Okay, people. Such a long time after The Sign of Three, I am still having trouble to get over how LONELY poor Sherlock seemed. So, let's pretend Sherlock deemed Magnussen not all that interesting.
Sherlock felt so utterly broken. He took a look at the mirror in his sleeping room in 221b Bakerstreet and scoffed.
What had happened to the cold, unfeeling genius he used to be?
John.
And two years of hell.
He had been changed for good but it was okay because John was there to catch him and make it all okay. Except he wasn't. Sherlock slowly stripped from the suit he had worn to his best friend's wedding. It wasn't like he was jealous. Not at all. He was glad that John had found someone to finally make him truly happy. Even if it meant that he would not survive his.
Making a decision, Sherlock put on some of the most causal clothes he owned. He had been putting those aside because he was planning to go undercover. It had to do with the case about Magnussen. But tonight's bout of hopelessness and meaninglessness had hit him like a brick. When he was going to the drug den tonight, it wasn't to be undercover.
Two months later, Sherlock had managed to make a full relapse. He hardly had any contact with the Watsons. They invited him for dinner sometimes and John kept trying to call him or get him to meet. He avoided them, though.
Two weeks after that fateful night in which John and Mary got married and Sherlock lost all hope, Sherlock did go to have dinner with them. They had just returned from their honeymoon, tan and relaxed and there was Sherlock who had spent his two weeks with cocaine and flashbacks from his torture in Serbia. And in China. And Lithuania. And Florida.
And the times he was there when someone was killed. Which he, the great Sherlock Holmes, had not been able to prevent. He thought of that one miserable night in Russia which he spent trapped in a cellar because he had been careless in his investigations and accidentally locked himself in. There he had been sitting, almost positive that he would not live to see the next morning where he might finally be discovered by someone. It had been terrible, alone in the dark, starving as his last meal had been a few days previously, and alone with his thoughts.
The night never seemed to end. Sherlock realised over dinner with the newlyweds that he was in that exact same position now: A neverending night in the dark, everything cold and empty. Only this time, it wasn't food he was deprived of. It was John.
He also realised that this time, it was more cruel. Because sitting there with them at a table was a constant reminder of what he had lost.
He put on his facade. It was absolutely impossible for him to go back to being the cold asshole he had once been. He tried though but sometimes, he felt emotions creep up on him and it felt as if he would explode if he was to remain silent or indifferent as he usually was. He masked it by being cheery or enthusiastic. They all wondered about it but it was better than everyone seeing what he had truly become: broken.
Of course, it also enabled him to really feel joyous and enthusiastic. His affection for John grew and he actually did get to enjoy some moments. Only, without John there was no joy. He hardly had anyone else. Sure, Molly was sweet and Lestrade was almost like a father to him. Mrs Hudson was the best landlady one could imagine and Mycroft sometimes wasn't an asshole. Nevertheless, he had never felt this isolated and alone.
So that evening, when he had taken only a deliberately small dose of cocaine, enough to not go into withdrawal and not enough to be truly high, he entered their home looking forward to the evening. That quickly changed at how perfect they were. Funny, affectionate and strong Mary gave John all the things Sherlock had never been able to. His best friend- no. Former best friend finally had the recognition he deserved and Sherlock felt like the worst human being in the world for not having been the person that appreciated John like Mary did. Obviously, he had been appreciating John. Only not out loud.
He did not go to Baker Street that night. Instead, he opted to stay at the drug den.
John and Mary lay in their bed and talked about the evening.
"John, did he seem… off to you? I mean, he really is weird but even by his standards..."
"Yes, I know what you mean! I thought that was just me being silly. He was so cheery and… unlike himself. But he has changed quite a lot since his-"
Mary cut him off.
"Fall. Remember, he did not die, John."
John breathed deeply. Yes, Sherlock was alive. Thinking about that day two years ago had caused him some distress but his beloved Mary was so very good at spotting and preventing it.
"We should keep a close eye on him anyway. Something tells me that the last two years haven't been easy on him, either," said Mary.
Long after she had fallen asleep, John was still awake, pondering about his friend. Was he alright?
John was frantic. Two months after his wedding, one and a half moths after he had last seen Sherlock and the man was nowhere to be found.
That's when their neighbour Mrs Whitney asked them to go and fetch her son. He really did not want to go. A part of him might have suspected that he would find Sherlock there, too. Within the last few weeks, he had often considered the possibilities and a relapse had always been the one nagging at the back of his mind, the one he did not want to accept.
So they went to the drug den, John sprained Billy's hand and he found Isaak.
When Sherlock heard John approach, he started shaking. He was just waking up, in dire need of a shot of cocaine and John was there. Shame and misery made him sob. He desperately tried to remain silent so that John would not hear him but it was so very hard because as much as he was so badly ashamed, he wanted to see John. He cursed himself, his weakness and his stupidity. He was sure that John would hate him. The thought made breathing even more difficult as forceful sobs forced their way out.
Meanwhile, John had checked over Isaak and began walking him out when he heard a sound that resembled choking.
John sighed. Just his luck that a junkie had to overdose on his watch. But, as he had only told the sprained whimsy at the door, he was a doctor.
"Isaak, go ahead. Mary's waiting in the car."
"Alright, doctor Watson," he said and stumbled off.
John had spotted the choking addict. He was lying on his side and seemed to get worse.
"Hey there, calm down," John said while carefully turning the man onto his back. "Deep breaths."
However, when he saw the face that stared up at him in extreme panic, he gasped.
"Sherlock! What the hell do you think you're doing?" John was so angry with Sherlock that he didn't register the other man's distress.
"How could you throw everything away like that? You selfish-"
Sherlock flinched and his sobs became too powerful to stifle, so he just let them wrack his emaciated frame and curled himself into a ball.
John's anger was completely gone as he watched his friend break down like this. The sobbing turned soon enough into hyperventilation and frantic gasping accompanied by a wet cough.
"Sherlock. Sherlock! Hey, listen to me. You need to calm down."
He elevated Sherlock's upper body which earned him a forceful flinch from Sherlock.
"Jesus, Sherlock. What happened to you? Why didn't you call me?" John's voice was soft now. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem present anymore. He was having a panic attack and John did everything he could to soothe Sherlock. The consulting detective looked like he'd pass out any minute.
When Sherlock had finally calmed down but still refused to look John in the eyes, his friend said:
"Sherlock, listen. Mary is waiting with the car outside. Do you think you could make it there? The alternative would be an ambulance."
The words hardly registered in Sherlock's muddled brain. But John sounded so… caring? His anger seemed to be gone and he was speaking softly. Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping he could listen to John's voice until he fell asleep.
"Sherlock! Stay with me. Do you need an ambulance?"
John seemed a bit aggravated. He was angry with Sherlock. Concentrate. John asked a question. What was it? An ambulance? No, then Mycroft'd be there and everyone would know what he did and they would all hate him even more. There would be foreign touches and accusing words from strangers and he would be so ashamed.
"Shhh, it's alright, Sherlock. We'll take the car, then."
Did he say that aloud? He didn't remember. And it didn't matter. John was there.
Sherlock had reacted to John's question. Finally. His answer though was a slurred chaos of words that did not all make sense. However, the main message of his rambling seemed to be "No ambulance, please." Although the other message seemed to be "I am scared". When John reassured him, he seemed startled as if h had not expected an answer. John wasn't entirely sure if the ambulance hadn't been the better choice.
TBC...
