19 June. Sunday.

They say time passes by so quickly when you're having fun. And look how much fun I'm having, sitting here, wondering if I spent the last seven months productively? I barely even remember it all. Perhaps it had passed by faster than I had thought.

Lately, Harry's been asking how I am. While I'm admittedly hesitant to even reply to her — or even ask how she knew I wasn't feeling alright — I've been telling her the same old thing. The same old clichéd response. I'm okay. And I am. I know I am. I just don't understand why everyone I know's been acting weird around me.

"Don't you mind them, dear," Mrs Hudson cuts in as she pours me my second cup of tea. "The cases you and Sherlock have been trying to crack have been taking up too much of your time. I barely see you boys around anymore, and it has been getting dreadfully quiet."

Sherlock. "Sherlock?"

"Oh, he's run off somewhere. God knows you don't eat well — I hope he's gone to get groceries; there's nothing edible in the fridge!" She assumes I'm asking about him. But at the mention of this aspect of his character, I remember who he is in a flash. Sociopath. Freak. Consulting detective. Best friend. Genius.

No one really takes the time to get to know him. I really can't blame them. In fact, I'm starting to feel alienated by the others for being the only one aware of his particular habits, especially the ones at home. Recently, he's left a tightly sealed jar of human eyeballs soaked in formalin under my bed. I can't say that I wasn't surprised but the odd smell and the fact that those eyes looked just like Sherlock's caught me off guard. I wasn't aware that I screamed. I hid his cigarettes in two layers of Ziploc bags in the cistern as punishment. I didn't see the end of his petulance until I finally fell asleep. I didn't need his complaints; I needed sleep.

I'm not sure if I've said my reply. I'm not even sure if I'd continued the conversation, but the way she's chuckling warmly at me tells me that I have.

"Tea's good," I say plainly. Mrs. Hudson can only smile at me and pat my shoulder like mum would, and she leaves with the tea tray. "W-w-wait! One last biscuit!"

She's tempted to reprimand me. "Oh, John, you've had your fill." She hands me the biscuit instead. I'm just glad that I can finish my last cup of tea and the biscuit I have in my hand— "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," in a hurried pace.

Wait, what?

Oh. He's back.

With not one, not two, but absolutely no grocery bags.

He does, however, have a folder, which doesn't strike me as odd at all. He's always carrying something, or mumbling to himself about the next big case that Lestrade gives him. It's probably something related to it. I don't want to interfere. I'd like to agree with the general opinion that he's just being full of himself, going everywhere trying to prove himself the cleverest person in the room at every affair that he really has no right to interfere with. Thing is, I'd rather just focus on tea, so when he marched in with that folder I merely glanced up at him just to see what he was carrying. Hopefully nothing dangerous.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson greeted as he marched in. His most friendly reply was a very quick side glance, and off he marched in the direction of his room. Was he upset? Mrs. Hudson could only sigh as she watched that man speed off. "I just can't understand that young man."

"Neither do I." She pats my shoulder and goes downstairs with the tea tray.

As the silence of the flat began to encroach me, all of these ideas sped through my head in an attempt to fill the void. Sherlock was an easily bored fool. That much was true. Not five minutes into settling back into ordinary life without a case after solving one, he begins to act like a child. The pain of hearing his voice becomes very gradually unbearable, until you suddenly feel the urge to punch him. I think I may have tried to, but then I remember that about the best I could do was attempt to stand up, then sit back down again.

Maybe it wasn't a case.

Maybe it was something important. Personal.

Maybe his cravings for cigarettes drove him mad.

I checked the cistern to see if he'd managed to sneak any. None of them were moved at all. The wrappings were still clearly sealed around the boxes of toxic sticks, and the two Ziploc bags were still very much intact.

"What's the matter?" I call out to him. I don't hear him react. "Sherlock?"

His "Hm?" is a muffled one.

"Did something bad happen?"

"No."

End of story. That was usually how it went.

Now that he was inside his room, I suppose it would be best to stay quiet myself.

But I felt differently today.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Are you all right?"

He doesn't reply.

I guess that's the end of story I was looking for.