It's been a week since he last saw him move.

John's pretty sure he has, in fact, moved. At least to take a piss, if nothing else, he thinks. But if any human could manage to find a way to achieve a state of hibernation through sheer bloody-mindedness and a determination to override all bodily functions, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

He must have moved a few days ago, since John noticed the empty teacup on the table when he had tidied up a bit. He instinctively refilled and returned it, but upon his arrival back at the flat after yesterday's shift… well… it looked untouched. And as of this morning, it's still all right there in the cup- and now John is afraid to clear it.

Days, he had said. "I sometimes don't speak for days". And John sure could testify to that. But there was always the text from Lestrade that would reset Sherlock's brain and with it his voice, and so far there has been none.

At first, the detective was complaining about the lack of cases. Quite vociferously, in fact. Checking and rechecking the website for queries about anything more interesting than a cheating husband or a lost cat. Now the computer is on the desk, on the opposite side of the room. Might as well be on Mars for the distance needed to be traversed to reach it.

He never thought he'd long for the sound of a screeching violin.

John doesn't ask Sherlock if he is OK. He already knows he isn't.

John knows what this is. Of course he does. He knows there are things that can help, too, and he spends his time in between patients contemplating medical options, trying to separate out the differences between Case-Sherlock and Non-Case-Sherlock… whether he is manic, or just so damn superior and knows it that it just looks like mania. After all, you're not paranoid if people really are out to get you, right?

John is struck by the fact that he hasn't known Sherlock that long, not really, and maybe he needs to seek out more information from someone who has. But calling Mycroft never seems like the best option, so he goes back to his crude attempt at diagnosis. Bipolar? Major Depressive Disorder? Not actually suicidal, per se. At least he doesn't think so… and he's had plenty of time to think about whether or not Sherlock was suicidal over the past year. Watching someone commit suicide will do that to you, he thinks, as his face reflects something between a grimace and a smirk. He was glad he hadn't missed any signs, because, frankly, there weren't any.

Clearly, being on a case affects Sherlock's brain. Not being on a case—well—that's where the cocaine would come in. Sherlock had likened himself to a racecar that can only function well at full throttle. So when he's not at full speed- a stimulant to replicate the constant firing of synopses? Does that mean it doesn't happen enough on its own? Or is it a chemically induced emotional high to counteract a natural state of emotional lows? John is confident that Sherlock is clean; he knows what to look for- there's no way he'd miss it. So now, cocaine gone, Sherlock resorts to—what?

John waits for a text— still anticipating another all too frequent interruption of his work to request he pick up milk, or a hacksaw, or an assortment of human eyes- out of sheer habit. The realization hits him surprisingly hard: there is no case. No reason to text for a medical opinion. Sherlock is not conducting any experiments, nor is he venturing anywhere near the fridge. He is most definitely not the type to text just to say "hi", and John is growing increasingly concerned. He gives in to the compulsion to leave early. As he opens the outside door to 221B, straining to hear any sounds which might indicate movement, he reluctantly concludes nothing has changed.

"Sherlock," he hesitates, and then powers through. "I can't just ignore this. As a friend. As a doctor. Has this happened before?"

Sherlock's body is still unmoving on the couch, but his eyes slide from the ceiling to his chest, and then his chin follows the downward motion. "Yes," he says, the minimum response required, and closes his eyes. John hopes he wants to say more, and gives him a moment in which to do so, but only silence is forthcoming.

"Did anyone…discuss... taking anything to help?" he says, gathering resolve the longer he sees his flatmate's unchanged position.

"Yes."

"And…?"

"I'm not going to kill myself, John," Sherlock says abruptly. It is not meant to convince. It is simply a statement of fact.

"Apparently not, as that would require some degree of movement on your part," John retorts, trying to lighten the mood any way he can. He's not so sure that was a good call.

"It's not that serious," Sherlock says. "It's not worth it."

"Not worth feeling better? Not worth having the energy to pick up your laptop and see if there is a case waiting for you on the website?"

"There isn't," he says. It's clear that this pronouncement is taken entirely on faith. The laptop hasn't been touched. "Now go."

"Go? Sorry. Can't do that. I've waited two weeks now, and I am at the point where I am seriously considering running an IV for you so you don't go into shock, and the last thing I intend to do is leave."

"Well, run one then, and go. Leave me."

John rubs his hands across his eyes and then through the top of his hair. "I would think a brilliant chemist such as yourself would understand the process at work here. Serotonin Uptake Inhibitors. Chemical bonds. Emotional upheaval caused by chain reactions."

"Yes—all to change my brain function so I can conform to someone else's idea of proper social behavior," he says flatly. The anger is barely perceptible, hidden just behind the words, and the momentum it brings with it has made the detective shift slightly on the couch. John counts any movement as a small victory.

"It doesn't change you, you know. It isn't going to make you any less of a right git. It just makes you a right git who can be arsed to eat every once and a while and not dehydrate on our sofa."

"I'll eat and drink something if you'll cease this inane conversation," he groans.

Right now, John considers that a fair trade. He grabs the cold tea and heads off to the kitchen, returning with a fresh cup (sweetened with perhaps a bit more sugar than usual), some cheese and crackers. He places them on the table next to the untouched phone.

"Now eat, before I start up again," he says.

Sherlock slowly raises his body up, leaning against the arm of the sofa, and reaches for the crackers. He methodically cleans his plate and washes it down with the tea.

"Thank you," says John, breaking the rapidly returning silence. Then it's Sherlock who speaks. "They don't want to use me anymore," he says, voice controlled and even, but just barely above a whisper. "They can't fully clear me yet because they've no need. They have moved on."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you're needed. You've gone a week without a case before. This isn't that much longer."

"Mmmm."

John puts the plate and cup away, fiddles with the remote, and lets out a silent prayer something will come on which will catch Sherlock's rather limited set of interests, or which clashes with them so severely that he would at least display some profound irritation. Nothing doing. Even the crap telly talk shows, which usually end up with Sherlock yelling at the screen, vehemently disputing the protests of innocence, elicits no reaction whatsoever.

Eventually, John leaves more tea in front of Sherlock, mutters a goodnight, and heads to bed.

The next morning, John forgoes his morning shower in favor of heading straight downstairs to the sofa. The change in habits is enough to make Sherlock raise his eyebrows, and as John moves toward the desk where his phone is, Sherlock says "Stop!"

John stops in his tracks.

"Don't call him. I'll tell you whatever it is you wish to know."

John moves closer. "How long have you had these depressive episodes?"

"I don't know for sure. Information from most of my younger years didn't seem worth preserving." John translates that to 'most of his life'.

"And as an adult?"

"Frequently enough to have searched for an adequate solution." He rolled his head towards John, and twitched his lips into a smile. "Five percent was usually adequate. Seven was preferable. When there was no work, of course. Otherwise- unnecessary." The slightly fond nostalgia was more than a little bit frightening.

"And since you've been clean?"

"When there was no work to be had…" his voice trailed off. "I've tried composing. Decomposing. Occasional indoor target practice," he says, emphasizing each syllable.

John has not seen him touch his violin, nor the collection of organs in the vegetable bin. The Army Doctor's weapon remains safely in his room.

"Would that be helpful now?"

"… No."

Sherlock is abrupt and petulant at the best of times, and it would be surprisingly hard to take him seriously now, if not for the fact that he hasn't strayed from the sofa and shows no sign of doing so and is eating and drinking far less than even his bare minimum.

"What would be?"

John fully expects a melodramatic curling into the recesses of the sofa in response. He is taken aback when he receives a blank stare instead. "Time?" he offers.

"Medication would…"

"…provide me with greater energy, in exchange for an increased waistline and decreased libido and has a fairly good chance of making me suicidal. How could anyone refuse that? This is me, John. I don't expect you to like me," he turns away again, and looks relieved to have cut off eye contact. "My brain is what it is and does what it does. It cannot be helped. I refuse to sacrifice the highs in order to avoid the lows."

"It won't prevent you from being you; it will allow you to be you. It doesn't force you to function on some artificially-created middle ground." John is growing steadily annoyed with Sherlock's lack of response. He should feel sympathetic, he knows he should, but the words are already streaming out of him. "The man who has, in effect, been self-medicating with illegal substances is afraid to have physician-regulated legal ones. Side effects like paranoid psychosis were apparently acceptable risks? Hemorrhagic and ischemic strokes? If you do have negative side effects, then you could try a different formulation. You've already been messing around with the re-absorption of your dopamine levels, but your serotonin levels are going to make you into someone else? Don't play medical games with me, Sherlock Holmes. There is one reason and one reason alone for your reluctance to treat your depression and that is because you would rather I diagnose you with something less commonplace for your singular brain. How about Alpers Disease? That's rare. Would that be more to your liking? Or perhaps you can accept that you have something that won't destroy your neural transmitters and can be managed with an increase in serotonin! Your brain is not meant to be like this, Sherlock. This… this man on the sofa… this is not you. You are the man who heads off a cab on foot using a map of London kept in his head and I need that man!"

Sherlock is stunned. It is not the vitriol that stuns him, but the genuine concern behind it.

"Write it. I'll take it," he says.