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Mycroft was shocked at the change in Sherlock in just four days. Deep black circles were under his eyes and his hair was even more unruly than usual, standing up in all directions. He sat up and it was clear that more than his dressing gown bagged on him. “Brother, you don’t look well.” Without being asked, he sat down on the other end of the sofa.
“I can’t work. Nothing keeps me from crime scenes, from experiments until now. I can’t make connections, can’t deduce, can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t play. I just wait...”
Mycroft told himself to go gently now, otherwise he would break him. “Wait for what?”
“Wait for John to come home.” He paused, “I know he’s not coming home.”
“Grief takes its own time?”
“This is not grief.” Restlessly, Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and stood. He paced in agitation in front of the sofa. “Do you see me gnashing my teeth, weeping and wailing, rending my clothes?” He stopped suddenly and said, “Oh.” A simple declarative oh as something, for the first time in days, clicked into place. He sank down to sit next to his brother and said wonderingly, “I’m broken. There’s a John shaped hole missing from everything. There’s a John shaped hole and I can’t see around it. I’m broken.”