»»──────　SH　──────««

It was getting dark; the wind was playing with bare branches of trees, and heavy drops of water were pouring down the sky-half snow, half rain. The lights of the streetlamps were reflecting in expanding puddles, and the soft rain drummed onto the glass.

Christmas was around the corner, but when you live in England, you can't expect any extensive snowdrifts.

Sherlock stood by the window in the living room, gently nuzzling his violin against his chin.

To his great relief, he could throw his worries about not being able to play due to his large hands behind him.

True, at first, it was difficult to get used to the different grip on the neck of the violin as Sherlock's fingers took up more space than before. He might have hit an off-key tone here and there, but it wasn't long before he was pressing the strings as briskly as ever.

He couldn't understand how he could have been without his loyal instrument for so long. His anchor he knew for sure he could count on. An ever-listening ear that paid attention to everything he had to say as it lay on his shoulder in a judgeless devotion. His mellifluous companion had already helped him overcome so much-the infinite frustration during the drug withdrawal, a sense of loss and failure in the "Adler case", even the fear and uncertainty that got a hold of him when he realised what Moriarty was up to.

He hoped it would listen to him even now...

A high-pitched hiss from the kitchen mixed in with the sombre, complex composition as John heated the oil in a Teflon pan and dropped something into it. Sherlock didn't let it disturb him and continued to focus on the music.

Until a smell of frying oil tickled his nose. And there was something else, something odd, sweetish, earthy...

Sherlock froze and gritted his teeth. No!

There are so many meals in the world, and John must have gotten a craving for this?!'

He clenched the bow in his fist so tightly it was a wonder he didn't break it in two and began to torture the strings in a temperamental, abstract melody.

For being a very capable violinist, he coaxed the perfect monstrosity out of the instrument, and the longer the food was fried, the more appalling the detective played.

By the wild tones, the tortured ears and nerves of everyone within earshot, trying to drown out the sizzle of the oil and the rage overtaking him. His ears were ringing, his insides turning into restless, twisting snakes, and he wasn't far from throwing up right on the carpet.

And he wouldn't let that happen.

That disgusting thing has to go, he decided.

With that thought encouraging him, Sherlock put down the violin and marched into the kitchen, towards the source of the mushroom smell that filled almost every corner of the flat, stinging his nose.

The frying pan sat innocently on the stove, covered with a glass lid to let mushrooms braise a little. Anyone else wouldn't mind at all. But it was like a red rag to a raging bull to the detective.

An irrational desire to get rid of the meal that arose a feeling of anxiety, and the deep revulsion won out over the cold logic he always tried to follow.

And before John could get the plate out of the cupboard, Sherlock strode towards the cooker, grabbed the pan, and spilled its contents into the trash bin, a sensation of profound satisfaction settling in his belly. It was gone, gone, gone!

"Umm, Sherlock? Do you have any logical explanation why I should go to bed without dinner tonight?" he heard his friend's annoyed voice behind his back.

Sherlock froze and felt sweat break out on the back of his neck.

Right, this wasn't one of his brightest ideas, he admitted... On the other hand, it could have turned out even worse-he could have come up with the idea to throw the whole thing out of the window or to trample it all over the kitchen.

Anyway, he must have looked like an immature lunatic.

Sherlock set the empty pan back on the hob in a forced calmness and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. As if he hadn't just thrown John's entire dinner in the rubbish.

"I just spared you a nasty stomach ache... You shouldn't eat mushrooms before going to bed. You're a doctor, you should know such things..." he came out immediately with an excuse to cover his guilt.

In his defence, he wasn't lying-he knew very well what he was talking about, vividly remembering the night he had been convulsing in spasms of a gallbladder attack.

John, however, wasn't as naïve as everyone thought, and unfortunately for Sherlock, it didn't seem probable that he would buy some of his excuses. He placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah, sure... And now tell me the true reason...

Sherlock put on one of the most confused-looking faces, carefully contemplating his next words so he could change the subject. "I've just told you. Really, John, if you're hard of hearing, maybe you should visit-" he remarked in his know-it-all tone, which often drove John mad.

"Dammit, Sherlock, I'm not in the mood for your games! Could you stop fooling around and tell me instead what the hell's got into you?!" the doctor yelled, banging his fist on the kitchen counter with such force that the dishes rattled in the sink.

Sherlock gasped.

He has had the pleasure to meet the 'angry John' several times, but the doctor behaved still quite calmly compared to his angrier side. It never troubled Sherlock before-he believed that his strong morals wouldn't allow John to harm him in any way. He held an unconditional faith in John, and not even his army reflexes could make Sherlock doubt him.

The furious (although entitled) outburst, in combination with a loud bang and the smell of mushrooms, elicited a memory he would rather forget if he ever could.

»»──────　★　──────««

His face contorted in sheer revulsion, and it was only by force of will that he suppressed the urge to spit out the mouthful of scrambled mushrooms.

He swallowed.

The mouthful immediately returned to his throat, and he couldn't keep it in his mouth anymore. A slimy piece of a mushroom slipped out of his lips, smearing his T-shirt, leaving a greasy trace on a worn, ratty fabric.

Sherlock blanched.

"Is there a problem? Don't tell me you don't like it?"

"I don't eat mushrooms..." Sherlock blurted.

A pale hand grabbed Sherlock under the chin and squeezed his cheeks between its thumb and index finger, cruelly pinching his face.

"You'll start to! Just to be clear, mister Holmes, I will not tolerate any back talk! Do you think you're any threat to me? You can't defeat me, you can't even run away from me! You're no stronger than a kitten! You belong to me, and I can do whatever I want to you! So, if you don't want to tell me what we're here for, then you should shut up and be grateful that I'm in a good mood today!"

»»──────　★　──────««

Something similar to electric shock crossed through Sherlock's body and his instinct made him jump back. Regrettably, it had failed to alert him that there was a table standing two or three steps behind and so Sherlock didn't stand a chance to dodge it at such a speed.

Not only had he rammed his hip, but as he startled at the loud noise, he lost his balance and mindlessly grabbed at the edge of the table to prevent himself from falling. As he did so, his palm brushed inadvertently against John's freshly made tea.

The mug overturned, spilling the hot drink onto Sherlock's hand, from the tips of his fingers up to his wrist. However, he paid no attention to the burnt skin, nor to the bumped side, which throbbed painfully in places where the table desk came in contact with sensitive flesh.

Sherlock's face drained of colour and the pain and shock paralysed him so much he couldn't move. At the last minute, he reached out in a frantic attempt to grab John's favourite mug but -

CRASH.

»»──────　JW　──────««

John's face crumpled in shock.

And no, it wasn't because Sherlock just broke his favourite RAMC mug he had gotten from Harry the very day she saw him to the airport as he departed from England for army services in Afghanistan, repeatedly urging him to be careful. Not even because of Sherlock's scalded hand, which was rapidly turning red, and if he didn't cool it down soon, his skin would break out in nasty blisters.

It was because of those enormous eyes, reminiscent of a startled deer in headlights, that his stomach twisted.

Jesus, Sherlock seemed to be truly afraid of him. The Sherlock Holmes who dared to smile right in John's fuming face (and to tell him with a godlike calmness that he had borrowed one of his things, often irretrievably because he desperately needed it for an experiment) was now huddled less than a metre away, his face showing that he expected John to hit him.

How come he didn't see it before? How could he miss something so obvious? He's been so focused on Sherlock's physical issues that he's completely overlooked the mental ones! To be honest, he was a bit surprised by the fact he could have any.

"Sherlock?" John croaked and wrinkled his eyebrows in concern. A heavy feeling of guilt settled in his chest.

Sherlock woke up from the trance, and John saw a genuine regret on his face. "I'm sorry, John..." he breathed out and bowed down for the broken pieces of porcelain.

"Leave it, Sherlock. I'll pick it up," John shook his head and took out a dustpan and a brush from the cabinet under the sink. "You come here and cool down that hand of yours. The tea was quite scalding," he suggested and turned the tap on.

To his great surprise, Sherlock actually listened to him for once and put his burned hand under the cool, running stream. John couldn't decide whether it was a good sign or a bad one.

Sherlock has always been a stubborn bullet-head and they bickered over incomparably worse injuries.

'Must be because of the racket I just made,' John thought with a guilty prick under his ribs and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He was totally done today.

A colleague of his had called him as he was getting ready for work this morning, with an apology that he had caught a nasty intestinal flu and asked John to take up his patients for today. As if that wasn't enough, the waiting room had been bursting at the seams, with the flu season in full swing at the beginning of November.

Finally, after a day spent by throat examinations, nasal swabs, and listening to lungs (and a one-sided argument with a hysterical woman who screamed at him she wouldn't get vaccinated for all the tea in China), John comes home, propelled by a vision of a tasty, warm dinner.

And then his crazy flatmate storms into a kitchen and throws his entire meal in the trash! Who wouldn't have lashed out, especially with an empty stomach?

But how could he have known that he would get such a reaction? The last time he saw Sherlock this scared was when he claimed to him he had actually seen a monster with glowing red eyes in Dewer's Hollow.

John squatted down with a deep sigh and thoroughly began to sweep away the shards, keeping in mind that Sherlock often walked barefoot.

He'd be lying if he said that he didn't regret the shattered gift from his sister. It reminded him of times when Harry laughed without of need of alcohol to do so.

But his big sister has changed, and not for the better.

Whether it was because of the breakup with Clara, his enlistment in the army, or the death of their mother, John did not know, and to be honest, he couldn't summon the courage to ask. Her heartiness and openness were washed away by the rum, vodka, and other alcoholic beverages that Harriet poured down her throat practically daily.

Her addiction has subsided a bit in the past few months as John's mourning forced her to grit her teeth and start the withdrawal therapy again. John could do nothing else but support her and hope that her abstinence would last this time.

Still, it was just a mug, he kept reminding himself. A piece of broken china can't take away his relationship with his sister!

Once John made sure that he had swept the floor to the last fragment, he rose to his feet and threw the mess from the dustpan in the waste bin. Then he disappeared into the bathroom, only to return with a first-aid kit in his hand. He has almost forgotten they own it, because its primary use was always for Sherlock.

"It's just a burn, John, no need to be so dramatic about it," Sherlock objected, rolling his eyes theatrically, and sat down on the chair.

"I'll put a dressing on it," John insisted uncompromisingly, drew another chair closer to the detective, and took a seat opposite him.

Opening the first aid kit, he reached for a bandage and a tube of burn ointment. He squeezed a little from the tube onto his fingertip, then took Sherlock's left hand and gently rubbed the jelly ointment into the wrinkled, inflamed skin. A white trace appeared where John touched it, then turned pink again.

"I'm sorry about the mug," murmured Sherlock, breaking the growing silence between them.

"That's okay. It was my fault. I shouldn't have lashed out. So many things happened today, and I just snapped..." said John as he carefully applied the cooling gel to the swelling blister heads that were rising on Sherlock's knuckles.

Once John had applied the ointment to Sherlock's irritated skin, he wrapped the bandage around his hand with the swift precision of a general practitioner-not tight, not loose, just right so it would hang on to the burn wound without clinging to it too snugly.

"I probably should be used to your erratic behaviour by now, for how long I've known you," John remarked to lighten up the atmosphere, but Sherlock didn't smile. On the contrary, his face grew even more serious.

"But... If I'm making you uncomfortable or you don't enjoy having me around, I can return to my old flat..." John added, albeit unwillingly. The thought of leaving made his throat tighten. It's been barely two weeks, and he should say goodbye to him already?

But if he knew that his departure would help Sherlock relax and feel more like himself, he would pack his things right away and go. Mycroft can screw himself-he can't force John to stay if his brother is against it...

He raised his gaze from the bandaged hand he held in his, awaiting the detective's verdict.

Sherlock stared in astonishment. "You're right, you must be overworked today. How else would you come up with such a rubbish conclusion?"

"Why are you avoiding me, then? Don't think I didn't notice."

"John."

"And what about the scene you made a while ago? You looked as if Satan himself was standing before you."

"John..."

The doctor understood that it was time to shut his mouth. Sherlock's voice sounded tense, indicating clear signs of a warning that John should let it go. Sherlock might seem tough-skinned, but John saw right through him. Whatever happened to his friend, he didn't want John to know.

Sherlock's odd behaviour worried him. Maddeningly. What he witnessed a few moments ago seemed like a clear sign that there's more to Sherlock's sudden change than just a tough time.

Despite all of his concerns, John complied with his wish. Obviously, Sherlock had his reasons to keep it secret, but he meant no harm and he certainly didn't intend to hurt anyone.

He's not dead and, thank God, not even ill. Yes, John felt a bit betrayed by the lack of trust on Sherlock's side, but he would respect his privacy. And although his tongue itches in curiosity, he'll bite it to stop any question that will attempt to escape his mouth-he won't make the same mistake he made right after his return to Baker Street.

"I'm sorry, John..." Sherlock said suddenly.

John frowned in confusion. "For what?" he asked. What was Sherlock sorry for? John should be the one apologizing for pressing and embarrassing him.

Sherlock remained silent for a long time, and John waited in patience, giving him time to organise his thoughts. Whatever he was about to say, it had to be important.

"I'm sorry that I lied to you..." Sherlock replied finally and raised his head reluctantly.

John had no doubt that he truly meant it-nothing but pure sincerity radiated from every part of his body.

"What?" he blinked, almost dazed, and for a while he thought he must have misheard him. "You actually know that word?"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, of course I know it, John... I'm simply saving it for important moments. I won't use it for nothing..." he explained in a mock annoyed voice, letting John know that he should have known this about him a long time ago.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head in amusement. There were days he almost dared say he already knew Sherlock quite well... and then Sherlock came up with something new and absolutely unexpected. Some things never change...

"You know I hate repeating myself. But I'll say it one more time, for you..."

All of a sudden, Sherlock dropped the sarcastic tone and gave him the pure apology he owed John. "I apologize for not telling you anything and letting you live in the belief that I'm dead."

A pleasant warmth spread in John's chest, and even though Sherlock's words couldn't erase the pain that his "death" caused him, they soothed his soul, because they were exactly what he needed to hear.

John absentmindedly ran his thumb across the back of Sherlock's bandaged hand. "Thanks," he said finally. He would do anything, anything at all, to make things go back to normal and for Sherlock to be himself again-with a belly or not... Just so he would bounce back into that strong, confident man who rarely let anything get on his nerves.

The corners of Sherlock's lips raised in a small, watery smile, and John wondered if this man could read minds. Sometimes it seemed that way...

Sherlock gave John's fingers a light squeeze, then extricated himself from John's tender grip and stood up. "I know you want to help me, but it will help me the most if you don't ask me anymore," he said, and John could do nothing but nod.

As if he could ever deny him something...

»»──────　☆　──────««

"Jeez, you look horrible, John... What's going on?"

"Charming as ever, Greg... It's nothing; I'm just a bit worn out, I guess; who wouldn't be when there's a full waiting room every day," John waved it off with his hand and drank from his pint.

They were sitting at the farthest table in the back of the pub, right by the window. The restaurant buzzed with life in this evening hour; many Londoners came here to spend their free time by a sit-down with their friends, along with a tasty meal or drink, unwinding a bit from everyday busy life.

John got the same idea today and went out for a pint with Greg. He needed to switch off. To get out of the flat for a moment and confer with someone. To have a chat with someone without watching every word that escapes his mouth.

Questions John wanted to ask his taciturn, secretive flatmate piled up inside him like unwiped dust, and the longer he avoided those "forbidden" topics, the more he feared he wouldn't keep his mouth shut and he'd blurt out something he'd regret later.

He leaned his elbows on the table with a deep sigh and rubbed his forehead. "Greg, I would never think I'd say this, but I would kill for a case..." he smirked at the absurdity of that sentence and the situation itself.

Him, John Watson, the army doctor, the person who was supposed to be helping people with their maladies, wishes for someone's death so he could help his flatmate... A doctor worthy of promotion indeed...

He raised the glass to his lips.

"I would love to, trust me. I already tried even," Greg paused with a sigh and scratched at the back of his neck. "Sherlock has already turned down seven cases-and not just any cases-those were eights at least, I tell ya..."

John felt his eyes widen, and he gasped for air, inhaling a hefty gulp of the sparkling, bitter drink, and started to cough.

"What?" he wheezed after a while.

Had he been anybody else, he would have appreciated the sudden change in the detective's eccentric behaviour. John, on the other side, wasn't anybody and saw it as a reason for serious concern.

If Sherlock was rejecting such highly ranked cases, there was something very, very wrong.

Sherlock loved solving cases. His life literally revolved around them, and as soon as one didn't arrive within two days, he was already venting his annoyance on the wall or on the fridge. And when he almost crawled on the ceiling in boredom, he brought something from the mortuary at least so he could entertain his ever-thinking, brilliant mind with some disgusting experiments. Yep, anyone would be immediately packing up their things and looking for a new flatmate after this discovery, but it takes more than that to intimidate John Watson.

It concerned him how "un-Sherlockishly" his friend behaved. This simply wasn't like him, not at all!

He even suggested several times that a nice, interesting case might do them good, but as soon as their conversation headed in that direction, Sherlock changed the topic.

Since his resurrection, John hadn't come across a single body part, or a jar filled with God knows what. (Not that he would complain, it was actually nice to open the fridge without a cut foot waiting for you or, God forbid, something worse...)

But watching his best friend dissimulate on a daily basis as he pretended everything was absolutely okay made John's heart ache. He knew Sherlock wasn't okay.

His façade might seem tough, but they say that eyes are windows to the soul. And those eyes, so bright and alive before, looked haunted, their usual gleam and enthusiasm replaced by an alarming blankness and deep bags under his lower lashes, reminiscent of large violet bruises.

And what he found even more disturbing was Sherlock's dining attitude. His non-existent attitude, in fact. John hasn't seen him take a single bite since the night he caught him munching on Mrs Hudson's strudels.

He knew for sure Sherlock had to eat at some point, he was told so by the dwindling food in the fridge. After all, his body couldn't be further from being malnourished...

John had no intention of embarrassing him, so he treated him no differently than he did a few months ago. When John asked Sherlock what he would like to eat and Sherlock replied "nothing", he asked him no more, nor pressured him into anything. The list of food he was supposed to get from the grocery store didn't significantly differ from the one he had been shopping with before the detective's "death". He didn't wonder why there was only half a shepherd's pie when he could certainly say that it was still whole yesterday.

But it was killing him. It tormented him that he didn't know what was going on. His heart clenched every time Sherlock lied to his face. And what bothered him the most was that he had absolutely no idea how to help him.

John should know it; he's his best friend, goddammit! He knows better than to expect Sherlock to come grovelling and beg him for help-how could he? Sherlock's overgrown pride did not allow him such things.

If only he owned at least a piece of Sherlock's amazing deduction skills! A few glances, and he would have known immediately what was happening in Sherlock's funny, troubled head.

"What happened to him, Greg? This isn't him. Sherlock doesn't turn down interesting cases! He doesn't lumber around the flat like a shadow and definitely doesn't break down at the slightly raised voice!" John gestured wildly, ignoring the curious gazes of onlooking guests.

Lestrade circled his finger over the edge of the pint. "I'm worried about him as well, mate. But you can't blame him for not being himself. He's been through an awful lot, and it's understandable he's not in a mood to hold forth about it..."

As soon as he finished the sentence, Greg faltered visibly as he realised that maybe he shouldn't have mentioned the last part.

And John immediately latched onto that piece of information. "No... Don't tell me you know?" he asked, shaking his head, an aggrieved expression in his eyes. "Am I the only one who's left in the dark again?"

Greg lowered his gaze. "I might know something..." he admitted so unwillingly it seemed he would rather bite off his tongue than answer John's question, had he an option to choose.

John gave Greg a hard time under his unceasing gaze, and although the policeman avoided his face, he must have felt it.

"John, you have no idea how I'd like to help you, but this is up to him."

John took mercy on Greg, he knew he couldn't be mad at him. "I get it, Greg. I'm not asking you to tell me anything. I just don't know what to do. I'm so worried. He barely talks to me. I know he's avoiding me."

He truly had no intention of picking Greg's brain about Sherlock's situation, especially not behind Sherlock's back. He has given him his word that he will let it go, and John Watson holds to his promises-and not only at Christmas, which was approaching at an alarming pace...

But the lack of the detective's trust stung. They used to be so close! Where did their openness go? Their honesty? The ease of their conversations?

As if he knew exactly what was crossing John's mind, Greg leaned closer, watching his friend with his sincere brown eyes. "Look, I know it's none of my business, but I'll say it anyway," he said in a low, secretive voice, intended for John's ears only.

John had a feeling he knew what his friend was about to suggest, and that was exactly what he was afraid of. He waved his hand, though, motioning Greg to continue. There was no point in arguing, anyway. If anything, they might even find a way to loosen Sherlock up.

"I get that you're not into this stuff, but you can't bottle it inside forever-neither he nor you, John. You need to talk to him, you both do..."

As if I wasn't trying hard enough, John thought of a snide remark but didn't say it out loud. "If you tell me how, I'll do it without a blink... You know him longer than me..."

Greg shrugged, dug into his pocket, and took out the packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He smiled apologetically at John, flicked the old lighter until a spark shot out and lit up the cigarette.

"I might know him longer, but you're the only one he lets in. You have a significant influence on him. He takes your advice. Not always, true... But when necessary, he listens to you. Talk to him."

He looked away and blew out the grey smoke into the aisle.

John rubbed his tired, baggy eyes. He had to do something. There has to be something that could turn Sherlock back to normal, back to his old self!

This Sherlock seemed far more unpredictable and unreadable than ever before. All the worse the consequences could be.

The possibilities of what could happen to Sherlock made him dizzy. What if he hurts himself? And what if he asks for help from his good old cocaine rather than his friends?

Sherlock already had far too many health risks; why add another? He can't lose him, not again...

But how to convince Sherlock not to give up without making him feel pressured? It was absolutely pointless to force Sherlock to do something he didn't want. John understood that long ago. Once Sherlock got his teeth into something, nobody budged on his decision.

Unless... someone, or rather something, gave him a little push...

"I think I just got an idea..." John said and a sneaky smile appeared on his lips.

AN:

Good morning!
I hope you liked this chapter. What do you think John has come up with? And will he talk Sherlock around?

Thank you for reading!

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02🖤