Work Text:
A week after The Fall, John’s every movement held a military exactness that spoke of rigid self-control. Friends’ questions, the Press’ comments, and Mrs. Hudson’s offers of tea broke over him like waves, but left no impression.
Sherlock would have seen the fury in the stillness of his hands, read determination in the line of his shoulders, and scoffed at the thought that John 'just needed time to sort himself out.' Inaction had never been his blogger’s strong suit, after all.
The hit-man in John’s bedroom turned out to be excellent therapy.
(Mycroft’s visible wariness on arrival didn’t hurt either.)