Chapter Text
Sherlock had to blink the bleariness away from his eyes as he made his way to the kitchen. Admittedly, he had slept more than he had meant to: Come on, Sherlock, John woke up twenty-one minutes earlier than this!
Sherlock tried to follow John’s schedule whenever they weren’t working on a case (or whenever Sherlock wasn’t up late researching a topic he found particularly interesting at the time). It helped to have a routine that was orderly and seldom changed. He suspected it was like that due to John’s military service: perhaps he was used to it, or he also needed some order in his life… Either way, Sherlock was grateful for it. Schedules kept him in and under control, even if it wasn’t his own. It gave him small, rightful expectations for the day. Or the day after. Or maybe even months to come. Thankfully, he had trained himself to get rid of expectations when working on a case. Expectations gave him bias that could impact his deductions, and he simply couldn’t have that.
Not to mention he utterly loathed when something didn’t follow his schedule or expectation of what was to happen. It resulted in these reactions that not only impacted his ability to deduce but were also frankly embarrassing, even if he knew the exact reason why it was happening and had the diagnosis that caused it right on his medical records.
If it wasn’t screaming, it was shutting down, and if it wasn’t those things, it was simply not speaking.
And, hell, that happened even if the schedule changed only by twenty-one minutes on especially bad days.
When he arrived at the kitchen, the morning sunlight barely seeped in through the window, illuminating the kettle and making it shine slightly too bright for comfort. Sherlock opted to look across from it instead. John stood there, waiting on tea.
Of course, he was making tea; That was his schedule! Then he would ask Sherlock if he wanted some, even if he most definitely intended to give it to him before he even answered (he always had enough water for exactly two cups), and Sherlock would say it was unnecessary and still end up drinking what John gave him as if he had been dehydrated for years. That was how it worked, that was how they were, and that was the schedule.
“G’morning, Sherlock,” John said. He always said that. It was mindless, easy, something they were both used to.
Sherlock responded, Good morning, Watson.
At least his mind responded.
His mouth opened, yet didn’t obey. The words were there, but his vocal cords didn’t cooperate enough with his brain to get those words to form and exit his mouth. It was like a constant state of having something at the ‘tip of his tongue,’ something John commonly stated. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and began to glare at the wall as if it were his worst enemy. He merely nodded.
He couldn’t let John know. He knew what would happen; He had seen it before, and through his mind’s eye, he could see exactly two ways this could go.
In option A, John would look at him with pity. He would see him as a child who couldn’t find the strength to ask for chocolate at the ice cream stand or a teenager who couldn’t bring themselves to tell their mummies a secret.
In option B, John would get angry. He would be frustrated that Sherlock couldn’t talk to him. He would say things about how truly pathetic he was, sitting there, not being able to speak a single word.
Not even a hum of acknowledgement, or a simple “good morning” that he might have been able to push out any other time his voice was slowly walking away from him. No, no, this was sudden, something he couldn’t control in the slightest, and that made it all the more pitiful.
John’s brow furrowed, but thankfully, he didn’t attempt eye contact and instead stared at the kettle. “How are you doing?” he asked, his voice innocent, not shaming Sherlock… probably attempting small talk. And Sherlock couldn’t even respond to that.
He continued his prolonged staring contest with the wall, hoping to will himself out of existence, maybe finding a way to teleport back to his room without John realising. He considered turning back and going to bed. He could have, but that would have disrupted his routine even more! Jesus, there was no escape from this godforsaken mess. He shrugged. Not knowing could’ve been an answer to the question, right?
John simply smiled, and Sherlock couldn’t tell what it meant. It wasn’t fond, not one of his ‘doctor smiles’ that he could tell were completely fake, not even necessarily happy. Understanding, perhaps. His eyes darted away from the kettle and instead to Sherlock’s hands, which were gripping his arms with a hold that he could tell would leave a mark after letting go. Sherlock didn’t even realise he was doing it.
“Quiet day, then? That’s alright, I-I suppose I do enough talking for the both of us, really. I mean, I probably talk too much, eh? I doubt you even listen to me then, actually,” John paused to look at the affronted expression on Sherlock’s face. I mean, really, how rude of him to assume Sherlock wasn’t listening to his rants on things like social media videos! They were very entertaining. Or maybe Sherlock just liked listening to John speak. He realised that he didn’t store memories of what John talked about in those instances, just how his voice sounded. Odd. He didn’t do that for other people, he didn’t think. Regardless of the new research topic Sherlock stumbled upon, John continued, “I probably should stop talking so much, shouldn’t I? I mean, at the very least, when we’re… not recording or anything. Actually, maybe then, too, even the most avid listeners likely get bored of me. I don’t – I don’t know, actually, maybe I shall ask them the next time I start recording for the ol’ pod, eh?”
That reaction was startling. John sounded like he did any other day.
“I…guess I just waffled on then, didn’t I? Uhm,” John cleared his throat, “I – yeah. Want tea?” There it was.
Sherlock would have made a witty joke or dismissive comment, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t hold onto that schedule with a white-knuckled grip like usual. Instead, his wrist was limp, and his grip was weak, and to be frank, it was probably fully falling through his fingers by that point. He nodded. There was no point in going against it.
“I should probably make some breakfast too… Wanna go on a walk or something afterwards? A little stroll?”
Sherlock immediately shook his head. He would not be going out in public.
“Alright, then, breakfast, then a movie, maybe? Or a show, that works too. Movie… show… whatever’s on currently, probably.” John began to pour the boiled water into mugs. Sherlock tilted his head, and his gaze toward the wall turned friendlier. After a while, he slowly nodded. Watching television didn’t require much talking.
Tea and breakfast were good, just like normal. The day was astonishingly normal. Sherlock underestimated how well John could see past the fact that he was not speaking. It was as if nothing had changed, and John even laughed a couple of times when he could see what snarky comment Sherlock thought of from his face or when he would catch himself rambling for too long. It was normal and peaceful; It was routine, something he was used to, and God, did that make him finally feel comfortable enough to meet John’s eyes with his own and his hands relax.
When they sat down on the sofa in front of the television, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel grateful. He had someone – a friend – who was always willing to accept him and immediately accommodate his needs. He neither expected nor asked for it, John just did it. Hell, he barely even acknowledged the fact that Sherlock wasn't able to speak: he just said it was a ‘Quiet day’ and moved on! He could read exactly what Sherlock wanted when he didn’t know what he wanted for himself, to a point that it almost scared him. Their natural bond allowed them to have these moments: Sherlock, allowed and even welcome to be completely silent as they watched a movie, he didn’t know what movie, he was hardly paying attention; John occasionally expressing his own opinion on the quality of it, talking to Sherlock like he could respond verbally yet not expecting him to. Not that he didn’t respond, he did, just with head nods and eye rolls, things that he could manage while still getting a point across. It was bliss, truly.
Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his legs as he curled up on the cushions. His mind blocked out all events of the movie that played before them, instead deciding to focus on the strange phenomenon that was the active remembrance of John’s voice and its inflections he turned over in his head. He watched as his friend yawned quietly and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to stretch.
“Movies always make me tired, dunno why but they do. I think it’s just the… sitting in one place for a long time and focusing on one thing. There might be an actual reason behind that, but I don’t think I’ve googled that question yet,” he babbled. Sherlock longed to respond, to say that it was likely due to him straining his eyes along with other factors, like engagement level to the media, but he couldn’t. For the first time he could remember, he felt at peace with staying silent. He shrugged. Speaking could wait; All that mattered was John at that moment.
—
Sherlock’s voice came back the next day, and he woke up perfectly on time. Mere seconds after he made his way to the kitchen, John came out of his room. The soft morning glow from the kitchen window made his face visible as soon as he passed the threshold into the area, with Sherlock looking at him expectantly.
“Oh, hey! G’morning, mate!” John exclaimed with a sleepy grin.
“Good morning, Watson,” Sherlock answered in his usual tone, with a hint of pride at being able to do it. He attempted to hide it, but the corners of his mouth betrayed his best wishes when they curved upward. John seemed to beam at the sound of his voice.
“I’ll, uh, make tea. Want any?”
“Unnecessary.” John was definitely beaming by then.
John made him a cup, regardless. Like always.