Hello everyone! I have returned to the Sherlock fandom. *bows* After much time off, and several re-watches of the miraculously perfect Season 3 on the flight to Rome, I have decided it is time to take another stab at the wonderful world of Johnlock. Although I have yet to decide how physical/resolved the relationship will become within this story, expect angst Johnlock and hints at romantic/sexual attraction between the boys. This is set the morning after Mycroft's removal from the flat in HLV (following Molly and John's little intervention at Bart's). Please read and review! XOX
It hits them both hard in the morning.
It's not an unfathomable event, indeed it is one that has crossed John's mind on numerous occasions and constantly lurks around the perimeters of his darker thoughts on bad days and nights, nights where Sherlock is gone, out or otherwise indisposed within the flat, brooding over a case (or more frequently, the lack thereof) or in one very unusual incident, the aftermath of Irene Adler's so-called "death".
His (partner? friend?)'s shaded past and dabbling in drugs is no secret to anyone, least of all John, but he himself has never faced Sherlock in the physical throes of a high, nor has there ever, in all their years together, been any indication of substance abuse. Still, neither the incident at the house (the drug den, really, but Sherlock's eyes practically rolled from his skull when John used such severe terminology) and the memorable assault with Molly at the lab afterwards, neither of these incidents were without warning signs, and in the light of day, John realized all too well how blind he had been over these last few weeks.
The wedding had gone well, John had thought, and Sherlock had seemed to have if not an "enjoyable" time, at least a sportingly un-painful one, and between the attempted murder at the reception and unexpected case over dessert, John had (foolishly) supposed that the real gravity of the event would melt away into the distance.
Clearly, this had not been the case.
For no matter how high the adrenaline, no matter how epic the mystery of how delicious the cake, it was ludicrous to assume that the Great Sherlock Holmes could be tricked into forgetting the departure of his only friend.
"The end of an era", Mrs. Hudson had told him over tea, "It's not ever going to be the same again, is it?"
"No." John had thought to himself. "No, it isn't."
The three weeks of silence were bad enough. Three weeks of hot, heavy, impenetrable silence from his friend had been horrific, but this gaping chasm of apart-ness was nothing compared to the drug-addled wreck John had stumbled upon yesterday morning. And the anger, the shame and rage and fear of watching Molly come through with the urine test, of standing in Bart's and silently seething as Sherlock ignored her punches and screams and came around with little but cold indifference, all of that was nothing, nothing, compared to the wreck John found on the floor of Baker Street Sunday morning.
"Sherlock?"
The lump of the sofa made a faint, soft sound of discomfort but did not move.
"Sherlock?"
A tentative hand on skin, brush of nails on fabric.
"Sherlock can you sit up for me?"
The lump moves fractionally, just enough to reveal a faint half-moon of neck. A shake of the head.
"Go 'way." The words are so quiet John can hardly hear them, just a shaky exhalation wrapped around two syllables, white knuckled and weak. Weak. John has never once though such a thing of Sherlock Holmes. He feels ashamed as soon as the words floats into his thoughts.
Sherlock makes no move to sit up. He lets his scowl absorb into the rug, quietly hoping that perhaps, if he lies here long enough, the jitters will stop, the chills will evaporate, and John Watson will simply disappear from the face of the planet, leaving him alone to suffer for all the destruction he has caused. Perhaps, with enough time, the rug will soak the pain out of him, and he will be left hollow and elated. Perhaps god will let him die in peace.
"Sherlock."
Someone cups his cheek, opens an eye, ever so softly, with the pad of a finger. Warm. Rough. Calloused, but mending. More fingers on his neck, finding a pulse.
John makes a deep hum, a disapproving sound. Sherlock's stomach knots and liquifies simultaneously. Disappointed.
"Fever… chills…" The words come to his ears very slowly, lazily, as if suspended in thin air. "Jesus your pulse is racing." Fiddling, shift of weight. "I'm going to have you sit up now, alright?"
"John, 'm fine. Gettoff m—" Sherlock cuts himself off with a moan as the world right itself at John's hands and his entire body is flooded with pain. His joints feel as if they are on fire, his bones have been emptied and filled with powdered glass, flooding every muscle in his body.
"J-j-john stop-p-pp…" The ache is in his liver, in his lungs, in his heart, everything is falling, sinking deeper and deeper into the earth as his falls with it. His mind is crumbling, his body watching vaguely as the castle walls disintegrate. Sitting up forces the blood down from his head and he finds himself suddenly lightheaded and neaseous.
"Sherlock, did you take something else?" John is no longer patient, no longer soft, now he is rough, angry, demanding an answer. John shakes him, hard, and the pain in his head explodes as military hands tighten at his neck.
"You bastard. You did, didn't you? All that, all we've done for you, and you're still too bloody selfish to tell the truth. Answer me." John says, no more than a hiss. His hands tighten unexpectedly, and Sherlock catches a glimpse of something black in his gaze. Time choses its reveals unexpectedly, and in that moment, those two years of agony are bright as day in John Watson's eyes. Beneath their blue is something dark, something sharp and bitter and relentless, and right now whatever it is is looking into Sherlock's very core.
"Sherlock Holmes," It spits, "you will tell me what you took. What. Have. You. Done."
The grip tightens and Sherlock feels his stomach roll, eyes suddenly oversensitive to the bright lights, the street too loud, the carpet far too sharp.
"Nothing," Sherlock croaks, "Nothing, that's— that's the problem."
And just like that the black is gone, replaced by the most tranquil of blues. The realization crashes over them both, and Sherlock can nearly see the word form on John's lips even as he chokes it back down and releases Sherlock's cheek.
Withdrawal.
"Shit-" The explosion of sound sends him crashing over the edge, and John pulls his hands away just in time, as Sherlock turns to his side, dry heaving against the bile in his throat. He senses John in his periphery but pushes him away with the lingering energy he can muster. His limbs ache. He continues to heave over the carpet, coming up with nothing but bile and bitter saliva that catch in his raw throat and make him want to gag more.
"Here."
A bowl is thrust under his chin without ceremony, and John's hand settles comfortably against the small of his back, rubbing minute ovals on his spine. The touch makes him feel sick all over again. Sherlock imagines where those hands might have been, the flesh they have touched, the sounds they brought to light. John's touch against Mary, his hand against her clit, opening her, spreading her wide before letting his mouth take her for himself—
STOP.
Just stop.
A moan, a scream, something like a wounded animal.
It takes him a moment to realize the sound is from his own lips. John is saying something now, something urgent, something pained. The word "hospital" tears through the space, and Sherlock feels the next scream as it shreds up his vocal chords.
"NO! No.. no hospital don't you dare John don't not there you can't you can't I'll—"
The room spins before breaking into two, twin John's staring anxiously back at him, four eyes placating.
"Alright, alright, no hospital—"
"Promise?"
John looks as him for a moment, searching. There's a flash of- what? Hope? Sorrow? Pity? Something broken in those eyes, but before Sherlock can drag his mind out to identify it, John has already turned away.
"Right, yes, of course." He mumbles. "Promise."
To be continued?