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Dr. Watson had breakfasted alone that day. Holmes refused to leave his room, and John checked the mantelpiece for the case containing Holmes’s cocaine and syringe to check whether it was just another spell of ennui, or...
Thankfully, it was there, unmoved. John allowed himself to relax. They didn't really talk during that day, even after Sherlock finally opened his door and ate a piece of cake Mrs Hudson prepared for them. Many questions stayed unanswered between the two of them, yet they managed to settle into some kind of semi-comfortable silence only broken by some haste whispers 'Do you need more tea?' a nod, 'Can I close the window?'
"John, have you ever lost a part of yourself?" Sherlock's voice sounded clear and too loud to John's ears, too accustomed to the silence.
Watson's mind got flooded with his memories of war. What he had experienced. What he had lost.
"Yes. I did, Sherlock." Was all he needed to say.
"Had it ever returned to you?"
"What do you mean?" John put his newspaper aside and looked keenly at Sherlock.
"Have you ever lost a part of yourself only to find it back after a few weeks?" His eyes were fixated on John. Observing every miniscule change in John's body language. Deducing. As always.
John considered his question. Probed around his mind, checked memories put aside never to be shared.
"No, I'm afraid. Every loss I've experienced was permanent." and as he said it, he felt grief. Grief for the man he once was, and perhaps would have grown into.
Sherlock's eyes wandered around his body, taking in the movement of John's legs as they moved and straightened to be put on his footrest, following the curve of his fingers as they held his cup of tea, his mouth as he drank from it and almost scalded his tongue.
For some reason, the doctor knew that this conversation was about the last episode of melancholia the detective experienced.
It just was how Holmes worked. All or nothing. Either he would forego his physical health for the thrill of solving a case, or lay immobilized on their couch, ignoring outside stimuli.
Throughout their years together John had learned how to be a better observer of other's and a diligent reader of Sherlock's face, therefore now when he looked at his friend instead of seeing an unsolvable puzzle he saw a coded message.
Holme's eyes were downcast, and he puckered his mouth. Something was bothering him, and it wasn't related to their case as there was, for now, none. He had his hands brought together and didn't move his fingers.
"Don't worry, John, I'm feeling better than I appear to feel." Watson startled. Evidently, it wasn't Just him studying Sherlock - he was being read as well.
And so he dropped his search. After all, Holmes had his oddities, and this was surely just one of them.