Chapter Text
It’s been a month or two since Sherlock came back from the dead. He explained to me that he had had to hunt down the rest of Moriarty’s followers so he had to go into hiding but I knew he was hiding something else from me.
Over the last few weeks, Sherlock had been acting very out of character. I saw him in the kitchen trying to pour himself some tea but his hands were shaking so badly that he spilt hot water all over the counter.
There have been numerous incidents like this over the last few weeks, Sherlock would drop things from his hands shaking too much, his eyes would glaze over and he would become distant for fractions of a second before coming back to reality, or play his violin much sloppier than normal, small things that most people wouldn't notice; but I did.
He’d been having nightmares for weeks, I knew he had. I could sometimes hear him yelling in his sleep but every time I’d go to his door to check on him, the room would fall quiet.
One time I was so close to entering his bedroom when the door slammed right in my face. I took that as a hint that he wanted to me to stop worrying about him and creeping to his door in the middle of the night.
Everyday his face looked more drawn and gaunt from exhaustion. I tried to talk to him about it but he always shut himself off as soon as I got close to making any progress in obtaining some indication of what was going on.
He hadn't been eating, which granted isn't unusual for Sherlock, but he stood up from his armchair one day and swayed dangerously, all the blood draining from his face. For his body to betray him like that was another very bad sign.
His clothes were getting too big for him and I am sure he has been suffering from malnutrition for a very long time. I even caught him smoking again, which was another indication that this was extremely serious and was obviously not getting any better. In fact, if anything, he was getting worse.
I walked past the bathroom on my way from my bedroom to the kitchen one morning when I heard a noise coming from the within. It was barely audible so I had to press my ear to the door to hear clearly what it was.
I could hear crying. Sherlock Holmes was crying. I could hear him sobbing over the noise of the shower and that was when I knew something was very, very wrong. I knocked on the door and asked, “Sherlock? Are you okay in there?”
I got no answer but I did hear lots of sniffling and muffled sobs, as though he had put his hand over his face to stop me from hearing him. I knocked again and when still no reply was given, I decided to open the door just a fraction to check on him.
I looked in and could see his tall shape behind the shower curtain; he was leaning against the wall and letting the jets of water shoot directly onto his head. I said his name once more but before I could say anything else, Sherlock spoke up, “I’m fine John! Just leave me alone!”
His voice was strained and I could tell that he was trying to convince himself as much as me that he was fine. I closed the door but stayed outside for a little longer and I could hear his deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down.
I knew I wasn't going to get anything out of him while he was in denial so I let him be and went about my routine for work, but all the while, still worrying about Sherlock in the back of my mind.
It was after this incident that I knew there was something seriously wrong, but when this post-traumatic stress got so serious that it started affecting Sherlock’s work, that’s when I got really worried (not that I wasn't already before but…). I got so desperate that I even considered calling Mycroft but I quickly dismissed that idea and although I desperately wished for a solution to help him get better, I never expected the solution to turn out quite like it did…