Liability
Sherlock and John have their first argument as a couple, and Sherlock doesn't cope well.
The bar was noisy and crowded and hot.
But according to his insistently-blinking mobile phone, this is where Sherlock could be found.
John's eyes scanned the room, and just when he was sure the phone in his hand had made a mistake, he spied him.
He was in a corner alone, with several empty shot glasses upturned in front of him, looking very much like he wanted to cry. John thought of him sitting here, alone, fighting tears all night. Aching from that thought, he surged forward.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes brimming with withheld tears. For a moment, he stared at John without comprehension. When he recognized John and blinked, the tears streaked down his flushed cheeks. "John!" Despite the tears, Sherlock was overjoyed to see his flatmate. He positively beamed. Through his drunken haze, he felt the promise of hope.
John wasn't quite as pleased. "What the hell are you doing here?" He had to yell to be heard over the din of the crowd around them. "You've been gone for six hours, Sherlock. Six bloody hours!"
At that moment, Sherlock seemed to remember the argument they'd had, and the joy on his face evaporated back into melancholia.
"How did you find me?" Sherlock mumbled.
John waved his mobile phone. "Your brother installed a tracking app. on our phones. Just in case I ever lost you."
"Oh," the detective said softly. Impatiently, he wiped at his wet cheeks.
John had never seen Sherlock like this before, and a small part of him- the part that wasn't aching with regret- found it amusing that the supposedly emotionless detective was a weepy drunk. Either that, or Sherlock was still upset about the fight. Either way, he was wrecked.
Sherlock knew it, too. "I think I'm sad, John."
"Yes, you are. It's okay to be sad."
Sherlock clicked his tongue in disgust. "But, what am I doing?"
"You're crying, Sherlock. It's okay."
"It's an act," he said. "Isn't that what you say? I do… this… as an act?"
"Not this time," John said. "This time, it's really you."
Sherlock seemed to ponder this for a moment. Then he decided: "I'm just… really sad, John."
"I know. What would make you feel better?"
"I don't know." He brushed the back of his hand over his eyes and exhaled shakily. John could smell the alcohol on his breath; it was strangely warm and pleasant and made him think of communion wine.
"I want to come home," Sherlock whispered.
"Of course you can come home," John said. "Was there any doubt in your mind?"
Sherlock shrugged, but his dewy eyes betrayed his pain.
"Sherlock, how much have you had to drink?" John asked.
"I don't remember." Sherlock's tears had slowed, but fresh drops were threatening now.
John glanced at the other bar patrons and glared at the ones who were staring back as Sherlock dissolved into tears once again.
"Sherlock, let's just take you home."
Despite his sorrow, Sherlock nodded eagerly; he very much wanted to go home. He was starting to feel sick and it was too hot and noisy in this place.
He was grateful, therefore, when John helped him to his feet and led him outside, past the onlookers and into the cool autumn air. He was even more grateful when John helped him into the waiting cab. When the car rolled away from the curb, Sherlock lay his head against John's shoulder and sighed in relief.
John tugged him closer until his arm was circling his lover's shoulders. Glancing down, he was relieved to see the tears drying on Sherlock's cheeks. "Are you feeling sad still?" he asked.
Sherlock shook his head slightly and closed his eyes. "Sleepy." John said something in response, but Sherlock didn't bother to reply. The quiet rumble of the car's engine lulled him to sleep within moments.
He was reluctant to wake up when the cab arrived at 221B. Although his heart felt lighter than it had earlier that evening, his head was starting to ache and his stomach was flopping unpleasantly.
John noticed. As he escorted Sherlock into their flat, he asked, "Do you need to be sick?"
Sherlock shook his head; he was afraid to speak in case he did, in fact, need to be sick. As long as he kept his mouth closed, he was sure he would be all right.
Slowly, tenderly, John led him to his room, and when Sherlock collapsed onto the unmade bed, John slipped off the taller man's shoes and tucked the blanket up under his chin. John paused long enough to run his fingertips through the messy black curls.
"Don't go to sleep yet," he told Sherlock. "I want you to drink some water first." He turned away. He hadn't even reached the bedroom door when Sherlock's half-closed eyes suddenly flew wide open. "Wait! John!"
John lurched for Sherlock's waste bin and hurried to his side. "Now are you going to be sick?"
"John, the room is turning around and around!" Sherlock sat up, but that just made things worse. As soon as John sank down beside him, Sherlock swayed and collapsed into the doctor's arms. He clung to John, hiding his face in John's neck. "John, make it stop. Please."
"I've got you, Sherlock. Just hold on."
Sherlock groaned. "John. John. Why is the room doing that?"
"Alcohol thins the blood, and when that blood reaches your middle ear, it makes a density difference between the cupula and the fluid in the ear canals, and distorts the cupula's shape," John explained. "The little hairs in your ear bend and send a signal to your brain that tells it you're moving when you're sitting still and-"
"JohnImgoingtothrowuprightnow."
"Okay, all right… up you go." Despite his bad shoulder and his sometimes troublesome leg, John could still jump up quickly when the situation warranted. And Sherlock's urgent words definitely warranted it.
There was no time to reach the bathroom; there would not have been enough time for him to cross the room to grab the waste bin had he not already had it nearby.
John held the bin for Sherlock with one hand while rubbing the younger man's heaving shoulders with the other. When it was over, John left long enough to clean up the mess, fetch a glass of water and replace the bin at Sherlock's bedside, just in case.
He held out the glass. "Drink."
Sherlock did so, tentatively at first but then guzzling until John took the glass away.
"Careful, or else you'll bring that up, too." Then, because Sherlock looked like he might possibly cry again, he sat down beside him and gathered the taller man in his arms.
"Please don't do that again," he murmured.
"Puke?" Sherlock sniffled.
"No, run away like that," John explained. "We were fighting over a burned meatloaf. Isn't that what couples do? Fight over silly things?"
"It was more than that. I was caught up in my experiment and wasn't paying attention. You said I could have burned down the whole building. You said I was a… liability."
John's heart lurched. Surely Sherlock had known he had said the words out of anger? Standing in the smoky kitchen, choking on the black smoke trailing from the meatloaf's charred remains, he had been pissed. Now, he felt only sadness.
"I'm sorry," John squeezed him tighter. "I didn't mean it."
"I get wrapped up in my work," Sherlock said. "I forget things that don't seem important to me. You don't know everything about me, John, and when you do you won't like me anymore. Once I show you my…" Sherlock struggled to find the right word, then settled for "my insides."
"Sherlock, don't." John kissed his lover's temple and caressed his flushed cheek. "I love your insides. And your outsides, for that matter. I love every part of you."
John's words didn't comfort Sherlock like he'd thought they would. Instead, Sherlock's mouth turned downward, trembling. "I'm afraid, John," he whispered.
"I am, too, a little bit. But it's going to be okay."
"I didn't know what to do. And I still don't."
But despite his agitated words, Sherlock's eyes were heavy-lidded, and he was staring blankly at nothing in particular. John shook his head, smiling.
"Just go to sleep. Everything will be all right. I promise."
"It will?" Sherlock sniffled.
"It will."
"Okay, John."
"Okay. Go to sleep, love."
Sherlock closed his eyes, all thoughts of burned meatloaf fading as he drifted into sleep.