Okay, that was too long.

If John had to sit around quietly with his empty cup of tea staring out the window for even a single minute more, he would bang his head against the wall as many times as it took to find a way into Sherlock's stubborn head.

He turned away from the window, slam the cup down on the mantelpiece and trudge towards his room.

And he would find a way. No matter how. If need be, he would turn on the Rolling Stones just as loudly that Sherlock had no choice but to at least do something. Even if it was just yelling that he should turn off that nonsense.

John yanked open the door.

A dull, slightly musty smell hit him. It was quite dark, as all the curtains were drawn, and so quiet that his own breathing seemed almost too loud. Probably Sherlock had not opened the window since he had barricaded himself in here.

He himself was sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of his bed and if John hadn't known better, he would have said Sherlock was meditating. But who meditated for three days straight?

"Okay, enough," he interrupted the silence and put his hands on his hips.

"Sherlock, enough is enough. You can't keep this up. I can't keep this up."

Silence. No response. Not even a twitch in his concentrated mine, which John could only half see.

"Sherlock," he repeated, but again no response. Only utter silence.

Angrily, John lowered his arms and walked into the room, to him. He hadn't wanted it any other way.

Roughly, he grabbed him by his tangled curls and pulled his head up to him with a jerk.

A pale face stared back at him. Sherlock looked terrible. Just as one imagined someone who had done nothing but sit in a dark room for three days, neither eating nor drinking. His complexion was pale. Very pale. Unhealthy. His skin shone almost like wax and an unpleasant smell emanated from him.

He had now opened his eyes and looked at him with a mixture of surprise, fright and annoyance. He also had no choice but to look at John. He held him tightly in his curls, which fell into his forehead unkempt and even more tangled than in the last few days, and looked as if he had run his hand through them quite a few times in the last 78h.

"It. Is. Enough," John repeated.

Sherlock wanted to avert his gaze and free himself from his grip, but John wouldn't allow it.

"Stop it, Sherlock. Seriously. Enough."

The annoyance in his eyes took over and they flashed dangerously.

"I have no idea what you..."

"Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean," John interrupted him.

"So stop it. I'm serious about it. Stop it or I'll call your brother to contact your parents to let them know about your condition."

"You wouldn't do that," he retorted, but John nodded.

"You bet I would."

His eyes, under which were dark shadows, narrowed to slits, which John interpreted as surrender. He loosened his grip and straightened. Sherlock would rather watch 10 bad crime movies in a row than spend time with his parents.

Abruptly, he jumped up and smoothed out his wrinkled shirt. Without another glance, he pushed past John and rushed out of the room.

John would have liked to give him a good telling off, God knows he could think of enough names for his impossible behaviour, but he pulled himself together and followed him.

When he came into the living room, Sherlock was already sitting in his armchair with a face as gloomy as his room and looked at him.

"So, what do you want me to do? Wish you a good day? Teach Rosie how to rattle? Go shopping for new milk?"

John snorted.

"Don't know," he replied, trying to imitate his mocking tone. His voice trembled with anger.

"Maybe have a drink or something to eat because you've been holed up in your goddamn room for almost three days."

"It slows me down."

"It can kill you!"

"But I'm not killed or am I mistaken?"

John had to avert his eyes to keep his composure. He was a grown man and he wanted to act like one. However, Sherlock was making that much more difficult.

"You're hurt."

John almost laughed when he looked at him again and his face looked as if he had just had an epiphany. He probably had.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, I am hurt. Carrie is too. And in case you still care: Juliet might be dead."

"Of course I care. I've been thinking about that for the last three days."

"Then act like a grown-up detective for God's sake and do something too!"

Anger took over and he almost shouted out the last part.

"This is our case, Sherlock, and not just a game to be played. It's about a human being, a life. And three days of just sitting around thinking about whatever and not saying a word to me isn't helping anyone. Not me, not Carrie, and certainly not Juliet. So stop it."

John took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm.

"Just...eat and drink something. That's all I want right now."

He averted his eyes and turned to go to the kitchen. Porridge would have to do for now and he couldn't think of anything else in a hurry.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock rise as well and follow him. Good, he thought. Because with another discussion, he couldn't guarantee anything.

He opened the kitchen cupboard and took out the oatmeal he had bought this morning.

"Sorry."

Sherlock's voice sounded behind him and was so quiet that John almost missed it. A squeak could be heard and then him dropping down onto a chair.
John didn't reply. He had nothing to reply either. It wasn't okay, but to say that would be redundant.

As he set the stodge down in front of Sherlock, he screwed up his face but didn't complain. John, frankly, hadn't put much effort into it either.

"Carrie called," he said, also pulling a chair back to sit opposite him.

"She asked where we're at. What we've found out. I didn't know and I had to lie. I hate lying, Sherlock. And I don't want to do it again."

Sherlock lifted his eyes from his bowl as he seemed to understand what John meant. What he was about to say.

"You don't have to," he replied.