Chapter Text
Monday, 6th April
John stands next to the kitchen table, his recently charged laptop tucked into the crook of his elbow, strangely reluctant to set it down and get about the business of setting up a zoom call. It's not the call itself that is problematic: oddly enough, it's the fact that the table's surface is completely empty.
There's no need to wrangle space for the computer -- to try and wedge it in amidst the footprint of a large and unwieldy microscope, dubious solutions and dodgy specimens in fragile glassware, and an aggravating assemblage of Sherlockian detritus. The microscope, the dubious and the dodgy, the aggravating detritus, and the man himself are all resident elsewhere -- Sherlock having reluctantly slipped away just under the lockdown deadline to rusticate with his elderly parents, so as to be close at hand due to the unpredictability of the threats posed by the spread of COVID-19.
Life is unsettled enough as it is in the world at large, with the uncertainty the novel coronavirus is exacting with its deadly stakes, but John is finding that disorientation compounded by his personal world spinning off its axis without the familiarity of the erratic rhythms of his flatmate's presence. There is something profoundly unsettling about the empty surface of the table, although John can't quite put a name to it. It's not as if Sherlock's disappeared off the face of the earth -- he can name the latitude and longitude of his location if necessary -- but it's almost as if he might as well have.
The rumbling roll of the kettle reaching a boil jostles him out of his brown study, and he sets his tea to steeping and settles into the wooden chair as the clock nears 2 p.m. The fresh tea helps to revive him after his long stint of telemedicine clinic hours, and he's in a much cheerier frame of mind in anticipation of having Sherlock back in the flat for a while, even if only virtually.
When John logs on, he finds Sherlock already signed in and seated, his presence filling John's screen. His face, however, is turned away from the laptop's camera, and he's sitting completely still, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip on one side of his mouth; the image that greets John could be mistaken for a freeze frame rather than the live feed it is. From the way the sunlight illuminates his face, Sherlock appears to be gazing intently through a window.
It doesn't seem that Sherlock's registered he's not alone, so John waits a few moments, not wanting to disturb him -- perhaps he's deep in his mind palace? But that just won't do. He's been waiting since yesterday afternoon to hear Sherlock's voice, so needs must, and sod it if he's being rude by interrupting the silence.
"Sherlock?"
Still nothing. Frowning slightly, he tries again, this time not speaking his name as a question, but firmly, as a statement, edged with a bit of command. "Sherlock."
Sherlock startles, his eyes blinking, although he hasn't changed position; his attention is still trained on something beyond the window.
"John."
"Hey, mate . . . you all right?"
"Give me a minute."
John decides to tamp down his pique, with the objective of coaxing something more useful out of his friend.
"Soooooo . . . Whatcha looking at?"
"Squirrels."
Well, John reflects, that's not much, but it's something. "Right. Although -- what do you mean?"
"An especially large number of squirrels, John. I've been watching them for some time. They seem to be moving in patterns, toward some end."
"Are they? How so?"
"Well, the rapid flicking and the slow waving of their tails. The twitching. The chirps. I think the one with a rather ragged ear seems to be holding an acorn as a prop. He's yet to put it down or gnaw on it." He finally turns to face John, saying, with an ominous cast to his words, "I think he's the leader."
John contemplates this off-kilter piece of information, finding that all he can contribute at this point is a bemused, "Ah." He decides to ignore the squirrel report. "Well, then. You all right? Going on week 3, we are. My telemed clinic hours are starting to drive me round the twist. How are you doing?"
Sherlock scoots his chair closer to the screen, hunching over to peer at John.
"I'm as I always am. Adjusting. How are you and Mrs. Hudson doing today?"
"Yeah, not bad. Still on the hunt for antiseptic wipes, and what's on the shop shelves is hit or miss. We actually brought home some tins of spam, although I'm not sure why."
John rummages about in his head for something to say to try and lighten the atmosphere. "Started spelling words backwards yet in your head?"
"A bit, yeah. Retsnimtsew. Imanust. Onaclov. Noddegamra."
John runs those through his mind and tries to reverse them. When he gets the gist of Sherlock's word choices, he sees that this was not perhaps the best question to pose.
"Semordnilap. Racecar. Madam. Solos. Deified. Was it a car or a cat I saw."
Re-direction is clearly called for. "The weather's taken a nice turn. If we can flatten the curve, in a month or so we should be able to be out and about more readily, with social distancing. The longer days will be a help as well."
While John's been talking, Sherlock's gaze has wandered off to stare through the window again. He turns back abruptly and leans close to the screen, saying quietly, "If the squirrels haven’t taken over by then." He stands up abruptly and walks out of view.
Flummoxed, John waits, drumming his fingers on the table, wondering if Sherlock's going to return from wherever he's stalked off to. Eventually a face comes into view, but it's Mrs. Holmes, who has stealthily slipped into Sherlock's seat.
"Hullo, John," she says brightly. "How are things at Baker Street? All is well, I hope, for you and Mrs. Hudson."
"Relatively so, thanks for asking. Mrs. H is keeping busy stress baking and playing bridge with her club through view chats. In my downtime from doing the telemed hours, I've been gaming on my Switch. Right now I'm advancing through The Legend of Zelda. There's something soothing about being transported into an open landscape, even if it's computerized. How are you Holmeses holding up?"
Mrs. Holmes glances around and lowers her voice. "Has he told you about the squirrels?"
John nods. "He did . . . he mentioned a growing militia, yeah."
Mrs. Holmes grimaces, seemingly stuck for what to say next.
"He doesn't do well in confinement, does he?" John says, gently.
"I'm a bit worried, John. He says he's in his mind palace, but he's so listless. I don't think he truly is. I think his mind just keeps going round and round and round the moat and rarely ventures in. Like a record on a phonograph endlessly spinning when it's locked in the last groove."
"I could see that today," John replies, pausing a bit to think. "Tell you what -- I'll mull this over and get back to you. We can do it. We'll figure out a way to bring him back from wherever he's drifted off to."
"Thank you, dear. I suppose you should go ahead and sign off. He seems to have gone back to keeping a weather eye on the local squirrel population." She nods her head emphatically. "He does miss you so. Talk to you soon."