Chapter Text
Well, Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead.
“That’s boring. John. John. John. Come on, you’re being boring.”
John stares at his screen and doesn’t think about the thing he’s not thinking about. He holds the backspace button for a second or so.
Well, his laptop now reads.
“How’s the blog going?” John doesn’t need to look at Sherlock to know that he’s just asking to be polite. It’s growth, he supposes, that Sherlock cares enough to ask John questions Sherlock doesn’t want to know the answer of.
“Hm? Oh. Good.”
Sherlock doesn’t question any further, as he’s flicking through the pages of newspaper dated 14/01/2012. “Did anyone solve this one whilst I was away?”
“You’ll have to specify, mate.”
“Nevermind. It’s clear as day.”
John presses a couple of random letters for the sake of feeling like he’s actually doing something. “Yeah?”
“The postman did it. If you look closely at the photograph attached to the first paragraph, you can see that his hand is shining. Why? ‘Maybe he’s wearing sunscreen,’ I hear you say. In the middle of January? Unless he has a skin condition, no. There’s something…”
Sherlock rambles on, and John’s not entirely sure when he stops paying attention. It’s more difficult for him to keep his focus nowadays, but then again, a lot of things are more difficult for him nowadays.
Like the days where Sherlock is away from Baker Street, on which John doesn’t really bother with getting out of bed, except for when he needs to do what absolutely has to be done. He eats a lot more, and occasionally, nothing at all, depending on what kind of fatigue has washed over him. If he eats, it’s usually whatever he can find in the pantry that’s edible, or takeaway. Microwaved meals if he has the energy to go to Tesco’s.
Sherlock invites him to go on cases on the days that he is at the apartment, which is more often than not, considering he lives there. John never declines. It drains him, to keep up the pretense that everything is exactly the way it was before. He doesn’t mind all that much. He likes the idea that he’s wanted somewhere.
Ella would tell John that this isn’t a healthy way of living, nor a sustainable one. John would tell her to sod off. He’s not going to kill himself as long as Sherlock wants him around. He’s not even that sure yet if he’d kill himself if Sherlock decided he didn’t want John around, or if he’d stick around ‘til he eventually dies of old age, because it’s less embarrassing than potentially failing to commit suicide and having to face the consequences. Of course, he’s a doctor, he was a soldier, he knows how to die and stay dead, but he’s also acquainted with two men who seemingly know everything that’s going on in London at all times. He’d likely be acquitted to a psychiatric hospital before he’s even opened the drawer of his little bedside table to reach for his gun.
So. John’s staying, for the time being. It’s all the same. It’s all fine to him.
“—so, with the gardener out of the picture, and the housekeeper dead, there’s only the postman who could’ve done it. John, call Lestrade.”
“Uh, what for?”
“The case! The death of Dr. Josie Linde, John, I’ve just solved it.”
“Oh, the… postman. Thing. Sure, I’ll give ‘im a ring.” John feels as though he’s performing in a play he’s last read the script to two and a half years ago. He’s not sure whether he’s surprised that Sherlock hasn’t called his bluff yet, but, then again, it has been two and a half years since he’s seen the person John used to be. “Shit, no, sorry, I remember that article, now that I think about it. It got solved a year or so ago, I think. Pass me the teapot?”
Sherlock scoffs, but hands him the half-empty pot anyhow. It’s grown cold.
“Thanks.” There’s a thick pause that hangs between them as John takes a sip of the tea. Nauseating bitterness fills his mouth. Sherlock hadn’t taken the tea bag out. John swallows thickly, a sour look passing his face before he manages to compose himself. “Any interesting cases recently? Other than the postman.”
“Unless Moriarty is back from the dead, no, probably not,” a voice on the right side of John muses. John doesn’t have to turn his head to know that that’s not really Sherlock speaking.
Ah. There was that other thing. That ‘John Watson has fully lost it’, other thing. That ‘John Watson is hallucinating a friend who is there, in the flesh’, other thing. One of the few things John’s neglecting to tell Sherlock, and truly, it’s only a few things that John’s neglecting to tell Sherlock. One, if you group them all together, really. So hardly anything at all.
Sherlock dogears a page in the newspaper. “People keep writing to me. Terribly dull.”
“Dull things are dull,” the Sherlock in John’s head adds. “Dull, dull, dull, everything’s dull. Like groceries. Did you get groceries yet?”
“Oh yeah? What about?”
“Dead dogs, murderous butlers, blah, blah, blah… something about a bloody kitchen knife… ‘Oh, my poor kitten’s stuck in a tree, and I don’t know how sweet little Whiskers got up there!’ I should remove our address from the website, don’t you think?”
“You should probably get groceries. We’re out of eggs. Boring!”
John chuckles. “It would certainly make our lives a lot easier.” He takes another sip of his cold, bitter tea.
Sherlock flips to the very back of the newspaper. Without looking at John, he goes, “Is something the matter?”
“Matter? Dark matter? Purely hypothetical. Quantum mechanical. Theoretical. Boring and dull. Next case, please!”
John takes yet another sip, and then puts his cup down. “Nothing of note. Why do you ask?”
“You take approximately a second longer than usual to respond to what I say. You’re a bit pale, your eyes are unfocused, and you avoid looking at the entire right side of the room. Furthermore, your tremor is back.” Sherlock lowers the newspaper to make eye contact. It takes everything in John to not bolt. “Your symptoms appear to be the consequence of some level of sleep deprivation. So, that’s why I ask, is something the matter?”
“So obvious! Quite obvious. Are you going to get eggs?”
John doesn’t show the relief he’s feeling at the easy way out Sherlock gave him. “Nothing new. I haven’t been sleeping too well since…”
“Since?” Sherlock prompts when John falters. He’s put down the newspaper now, leaning forward, looking at John with intrigue.
Either when you jumped or somewhere around the time you came back and made it everyone’s problem. “...Afghanistan.” It’s what makes Sherlock shut up the quickest. Emotions. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Something along those lines. It’s not something Sherlock’s built to deal with. It’s not in his system. “I guess the boredom is causing the memories to catch up to me. Sorry if that’s not interesting enough for you.” Though the last remark was intended to be a lighthearted joke, it came out harsh and rough, as though John was coughing up sandpaper.
“Get eggs. Soufflée. Omelette. Poached. Poacher. Animals. Hunting? Deerstalker. Hat! You should start wearing hats. Balding is a problem for men your age.”
It’s not too late to kill yourself, enters John’s mind. He pushes the thought back for a later moment.
Sherlock stares at John for a couple of seconds longer than what feels natural, then he turns his attention back to the newspaper. He hesitates for a moment, skimming the back over and over for around a minute, before finally mustering up: “Would you–? You’d tell me if there’s anything I could help you with.”
“Eggs. Milk. Cereal. Beer. There’s a can of beer in the fridge. Two cans. Harry could be drunk out of her mind right now. I hope she’s not. You should give her a call.”
“Yeah. ‘Course, mate.”
It’s not technically a lie.