The Drunken Detective in the Land of Mines
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson or Mrs. Hudson.
Warning: Swearing, fluff, predictable plot! Italics are dreams.
"That was unacceptable!" John fumed, storming up the steps. He ignored the urgent call from Sherlock as the cabbie demanded his flat mate for money that he didn't have, unlocking the house and stomping inside.
Sherlock caught up a few moments later, stepping into the foyer and shaking like a dog. Drops of water flew, splattering the walls and John. This only proved to make the good doctor more furious. Grabbing Sherlock forcefully by the sleeve, he shoved the man onto the stairs and glared at him.
"Happy now?" There was no answer. "You show up drunk to Harry's sober-for-several-fortnights party, of all places. Drunk, Sherlock!" There only reply was a burp from the souse in question. "You know what- oh, whatever!" Cried John, throwing up his hands. "Go die in a hole!" He stomped up the stairs, leaving Sherlock on the steps, drunk and utterly confused.
John stormed back down the stairs, his face even more red than it have been before. He had a bag-Sherlock hadn't heard him packing. This was just the final straw, he realized.
The doctor stopped in front of him, and something wet dropped on his forehead. John had spit on him. On his face. He didn't wipe it away, letting in all his friend's disdain.
"Please, John-"
"I don't want to hear it. You are a selfish bastard. What you explain as sociopathic behavior is really the making of a narcissist. No one wants you, not Lestrade, not me, not anyone! Even your own family only takes care of you to protect their names. Don't get near Harry or me or my wife ever, ever again. Decay here or die in the gutter, see if I care. Better yet, get shot on a stupid case. Don't worry, not matter how heroic it is you'll end up in hell. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you…" Sherlock woke up, having slid down the stairs, and started hyperventilating. Not John! Not the one person who cared about him, who hadn't let him down, who stayed on and on.
"No Sherlock!"
"You're right John. They're all right. Anderson, Donovan, Mycroft, the rest of them. I'm a sociopath; I laugh at corpses. I have a human skull on the mantle. I'm a freak, I'm selfish, I am dangerous and mean. I am crazy-"
"No, you're not! You're brilliant and creative-"
"And what? What does it get me? Does anyone say, oh Sherlock, I love him, he's so kind, so generous, so wonderful. You don't understand! I'm a failure!" He yelled, tears streaming openly down his face. Then he jumped.
"NO!" Screamed John, sitting up in bed abruptly. He was panting and crying and feeling so sorry. Sherlock had been a jerk, he would be again, and John was still there, still loved him, always would.
He ran down the stairs to see his friend sprawled crazily across the steps breathing to hard.
"Sherlock!"
"John!"
"I love you," he yelled, tapering off to a whisper on the last syllable as he crouched down and awkwardly hugged his friend. For a moment, Sherlock hesitated, surprised. Then, quietly, he stuttered out the words. "I l-love you to John," he whispered, clutching his friend close.
Outside the door, Mrs. Hudson, drawn by the commotion, smiled to herself and turned back to her rooms.