The Emotional Children

XVI

Life in 221B Baker Street had changed dramatically in the two days that Irene had been absent. After her departure, Sherlock had played the melancholic, dreary tune that he had written for her; and he played it over and over for nearly three hours to Mrs. Hudson's utter dismay.

After the said three hours had passed, he sat in his armchair, selectively picking at cold Nando's chicken and chips, leaving the coleslaw to rot on the table. The sight of the food turned his stomach.

He sat in his chair, doing nothing, feeling nothing, wanting absolutely nothing. Mrs. Hudson came in and spoke to him, and he did not speak to her. Mycroft called him a million times, and he did not pick up his phone. John texted him over and over, and he never even read the messages.

The Woman was silent, and so was he.

He slept in the perfume scented sheets, laid his head on the fragrant pillows, and spent the remainder of the day in his mind palace . . . spending time in multiple rooms trying to sort himself out from within.

John arrived with Rosie two days later to find a plate of uneaten breakfast (Mrs. Hudson had brought up some sausage, beans, and toast), a cup of cold, coagulating tea, and a sad song in the air. Sherlock was staring out the window, playing his violin. John hoped he would turn around when he and Rosie came through the door.

Nothing of the sort happened.

"Sherlock," John called, bouncing a fussing baby Rosie on his hip.

Nothing happened. The song kept playing.

Over.

And over.

And over.

"Sherlock!"

Again, no response.

Mrs. Hudson ran up the stairs. John looked at her, his face the living picture of panic and concern. She shook her head miserably at him.

"I can't bring him out of it, John. There's no use. He was like this yesterday. He doesn't eat, he plays this song for three hours, and then he shuts himself in his bedroom and doesn't come out until it's time to play again in the morning."

"Well, no matter what the hell's going on, I'm calling his brother."

"Oh, John, are you sure?"

Sherlock finally spoke without breaking the haunting melody: "Fine, call my brother. I'd like to see what he'll do with me."

John sputtered angrily, setting Rosie in Mrs. Hudson's arms and calling Mycroft.

Who was this? John Watson. What's wrong with Sherlock? Just remember the last time.

At this, Mycroft barely mumbled that he'd "be there straight away" and the line went dead.

When the Ice Man finally arrived, he was in some frame of mind that was much less than a good humor. John watched as Mycroft strode into the room and wrenched the violin from Sherlock's shoulder, ripping the bow from his right hand. 

"Sherlock! Grow up!" Mycroft screamed, throwing the instrument onto the long sofa against the wall. Sherlock looked utterly violated, his mouth was agape, and he was furious at having his soul's expressor stripped from his own two hands.

"Mycroft, what the hell do you think you're doing?" the younger demanded, shouting into the face of his elder brother.

"Knocking some sense into you! Sit in the damn chair, Sherlock! There's something I need to tell you," Mycroft said, pointing to the client's chair.