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He stands facing the window, back perfectly straight, violin propped gently on his shoulder, drawing the bow across the strings with the upmost of elegance. The hauntingly beautiful melody echoes in the flat, filling every inch of space with a sound that tugs at the heart. John Watson leans against the doorway, not daring to interrupt. There's a mobile phone clutched loosely in his left hand, an important text message on the screen, but he doesn't want to disturb his flatmate, not just yet. In the two weeks since Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead, this is the first time he has willingly touched his violin, much less made the decision to pick it up and play. Only once the sweet sound gradually drifts off into silence does John sigh and step forward.
"Text for you," he says, holding the phone up as proof. "It's Lestrade. He wants to know if you're interested in one of his crime scenes." There was a time when that wouldn’t have even needed to be asked, but this - everything - Sherlock has been different since he returned. "We don't have to go if you don't want to."
Sherlock turns around and sets his violin down in the case with a tenderness that still seems out of place. He places the bow down beside it and walks over to fetch his coat.
"I'll take that as a yes," says John. To be perfectly honest he's not entirely sure if he wants to go, but Sherlock can't go by himself. He hadn't left the flat much since he returned and none of the Yarders, including Lestrade, have actually seen him in person. John knows that it's too much to hope that Sherlock might've explained the situation even a little in the brief texts he's exchanged with Lestrade. No, this will be an unpleasant encounter all around.
He gets his coat.
They go downstairs together and Sherlock summons a cab with an easy lift of his hand. John tells the cabbie the address and they're off, racing through London just like always, only it feels completely different. He casts a quick searching glance at Sherlock, who is staring straight ahead, and then turns to look out the window. The ride seems to take ages, much longer than fifteen minutes, and John is relieved when they pull up on the scene. He digs around for his wallet and pays the cabbie as Sherlock climbs out and then hurries after him.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaims, catching sight of them. For a moment it seems like he wants to say something else, his mouth open but with nothing coming out. Finally he settles for an awkward smile and a, "Good to see you. The body is over there."
Barely giving him a second glance, Sherlock walks past and goes straight over to the body. John comes to a stop beside Lestrade and is relieved to see the way that Sherlock is fluttering around the victim: it's exactly the way Sherlock used to act, and it feels good to see it. People can say whatever they like about Sherlock and how he treats the dead; if this is what it takes to draw Sherlock out of the dark place he's fallen into then so be it, John certainly isn't going to stand in his way. He watches with one hand resting lightly on his gun, ready for the moment when things might go wrong, and to his dismay it happens much faster than he hoped.
It starts with Donovan. She doesn't like that she's been proven wrong about Sherlock, and it’s written all over her face when she saunters around the corner and catches sight of him. "Hello Freak," she says coldly. "Back from the dead, are you?"
Instead of blasting her with a cutting remark the way John wishes he would, Sherlock ignores her.
Donovan looks even more annoyed. "What's the matter? Am I not good enough to be acknowledged by the great Sherlock Holmes anymore?" she asks sarcastically.
John tenses, but still doesn’t intervene. Sherlock has always dealt with Donovan on his own terms. He wants to see what will happen. But then it seems like nothing will because Sherlock is still ignoring her. In fact, he’s taking a notepad out of the pocket of his coat and starting to write, his pen moving frantically across the lines of the page. After a moment of confusion, John realizes that he's writing his deductions down. He's almost surprised that Sherlock isn't just texting them instead.
He's not quite sure what happens next. Donovan starts to move, her body tilting towards Sherlock, one hand outstretched like she’s going to grab him by the wrist. Later she'll insist that she was just going to walk back over to the other officers. John doesn't believe her, but he hasn't got any proof. Whatever the case, the handcuffs looped through her belt catch the sunlight just as her fingers brush against Sherlock’s coat. The result is a brilliant flash of silvery light that catches them all in the eyes. And while he's blinded, John hears this sound. It's low and sharp, almost like an animal that's crying out in pain, and he's never heard anything like it before but he knows instinctively that he never wants to hear it again.
Because when the spots have faded and he can see again, he sees Sherlock crouched on the ground, hands in front of his face, and Donovan staring down at him like he's gone mad.
“Donovan!” Lestrade barks. He starts to step forward, but John catches his arm.
“Let me,” he says, quiet, intent.
Lestrade hesitates for a split second before nodding. “Alright, I’ll take Sherlock around the corner.” He moves over to Sherlock, cautious-like, and gently helps Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock is trembling and he flinches when Lestrade touches him, but he allows the inspector to guide him away from the crime scene. Once they’re gone, Donovan takes one look at John and goes white. He doesn’t wait for her to speak.
“What,” he begins in a soft, deadly voice, “is wrong with you? I know you’re a judgemental bitch, Donovan, but I would think that as a police officer you’d understand that looming over someone who has been traumatized is never a good idea!” As he speaks, he can feel the weight of his own guilt setting in. Why didn’t he stop Donovan as soon as he saw her heading over to Sherlock? Why hadn’t he talked to Lestrade as soon as they walked onto the crime scene? He clenches his fists loosely and goes on, “If you ever call him a freak or any other name ever again, if you ever act towards him in a way that he perceives as threatening again, I can assure you that I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
Donovan just stands there, mouth open a little. John walks past her before he gives into the urge to punch her in the face and finds Lestrade and Sherlock standing just around the corner. Sherlock is sitting on the ground, face pale and eyes haunted and shaking all over, and Lestrade is crouched in front of him, speaking in low, soothing tones. “It’s alright, Sherlock. We’re in London, at a crime scene, and you were examining the victim,” he’s saying. He looks relieved to see John.
“Trauma,” John says without waiting for him to ask. “Mycroft thinks... He was held captive by some of Moriarty’s men for a while.” Just saying it still makes his stomach twist viciously, particularly when Sherlock flinches at the name.
“Fuck,” Lestrade breathes softly. “What the hell did they do to him? He won’t even talk to me.”
“He doesn’t talk to anyone,” says John. “I’m sorry, I thought this would be good for him but I think it’s too soon. We’re going to go home.”
“I could come by later,” Lestrade offers, “bring the case files around. If you think it’d help.”
John shoots him a grateful look. “That’d be great,” he says, because he thinks that part of the problem is that Sherlock has gotten lost, trapped inside of that enormous brain of his, and solving a crime but from the safety and comfort of 221b may help. He waits until Lestrade has walked away before he kneels in front of Sherlock and places a gentle hand on the detective’s cheek to get his attention. “Hey.”
Sherlock looks up at him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t stop her from doing that, Sherlock.” He watches carefully and is rewarded with a blink and a slight tilt of the head. He says, “I shouldn’t have just stood there. I’m supposed to be helping you. I guess... I guess some part of me is still a bit angry at you for leaving, and I…” He can’t bring himself to finish that sentence, goes with, “And I hate that because sometimes I imagine what you’ve been through, and I know it’s not even close and I feel like I should’ve been there to stop it.” He sighs heavily and leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. Sherlock allows the contact, even leans into it. “I’ll be here for you from now on, okay? I promise.”
Slowly, Sherlock’s hands come up and clutch at his jacket.
It’s a start.