Chapter Text
Morning came and went. At first John assumed Sherlock was merely sleeping late. At noon John knocked on his bedroom door before realizing it was unlocked and the bed empty. No note, no text message concerning where Sherlock had gone – on the other hand, he never did have a habit of leaving any of those thing.
John sighed, and dug out his phone. Damn it, he did not like doing this. Turning to Mycroft for assistance. This time, however, he recognized he might not have all the facts. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to get them from Sherlock.
“Yes?” the elder Holmes answered after a few rings.
John cleared his throat. He did not like this one bit, indulging Mycroft’s voyeuristic habit. “Can you find him?”
Mycroft did not reply. Instead John could hear him talking to someone else. “Ah, yes,” he commented a moment later to the receiver, “Trafalgar Square. Just sitting down.”
John felt relieved. “Just sitting?”
“Looks that way. Even Sherlock does that sometimes, you know, goes out on his own accord to get some air. Is anything the matter?”
“Can you talk? Privately, I mean?”
Mycroft did not reply, but John could hear him walking.
John swallowed. “Before I tell you, I need to know a bit of Sherlock’s medical history.”
“I suppose that is a fair request. I did not wish to reveal more than I had to, considering my brother views me as a busybody already. Not before I was certain of my suspicions. What do you wish to know?”
“Does he have a diagnosis? I know he loves advertising himself as a sociopath, seems to think it’s some sort of a convenient notoriety label that keeps people off his back, but is it just his idea or has an actual mental health professional said as much?”
Mycroft cleared his throat. “First of all, there was never been a unanimous agreement on a singular diagnosis. My brother tends to… Be a bit of a challenge when it comes to collaborating with mental health professionals.”
John chuckled. “I can imagine.”
Mycroft sighed in the slightly melodramatic way which in his case seemed to come naturally. “You really can’t. Once he learned the entire Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders by heart and spent all his appointments monotonously reciting the tome. He was twelve.”
John shook his head, smiling. That did sound like the Sherlock he knew.
“Nevertheless, mostly it’s been antisocial personality disorder with a touch of schizoaffective tendencies coupled with Asperger’s. At first they thought he was autistic. Developmentally challenged, even. But then he opened his mouth and got hold of a violin.”
John couldn’t resist. “You often boast the similarities of the two of you. Share a diagnosis as well, then?”
Mycroft did not seem offended. “I do not have one. There was never really a need for such assesment.”
“And why is that, then?”
John enquired innocently.
“Unlike Sherlock, I learned early when to keep my mouth shut. Anyhow, you feel this has a relevance on my brother’s current well-being?”
“Has he ever heard or seen things that weren’t there?”
John's smile was gone now.
Mycroft did not seem surprised by his question. “Oh yes. Plenty of imaginary friends when he was little. It was not always easy to discern whether he was actually hallucinating or if it was just the result of an overly active imagination. That, and he often carries an internal dialogue, especially during stressful times. This you have probably noticed.”
John agreed. “He does sometimes tell himself to shut up when he’s trying to figure something out.”
“There were some auditory hallucinations back when he was still using. I mostly chalked those up to the drugs even though he never touched hallucinogens as far as I know. Is he experiencing such phenomena at the moment?”
John picked up a stray sock from under the sofa. Sherlock’s, of course. “He admitted as much. Hears my voice in that head of his, of all things.”
Mycroft seemed thoughtful. “Curious. Anything else?”
John took a deep breath. He felt slightly reluctant to plot with Mycroft in such a way, but on the other hand he had been invaluable in assessing Sherlock’s state of mind during the Irene Adler thing. “Sleeps too much, got upset at a crime scene, seems to have lost interest in work. Probably hasn’t been eating much. Bloody awful scar on thigh with ancient stitching. He’s been though the wringer, hasn’t he?”
“Understatement, John. I do not wish to belittle your experiences in Afghanistan but you did have a cohort of comrades with whom you could share the experience. Sherlock had noone, no assurance that someone could be there to get him out if things got really bad. My brother is no saint, but as little as he was willing to tell me, it seems obvious in hindsight that he has had to do things that would land anyone a lenghty prison sentence in any civilized country. The extent to which he wishes you to know the details is his decision, of course. Even I do not have all the information and I did try to watch him carefully.”
“As much as I hate this Orwellian thing you’ve got going in general, I’m glad you did,” John informed him, hoping Mycroft would never repeat his statement to Sherlock.
Mycroft did not reply but John could imagine him smiling. Annoying. “Not that any of this matters, anyhow. He refuses to talk to me. And believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Leave it to me.”
This was exactly what John had not wanted to do. But what choice did he have? Cornering Sherlock was not working. The only result John’s pestering had had was that Sherlock had now felt compelled to leave the apartment to get a moment's peace.
“Take the afternoon off. Go see Mary. Get your mind off things. You might not wish to be there when I confront Sherlock. Danger of damage to eardrums, I’d wager.”
Mycroft and John then exchanged a courteous farewell and hung up.
John did, indeed, spend some time with Mary. It felt refreshing to be free off the oppressive air of the Baker Street apartment. They ate at a restaurant, saw a movie, normal things John had been missing out on lately. Afterwards he had tried to relax at his and Mary’s apartment but when evening came and there still were no communications from neither of the Holmes brothers John began to get worried. He returned to Baker Street later that evening. A suspiciously official-looking town car was parked on Baker street. Mycroft was still inside, then. John took a deep breath and entered. At the top of the stairs his army reflexes kicked in as he quickly ducked to avoid getting hit by a flying candlestick. Mycroft was standing by the fireplace, looking patient but somewhat worn. Sherlock stood on the sofa cushions, glaring daggers at his brother. Without a word, John retreated back to the stairwell and headed downstairs to share a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson who was probably getting worried because of all the commotion.
An hour later, the yelling and the sounds of things being thrown subsided. John climbed back up to the apartment. Mycroft was pulling on his coat, looking serene. “John. I was just going to come and look for you.”
John stole a glance at Sherlock who was sitting on the sofa, looking like he was ready to murder his brother at any moment.
“So?” John asked, embarrassed to be having the conversation in front of Sherlock.
Mycroft finished his buttoning, stuck a hand into his breast pocket and passed John a white-capped bottle. “Risperidone. Low dose for one week.”
John glared at him suspiciously. “An antipsychotic?”
“Has worked fine before in toning down his inner dialogue.”
“How am I supposed to give it to him? Slip it into his teacup?”
Mycroft smiled, looking triumphant. “No need.” He glanced at Sherlock who was not meeting his gaze. “He will take it. Voluntarily.”
John’s turn to glance at Sherlock who had not moved from his spot on the sofa. “Right, then. But surely that’s not all of it.”
“The rest, John Watson, is up to you. And him.”
Mycroft courteously bid his farewell to John and left. John lingered at the door. Then he decided it was time to survey the damage. He sat down next to Sherlock on the couch.
“Disappointed, John.” Sherlock picked up a book and distractedly began leafing through it. He did not leave, though, John noticed to his relief.
John laid his hand on the book and pushed it aside. “I’m sorry. I really am. I just had no idea what to do. I figured he might have some experience with how you act when you’re---“
“What? Traumatized? Psychotic? Depressed? I am none of these things, John.”
John leaned back onto the cushions. Maybe this was going somewhere. Just maybe. “Alright, then. Why do you think I called him? It was actually Mycroft who came to me at first, you know. Asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Sherlock did not look as angry anymore. “It still doesn’t feel right, you sharing with him what I told you. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.”
“I wasn’t under the impression that I was being your doctor at the moment. People usually tell things to their doctor instead of sulking and banging the door in your face.”
“Well, it seems that Mycroft has effectively given you that role with tonight’s little blackmail stunt.”
John was taken aback. Why was he surprised Mycroft would use dirty tricks with his brother? “What’s he done, then?”
“He told me in no uncertain terms that if I refused the medication he would inform Lestrade that I was in no condition to work. Another condition being that I talk to someone.” Sherlock spat out the word 'talk' as though it was toxic.
“You don’t want to, then. Talk, I mean.”
“You talked to a therapist after Afghanistan and look where it got you. Or didn’t get you.”
John pondered this for a moment. “It’s true that it took a lot more than just therapy to get over things. But without it, I do think I would have fared a lot worse without it. No professionals, then, if you don't want to. That leaves just me then? Look, you don’t have to tell me everything. Just tell me what you’re thinking at the moment. You do that all the time anyway,” John reminded him, “Although not lately,” he added, sounding a bit sad.
Sherlock moved off the sofa, deciding to sit cross-legged on the carpet beside it instead. He gazed up at John. “Ask. I don’t know where to start.”
John knew he had to choose his words carefully even though Sherlock did seem a lot more amenable that he’d recently been. “Highgate. Just tell me what happened.”
Sherlock took a long pause before replying. “Before I left, I had mostly only seen the end results of human cruelty. Quiet puzzles of flesh, victims I had never seen alive. During the past two years I have had to experience the process first-hand. What happens before we find them, before it's too late. What it's like to make the desicion to rob someone of their life. I find this is currently affecting my ability to enjoy the game. I don’t regret what I did, it was absolutely necessary. Still, I am rather worried by ability to enjoy the consultant work has been compromised.”
“Sounds logical. Anything else?”
“Moriarty’s gone. Which means that the collective intellectual capacity of London’s criminal elements is, again, depressingly low.”
John sighed. Only Sherlock.
“Anyone would be severely affected by what you’ve obviously gone through lately. Even you. And actually, your reasons for doing all that were better than mine. Afghanistan, I mean.”
Sherlock looked curious. “Why DID you actually go to war, John?”
John looked sheepish. “I guess I was a bit bored with being a regular British doctor, really.”
“You got more than you bargained for?”
“I think I only saw the excitement and the glory. Didn’t really pause to think war would actually be so… Overwhelming. Maybe you just need to acclimatize back to work. I don’t think it’s a permanent thing, all this humanity catching up with you. It’s a bit like in medical school during pathology and forensics classes. The first time you see someone who’s died in a really bad way it’s not easy. First you just see the gore and the horror, it’s only after the initial shock starts to wear off you start analyzing, noticing things. Thinking like a doctor. A scientist.”
Sherlock looked extremely intrigued. “Is that what normal people go through?”
John nodded. “And as for the stupidity of London’s murdereds, robbers and other assorted suchlikes, it’s a cross you’ll just have to bear.”
Sherlock considered this for a moment. “What about the hypersomnia? It’s very irritating.”
“Sleeping six to eight hours every night is not a disease, Sherlock. Although after years of insomnia it might seem so. Once you get back on the horse, getting excited about work, I think the problem will sort itself out. Even if you return to your old sleeping habits, I do hope you’ll start eating a bit more than you have been.”
Sherlock made face. “You sound like bloody Mycroft.”
“Just promise me you’ll talk. Not just your usual stream of consciousness – although I do miss that, too – but if there’s anything bothering you, just say so. Don't let it get to the point where I'll have to drag you home by your lapels and get one of those blankets you hate.”
“I will do my best.”
That he did. Even though John could tell there was much Sherlock was still keeping to himself about his absence, bit by bit he began revealing things that were disturbing and thus distracting him. John made sure the cases they picked mostly built on intrigue instead of gore and bit by bit, the old Sherlock began to materialize. The voice of John’s doppelganger was gone after a few days just as Mycroft had predicted.
A few weeks later, when John arrived at Baker street in the morning, he found Sherlock still sitting in the same armchair as where he’d been the previous evening. He seemed lost in thought and wearing clothes that obviously had not been changed for a day. “Couldn’t go to sleep then?” John asked, and Sherlock was shaken out of his contemplative reverie. “Waste of time,” he remarked, grinning. "Lestrade texted on hour ago, by the way. There's a ritually mutilated corpse in Coventry. Sounds brilliant."
John’s smile was wide. Sherlock was back.