Chapter Text
“Are you alright?”
John's words break the silence that's settled in the room. He's just turned away from the almost empty fridge and is now eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. Sherlock's reading a textbook on pharmacology and pointingly ignoring a plate of eggs in front of him, two perfectly normal things which couldn't by any means be a cause for concern, not even for John.
Sherlock raises his eyebrows inquiringly but doesn't look up from his book.
“I mean, we haven't had any really interesting cases for over a week-"
“Not since the curry- and cocaine smuggling case a week and four days ago, no,” Sherlock interjects.
“...right. Not since eleven days ago, then. And sure, you've kept yourself busy with the smaller cases from the blog, Lestrade's chain of robberies, the new website design, and that... eh, thing you did with the carpet in the hallway-”
“It was to prove that the blood splatter on uneven fabrics-” Sherlock begins, but this time it's he who's immediately interrupted by John, who seems to want to end this conversation sooner rather than later. John also seems to want to do so without Sherlock's undeniably helpful and enlightening input.
“Yes, yes, case-related and certainly not just out of pure spite, right. I see.” John sighs.
Sherlock isn't sure if John actually sees his point, but while John is easier for him to read than most other people are, he finds he's yet to accurately find a way to interpret the multitude of different sighs of John Watson.
“Anyway," John continues. "There's been almost two weeks without any interesting case and the walls are still intact, no truly hazardous experiments have been conducted - at least not any that I'm currently aware of - and after the curry case you didn't even have your usual post-case crash.”
Sherlock's eyes meet John's just long enough to offer a pointed glare before they return to the book in front of him.
('Post-case crash' - it's such unimaginative term for the crushing boredom that sometimes - alright; frequently - hits him after a case is solved and life returns to its usual tedious, uninspiring and brain-rotting mist.)
“Post-case crash,” John repeats, unfazed. “You didn't have one. And it's been almost three weeks and the flat is still intact. I'm not complaining. Obviously I'm very pleased not to have to sleep at Harry's or Mike's due to incidents involving acid. But you see, it’s beginning to creep me out a bit. It's like knowing that there'll be an earthquake, but the seismographs are yet to pick up on any unusual activity.”
“If the seismographs aren’t showing any activity, then how do you know that there will be an earthquake?” Sherlock drawls.
“It's just a- Never mind. Just... Are you, though? Alright, I mean?”
Sherlock slams the textbook shut, letting his gaze rest at his friend in a manner which he's been told repeatedly is very unsettling for most people. John, on the other hand, rarely looks away in order to avoid his gaze, not even that first day at the lab at Bart's.
Sherlock debates over whether he might answer John's question, but decides against it on the grounds of it being a boring question based on a pretty half-hearted attempt at deduction. There might be another reason for not answering this, but that's something he's not quite willing to examine more closely for the time being.
The second reason may or may not have something to do with the fact that Sherlock himself isn't sure exactly why he is, in fact, quite alright. 'Alright' is not usually something that describes his state of being after eleven days without anything sufficiently stimulating to focus on.
And yet.
After John's hurried off to the cough-and-puke place for eight hours of wasting his skills as a former trauma surgeon, Sherlock lets his eyes drift from the page on different psychotropic drugs' effects on kidneys (not a particularly uplifting reading if you'd been treated for bipolar disorder in the 50's) and lets his gaze rest on the kitchen cupboards. Not that he's more interested in kitchen attire than kidneys, but since it's impossible to literally stare into blank space, the cupboards will have to suffice.
His thoughts instantly turns to the question that was raised a few hours earlier. How come he isn't in a state of increasing frustration over the lack of stimulation? Based on his own previous and extensive experience, he should be crawling out of his own skin at this point. And yet he isn't climbing any literal or metaphorical walls, he isn't crushed into apathy by the black cloud of boredom and he isn't running experiments while ignoring every irritating need of his transport nor doing drugs.
Has there been any noteworthy change lately that could explain this uncharacteristic lack of boredom and frustration? Any gradual change in his neurochemistry beginning to manifest itself in a changed behavioural pattern?
No. This is most likely a temporary deviation from his own homeostasis. A temporary relief, if you will. The cause of it still unknown.
He's 'alright'.
For now.
Of course, things couldn't continue to be 'alright'.
The following day Sherlock becomes aware of a pattern of a recurrent bodily sensation that recently begun and which may or may not be psychogenic. It is evident that diagnostics must be run.
The sensation makes its fifth appearance in four days that same evening as Sherlock's sitting with John's laptop (the keys of that laptop feels somewhat nicer beneath his fingers than those of his own laptop) on his knees. His legs are crossed underneath him where he's seated in the leather chair that's now apparently 'his', just as the more old-fashioned chair opposite of it is now just as inevitably John's. He's working his way through the comment section on his newly updated and redesigned website while John is doing some sort of rather ineffective form of cleaning. He mostly seems to move things into piles and then move the piles around a bit, only to sort through them again. A clear and recognisable sign that John's ruminating over something, a decision, and is deep in his thoughts.
Suddenly, John raises his eyes from the pile of paperbacks on the floor in front of him, meets Sherlock's eyes and slowly smiles an odd little smile. It's more of a twitch of the left side of his mouth really, but it clearly registers as a smile in Sherlock's mind, where a very extensive catalog of John Watson's facial expressions and body language is stored and regularly updated. And; there it is. There's that sensation in his stomach, occurring right in the midst of all the frankly alarming domesticity currently occurring in 221B.
Running self-diagnostics might be tedious but the transport is - even though it ought to be well-trained by years of discipline - still something of a mystery to Sherlock. Right now, for example, there's no reason for palpitations. Yet, there they are. More curious than alarming, if he's to be honest, and he attempts to be strictly honest with himself. It seems pointless to lie to oneself when one is so good at spotting lies. Additionally, there are few things that are as boring as a bad liar.
Common causes for palpitations include (but is not limited to):
stress (other than a nicotine craving, a slight restlessness due to lack of proper intellectual stimulation and rather too many simultaneous thoughts in his head, he finds he's under no particular stress at the moment)
caffeine, nicotine, pharmaceuticals or cocaine (there's certainly a high intake of the first one, and occasionally he indulges in the second, but there's thankfully a total lack of the third and annoyingly it’s more or less impossible to use the forth and still maintain access to crime scenes)
anemia (dull, unless you're bleeding out, in which case it's... at least not dull. Will also inevitably lead to medical attention from ex-army doctors)
heart-disease (not very likely if you've been told that you don't have a heart)
Still. Sherlock finds it's best not rule that last one, at least not on the grounds of not having a heart. It's paradoxical; claiming not to have a heart while trying to deduce the cause of sensations with cardiological origin.
So. Heart-disease. Angina, endocarditis, myocarditis, heart failure, heart attacks, arrhythmia...
...sentiment?
Sherlock frowns, instantly dismissing the idea.
He's just about to move on to next point when one of his many lines of thoughts seems to backtrack, retriving the newly dismissed idea. Just because he hasn't consiously observed any sentiment that might cause palpations recently, that doesn't neccessarily mean that hasn't experienced such sensation. While Sherlock generally avoids reflecting too much on it, he is in fact aware that his ability to recognise or understand his own emotions might be somewhat below average. There are quite a few sensations, moods and emotions that he sometimes notes, but fails to categorise as anything other than useless noise.
Could there be an emotional reason for the palpations?
With reluctance, Sherlock ponders the hypothesis.
Soon he realises that he might not be as alright as he recently assumed.
Perhaps he's far from alright.