Chapter Six:
John was pacing. He expected Mycroft at any moment, and was trying to figure out what to say to him. "Sorry. I didn't realise there was a problem?" Not realistic in the present circumstances.
Yet, he wasn't entirely to blame. He knew from the very beginning that Sherlock could go into silent mode. ("Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.")
And he'd had more than his fair share of the silent treatment over the two plus years they'd shared a flat, when Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, hands steepled beneath his chin. He'd never really been worried about it when those periods stretched into days, broken only by the occasional monosyllabic word or grunt. Silence was preferable to shouts of "BORED!" or bullets being fired into the wall.
But this was different. Sherlock had not spoken for three days, but it was why he was silent that was the problem. When he got up, he did not dress, but stayed in pyjamas and his robe. That, too, wasn't that odd. But, despite encouragement from John, and offers of help from both him and Mrs Hudson, he had not shaved or washed. He did have an excuse in that his arm was in a sling, but it was his left arm, and he could have managed, if he could be bothered. He couldn't be bothered- and that was new. He went to the loo, drank tea that was handed to him, without comment. He let John look at his broken wrist, change the bandages, examine the sutures. He could wiggle his fingers on command, so functionality did not seem to be impaired. The doctor was pleased with the physical improvement; Sherlock seemed to be healing well, and he made no complaints about pain. An appointment had been made with the London Hand and Wrist Unit, in another five days. He'd go to have the sutures removed and new x rays taken; a new proper cast would be fitted. Then he would start on the physical therapy. He'd seemed to accommodate the sling; there were no more tantrums of frustration about how awkward it was to have the use of only one hand.
But he didn't speak. And, worse, there was a growing passivity in his friend. If John put a plate of food down beside him, Sherlock would start eating but then lose interest, as if he couldn't muster the energy. This morning's breakfast was typical- he'd eaten three spoonfuls of the porridge, then stopped, the spoon was still in his hand, in the bowl, but he was staring off out the window.
"Sherlock, it's not going to taste very nice if you let it go cold." John turned over the page of the newspaper he was reading on the other side of the table.
His friend slowly turned his head away from the window to look at John with incomprehension.
John gestured at the bowl. "The porridge."
When Sherlock looked down, his brow furrowed as if…as if, what? John couldn't figure out if he'd forgotten that it was there, or whether he had no idea what was actually in the bowl and what he should be doing with it. Before he could say anything, the spoon clattered onto the table. Sherlock stood up unsteadily and wandered off to the sofa.
Sherlock was barely functioning. It wasn't the usual post-case crash. It wasn't even the depression that had dogged the man when he was in the rehab clinic recovering from injuries. That was angry, agitated depression, full of anxiety. John couldn't explain it, but he was worried. This was different. Sherlock seemed unwilling to make eye contact, but it wasn't like he was consciously avoiding John.
This afternoon things had taken a decided turn for the worse. He'd gone out briefly to get some groceries in, telling Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on Sherlock. When he'd got back, she met him at the door.
"John, I really think there is something wrong with Sherlock."
"You mean, more than normal?"
She gave him a knowing look. "Of course, that's what I mean. We both know he can lie on that sofa so long it's a wonder he doesn't get bed sores, but it's different. I tried to fix him tea and coax him to talk but he's just…out of it. Are you sure he isn't, you know, indulging a bit?"
John caught her meaning. "You think he's on drugs?"
"Oh, I know I am being silly, but he does have a history; you know that as well as I do. And before you came, sometimes when he came to visit me- a bit wild, well, it was hard to tell sometimes, but I think it was because he was high."
"Well, Mrs Hudson, 'high' is not how I'd describe him right now. No, I don't think – in fact I know- he's not abusing drugs. This is something…different."
Once upstairs, he found Sherlock still on the sofa. There was no sign that he had moved at all since John had found him there when he came down in the morning.
"Sherlock."
No response.
He sighed, went into the kitchen, put the groceries away and fixed himself a cup of tea. He made one for Sherlock and deposited it on the coffee table beside the sofa. He sat down in his chair and turned the television on. The noise seemed to attract Sherlock's attention; he turned his head slightly to look vaguely in the direction of the TV. The doctor watched the grey green eyes move across him and pass over the sight, as if John wasn't there. Or worse, as if he was a piece of the furniture. It was unnerving.
He walked over to the recumbent heap on the sofa, and said quietly, "Sherlock, if you don't start talking to me in the next ten minutes, I'm going to have to call your brother."
If there was anything in John's arsenal that was most likely to provoke a reaction- of anger, sarcasm, or even avoidance- that was it: the nuclear option. Only this time, Sherlock didn't even blink. His eyes were open, but not focused on anything, not even the cracks in the ceiling. John waved his hand in front of the blue green eyes and watched perfectly normal pupil dilation in response to the shadow. This isn't an absence seizure. But nothing else of Sherlock registered John's presence in the room, let alone what he had threatened.
On the kitchen table his phone rang. A quick check of caller ID raised a wry smile. "Hello, Mycroft. Am I going to have to do another sweep for hidden cameras or microphones?"
"I don't need a camera, John. The fact that he has been back at Baker Street for nearly 70 hours but not once used his laptop or turned his phone on is sign enough for me. I gather he is up but not exactly functional. Is that a fair assessment?" The elder Holmes could have been reading out loud from a particularly boring government paper on tax reform, for all the emotion in it.
"Up? No not even remotely accurate. Mentally, I'd say the opposite, very down in fact. Physically? Well, vertical maybe for brief moments. He's comatose on the sofa impersonating a possum at the moment."
"I am coming to Baker Street. I will be there in about a half an hour."
"Well, be prepared for the silent treatment."
"I am prepared, John. I am also bringing reinforcements. I have been talking to Doctor Cohen. She will be accompanying me."
Oh- the heavy guns. "Great, can I borrow a flak jacket, please? Somehow I don't think this is going to be an easy conversation- that is, if either of you can even get him to talk."
John could hear Mycroft's determination in the tone of his next words. "If we don't stop this now, and get him actively engaged in recovery, then we might just lose him for a lot longer, if not for good, John. It is that serious."
The doctor sighed. "I know. Bring on the troops, Mycroft. Just…be careful."
Author's Note: because you may be as impatient as I am, and I don't want people to think I am dragging this out unnecessarily...I will post another chapter later today.