John Watson's day had taken a definite turn for the worse.
Ever since he'd received that call from Mycroft, concerning the state of his former flatmate. Sherlock was not taking kindly to being alone now, it seemed. Maybe he resented Mary. Or maybe he was just a moron. Regardless...
Something had to be done, and soon, before the consulting detective drugged himself silly one too many times and... well, that wasn't a pleasant thought. But he almost deserved it, with what he'd done. What he'd put John through. It had been hell.
Absolute hell.
And now he was having a taste of his own medicine, and John hoped it was bitter and horrible, because he wanted him to know what it had been like. He wanted him to be sorry.
He probably wasn't.
"Hello?" John wrapped on the door only once before it was opened, to his surprise, by the elder Holmes instead of a butler.
He must be concerned.
But of course Mycroft's expression showed no sign of it, though he seemed unusually rigid, and kept sighing morosely.
"Mycroft?" He raised an eyebrow. "Any change?"
"I'm afraid not. He's refusing to drink anything now, as well. I can't stand for this much longer—I'm deeply regretful that I even let it go on this long… But you know how stubborn he can be."
John nodded, sighing deeply. "Tell me about it. We might have to put him on an IV, if he's going to go in that direction."
"If you can find any good veins left, that is. He's bent on destruction now, it appears. And that has always been something he's unnaturally good at."
The consulting detective's room was situated on the far side of the house, by a large window. The sunlight that filtered in that way was the only light in the room, casting the floor in a jumbled, shadowy minefield of broken china, rumpled shirts, and haphazard cushions. For a split-second or so John wondered how Mycroft could let it get like that—but the loud, irritated greeting they received as soon as the door was opened made everything quite clear.
"FUCK OFF, MYCROFT! Leave me alone!" Sherlock tried to roll over on the bed, but gave up part way through, opting instead to growl crossly.
"Sherlock. You have a visitor."
"No."
Mycroft simply shrugged his shoulders and gave John a look that said 'go ahead.'
It took him a few moments to collect himself, but finally he stepped inside, avoiding the debris on the floor as best he could, and approached the bed.
The consulting detective had been through many dangerous cases.
Hell, he'd even been pronounced dead after jumping off a building.
But John had never seen him quite like this.
Somehow he looked more dead now than he had back then. His pale arms were covered in needle marks and the odd scratch or two—or four—and he stared up at the dim ceiling through half-lidded eyes, lying there like a dejected corpse.
Sherlock groaned and tried to turn his back on him again, shutting his eyes. "Go away. I don't want to see you."
"Yes you do, moron. Look at you. You're moping."
"Stop looking at me. You make me feel sick."
"You'remaking yourself sick. Come on, sit up. I'm a doctor, and I'm making a bloody house call. So do as I say, so I can help you."
Sherlock opened his deeply shadowed eyes and glared up at him. "I didn't ask for any help."
For a few seconds John just held his gaze, glaring back at him. "You're a mess, Sherlock. I'm not waiting for you to ask anymore. Now sit up."
He hesitated, and John took the opportunity to slip an arm around his shoulders and help him up to a sitting position. The detective felt thin and tenuous under his touch, and John shuddered inwardly.
It had been nearly a year since he'd spoken to him much. Mary had taken most of his time, and it had been much easier to deal with her. She had never deceived him the way his best friend had.
He'd never had to mourn for her.
There was an untouched glass of water on the nightstand, and John held it out to him, trying to get Sherlock's unwilling fingers to wrap around it.
"I don't feel like it…"
"You'll die of dehydration if you don't. Believe me, it's not a fun way to go. Come on."
Sherlock stared at it quietly, and then very, very slowly accepted the glass, though he tried to resist when John moved to help him take a sip.
Still very much the independent spirit.
And still very much the stubborn git.