There's Always Something
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG (for mentions of drug usage and sickness and language)
Characters: Sherlock and John
Disclaimer: I don't own it though I often wish I did.
Warnings: Well, spoilers for the unaired pilot and mentions of drug usage.
Words: 1,600ish
Author's Note: Having viewed the unaired pilot (which is a fifty five minute version of the actual pilot), I find myself struck by how infinitely different tiny details can make an episode. If you haven't seen it, this may not make much sense, as a warning, because it addresses two key differences in two familiar scenes. If you don't mind being spoiled, read on; if you have issue, feel free to attempt the story anyway but be warned, again, that this may not make much sense. For those of you who've seen the unaired pilot, read on and worry not.
For those of you who do not mind spoilers, here's what's changed. First off, when Sherlock and John go to the crime scene, it rains. John ends up walking in the rain to grab a cab (no Mycroft to save him this time about), gets home wet, and then promptly leaves to go attend to Sherlock. Second off, when Sherlock attempts to catch the killer originally, there's no amazing chase scene; he already realizes that the killer is probably a cabbie and chooses to approach the cab outside the restaurant on his own. The cabbie drugs him, takes him back to Baker Street, and gets his heart blown out by John. So, that's about the long and the short of it. Drugged Sherlock. Wet, cold Watson. Feel free to read, now.
He woke up with a headache that reminded him of the old days when he used to shoot up just to see whether or not the heroin would make him think of something other than his increasing boredom. He and John had come home from the Chinese place two hours ago, John stumbling off to his future bedroom while he collapsed on the couch, deadened, lightheaded and over-full. A dreadful combination, in retrospect, to sleep on; he should've put on a few nicotine patches and looked over an old case so that he'd have time to come down from whatever drug still drifted through his system. But, instead, he'd simply collapsed and fallen asleep immediately, ignoring the brownish smudges on the carpet and the hole in the wall. It was quite unlike him; maybe it was that blasted shock that he wasn't suffering from, or maybe it was the pleasantness of acquiring a reliable assistant. Regardless, he paid for it now, with trembling hands, cold sweat, heart palpations—probably what woke him, the fluttering in his chest—and the taste of the Chinese food in his mouth.
He swung his legs over the side of the couch, knowing that things would get worse before they got better. The tiny bit of food he'd consumed would soon evacuate as his body attempted to purge all pollutants from his system; the headache would grow until it was almost unbearable. Restlessness would overtake him just as soon as the breathlessness and anxiety reached its peak so he would need something, anything, to do but, physically, he would be unable to do anything. The first time around, his brother had carted him off to a private clinic where they'd hooked him up to IVs and sent him to shrinks and invaded his personal space until he wanted to thrash every single one of them senseless. This time around, he didn't have the luxury of someone checking how he was and keeping him hydrated with tubing and needles.
He'd probably die. Honestly, he wasn't knowledgeable enough to keep himself alive.
His stomach trembled, his head spun, and he staggered to the toilet. Holding back would only lengthen the process and he had no interest in making this any longer than necessary. Last time it had been weeks, and considering his necessary appointment with Lestrade later in the afternoon, he didn't have that much time to make himself presentable. The bathroom light was off when he went in; he wouldn't have been able to stand it if it'd been on. He closed it behind him, letting the place fall into pitch blackness, and wondered if he could somehow not disturb John.
When he came out later, weaker than before, almost as graceless as when he first woke up from the injection, he found his technique lacking. In the living room, looking hardly rested, sat John Watson, feet propped upon the coffee table, head lolling back on the couch. He looked done in, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, breathing audibly hard; he'd slept—napped—in his clothing so wrinkles marred his trousers and shirt. Stiffness in his jaw, tightness across his shoulders, defensiveness in the position of his legs all pointed to a nightmare that John had already assured him he would not have. Not one for comfort and not one to repeat praise, he did not know how to address the matter.
"I was sleeping there," he croaked, throat sore from his adventures. Liberal use of mouthwash had covered up the worst of his breath but it was difficult to hide his trembling, his hair clinging to his forehead, his heart pounding unreasonably hard in his ears.
"Nightmare?" John replied, raising his head and studying him. Despite his approval of John, he found that gaze strangely cutting as though the doctor could see straight through whatever façade he was attempting to arrange. It caused him another pang of anxiety as he settled into the green chair, his eyes narrowed against the fire John lit.
"Not quite," he said, enigmatically. "I assume that killing still haunts you, even if it's a just death?"
John smiled, crookedly, "Not quite, though I'm sure karma will bite me eventually."
"Karma is what fools use to justify events they're too lazy to seek answers to," he replied stiffly. He hoped that John would eventually grow weary again and vanish up for further rest. However, the Doctor appeared quite settled, his hands running over his head, eyes closed again. Body position and voice tone indicated exhaustion and self-defense, but, not towards him, not towards Sherlock Holmes. John Watson simply did this as an automatic mechanism towards past tragedy, a matter of survival, a trained reaction so that when someone pointed it out, he could easily brush off the pain.
John sat up straighter. "Well, we fools rather like mysteries, unsolvable ones, I mean."
"There's no such thing," he muttered. "Any problem can be solved."
"Yes, by you, I suppose," John admitted. "But for the rest of us, there's a sort of thrill in not knowing." He prepared to say something further but paused, leaning across the table as though to get a better look at him. "All right there? You look like hell."
He put his head on his hand in an effort to still his shaking and to appear more at ease. "I could say the same for you, John. You're eyes are red, you're breathing through your mouth which indicates your nose is blocked up, you've paled noticeably since you went to bed; you've a cold coming on and the illness has brought up war memories which have kept you from sleeping."
"If that wasn't brilliant, I'd tell you to piss off," John said. He stood up, tucking his hands in his trouser pockets and limping slowly towards the kitchen. A different sort of limp, Sherlock observed, as he traded his chair for the couch once more, not allowing himself to admit how pleasant John's warmth felt against his tremors; not the one he'd become used to, but an actual limp. John may have been shot in the shoulder, but something had obviously happened to his leg as well and that came out when his body was abused.
"See? A solution is far better than a mystery," he called then coughed. His stomach flipped. "You people claim to like the shades drawn across your eyes but, the fact is, you pray that someone like me will come along and pull them back."
John's voice grated over his nerves, lit up his head like a roman candle, made him press all of the air in his lungs out through his nose. "I said it was brilliant to watch you do that, Sherlock." His footsteps echoed through the whole room, tiny explosions every time his feet touched the ground. "I didn't say it was brilliant to have the answers. Here, take these, they'll help."
He cautiously took the glass, viewing only what appeared to be plain water, and accepted the plain, white pills. John stood next to him, hands jammed back in pockets, elbows locked, protective again, on the defense, as though any moment, he, Sherlock, would jump up and attempt to wrestle something from him. An interesting man, he decided, popping the pills in his mouth. Uniquely perceptive of people, he decided, as he drank the water, feeling it slosh unpleasantly in his empty stomach, even if he missed many of the important facts. He, Sherlock, could decipher a woman's relationship from her perfume, her stylist by her shirt, her health by the color of her nails. However, ask him to figure out her moods and emotions, and he would stagger through the sequence of events and often come up blank. He could admit, to himself, right now, while John's gaze flickered about the room, that he could use such a man to help him in the more delicate mysteries.
"And what, dare I ask, was that for?" he asked, the glass empty, the pills jostling unpleasantly in his gut. He would be up in ten minutes to visit the bathroom again and whatever benefits John assumed they'd provide would be lost to London's sewer system.
"If you can keep them down, they'll curb withdrawal symptoms," John answered. He slouched into the chair and sneezed, loudly. With a slightly more congested voice, "You're about due to come down from whatever drug he gave you to knock you out. Judging by the sensitivity to light, the sweating, the heavy breathing, the rancid breath and the unreasonable irritability, I may already be too late. We should probably beg off seeing the Inspector tomorrow."
He grinned ever so slightly. "John, I fear I may have completely underestimated you."
John returned the smile easily but ruined it with another sneeze. "Yes, well, occasionally we idiots can be useful."
"Indeed, you can."
John curled up and he closed his eyes; in the morning, Mrs. Hudson would find them a pretty pair, John like an asthmatic with ragweed in bloom while he fidgeted, sweated and attempted to pace. She would probably make them tea which John would drink, sniffling, eyes watering, and he would avoid it like the plague, substituting caffeine for nicotine if his doctor allowed it. When he first met the surly ex-army doctor, he'd expected a roommate, quiet, uninvolved and, generally, as insubstantial and ornamental as the skull on his mantel; they'd share rent, food, space. But, otherwise, his deductions concluded, somewhat hastily, that there was nothing more present. Logical chains of thought had processed small facts, puzzled them together, and completely skipped a few steps in favor of odds.
And, like always, there was something he missed.