"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he entered the flat, nearly dropping what he was holding. The sight of his best friend passed out on the floor, no doubt from another relapse, was enough to shock anyone.
"John!" Sherlock staggered to his feet (apparently he hadn't been passed out) and John couldn't help but stare. Sherlock wasn't wearing his signature trench coat- really, he wasn't wearing much of anything at all. Only his underwear and Sherlock hat. "Where were you?"
"Out," John replied stiffly.
"You're beautiful," Sherlock murmured, running a hand down his cheek.
John pushed the hand away. "And you're high."
"Does it matter?" Sherlock asked, and then he burst out giggling.
John sighed. This was different from Sherlock's usual drug episodes, and it worried him. "Where are your clothes?"
"Over there." Sherlock pointed vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.
"WHY DID YOU TAKE THEM OFF?!" John asked in a thundering voice.
"I was hot," Sherlock whined. "This stuff, it feels good, but it makes me sweat. And besides, you know you like this."
"I don't," John told him angrily. "I'm a doctor! I know how dangerous this stuff is for you!"
"Not thaaat," Sherlock drawled. "Me. Without a shirt. Standing almost uncomfortably close to you. Don't deny it."
"I'm denying it!" John snapped. He put an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "Alright, you need to get to bed. Sleep it off, we can talk in the morning…"
He attempted to drag him back to his room, but he was interrupted by Sherlock pulling him into a frenzied kiss. John sputtered a little, knowing he should push him away. This wasn't real, it was only the drugs talking.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John demanded, though his heart was racing.
"You, obviously," Sherlock muttered.
"You're high," John repeated.
"Oh, it doesn't matter," Sherlock scoffed. "I'm always high."
A look of hurt crossed John's face. "I thought you weren't going to do this anymore. Now that you had me."
"I don't," Sherlock whispered. "Have you." Though his eyes were bloodshot, for a moment he seemed clear, and deadly serious.
"You're not talking sense, Sherlock, of course you have me," John sighed. Again, he took Sherlock's arm. "Come on now, to bed…"
Sherlock yanked his arm away. "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED! Not alone. Not again."
"You're not going to get better if you don't sleep," John argued.
"I don't want to get better. This is better," Sherlock rambled, his eyes dulling again. "It doesn't hurt, John, help me."
"Bed," John said firmly. He pulled Sherlock to his room, refusing to take no for an answer. He couldn't take this for much longer; seeing Sherlock like this. It hurt him too, even though Sherlock wouldn't understand that.
"Don't make me kiss you again," Sherlock rasped as he was pulled along.
"Don't make me want you to," John muttered, too quietly to be heard.
They reached the bedroom and, though John was small, he lifted his friend into the bed and pulled the covers over him. Sherlock groaned. "You know I meant it, don't you John? I care about you, even if I don't act like it. I'm in love with you, John Watson."
John only shook his head. Trying not to listen, he left the room and closed the door.
§
Sherlock didn't come out of his room until noon the next day. John, sitting in his chair with tea and his laptop, didn't look up until the last minute, when Sherlock sat down. He looked terrible. His curly hair was matted in places, like he'd slept on it terrible, and even though eighteen hours had passed, he still looked tired.
"What was it this time, Sherlock, cocaine or heroin?" John asked flatly.
"Pot," Sherlock replied. "Thought I'd try something new."
"You know…" John carefully closed his laptop. "While you were high, things happened."
"Things always happen while I'm high, John, that's why I do it."
"You…said things," John said slowly.
Sherlock feigned surprise. "What a shock! Speaking, while on drugs! I suppose I said some ridiculous thing about a hat fetish and a duck."
"Don't lie to me Sherlock, I know you remember," John said cuttingly. "What you said and what you did."
Sherlock was already pale after a poor night of sleeping, but the little remaining color was in his cheeks faded right then. "Don't take it too seriously, Watson. I was high."
"Don't take it too seriously?" John repeated loudly. "How can I NOT take this seriously? You said you were in love with me!"
Hurt echoed in his voice. All this time, he'd allowed himself to believe it, that maybe these irritating feelings were somewhat reciprocated. That the drugs had scraped away the layers of protection Sherlock kept around himself, and his true self had been showing.
"I said a lot of things, John, and not many of them were true," Sherlock said in a monotone.
"Liar," John spat.
Sherlock looked at him, tilting his head in confusion. "What did you say?"
"I said you're a liar!" John snarled. After he said one thing, it became easier to say another, and the weight of being in love with someone who was barely capable of emotions was lifted. "I know you're lying, Sherlock, I'd have to be dumb not to see it!"
Sherlock's eyes softened. "No one's been able to tell before."
"Then I guess no one knows you as well as I do," John said quietly. "You know what you said and you meant to say it. Maybe that's even why you got high in the first place."
Sherlock laughed, though he felt like his insides were trickling out of him and gathering on the ground. "Your deducing has improved. So you have learned something."
Say something, dammit, John thought, his heart racing. This was it, the end or the beginning. All of it depended on Sherlock.
"So," Sherlock said, his deep voice sounding uncannily like Severus Snape. "Truth's out then. I meant all of it, even the hat fetish part. God knows I love a good hat, especially with those earflaps…can't wear it or I'll lose control. Now you know."
"Sherlock, you're rambling," John sighed.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" Sherlock roared, looking rather like a small child who'd been upset on the playground. "Fine, John, you've beaten me at my own game. I admit it, is that what you want? To continue humiliating me?"
John stood up so fast he nearly knocked his laptop onto the floor. "Sherlock, bloody hell no that's not what I want. Just…just look at me."
Sherlock tilted his chin upward, looking proud even though he was in the midst of humiliation. John stared at him, his face looking like it was carved out of pure marble, and one moment of looking into those kaleidoscope eyes was all it took.
"Last night," John said shortly. "You kissed me, and I wanted it. You said you loved me, and I wanted to say it back. God damn it Sherlock, if you want me, you can have me."