A/N: This is the darkest thing I've ever written, and if you don't like angst, you'd best leave now. If you like angst, I hope I can scratch that itch of sadism for you.
A big, huge, loving thanks to my two betas: goldvermillion and blueskydog. The former helped out with general story content and characterization while the latter did the grammar and assisted me with the title and description. Thank you darlings, it means so much!
Mentions of drugs, drunkenness, implied violence.
Edit: this fic was revamped as of November 12, 2014.
"That's the last box," Sherlock said approvingly, his sleeves rolled up and top shirt buttons undone. He glanced at John, but the man was just staring blankly out the window. This was why Sherlock was sweaty and tired - he had done most of the lifting and carrying, while John occasionally focused long enough to pick up a small box or open one up and look cluelessly at the contents before his attention being captured by the middle distance.
Sherlock sighed. "Right. I'm having a shower," he said, and gave his friend a concerned look before walking to the bathroom and shutting the door. John didn't even turn around. How oddly reversed their roles were.
While in the shower, letting the hot water wash away the perspiration (and hopefully some of the tension from his muscles), Sherlock pondered the current situation with John.
It was only a week since Mary's funeral - a simple affair attended by under fifty people. Orphan's lot. The disease that caused her to miscarry her and John's child had claimed her life as well, leaving John bereft of a budding family. Cancer, pancreatic cancer to be precise. A particularly deadly breed of cancer, since it was usually fatal by the time it became symptomatic. When the doctors finally did find out, Mary had rejected treatment in hopes of keeping the baby alive. The baby died during delivery, and Mary was so far gone that there was never any chance for her to live. She died days afterward. Sherlock remembered looking at John being able to literally see his friend tearing himself apart inside, in spite of his stoic expression.
Sherlock was - concerned for his friend, but he would never show John pity. John had suffered hardship before (though to be fair, never on such a large scale) and he would heal eventually. Or, at least, so Sherlock hoped. He only spoke when he had to, and sometimes not even then. There were never any outbursts of emotion, which Sherlock was grateful for initially, but as time went on this general torpor was giving him reason to worry.
The decision to move to 221b had been a bit sudden; Sherlock recalled the way John had pulled him aside after the memorial service, gripping his shoulder with a shaking hand.
"Sherlock. I can't live in there anymore," he said in a harsh whisper, his eyebrows drawn together in an effort to ward off emotion. "Can I - can I come back to Baker Street?"
"Mrs. Hudson and I would be happy to have you around," Sherlock had replied without hesitation, not needing to ask the landlady.
So here they were, a week later. John had packed his things quickly, and held an estate sale on everything left in the house. Things were difficult since he still had the mortgage to pay, and so the house had been put on the market. No prospective buyers yet, despite the pleasant architecture and excellent location. Mrs. Hudson had repeatedly assured him that buyers would turn up, and additionally told him he didn't need to worry about rent for the next three months. John, for once, had actually used his vocal cords; this time for a vehement refusal. He didn't want charity, he said. Even in mourning, John still held steadfastly to his pride, a fact that Sherlock was both impressed and marginally annoyed by. Mrs. Hudson had already pulled Sherlock aside and told him her brilliant plan: she was going to cash his checks, and then give the notes to Sherlock to slip into John's wallet and pockets as he saw fit (Sherlock knew from experience that the man never knew exactly how much cash was in his wallet at any given time).
This would be John's first night actually staying in Baker Street, though. Sherlock had always seen John when the man was ready and prepared for observers - he didn't have a clue what John was like behind closed doors these days. Although he had noticed John smelled like alcohol from time to time.
Sherlock stepped out of the shower and toweled off, and suddenly felt very weary. When he walked out of the bathroom in his bathrobe, John was not anywhere to be seen. Well, at least he wasn't staring blankly at the wall anymore. Not in the sitting room where Sherlock could see him, anyway. He was welcome to peel the paint off the walls of his bedroom with his woeful looks to his heart's content. Sherlock shuffled to his room and got straight into his pajamas, then collapsed onto his messy covers, not wanting to deal with anything else tonight; he struggled with matters of the heart on a good day, and it had been a crap month.
None of this was terribly easy on Sherlock. It was of course much harder for John, but… And old hunger wrapped its tendrils around Sherlock's body, whispering that nothing had to be unpleasant ever, it was still waiting for him to come back, always waiting for him with open arms… Sherlock squelched the craving violently. Things were difficult enough as it was, it would be highly irresponsible and selfish to succumb to his old demons. He rolled onto his stomach and pulled the covers over him, sighing.
John would be fine, he just needed lot of space and some time. He always mended before long - Sherlock merely needed to be patient, he assured himself, before drifting off to sleep. His mind replayed that last time Mary had spoken to him, sick and weak, in that hazy state between dreams and thoughts.
"Take care of him, Sherlock," she rasped.
"I will, I promise. I swear it."
The morning came to John Watson on the wings of a splitting headache and a foul taste in his mouth. He grimaced and sat up, wincing at the harsh sunlight that was glaring into the room through half-shut curtains. He quickly rectified that issue and sat back down on his bed, putting his head in his hands.
He really should not have drank so much last night. It was an accident - he intended to just get lightly buzzed, enough to ease him through dealing with Sherlock's natural abrasiveness and the stress of moving, when next thing he knew - or didn't know - he was absolutely blasted. He didn't even remember coming home. Good thing he was still pretty intelligent when he was drunk, or who knew where he would be right now. Probably senseless in an alley somewhere.
There was a brief internal debate about whether he should get up and try to do something productive with his day off (he wasn't stupid, he wouldn't have touched the alcohol if he had work the next day), or just sleep this hangover off. As if defending itself in the argument, the ache in the back of his head surged, and without further deliberation John laid back down and passed out for another few hours.
It was mid-afternoon when John finally shuffled down the stairs, silent and frowning. The curtains were already drawn closed and the lights were off, making the flat gloomy and dark. Sherlock was seated in his chair, reading a forensic science journal. The low light was behind Sherlock, making his face nothing but a shadow.
"Feeling okay?" Sherlock asked quietly, glancing at John with an unreadable expression.
"How'd you know..?" John started to ask suspiciously, but stopped himself. "Nev'r mind, 's probably a crease on my left hand or something," he mumbled. He made a beeline for the bathroom, and the first thing he did was take a couple pills of paracetamol. It couldn't kick in fast enough - it felt like a pinball game was going on inside his head.
John looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked awful; there were bags under his eyes, deeper lines on his forehead, a few new touches of grey around his temples. It all happened so quickly; he'd had a future. A real, proper, normal and healthy life just getting started, and it had been crushed by Fate's unsympathetic footstep. In the space of a month, both his wife and child had been stolen from him; Mary's lovely laugh and gentle hands, his daughter's first breath. A dream had turned to a nightmare.
Now he had been left with just Sherlock - and while Sherlock was a dear friend and an excellent detective, he didn't go very far in the direction of emotional support. He could get over it with some time, but not right now. He wasn't ready to heal yet. He wanted to hold onto his grief awhile longer.
When John returned to the living area, there was no one in the room. Not thinking much of it, John stretched out on the couch, planning to immerse himself in crap telly for the rest of the day. He felt a pang as he felt the cold vacuum next to him instead of a warm body - then he shook his head. That's not helping. Later, John glanced up from squinting at the remote as Sherlock walked into the room from the hallway. Sherlock's mobile went off, and when he unlocked the screen and held it close to his face in the dark room, John could finally see his friend's face.
"Sherlock…" John trailed off. Sherlock glanced up, unconcerned. There were two ugly bruises on Sherlock's face, one swelling his right eye shut, and the other was on the left side of his jaw. "How did that happen?" John demanded, wincing in pain when he spoke a little too loudly.
"Oh, this?" Sherlock said absently, lowering his phone in order to type a reply. "Case. Last night,"
"You didn't have a case yesterday," John whispered suspiciously.
"Well I do now," the taller man replied coldly, waving a dismissive hand and walking out the door.
John huffed, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, but made no further comment. If Sherlock wanted to pretend that those bruises weren't giving him Hell, that was none of John's business.
Lestrade texted an hour or so after Sherlock left. The text alert made John flinch.
…
What happened to his face?
...
John sighed and replied, squinting at the pale light. He made sure to sign with his initials, a habit ingrained over the years of having Sherlock steal his phone.
...
He said he got a case last night. Not one of yours, I'm assuming? -JW
...
Nope. Funny, he said he hasn't had a case in days.
...
John narrowed his eyes, not for the first time that day, and not for the last.
When Sherlock came back in hours later, John was still unmoved from the sofa. John watched Sherlock out of his peripheral vision, not wanting to alert the detective to the fact that he was being watched. As soon as Sherlock saw John, he abruptly turned and walked into his room, and John heard the soft click of the lock. Interesting.
...
Keep on eye on him, Greg. He's acting strange, stranger than usual anyway. I don't like it. -JW
It surprised John that he had the energy to worry about Sherlock. He didn't want to care, but despite himself, Sherlock was taking more space in his thoughts than usual as John wondered what the detective was up to. He was hiding something, obviously. Could be nothing, of course; the man hid as many facts as humanly possible. But John's gut instinct told him that there was something Not Good going on.
A couple of weeks later, Sherlock suddenly had a broken arm. When John came down that morning, about to go to his clinic, he noticed the cast that was on Sherlock's forearm where he sat at his microscope.
"What happened there?" John asked in a disinterested voice. The detective was having an infernal time trying to use the delicate focus with his dominant arm in a cast. John glanced at his watch; he had to get to work, but Sherlock wasn't meeting his eyes.
"Fell down the stairs last night," Sherlock replied, very clearly engrossed in whatever he was doing. But John pursed his lips when he noticed there wasn't a slide in the microscope.
"Hmm," John said noncommittally.
Over the next month, Sherlock withdrew more and more, so that John barely saw him. And, curse it all, it was the perfect thing for John. It had been Sherlock's initial mysteriousness that helped him when he was recovering from Afghanistan; now this new business intrigued him out of his emotional lethargy. Although, he still visited the pub to get sloshed every now and then. He was nowhere near alcoholism, though.
More and more people were noticing that Sherlock hadn't been himself lately, aside from the random bruises and scrapes. Mrs. Hudson called him 'reclusive', Molly told John he seemed sad, (well, that made two of them, John had thought) and Lestrade asked John to at least accompany Sherlock to the crime scenes so that there would be someone to put out the fires. Though John wasn't himself either - not even close. Part of him suspected he'd never really recover his former disposition. C'est la vie; he was rather relieved of the fact, in reality. That way, Mary would leave a lasting mark on him, even if it was a hole where something else should be. A distant part of his mind warned that such behavior was not healthy, but John couldn't be bothered.
John still didn't feel ready to start helping Sherlock with cases again. But at this point, Sherlock might not even want his help. To John, he just seemed distrustful in general. A week or two ago, he'd flinched when John had to move quickly to catch a falling teacup, as if expecting an attack. His eyes always seemed averted, as if hiding something; it was easy to see Sherlock was guilty, not wanting to reveal how he had received his injuries or why he was never around anymore.
Things were pointing in a very disturbing direction, and John didn't want to consider what it would mean if his growing suspicions were accurate. He met Sherlock a couple of years after the man got off 'the sauce', as Mycroft so elegantly put it, but he was a doctor and he knew what the symptoms were, changes in mood being a classic one, right along with secretive behavior. Even though that was Sherlock's usual state, those traits had been intensified enough for everyone to notice.
John wanted nothing more than to take action, but he knew that if showed interest, invaded Sherlock's psychological space bubble, the younger man would shut down and withdraw completely. He needed to be very, very cautious now. Yet, he didn't feel like he could sit by and bear witness to Sherlock's self-destruction. Even if it wasn't drugs like John suspected, there was clearly something harmful going on.
One night over a pint, John discussed the situation with Lestrade. It was the first time John had willingly agreed to leaving the house for anything less than a need.
"He's either ridiculously high or low maintenance," John said, and slowly nursed his mug. "There is no middle ground."
"He is that way," Lestrade replied, but his eyes were on the screen where a football match was on.
"He won't talk to me," John went on. "I mean, he's usually an antisocial git, but not this much."
Lestrade shrugged, clearly engrossed in the match, and took a drink instead of replying.
"Oh God," John said, rolling his eyes.
"What?" the DI asked, actually looking at John this time.
"Every time he turns up with a split lip or a bruise, it's always when…" John paused, not sure if he wanted to admit the next bit.
"When…?" Lestrade asked with eyebrows raised.
"When I'm blasted," John answered, deciding that it wasn't anything to be ashamed of if he was in control. "Every time. Oh God, he's timing it. Whatever he's up to, he waits until I'm off my face and then goes and bloody shoots up or whatever. And the next morning I'm always too hungover to notice the details." John rubbed one side of his face with is hand, somewhat annoyed by this new revelation.
"I wouldn't jump to conclusions," Lestrade warned. Somehow, in that moment, John could see that Lestrade was concerned for him as well, not just Sherlock's odd behavior of late. "You can't risk accusing him and being wrong. He's really touchy about it, actually."
"Well, what else could he be doing?" John asked darkly, and they both turned back to the football match. Trying to work out Sherlock's quirks would take too long for one night.
"I'd better be off," the older man commented once the match had ended and the subsequent shouts of victory died down. "I've got to be in by ten tomorrow."
"Night, mate," John said in farewell, but made no move to leave. He could sense Lestrade giving him a worried look, but John ignored it. A moment later he was on his own, and he ordered one more drink before heading home, more than tipsy by that point. Everything was a little too bright, and sounds were too muffled, but he could think just fine, thank you.
Sherlock knew that John was going to the pub tonight - if John's theory was correct, there was a chance to catch him in the act, or at least off-guard.
This had gone far enough. John was going to put a stop to this, now.
When John arrived back at 221b, there was no one home. He checked in Sherlock's room - empty. Well, then. He'd park himself right here and wait for Sherlock to come crawling back, and John would get an answer out of him, now matter how much persuasion it took. He would have enlisted Mrs. Hudson's assistance, but she was visiting her sister for the weekend. How dare Sherlock do this to himself, to John? As if he didn't have enough on his plate already, now Sherlock wanted to add himself to the list as well! And all for some temporary pleasure, some brief euphoria! John fumed. Sherlock could be the most self-centered, narcissistic person on the face of the earth. And John planned to give him a piece of his mind.
John sat in the chair in the corner of Sherlock's room, left the light off, and began to wait.
Awareness pounced on John suddenly, making his body jerk. Adrenaline filled him as he took in unfamiliar surroundings, but relaxed once his brain reminded him of where he was - Sherlock's room. The pounding of his heart fell away to leave him with the pounding of his head, which was much less preferable. Despite the discomfort, John got to his feet, but not without rubbing his temple with one hand.
The room was completely undisturbed. John must have fallen asleep because Sherlock had not returned. A small bolt of fear ran through him; even though it wasn't unheard of for Sherlock to disappear for a day or two, right now it was scary.
I need to find that idiot, John thought to himself, and shuffled out the door. He needed to get his coat, call Mycroft and let him know his suspicions (it would serve Sherlock right to have his brother stick his nose in his business), and then go stomping around London with a hangover until he found that selfish moron and dragged him back home by the neck. John was going to punch that stupid face, slap some sense into him. Rage boiled up in John's belly.
He made it to the sitting room, and froze dead in his tracks. All his previous anger evaporated in an instant.
Sherlock was there, curled up on his side on the rug. His face was slack, and bruises were visible even from where the doctor stood. John cursed and stumbled to his friend's side, and inspected Sherlock's head and neck.
"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John asked, in a voice as calm as he could. Anger started to rise again, but not as fierce. John tapped his cheek lightly. "Sherlock, wake up."
No response.
John cursed again and very carefully rolled Sherlock onto his back, mindful of possible spinal injury. He swallowed when he saw the ugly bruises and cuts that bloodied Sherlock's face. He carefully undid the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, and gasped to see the bruising there. If he had to guess, he'd say Sherlock had a fractured rib or two. Thankfully his abdomen wasn't quite as bad, meaning John could hope for no internal bleeding. Sherlock's pulse was weak but steady, that also pointed to no bursted intestines. Good.
"Sherlock?" John tried again, lightly slapping Sherlock's face. He was likely unconscious due to a head injury, and hadn't responded for five minutes. Without hesitation, John called an ambulance, relaying all the information and then hung up. He continued to call Sherlock's name, trying to bring the detective around. There was still no sign of consciousness.
Sirens could be heard, not long now.
"Come on, mate, wake up," John growled. I couldn't lose Sherlock too, I couldn't… John's left hand started to tremble.
As if in response, Sherlock's eyelids twitched.
"Sherlock? Can you open your eyes for me?" John asked urgently.
Slowly, light irises came into view, and John watched as the pupils tried to focus on something but did not quite succeed. Definitely a concussion.
"Tell me what happened, you idiot," John said somewhat angrily, but placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
As if John had struck him, Sherlock slapped his hands away, and wrenched his eyes shut. John frowned. There were steps coming up the stairs, the paramedics had arrived.
"I'm done with letting you be secretive, Sherlock. Tell me. Now." John insisted, taking Sherlock's chin and forcing the detective to face him.
Sherlock's eyes were full of fear, anger, and distrust. John almost recoiled at the blatant expression. A hand was laid on John's shoulder, and the army doctor looked up to find a paramedic drawing him away from Sherlock as her associates gathered around, assessing Sherlock.
Shifting into professional mode, John began helping by telling them everything he could, and tried not to feel nervous as Sherlock was lifted onto a stretcher. The detective was awake, but wincing and grunting at all the movement. He followed them down the stairs, and was about to climb into the ambulance when the same woman laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Family only," she said, and moved to climb in as well.
"I am," John lied smoothly.
She smiled. "No, you're not, Dr. Watson," she replied, and then slammed the door shut. The ambulance took off, leaving John standing on the pavement.
An interminable amount of time passed before John snapped out of it and hailed a cab. He knew which hospital they were going to, so he gave the address to the cabbie and then sat back, searching for a new course of action. He texted Lestrade and Mycroft to let them know about the situation, although Mycroft probably already knew, the git.
When he arrived at the hospital, the receptionist refused to tell him anything of Sherlock's condition, no matter how much he wheedled. They said he could visit Sherlock in an hour - well, John had nothing else planned today. He could wait, as unpleasant as it might be.
When a doctor finally came to fetch him, he was reading through a Time magazine for the fifth time.
"How is he?" John pressed, walking alongside the doctor.
"Well, since you somehow turned out to be Mr. Holmes' primary caretaker in the last twenty minutes," the doctor began suspiciously (Mycroft had his good moments), "I can now tell you that he'll be fine, he just needs to rest. He's got a moderate concussion, a couple of greenstick fractures in his ribs, and a sprained wrist. The bruises will start hurting in earnest over the next few days, so we'll give him some light pain medication and release him this evening with recovery instructions."
"Was there any sign of drug abuse?" John asked, his stomach flipping.
"The blood work hasn't come back yet, but he didn't show any obvious signs."
"That's good…" John mumbled.
Before they reached the room, a nurse approached them and pulled the doctor aside. John watched out of the corner of his eye as she whispered something, and then the doctor nodded and turned back to John.
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Holmes has asked us to keep you out of the room," the doctor told John, not sounding too apologetic.
"He…" John started to repeat stupidly before stopping himself and nodding. "Right. I'll… I'll go," he said, and added, "Could you call me with the test results when he's released?"
"Of course," the doctor replied, and turned away with a small gesture of farewell. John sighed and let himself out.
Going from the way he'd found Sherlock, John assumed that Sherlock had dragged himself home after receiving his beating and passed out on the floor. There was a small possibility that Sherlock had been a random victim of a mugging or something, but John doubted it since he hadn't been allowed to visit Sherlock's room. Which, to John, strongly suggested that the detective was guilty of something.
Part of him hated to do this to Sherlock, another part didn't care, and another part thought it would serve Sherlock right. John pulled out his phone and called Mycroft.
"He's told them to keep me out of his room," John said without preamble.
"And you expect me to use my influence to reverse that decision?" the elder Holmes replied, sounding unhappy at being bothered.
"Actually, I was thinking you could go and visit him yourself. He won't tell me what's going on."
"And you think he'll tell me, of all people?"
"No. But he seems mad at me in particular. He's always mad at you, so you might have better luck. Plus, you can probably deduce it off him."
"True enough," Myrocft admitted. "But when my brother really wants something to be kept secret, he can sometimes conceal it even from me. I've a meeting, but afterwards I can pop by and see what I can do."
The line went dead without a farewell, which was fine with John.
John was back at the flat, reading in his chair, when his phone rang. He hadn't been reading, really; just reading the same paragraph over and over again while his mind kept showing him the image of Sherlock's unconscious face, and the brief terror John had felt for just a moment that -
"Hello?"
"Is this Dr. Watson?" a young female voice asked.
"Yes, it is." John put a inserted a bookmark and set the novel down, giving the call his full attention (not that the book ever had that anyway).
"This is Royal London Hospital, calling about the test results of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes." John grunted in affirmation. "His blood results came back clean, nothing unusual, no illegal substances." John frowned in relief and confusion. "When we had a constable come in to ask him about the assault, he said it was a mugging, and refused to give any more details." That sounded like an outright lie. "We've just released him, and so he'll have care instructions you'll need to look at."
"Yes, thank you," John said, and the girl bid him farewell and then hung up. Knowing Sherlock could be home any minute, John called Mycroft again.
"What did he say?" John snapped.
"My my, aren't we demanding today," Mycroft said condescendingly. John was not about to dignify that comment with a reply, and thus ignored it.
"Did you manage to find out what happened?"
"I was able to pick up a thing or two," Mycroft said coldly. John cursed the hereditary Holmes cryptic streak. It was pathological.
"And…?" John urged.
"It's not really my place to tell you. If Sherlock is ready, he'll fill you in." For the second time that day, Mycroft hung up on him.
John growled in frustration. What was that supposed to mean?!
His attention was diverted by the sound of the front door closing.
John stood, and planted his feet squarely in the centre of the living room. Sherlock stepped in, his arm in a brace, and looking awful - there were dark rings under his eyes, and the contusions that covered his face and neck were bright and angry. His expression was inscrutable and cold, but - his body language was tense.
John walked up to him, and refused to be intimidated by the way Sherlock could look down at him. The consulting detective shrank ever so slightly away from the approach before staying the motion, but John, who was familiar with subtleties by now, caught it easily.
"Sherlock -"
"I'm moving out."
John's mouth opened soundlessly for a second before he could speak. "W-what?" Sherlock shoved him aside and walked past him.
"You heard me. I'm not going to repeat myself." Sherlock's voice didn't even sound as enraged as he looked - it was cold and flippant, which was worse somehow.
If Sherlock moved out… John doubted he'd be able to keep living here. A Baker Street without Sherlock in it was wrong, and worse, it would be too similar to when he'd lost Sherlock years ago. And with his own issues to deal with already, John didn't think he could handle that.
"If you moved out, I'd move out too," John argued, even though it was a lame argument.
"Oh, well in that case, why don't you just go ahead and move out, so that I don't have to move out and then move back in after you leave?" Sherlock replied. He had conjured a box into existence, and was already harshly throwing things into it.
Even though John didn't want it to, that really stung. Sherlock always found a way.
"Why won't you just tell me?!" John said loudly. Sherlock turned calmly to look at him.
"Tell you what?" Sherlock asked, adopting a clueless look. It enraged John even more.
"You know what!" John yelled. "Where this happened, why you're hiding it, and why you are so utterly determined to destroy yourself!"
There was silence, in which John breathed loudly through his nose, and Sherlock regarded this display with something between contempt and amusement. Then he turned back to his packing. He needed to be resting his injuries, but in moods like these he could not be dissuaded.
John's mind raced. If Sherlock left, not only would John be negatively affected, but Sherlock would be as well, since he could probably continue whatever activities had caused his injuries without opposition. Not to mention it would upset Mrs. Hudson. John had to figure out some way to make Sherlock reconsider, or at least tell John why...
"What do you expect me to do?" John asked lowly, still angry but back in control. Sherlock had emotionally manipulated him more than once, this was likely a ploy. The thought made John sick. "And why are you shutting me out?"
They were better than this. The two of them had been close before - before. When had this chasm sprung up, and why hadn't John noticed?
Sherlock paused, looking off into the middle distance, and seemed to actually consider the two questions put to him.
"Do you really want to know?" Sherlock asked darkly.
"Of course I do, Sherlock. Why else would I be asking you? Why else do you think I'm still here?" John said, somewhere between gentleness and anger.
Sherlock put down the book in his hand that he had been trying to cram into the box, and walked over to John. The ex-RAMC swallowed but held his ground as Sherlock got within centimeters of him, his face like an ice statue, eyes narrowed and accusing.
"You want me to tell you who did this?" Sherlock asked quietly. John wanted to scream yes, how many times do I have to say it, but merely nodded sharply. Sherlock took John's hand, but there was no affection in the gesture. Sherlock critically raised John's knuckles close to his face, examining them.
"Your knuckles are sore, probably." Sherlock didn't look up to see the confused look on John's face.
"How did you - no. Why is that relevant?"
"Don't remember when I came home last night either. Am I right?"
John swallowed, not liking where this was going.
"You asked what you could do to make me stay," Sherlock went on, and let go of John's hand, and moved his bruised face even closer, anger written in every line. "Well here's my answer. Stop drinking. Never touch another alcoholic drink in your life."
John saw red suddenly. This conversation was not supposed to be about him. This was about Sherlock. This was supposed to be about how Sherlock messed up. But the detective kept going. "I'm tired of watching you do this to yourself. It's repulsive, and I won't tolerate it any longer."
John was practically shaking with anger - how dare he? What a hypocrite! As if Sherlock didn't have his vices, his guilty pleasures! But Sherlock's next answer made the anger fall flat.
"And you wanted to know who did this. I'm sure you want to find him, track him down, make him pay. You've always been so sentimental, so blind," Sherlock spat. "I can introduce you two. Dr. John Watson, meet the perpetrator."
Sherlock pointed to the mirror.
John stared at the mirror, dumbfounded.
The bruises always appeared the morning after John had a pint too many… His knuckles hurt… Sherlock's lies… his anger and distrust.
"And you never said…?" John croaked. But there was no reply; Sherlock was already gone, the open door gaping like an open wound.
John had done this. All of it. It was all him.
The strength started to drain out of John's knees, and he shakily collapsed into his chair, trembling anew, but for a different reason this time.
John swallowed the nausea rising in his throat.
He couldn't look at those bruises anymore, he couldn't, or he'd vomit. John rose and grabbed his coat to head to the pub, but paused before going down the stairs.
He wanted the bittersweet embrace of intoxication. Only now did he realize his growing dependence on the substance. He craved it. But he had promised Sherlock...
No he hadn't. He hadn't promised anything to that self-righteous prick. John started to step before freezing again.
He couldn't risk… this happening again. He couldn't risk driving Sherlock away. And somehow John knew that if he did this, he would. He would lose the person he was closest to in the whole world, the man who had he had saved and been saved by, for nothing more than a drink.
An internal battle raged, and not even John could guess how it would end. He must have stood there for ten minutes.
But with a violent jerk, John whirled back around and pounded up the stairs to his room, not giving himself time to think about it, just forcing his muscles to propel him away from the temptation.
He never saw the tall, skinny shape watching from under the stairwell.
A/N: My first try at suspense/angst. How'd it go? Tell me down there in a review, if it's not too much trouble, dears! :)
Note that this is not meant to be slash, or pre-slash, or even a paper cut. I realize this is basically domestic abuse, I knew that from the moment the idea came to me, but it's not meant to be like that. Sorry for killing Mary and the baby - I still have my fingers crossed that they won't get killed off. (Yes, it's canon. But thanks to FinalProblem on tumblr, I am now convinced that Mary is Birdy Edwards… can't unsee. Check out her post 'Down in the Valley' if you're as curious/desperately hopeful as I am.)
I won't be continuing this - I think it's best to leave it on the current note - John seems willing to make a change, which is what Sherlock was hoping for. Not only do I not have the time, motivation, or skill to do a seventy-chapter story, but it wouldn't follow the same tone. I was originally going to include all the events from Sherlock's POV, but I think that would be a cheap way of giving the readers angst.
Thank you so much for reading.