"

John was briefly reminded of his own experiences in Afghanistan and the strain that had been on his own mind. He applied those consequences to his friend's situation and finally shook his head. "I don't think so. Sherlock's… different. He wouldn't-"

The blond was interrupted as the door suddenly swung open downstairs and the man in question swiftly climbed the steps with a furious Lestrade hot on his heels. The fire burned in the inspector's eyes while indifference shone in the other man's depths.

"I'm warning you, Sherlock, you're off the case! And you're lucky that's just a warning and not an arrest order I'm giving you!" Lestrade just about shouted at the detective consultant who shrugged out of his coat and rolled his eyes as if the police man was overreacting. "And you're definitely lucky Donovan didn't see you assault the victim back there or it would have been leaked to the whole damn media."

"Please…" the detective let out a disdainful breath as he threw the coat atop of one of the armchairs. With a quick glance he acknowledged John and Irene by the desk before spinning around to face Lestrade once more. "I don't care about the media."

"Jesus, Sherlock…" the grey-haired man huffed and almost shook with repressed anger. "This isn't about the media!"

"You brought it up first," the dark-haired man countered.

"What's…" John began and glanced between the police man and the detective. "…going on here?"

"He assaulted a victim!" Lestrade exclaimed loudly.

"I thought she was a suspect! I said I was sorry!" Sherlock shouted back and the epitome of calm disdain he had just showed seemed wiped from his mind in a single heartbeat.

The police man blinked and crossed his arms over his chest. "No you didn't!"

"Well… I thought it then. Unimportant, regardless," the detective shrugged.

"No, it's not!" Lestrade growled. "You assaulted a rape victim, Sherlock. I don't care what hunch you were following; she wasn't a suspect! In fact she's going to need special therapy after your verbal abuse of her… She wasn't guilty of anything!"

"Well. I know that now," Sherlock agreed and thus seemed to justify his manners to himself.

Lestrade shook his head as if unwilling to let go of the wrong he had witnessed this day. "As I said, you're off this case, Sherlock… And any other case I might have for awhile."

The detective glared at the inspector as if the whole thing had taken a nasty turn indeed. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think? I mean… I'm me after all."

"I don't care if you're a maharadja of India, you're not getting close to one of my crime scenes!"

"I have my own clients, I can find work elsewhere," Sherlock snarled back and without awaiting the elder man's reply, walked out of the room and into his bedroom. The end of the conversation was marginalized by the sound of the door closing with a bang.

Lestrade turned to look at the other two people in the room and released a breath and looked like a deflated balloon.

"He's just about lost it, John! He's nuts! More nuts than normal, that is…" he muttered and with a simple goodbye the inspector left the flat.

Irene turned back to face the stunned, blond man. "You still don't think he's off the rocker?"

John shook his head. "I don't actually. Somethings off, I'll agree to that. But insane? No. I've heard people voice that concern before. That one day he'll snap… I just can't believe it. I can't explain it. Sherlock is capable of a lot of mad things, but he also has the strongest mind I've ever met. He wouldn't snap because his nemesis returned and the pressured intensified."

The woman pondered his words and John could almost see the internal debate within her eyes. At length, she nodded at the doctor.

"Alright then. If you say he's not insane, I'll believe you. However... It means we need to figure out what is wrong."

To be continued.