A/N: I am NOT doing John's depression much justice, and I apologise for that. I guess since Sherlock's cured it canonically before via cases and danger, I'm writing it in? Or maybe my depression itself isn't very severe, so I'm projecting myself. Whatever the case, I'll try harder in future.

12 Days of Christmas

Chapter 4

15 December, 2014

"George."

From the darkness erupts a stifled groan that, frankly, doesn't sound nearly as alarmed as it should.

"It's 'Greg', Sherlock, you tit," Lestrade grumbles, pulling his blankets over his head. "I'm not even going to ask how you got in this time." He cracks an eye at his intruder. "What could you possibly want?"

Sherlock has started pacing, pausing every now and then to look out of Greg's tiny bedroom window, as aloof as ever. "I need a case. Now," the other man adds, turning to face Lestrade, hands clasped behind his back.

"And this couldn't have waited another-" Greg picks up his alarm clock in order to see the time properly, "-five more hours – Sherlock, it's two in the bloody morning! Some of us actually need to sleep, you know."

"Yes, I am aware of the necessity." Sherlock continues to stand there insistently.

God dammit. "Fine, fine." With a groan, Lestrade sits up, turning on his bedside lamp. "Well, since you have ever-so-graciously woken me up, I might as well see what I have-" He stops speaking mid-eye rub. In the improved lighting, Sherlock looks… sad? Anxious? Bothered, obviously. Is there even really a word for this sort of expression? Greg scratches his stubble, deciding on "sad." The last time he saw Sherlock Holmes "sad" was at John's wedding, and what a day that whole affair was. "Bothered" would be after Sherlock had gone and gotten himself shot. Neither of these are good things. "Everything all right?"

The sigh Sherlock lets out is utterly too weary. "I just need out of the flat," he offers, but nothing more.

"John?"

"Hasn't improved," Sherlock answers, understanding the question behind the single word.

"I see," Greg says slowly, pulling himself out of bed. Sherlock jumps as a warm hand claps his shoulder. "Let's have a look at my case files, shall we?"

"Boring," Sherlock drones, tossing yet another folder to the side. It's nearly five, at this point, and Lestrade is on his third coffee of the day.

"Alright," he mumbles, digging through the box of files on his desk. "How about this one? It's a murder."

Sherlock snatches it hopefully, only to let it fall out of his hand after a few seconds.

Lestrade sighs. "What is it this time?"

"Too easy. An unfortunate accident, that. Killed himself like the idiot he was. Amazing what a bit of alcohol does to the body."

Lestrade blinks. "Alright… I'll have to look into that one to have it settled; but thank you?"

"S'fine," Sherlock shrugs, this time digging through the box himself. Greg lets him, leaning back in his chair. After some situating, he finds a comfortable enough position and closes his eyes.

John opens his eyes to morning sunlight and regret.

"Shit," he grumbles as he climbs out of bed, reflecting on his behavior yesterday afternoon. He should apologise; his reaction to a missing band of gold was uncalled for – even if it did hold sentimental value. He'll wait until later. Sherlock is probably still asleep. The bastard has a habit of sleeping in if he sleeps at all, and John can't hear any sort of noise from below. Yes, later would do.

About midway through his morning routine, John realizes that Sherlock is missing. Well, not missing, per say, but absent from the flat. Bedroom: empty, the bed doesn't even look slept in; sitting room: empty; kitchen: in need of a tidy, but otherwise void of a certain consulting detective.

"Hm," John hums, intrigued, but unconcerned. Sherlock isn't necessarily known for his predictability, and especially not for staying in one place for too long. Probably on a case, John thinks, with only a hint of bitterness. Sherlock never takes him on cases anymore. Really, that's probably why he's been so depressed as of late. Or was his depression the cause for his being left behind? Who knows anymore. Everything just kind of snowballed. It's all such a blur.

I need to talk to you, so let me know when you aren't busy.

John isn't necessarily satisfied with that, but it fit the purpose. He can't possibly put everything going through his head in a single text, but at the same time John doesn't want to keep it so concise that Sherlock thinks he's still cross. No, this is probably the best he's going to get. He hits send after some hesitation, then placed his phone in his pocket. Off to work then.

[No new messages]

John's brow furrows as he takes a long swig of his coffee. It's lukewarm, and the paper around the rim is getting a little too damp to function properly, coning out as John grips the cup. With a grimace, he tosses it into the waste bin.

Interesting case then?

[No new messages]

Is Sherlock ignoring him?

Probably. John would probably ignore himself for a while too.

John fights the urge to check his mobile for the third time during one of his exams. Boring old man, rambles on and on about all of his lumps and spots and loose teeth. Oh, how he aches, and something about his corns. John tries to keep a politely interested look on his face.

A good mystery always makes dealing with the general public more interesting.

John is rather right – a good mystery does make dealing with the general public more interesting. Especially when Schrodinger's cat climbs out of its box.

Apparently, a woman rang in two weeks ago to report her missing cat, one that she later claimed may or may not exist. It was just intriguing enough to grant her a visit from Sherlock Holmes.

"So, you don't know if there actually ever was a cat?"

The woman, Belinda, or whatever her name was, shakes her head. "No, sir."

Sherlock cocks his head, giving her a questioning look.

"Well," she begins, "it all started a couple of months ago. I noticed things getting moved about. Little things out of place. I would put them back, and the next morning they were right back where they were. Food went missing. Funny smells started hanging about. After a while, I assumed it was a cat. So I started feeding it- left some food out on the back stoop. It's been gone by morning every day since. Except for that one day, when I rang the police…" the woman trails off wistfully.

Sherlock's eyes snap back to the woman's face, having looked about the entirety of the room while she had been speaking. "And tell me, why did you phone the police?"

"In truth, Mr Holmes, I didn't know what else to do. I felt I lost a part of myself when that cat went missing. I might have panicked a bit."

"I see. Well, thank you for your time." Sherlock smiles, then dismisses himself. As he walks along the street, he checks his mobile, pulling up John's texts. He reads them quickly, then promptly ignores them. He texts Lestrade instead.

Solved the cat mystery. Woman has dissociative personality disorder. Recently saw a therapist who prescribed her medication for her severe depression. Not cured, but helped. The DPD, I mean.

SH

He only had to wait a moment.

What?

The woman has DPD, which causes multiple personalities. One personality moves things, eats, lives a completely different life, while another puts things back, and comes up with an explanation for things being out of place. Lonely, depressed woman like that sums it all up to a little furry companion that she can care for. A different personality thinks it's funny to empty out the cat food and leave the empty bowl sit for the woman to find. It's gone undiagnosed, but it's being inadvertently treated by her depression medication. Got it all from her calender and the bottle next to the sink.

SH

Damn. He can't quite pull off a brilliant reveal via text. Oh well.

Lestrade never does reply back, but that's all right. Sherlock can imagine his reaction well enough.

Can I have another case?

SH

[No new messages]

Okay, now John is getting worried. It is well after dark, and he hasn't heard a word from Sherlock. Not a single word. Five years ago, this wouldn't have surprised him, but now… all sorts of unpleasant thoughts are barraging his brain. Cases have proved dangerous in the past, why should it be any different now?

He decides to call someone.

"Hello?"

"Greg, hi, it's John- have you heard from Sherlock?"

"You mean he isn't at Baker Street?"

A cold trickle runs down John's spine. "No, I haven't seen him all day."

"That's because he spent the majority of it here at the Yard. I haven't seen him for a few hours yet, though. I thought he would be home by now, to be frank."

"Is he on a case?"

"Several, actually. He's been on every minor case I've gotten in the past month. He's blown through about half of them in a few hours. Less work I'll have to do-"

"Yes, but do you have any idea where he is now?"

"Like I said mate, I haven't seen him for a few hours. He came in for one last case and left. Said he'd be finished with it in sixty-two minutes, tops. I figured he'd be home after that."

'Sixty-two minutes?' "When was that?"

"'Bout six o'clock."

John glances at the time. It's nearly half-ten. Shit.

"Where?"

Greg must have heard the note of desperation in John's voice, buried in the inflection that made the single word a question; he answered very quickly. "Church Street. At the antiques shop."

Sherlock had finished the business at the antiques shop (miscalculation on an employee's part, not a robbery), and was walking towards Lisson Grove when he noticed someone following him. That had been hours ago. Now, he's pretty sure that he's lying somewhere by Paddington Basin, but it's honestly hard to tell. His head had taken a blow, and he's disoriented. His mind is fuzzy; he can't quite remember how he got here.

Sitting up was probably a bad idea. Now it feels as if two hammers are banging away at his temples, and the world is spinning. Opening his eyes was an even worse idea. The lights send pain shooting through his eyes and into the deep recesses of his brain, despite the fact that he was conveniently hidden in a shadowed area of the docks. At least he can confirm his location – he's practically on top of Paddington Basin. How he got here and why still remains a mystery.

Slowly, he stands, taking inventory. Physically, all right, except for his head, and a small gash on his cheekbone. He always seems to be getting those. Clothes intact, nothing stolen, still has his coat. As he puts his fingers into his pockets, he discovers something. A newspaper clipping?

He pulls it out to find the words "Did you miss me?" scratched onto an old newspaper photo. Suddenly his chill isn't from the cold.