A/N: Another oneshot... I seem to be writing these quicker than I can do my school work.
I own nothing and make no profits.
This deals with the theme of suicide. Just a little warning there. Could be seen as slash if you squint, but that wasn't the intention.
Please review :)
It was never meant to be that easy.
Sherlock Holmes knew there had to be something going on. The Yard had never let him in as easily before.
"Holmes."
"Christ- go straight through," the security guard had told him, gesturing past the metal detectors and weapons check.
To where Lestrade stood, eyes downcast. Sherlock approached him cautiously.
"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted him, pulling a hand from deep within his jacket pocket and sticking it between them. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and took the offered hand, shaking it once sharply.
"What is it this time?" Sherlock asked. There was a pause as Lestrade shuffled his feet a little and inhaled- breath raspy, and not from his last smoke, Sherlock noted.
"We didn't know who else to call," Lestrade replied. He looked up and met Sherlock's gaze falteringly, clearly pale and drawn. "I've never seen him like this."
"Who?"
"He just-"
"Who?"
There was a pregnant pause, and it felt to Sherlock as if the entire Yard was collectively holding their breath. Lestrade looked down, to Sherlock's shoes. Sherlock quickly glanced over Lestrade's person, and noticed a strand of wool on the arm of his coat. He blinked.
"It's John," Sherlock finally spoke, his voice tense with the sudden and, frankly, worrying realisation.
"Yes," Lestrade replied.
"Is he hurt?" Sherlock asked. He could feel an irrational panic beginning to dance about in his chest.
John had gone to work that morning- it was a Tuesday, and his shift was nine until two. Nothing could have happened to him on his way to work, or Sherlock would have been contacted hours ago. It must have been something that had happened while John was at work, Sherlock decided, seeing as it was only twelve.
"No. No, John's not... He's not injured," Lestrade explained.
"Not injured? But hurt? So I assume you mean that he's been emotionally-"
"Walk with me, Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted, casting glances at the clusters of people watching them curiously.
"Damn it, Lest-"
"Sherlock, come on," Lestrade hissed, turning swiftly on his heel and heading in the direction of his office. Sherlock followed suit, albeit reluctantly.
"What is wrong with John?" Sherlock demanded. Lestrade sucked in another deep breath and kept his eyes trained to anything but Sherlock.
"Today, at approximately one pm, we discovered the body of-"
Sherlock suddenly stopped mid-stride. Lestrade turned in alarm, but Sherlock threw his hands to his forehead and kneaded it, looking thoroughly irritated with himself. He dropped his hands.
"Harry," Sherlock stated.
"-Harriet Watson. A definite suicide. A vicious cocktail of anti-depressants and alcohol was found in her blood," Lestrade confirmed gently. Sherlock nodded. He was not at all surprised.
"And John?" he asked.
"He hasn't taken it so well," Lestrade explained. Sherlock nodded again and began walking determinedly towards Lestrade's office. No more words were exchanged between the two, but Lestrade could almost hear the fear bouncing about Sherlock's skull.
It was very true that Sherlock was scared. Never before in his life had he needed- or, in fact, wanted to comfort someone. He had no idea what to do. Especially as it was John and not some random man from the street. John was special in his own mundane little way. Sherlock did not particularly want to let John down- or to upset him further.
"You'll do fine, Sherlock. Just be there," Lestrade murmured in a manner that Sherlock assumed was supposed to be comforting, clapping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock opened the door to Lestrade's office and gestured for Lestrade to enter first.
Lestrade stepped into the room quickly, and Sherlock waited outside.
"I called someone for you, John," Lestrade began. He was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice saying something that Sherlock couldn't hear. "Sherlock," Lestrade called, and Sherlock entered awkwardly.
John was sat in front of Lestrade's desk, his eyes red and cheeks stained by the tracks of tears. His hands were clenched tightly together- so tightly that his fingers had lost all colouring. Looking up, John met Sherlock's eyes for the briefest moment and then looked away, turning his head to hide his tears. Lestrade quickly excused himself.
The door closed behind him.
It was silent.
John smiled tensely, but it didn't meet his eyes. Sherlock stood by the door, assessing his roommate carefully. John moved very suddenly, reaching up to run a shaking, bone- coloured hand to run through his hair.
"Sherlock," he greeted, his voice utterly unlike that of the normal, regular Dr Watson. It was broken, hoarse and thick with emotion. Sherlock hated that voice for a moment. It was wrong. John should not have ever sounded like that. He should have sounded warm and calm and safe.
"John-"
"I'm sorry. I asked them not to call you. I know this is uncomfortable for you," John interrupted, clasping his hands together. Sherlock remained frozen at the door.
"You can go, if you want. I suppose I'll come home some time tonight- when the paperwork is-"
"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock interrupted. He moved then, and sat opposite John.
John laughed once, harshly.
"So am I," he agreed, his lip quivering, "Jesus, Sherlock, I'm so fucking sorry that I didn't bloody try and help," Sherlock's eyes watched John's face for a moment, and then he nodded, urging John to continue, "I was so sick of her drinking herself half to- and I didn't want to help. I thought she was doing it to be spiteful. I didn't know she was- I mean, she was always drinking, I could never tell if she was depressed or just being an idiot and now... Well now it's too bloody late to give it a guess," John ranted, tears falling freely and blurring his vision. In front of him, the distorted Sherlock reached out.
Sherlock pulled John's hands apart, vaguely concerned about the lack of circulation in them.
"John," Sherlock began, placing John's hands on either side of the chair, "When Father died, do you know what I did?" Sherlock asked. John wanted to laugh- to ask how the fuck he would know- but instead he simply shook his head. Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment, considering bailing out of his story, but then continued, "I went to his study and destroyed everything. I was extremely angry at him for dying- for leaving me alone-" Sherlock let out a bitter laugh, "but I had Mycroft and Mummy. I wasn't alone. I'd just lost my father, but I felt alone," he explained, brow crinkled in concentration as he tried to voice his feelings. It wasn't easy.
John watched in fascination, wiping the tears from his eyes with scratching, calloused fingers.
"Do you know why I'm telling you this?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head, "because you, John Watson are not alone," Sherlock promised, with such conviction that John blinked up at him for a moment.
"Thank you," he finally murmured. Sherlock nodded once and looked about the room for some sort of inspiration. He had no idea where his little speech had come from.
"Would you like to go home?" Sherlock asked. John paused, torn between the desire for home and a chance to relax and having to fill out the appropriate paperwork. Sherlock picked up on his indecisiveness.
"You can do the paperwork later," he reminded John, who nodded.
"I'd like to go home," he murmured.
Sherlock stood and waited for John to copy. He then placed a protective hand on John's shoulder and led him from the room. They were watched cautiously by Lestrade as the exited, but somewhere deep down, Lestrade knew that John Watson was in relatively good hands.
Once inside, John shed his shoes and coat and headed immediately for the sofa, tears beginning to fill his eyes again as he mulled over the last time he had seen Harry: they had gone to their parents... It must have been a year earlier, before his parents had died. They'd managed to get along for once. Harry was sober for once. It was a great day.
Sherlock followed quickly, sitting next to John. He was utterly out of his element, watching John with open curiosity. Then, copying what Mycroft had done to him the day Father had died, Sherlock tucked John into his chest and allowed him to cry.
John clung to Sherlock as if his life depended on it, his body convulsing with violent sobs. Sherlock simply held him, waiting calmly- although slightly uncomfortably- as John cried.
It was almost an hour later when John sat up, completely stricken with grief, but gulping down air and calming himself. Sherlock watched silently, his presence alone calming John, just as Lestrade had predicted.
Finally, John was able to speak.
"Thank you," he murmured. Sherlock nodded once, and leant forward to place a brotherly, reassuring kiss to John's forehead, just as Mycroft had to him.
Sometimes, Sherlock was grateful for his brother.
A/N: So I hope you liked this one, please review!