A chapter produced between museum and theatre visits in Sherlock's own London.
Sherlock bounded into the room with a mixture of enthusiasm and trepidation. The case was solved, all was well. Except, all was not well. They had found Larson which was all good and well, but now they had to fix John and fixing people was not Sherlock's strong suit. Finding out why they were broken was exciting but he was more likely to take them apart and leave them that way than to try to put them back together.
'Larsson is dead. He killed himself this afternoon.' He declared matter of factly as he entered John's bedroom.
'Lucky him.' Came the curt reply from the bed and that really was not the response Sherlock had been hoping for.
'I was hoping for: oh good now let's find another case. Things are good now. Everything is over and we can start having fun again.' He said pointedly.
John glared at him pointedly. 'You may feel that you have won, that you can hang up the battle axe but it's not the same for me.' John argued. 'I can't even look in a mirror without feeling sick. I'm deformed, undone, if I leave this place kids will stare and dogs will bark when I walk past I don't want that Sherlock.' John said with downcast eyes.
Sherlock shook his head. 'Don't be so melodramatic John. You may be a little worse for wear but it will heal.'
'I don't want to be what I will become.' John explained. 'I don't want to grow bitter with my own deformity. I don't want to despair when I find I cannot find love and end up a monster who hates everyone else who is happy and healthy.'
How could Sherlock not see that there would be no more cases, not for John? This couldn't be fixed with a bit of an adrenaline rush and some giggling at crime scenes. If John was not permanently crippled this time it would be a miracle. He had stopped struggling against the restraints and was now lying passively in the bed staring ahead of him. Or right now, at his normally so clever flat mate, who was doing a very good job of acting like an idiot, just like he enjoyed accusing others of doing.
'John you really have to start looking at this in a more positive light, we're rid of the threat now and we can start working on getting you well.' Sherlock said as he walked over and started to undo the restraints.
A sturdy looking nurse rose from the other end of the room getting ready to stop him but Mycroft, who was just entering fixed her with a steely glare so she sank back into her chair and returned to the magazine she had been reading before they had arrived.
'Sherlock, humans aren't machines.' John took a forced breath and struggled on 'If something is broken you can't just take a spare part and replace it.' He closed his eyes for a moment. 'Sometimes people are just broken.' John said wanting desperately to rub at his stiff wrists now that he was free of the restraints but with one hand in a cast and the other firmly wrapped in bandages it was impossible. He settled for wrapping his arms around himself and snuggling deeper under the duvet now that he was able to.
He hated what he had become. Hated the fact that every part of him seemed to be malfunctioning in some way or another, not least his head which was fuzzy with drugs. Part of him was ashamed of wat he had done and thought he should have been stronger, and yet part of him wanted to do it again, only properly this time. There was no Larson to stage a show for any more, this time he could do it properly, put a bullet through his brain or if he doesn't want to leave a mess for Sherlock and Mrs Hudson there are plenty of more secure forms of medication he can use. How he longs for the medical cupboard at work with its plethora of painless ways to end the pain and fear. Still he will never have access to that again, after all, he doesn't have a job any more. So he turns his back on Sherlock and closes his eyes, trying with the only means available to block things out.
The hours pass in silence. John stares at the ceiling and Sherlock stares at John and no one says anything. The only sound in the room is the slight wheeze that still remains in John's breathing and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Sherlock can feel the tension building in his own mind and he doesn't understand how John can lie there and seemingly not care that he is producing nothing and achieving nothing. Sherlock may be sitting still but his mind is still spinning frantically. If John was an experiment how would he approach him? With a scientific approach and a hypothesis firmly rooted in previous research and solid deductions. But what would John himself say of that? He would make the same speech he had made earlier, that humans were not so easily deduced and fixed… yet John went to a therapist so he had to believe in psychiatry which was firmly rooted in the theory of the human mind as a kind of machine… Correction: John had used to go to a therapist, before, when he had been less happy when he had not been fully functioning….
Sherlock's musings went on and on turning in circles just as John's turned not at all. He let his mind be as blank as possible. He relished in the pain relief that let him float half an inch above himself and worked hard to let his mind grow as clouded as possible. That way he didn't have to think, didn't have to feel… and could almost pretend that he didn't exist.
If anyone else is going to the Sherlock picnic in Regent's Park on the 19th I'll be there and I'm the short woman with the overly long blonde hair and the black jacket.
And anyone who got the Richard III reference in that gets extra credit.