Chapter Text
John smiled at his last patient of the day (a pleasant young woman who had come in complaining of a sore throat) and bid her a good evening. Almost as soon as the door clicked shut, John's phone buzzed in his pocket, twice, signifying two text messages. He rolled his eyes, ignoring it in favour of straightening up the examination room and gathering his things. Sherlock would never catch another glimpse of his work schedule if he could help it. He received several more texts as he prepared to leave, but ignored those too. Sherlock had to learn about timing. Perhaps they could have a talk when he got home.
John was standing at the front of the clinic chatting up the cute new receptionist with whom he had shared a few small smiles throughout the day when Sherlock called him. John groaned and winced slightly as he turned away to take the call. "Sorry, flatmate." He laughed weakly and turned around, nearly growling into his mobile, "What?!"
There was no response on the other side of the line, only a distressed breathing pattern and a quiet noise that sounded like a whimper. After a few seconds, Sherlock hung up, leaving John confused and gaping at his mobile.
He turned back to the receptionist with concern etched in his features. "Sorry, gotta run." He nodded quickly and dashed away, her faint response lost to the thrumming of blood pounding in his ears. Outside the clinic, John paused. His Army training kicked in and he evaluated the situation. Sherlock had texted him incessantly and had actually called him, unusual for his flatmate, but he had waited until John's shift ended. Sherlock had been electronically silent up until then, which was highly uncharacteristic of his friend, but John had considered it a form of apology for last week's row over tongues in the freezer. Sherlock normally had no qualms about pestering him at work over even the littlest things, and if he was in trouble, he would be sure to let John know, regardless of John's agenda. John reasoned that Sherlock must not be in grave danger, but he was clearly distressed, as evidenced by the wordless phone call.
John opened his phone and skimmed through the texts he'd received since his shift had ended.
John.
Come home.
John.
You're off work now.
Come.
John.
Sherlock then called him, hung up almost immediately, and texted John again.
Apologies.
John frowned and texted Sherlock back.
Where are you? JW
Home.
John closed his phone and looked at the time before sliding it into his pocket. Rush hour. The Tube would be packed, with more delays than usual. He pursed his lips and hailed a cab. "221b Baker Street please, and quickly," he ordered.
Fifteen minutes later, John arrived at the flat.
He was met by a disaster area. That is, more of a disaster than usual. He stood in the doorway, looking at the mess before him. Several of his densest medical texts were strewn around the living room–on the coffee table, on the floor, on the couch–some neatly stacked, some lay haphazardly on the floor. Sherlock's violin lay on John's armchair, the case hanging open on the seat and the bow propped up across the arm. There was a trail of clothing – Sherlock's, by the look of it – around the floor, leading up to the detective himself. Sherlock was curled up in his armchair, sitting sideways with his knees drawn to his chest and his head leant against the back. His left arm was wrapped loosely around his shins. The right was bent (somewhat uncomfortably, by the looks of it) to allow him to thread his fingers in his dark curls. He was watching John with a tight expression and guarded eyes. John let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He was mildly relieved to see Sherlock was in fact wearing something (even underwear was better than nothing), but most of all, he was glad to see that his flatmate looked okay – physically, anyway. He moved out of the doorway, putting down his bag and hanging up his jacket.
"Well, I'm here," he said mildly.
Sherlock didn't make any move to leave his chair or even wave lazily at John. He let go of his hair to pick up his phone, which had been lying on his stomach, and fiddled with it. A moment later, John received a text. He looked at Sherlock sideways before taking his mobile out and looking at the message.
I don't feel well.
John lifted his gaze up to Sherlock and asked, "Are you sick?"
Sherlock shook his head and slowly beckoned John with a slight twitch of his fingers.
"Then what's wrong?" John frowned and examined Sherlock closer as he picked his way through the mess on the floor. Sherlock seemed to have a good colour, not flushed and not too pale. The way he was contorted in his chair indicated that he didn't have any serious muscle or bone injuries or pains. They weren't on a case at the moment, which probably accounted for some of Sherlock's mopey attitude, but the past few days had seemed different. Sherlock had been strangely silent, busying himself with God only knew what while John was at the clinic, and ignoring John when he came home, instead going to his bedroom and refusing to come out.
Sherlock didn't offer any answers to John's question. Instead, he continued silently watching John in his usual hawk-like fashion.
After John had worked his way over to Sherlock's armchair, nearly tripping over the shirt on the floor, the detective shifted and snatched his right hand, pulling it to his head. Some of the tension left Sherlock's shoulders, but his face was as tight and pinched as when John had opened the door. Sherlock took a measured breath and tapped out a message on his phone. Meanwhile, John stood next to Sherlock, feeling completely clueless, but going along with it for Sherlock's sake. When Sherlock finished typing, he held up his phone for John to see.
The message read, "I'll explain. Keep your phone out."
John raised an eyebrow and quirked his lips slightly, but nodded. He slipped out his mobile and leaned on the side of Sherlock's chair. He opened his texts with Sherlock and crossed right arm to prop up his left elbow as he waited for Sherlock to explain himself.
Sherlock uncurled himself enough to type easily and immediately started furiously tapping away, pausing a few times and frowning as he typed. When he finished, he sent John the massive text and curled up into a tight ball again.
John waited as one, two, three text messages came in on his mobile. He thumbed through the texts, reading them a few times, and scrubbed his face with his palm. He glanced over the message in its entirety and sighed as he looked down at Sherlock. "Okay, so you're physically fine, not sick, but you can't speak right now because you've..." John glanced back at his mobile. "Lost your words?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and grunted. He curled himself up even tighter, ducking his head between his thighs and his chest.
John's frown deepened slightly. "I don't speak Sherlockese, you know. You'll have to confirm or deny whether that's correct."
Sherlock just snorted.
"Assume my literacy skills are up to par and I've read this correctly, I still have no bloody idea what it means. Or what to do about it," John snapped.
Sherlock fidgeted and grunted again, twisting slightly within his self-contained bundle of limbs and fabric. John just waited and was rewarded with a new text message. Apparently Sherlock wasn't ready to face him yet. Still, something was better than nothing. John took out his phone and read Sherlock's message.
Yes. Lost my words. My mother used that phrase. It's an adequate description. Problem?
John shook his head, shifting his weight and glancing wistfully over at his chair.
Sherlock poked his head out and stole a glimpse, then darted an arm out to block John from moving to his chair. He deftly wrote a text with one hand.
Don't leave me.
John made a quiet noise of protest and said, "I'm not leaving, I'm just tired. I'll put your violin away."
Sherlock slowly released John's arm and nodded his permission. As John dealt with the violin, Sherlock adjusted himself in the chair until he was more or less sitting upright, his legs still curled in front of him. He idly tugged on his hair with his left hand as he watched John clear off the opposite armchair.