there were good days. every few weeks, sherlock would let victor coax a smile from him, or he’d join him in bed before victor got up to pull him back to the room despite the glares he got for disrupting his thoughts. today wasn’t exactly a good day. four days since he had slept and just as long since he had eaten. he had been moving between the floor, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed and his mind at work, and the window, where he played his violin and occasionally jotted down a few notes.
it was a lot to process. okay, so he had a sister. he could manage that. secrets were common in the holmes family. his sister had killed his childhood best friend, well, that one was harder. his friend’s death was manageable, the fact that he had forgotten it was not. and then there was eurus’ game. the choices he had been forced to make. she was right; emotional context did destroy him.
his mind was hard at work, so focused that he barely even noticed victor standing behind him until a hand fell onto his shoulder. he didn’t open his eyes or look at victor, a slight shift in his shoulder the only sign that he was aware of his presence at all.