That Ship Has Sailed

John & Sherlock I

"The world is quiet and dull. Silence rings in the ears of every person who inhabits it because there is nothing going on in their small minds. They have so much room for nothingness to take over. They can sit and talk about nothing for hours on end. They go out into the world and they feel love and joy and happiness, but they don't know what's really going on. They don't know. None of them know because they're dull and simple!"

He sits, staring out his window, his knees pulled up onto his chair, hands pressed together and fingers resting on his lips.

"Oh you're all idiots! Who are you to judge me? I cope the way I cope, I'm only here because Big Brother wouldn't let me stay at home while I was high! I can't help it if I need a break from my own mind once in a while. Oh, for god's sake, stop with the note taking, you've missed half of what I've said, anyhow, your notes will be incomplete. Shall I take them for you?"

The months roll by. Not a word. He just sits, staring out his window, counting down the hours in his mind. He takes his pill twice a day and he drinks the water set before him, but he doesn't bother to do anything else.

"What am I to do while I'm here? Go to group therapy and go for walks in the garden? Is that what relaxed you people? Is that how you cope with being the way you are? Big Brother always told me your minds were simple, but I never knew how simple. And the medication you have me on, what is it supposed to do? It doesn't work, whatever it is. It still hasn't stopped. It never stops. I can't make it stop. It won't stop!"

Winter approaches. The first flurries of snow pass by the window and an extra blanket has been added to his bed, though he never uses it.

Finally, one morning while cold winds blew through the garden and a layer of frost covered the grass, giving it an aged look, something wooden knocked against his door. Without turning or blinking, he knew what it was. He stood, moving for the first time in months, and headed toward the door.

"They'd told me you hadn't moved, but I never expected it to be this bad. Are you sure you're well enough to leave yet?"

"I'm plenty well, brother, just let me go home."

"You haven't got a home."

"I'll make do."

"Where will you go?"

"Anywhere but bloody here."

"Sherlock," the voice stopped the man in his tracks. He didn't turn as the man continued, "I have a place lined up for you. Someone you helped out last year who is more than willing on one condition."

"What is that, Mycroft? Do I have to attend evening teas or something?"

"No. You need a flatmate."

"Flat mate? What, you mean share a flat with one of these people?" he gestured with his hand at the people who walked the halls.

"Yes, Sherlock. She won't give it to you otherwise."

"What if I pay her double?"

"She was very persistent."

"For god's sake. I'm going to work, text me the address and I'll deal with it later."

"The address is 221B Baker Street. The woman you call 'it' is named Mrs. Hudson. Be kind to her, Sherlock. She's a frail, old thing."

"Since when do you care about anyone besides yourself?"

Mycroft stepped closer to Sherlock, grabbing a fist full of the jacket he now wore, rather than his robe and pajamas, "Since I watched you do that to yourself," he seethed, "If I'm forced to care about anyone, it might as well be the only other person who can possibly match my knowledge, if you'll stop doing that to yourself."

"Don't make idle threats, Mycroft, it doesn't suit you. Besides, you and I both know you can't stand me, but don't worry, the feeling is mutual. Baker Street, you say? I'll stop on my way to the hospital."

With that, Sherlock tore himself from Mycroft's grasp and turned around, walking down the hallway, turning up his coat collar as he stepped out into the cold, afternoon air.