Chapter Text
It was nearly midnight, and 221B Baker Street was in chaos. The kitchen table was strewn with half-empty chemical jars and scattered papers. The faint hum of a broken experiment filled the air, but over everything, Sherlock played the violin. The violin helped him think.
He had been struggling on a case for over a week. No leads, no signs of the murderer. And no connection between the two victims. Sherlock was beating himself up over it.
He had giant dark bags under his eyes from his sleepless week. Face hollow from not eating. John had been taking more shifts at the clinic, and Sherlock had been forgetting to eat. Some knuckles split from when he punched the wall earlier in desperation.
John stepped inside, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy with fatigue. He'd just finished a brutal twelve-hour shift at the clinic, and all he wanted was a moment's peace. Instead, the sight before him tightened his chest—the mess, the smell, and Sherlock sitting there, eyes closed, lost in the music. Sherlock looked a mess. He couldn't even manage to take care of himself as soon as John got a life!
John dropped his bag with a tired sigh. "Sherlock, come on." His voice cracked with exhaustion but rose sharply. "Look at this place! Have you seen what you've done? I've been running on empty all day, and you're just sitting there, playing that bloody thing like it's going to solve everything."
Sherlock's melody continued but softer.
John's voice grew louder and sharper, with desperation threading through it. "Do you even care? Because I'm exhausted. I'm trying to hold this mess together, and you don't even seem to notice."
Sherlock opened his eyes slowly but said nothing. John's hands clenched at his sides.
"God, Sherlock! This flat's a disaster. The kitchen's a war zone, the sink's full of who knows what, and you—you just keep playing! Like I'm invisible."
The violin stopped. Sherlock's bow lowered gently. He took a breath as if going to say something but didn’t.
“And Sherlock,” his voice cracked. “I need you to take care of yourself. Even if you don’t care, I do.”
John swallowed, his brows furrowed when Sherlock still didn’t answer when John showed his concern.
In the silence that followed, the tension broke, just enough for the words to slip. "Maybe you are just like what everyone calls you! I am fed up with this "high-functioning sociopath". What about this mess says high-functioning! You're a bloody lunatic!"
Sherlock didn't flinch. He simply dropped the violin from his chin. John almost could swear Sherlock nodded.
"I am going to be out for a little while," he said softly, almost too quietly to hear.
He stood, grabbed his coat, and without another word, left.
John put a hand to his head. “Wait…” Sherlock walked lightly down the stairs.
John’s chest was tight, the exhaustion suddenly deeper than before. He threw his hands up in defeat.
'I shouldn't have said that,' John regretted.
But he will be fine, right? Just give him some space; he seems to deal with the entire police force messing with him, calling him things.
And that would make it hurt all the more. A little voice in his head said.
John stood frozen for a moment, the silence of the flat pressing down on him. His eyes drifted toward the cluttered desk tucked into the corner—a pile of papers, notebooks, and scattered pens.
Something caught his eye: a small leather-bound journal, partially hidden beneath a stack of case files.
Curious despite himself, John bent down and pulled it out. The cover was worn, the edges soft from frequent use. He hesitated, then flipped it open.
The pages were filled with Sherlock's cramped handwriting—thoughts, observations, and sketches from the past week.
But as John scanned the entries, he realised these weren't just notes on the case. They were personal—frustrations, fears, and reflections he'd never seen Sherlock share aloud.
One entry stood out, dated just that day:
"This case is driving me mad. Another was murdered because I can't get my thoughts together. Obviously by the same murderer who killed poor Miss Grace. The same slashes across the throat and symbol carved into the floor. I punched the wall today. I surprised even myself. I just hope John doesn't notice. I would hate for him to feel he has even more work to do. I am trying to be better at doing my part. I picked up some milk today. We ran out."
The writing stopped. The doctor didn't know what to think. He knew he should respect Sherlock's privacy, but he flipped the pages to earlier entries.
"The weirdest thing just happened. John laughed. Not at me like most people do. With me."
The entry was small. As the doctor looked at the old pages, he saw a small crinkled spot. A spot where a tear fell. John could feel his own eyes watering.
"Oh Sherlock, I never knew…" He knew he should stop. But his hand flipped the page.
"I can't believe myself. I was afraid. I saw the hound. My hands are shaking. The adrenaline levels in my body must be terribly high. But I don't think that is why I have the pain in my stomach. I told John I don't have any friends. The heartbreak on his face killed me. Why oh why can't I just be normal? I should be able to just tell John. I don't know why I am so afraid of admitting that not only do I consider him a friend, but he is my best friend. Christ, Mycroft would scold me for being emotional."
John remembered that moment. On their Hounds of Baskerville case.
He shook his head; Sherlock deserves privacy. He was about to close the small black journal when a word caught his eye, "coat".
"Mycroft gave me a coat. I have no idea why. Maybe he just feels bad about my relapse and is trying to motivate me. No, that can't be right. It is a very long coat, a Belstaff. It has many pockets and is soft wool, most likely Irish wool. It is strangely comforting."
John smiled. He knew Sherlock's coat. He never goes anywhere without it. He didn't even leave it when it was burning outside.
He had a funny habit of straightening the collar. John did close the journal that time. He missed Sherlock more than ever, and he hadn't been gone half an hour.