Chapter Text
The quiet hum of the Baker Street flat was occasionally interrupted by the rustling of papers and the soft clink of glass beakers. Sherlock Holmes, normally an imposing figure of brilliant intellect and sharp wit, was curled up on the couch in an unusual state. His usually meticulous appearance was dishevelled: his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose around his neck, and his normally sharp gaze soft and confused.
John Watson entered the room, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took in the sight of his best friend—no, his charge—looking small, vulnerable, and entirely out of place.
"Sherlock?" John asked gently, stepping into the room and kneeling beside the couch. "Are you okay?"
Sherlock’s head jerked up, his wide eyes blinking in confusion. His mouth opened and closed as if searching for the right words, but they didn’t come. Instead, his lips trembled slightly, and he lowered his head, his arms wrapping around his knees. His usual composure was gone, replaced by the fragile uncertainty of a child.
"I… I don’t… I don’t know," Sherlock whispered, his voice small and uncertain. He looked at John, eyes filled with a mix of confusion and vulnerability. "Why do I feel… like this?"
John’s heart ached at the sight. Sherlock’s mind had always been so sharp, so unyielding. This regression—this sudden shift in age and mind—was both unsettling and heartbreaking. But John had been through this before, had learned over time how to care for Sherlock when he became… like this.
"Hey, it's alright," John said softly, his voice a comfort as he reached out, gently rubbing Sherlock’s back in a soothing circle. "You’re not alone, Sherlock. We’re here."
Sherlock didn’t respond right away, instead letting out a small sigh, his eyes fluttering closed. He had never fully understood how these regressions worked—how his mind could be swept back to a time when he was younger, more vulnerable, more… innocent. But when it happened, it was like everything about the world changed. The case files no longer held his attention, the chemistry experiments no longer intrigued him, and the sharp puzzles that once defined his existence felt distant and unimportant. All he wanted now was comfort, safety, and the warm embrace of the people he trusted.
As if on cue, the door to the flat opened, and Mary Watson entered, her arms full of groceries. She froze when she saw Sherlock on the couch, his small, hunched form a stark contrast to the usual composed detective.
"John?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern as she dropped the bags onto the table. "What’s going on? Is he…"
John stood up, his expression weary but calm. "Yeah. He’s regressed again. Not sure why. But he needs us."
Mary’s eyes softened with understanding. She stepped over to Sherlock, kneeling in front of him, her hands gentle as she cupped his face, bringing his gaze up to meet hers. "Hey, Sherlock. Can you tell me what happened? How are you feeling?"
Sherlock swallowed hard, his lower lip trembling slightly as he looked at Mary. He didn’t know how to explain it. How could he? How could he explain the feeling of being trapped inside a mind that didn’t feel like his own?
"I don’t… I don’t know," he whispered again, his voice faltering. "I’m not… me. I don’t feel… right."
Mary’s heart broke at his words. She had seen Sherlock at his most brilliant, his most insufferable, and even at his most vulnerable—but seeing him like this, a child unable to comprehend his own mind, made her want to protect him in a way she never had before.
"That’s okay, Sherlock," she said softly, her thumb brushing over his cheek. "You don’t have to know. We’ll help you, alright? You’re safe with us. We’ll take care of you."
Sherlock nodded slowly, his large, expressive eyes filling with a mix of relief and uncertainty. The words felt like a lifeline, something solid in a world that was suddenly too big and overwhelming.
John watched the exchange with a quiet smile. He had never expected this—never imagined that his brilliant, sometimes insufferable friend would become this fragile, dependent version of himself. But as much as it surprised him, he knew one thing for certain: Sherlock needed them now, more than ever.
"Alright, Sherlock," John said, moving back toward the couch and sitting down beside him. "How about we get you something to eat? You must be hungry."
Sherlock shook his head, clearly uninterested in food, but the offer seemed to settle him slightly. His body relaxed against the couch, though his hands were still clenched tightly around his knees.
"I don’t want food," he murmured. "I just want… to understand."
Mary sat beside him, her hand gently resting on his shoulder. "We’ll help you understand, Sherlock. But right now, it’s okay not to know. Just let us take care of you."
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might drift off to sleep. Mary exchanged a look with John, her expression soft but serious.
"How long do you think this will last?" she asked in a low voice.
John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Hard to say. It could be hours, it could be days. But we’ll make sure he’s okay. We always do."
They both looked down at Sherlock, who was now curled up on the couch, his breathing steady and slow. In his regressed state, he was fragile, but still Sherlock—still the brilliant man who had changed both their lives in ways they could never fully describe. And in that moment, it wasn’t about solving cases or cracking mysteries. It was about taking care of the man they both loved, in whatever form he took.
"Do you think he remembers us?" Mary asked softly, her voice filled with a quiet concern.
John thought for a moment before answering, his tone gentle. "I think he does, in his own way. He may not have all the words, but he knows we’re here for him. That’s enough for now."
Mary smiled, her hand brushing through Sherlock’s hair as she whispered, "We’ll be here, Sherlock. Always."