John, come home now. -SH
If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH
It had been a long day at the surgery. John was tired of patients who thought they knew everything, simply because they had looked it up online. They did not have a medical degree. They had not seen death and dying and pointless suffering.
John had. He often wished he hadn't. But some days, some days made everything worth it. However, today was not one of those days. John just wanted to get home, make a cuppa, yell at Sherlock who had been texting him all afternoon, begging him to come home, and sit on the couch to watch some crap telly.
Of course, when one lives with Sherlock, one never really seems to get what they want.
John arrived home to find Sherlock on the couch, still in the clothes he was wearing that morning when he left, curled up in a fetal position with his back facing John.
"I see you did a lot today." There was no reply from the bump on the couch. "Well? What was it you kept texting me about?"
Still no response. John did not have the patience for this. He threw his bag down on the floor and stomped off to the kitchen to make tea, rather unquietly.
His mobile in his pocket vibrated. He took it out and frowned, glancing at the tiny screen.
"Really Sherlock? I'm right here. There's no need to text me." He sighed and opened the message.
Also, yes there is. -SH
John rubbed his face with his hands. It had been too long of a day for this.
"I don't... understand, Sherlock. What are you saying?"
I kept texting you about words. They're gone. Help. -SH
When John had finished comprehending this, he stared at the couch where Sherlock was lying. With a huff, he dramatically rolled himself over to face John. His mobile was clutched in his hands like a lifeline. He looked at John pointedly, with a look that clearly said you're an idiot.
"Well," he began awkwardly, "what do you want me to do about it?"
You are a doctor, remember? -SH
"Yeah, well they never taught us about missing words in med school!"
Sherlock began typing furiously.
John sighed, and resumed making his cup of tea. It was going to be a long night.
Occasionally, all my words get lost. They're still there, but I don't have access to them. It doesn't happen very often, maybe once every few years, but it varies how long it lasts for. Once I couldn't find them for two months. -SH
As you can imagine, Mummy was rather worried at that. She took me to multiple doctors and child psychiatrists. Of course, being idiots, they came up with nothing. My words do come back though. -SH
John reread the message, wondering if he was missing something.
I have a theory, of course. -SH
Sherlock just sat there, typing away, smirking. John wanted to slap him.
"So, you know why this happens, so why the hell haven't you told me yet?!"
Sherlock looked up innocently, then resumed his frantic typing.
I'm bored. I want you to figure it out. -SH
Dear god, thought John. There was not enough tea in the world for this.
"Er... right. Well. It's not something physical, because one of the doctors would have figured that out. It's not that you're choosing not to speak, because how else can you make the rest of the population feel like idiots. Texting takes too long," he pointed out as Sherlock had started to type something out. He stopped after John said that. "It's not something psychological, because you would never admit there is something wrong with you psychologically. So it has to be neurological."
He looked up at Sherlock expectantly.
Sherlock made no motion that he heard John, just sat there staring out the window, mobile still in his hands. He tapped something out rapidly, then threw his mobile onto the couch, moving to the window in one sweeping movement, violin in his hands out of nowhere.
John opened the latest message as Sherlock began to play a tune he vaguely recognized.
Good. Continue. -SH
John only stared at it as the haunting notes continued to flow.
He recognized the tune now. Chopin's nocturne in c sharp minor. Haunting. Broken. He rarely played it.
John was concerned now.