A/N: Hello again, my darlings! If you've followed me because of something else I've written, welcome back! If not, hi. This fic is a bit different from my others, because I brought Sherlock's drug history into it, as per a request by the lovely A. L. Cullen, who gave me my first prompt. I'm fairly satisfied with what I've done with it, though I've never done drugs, so I had to do some research for this piece and may have gotten something wrong. If I have, feel free to call me on it. Now I'll stop blabbing: enjoy!
"You completely fucking arsehole!" John roared, fists curled tightly as he glared at Sherlock, who simply blinked back at him, oblivious, as usual, to anyone's feelings but his own. It was just another afternoon in 221B Baker Street, after another long day at the surgery, but what set this one apart was that John had come home to find Sherlock had destroyed about half of his jumpers—and a good number of his favorites—for the sake of his "experiments." He didn't seem to understand why John was upset, actually opened his mouth to argue his case, which only enraged John more.
"I don't know how anyone could have put up with these ridiculous antics for as long as I have. You're such a selfish bastard, Sherlock, really, I don't know how I've handled it for so long. Well, this ends tonight." Fury making John miss the permanency in his own tone, when what he really meant was that he needed a few days away, the doctor hurried to his room, tossed as much as he could carry in a duffel, and left without another word. It was easy, as he hadn't taken his shoes or coat off, having seen his destroyed jumpers, and smelled them, almost the minute he'd walked through the door.
Sherlock was stunned. Eyes wide, he stared at the door which John had slammed behind himself, barely believing what had just happened. The jumper he'd been holding to examine, on which he'd been testing the staining potential of various viscera, fell to the floor with a wet plop, but he barely noticed.
It took him three hours to process what had happened, and when it did, his eyes filled up with tears. John was never coming back. He'd finally chased him off. John thought he was a selfish bastard, that he wasn't worth sticking around for. Just like everyone else, John had given up on him.
Tears spilling over, Sherlock fell to his knees, before curling into a tight ball and letting himself sob, silently. He stayed like that until nearly two in the morning, when he finally pushed himself to his feet. His mind was swirling in a way he hadn't experienced in years, and suddenly he was desperate for an escape.
It was a surprisingly easy matter to go about acquiring his former drug of choice, cocaine. He knew the streets of London like the back of his hand, so it was an easy enough matter for him to avoid the CCTV and his big brother's potential interference as he slipped out of the flat and walked all the way to the worst end of town.
They all knew him here, of course, and even though he had arrested a great number of murderers, he was protected well enough by the homeless network that he could walk here fearlessly. Not that he would have cared at that moment. Death, he thought, would be a welcome respite from the guilt and pain that were currently tearing him apart. If John had given up on him, what reason had he to not do the same? John was the only person who'd ever believed in him to that degree, and if even John had had enough…
Misery spurring him faster, making him willing to do almost anything to escape the sickness in his gut at the thought that the man he'd secretly loved for so long leaving him forever, when his friendship was the one thing that had brought Sherlock back from the edge so many times, Sherlock headed down a familiar alley, seeing a familiar face that lit up with a smile in recognition.
"Sherlock, how lovely to see you." Victor Trevor practically purred the words, teeth flashing in a sharp predator's smile in the sallow light from the nearby streetlamp. He didn't look as elegant as he once had, but Sherlock hadn't come here for the reasons he once had, and he wasn't going to be selling his body this time. He'd earned enough through his consulting work to be able to pay in cash, and he flashed that money discreetly now, inquiring as to how much he could get for everything he had on hand.
The other man, a former acquaintance from uni who had gotten him started on the cocaine in the first place, gave him a good amount of the seven-percent solution, and if he paid a little more than what it was worth, Sherlock told himself that it didn't matter.
He made his way even more carefully back through London, wondering how many days he could disappear before Mycroft or Lestrade seriously got worried. He contemplated simply not going home; he could stop by the bank and take out enough cash for a crappy hotel room for a few days, or leave London altogether and go somewhere else to indulge. But he wanted to be home, the last place he'd seen John, the last place he'd entertained the idea that he might someday find the courage to tell him how he felt.
Shaking his head in disgust at himself—how had he ever imagined that John might someday come to love him back?—Sherlock finally returned to the flat, deciding against barricading the door just in case a miracle happened and John decided he wasn't done with him. He didn't have much hope for that, but it was just enough to not push a dresser in front of the door.
He stripped his shirt off and went to get his kit, which he'd hidden behind a false panel in his closet. Then he tied off a tourniquet, prepared a syringe of the solution, and closed his eyes, plunging the needle into his vein.
It hit his system fast, and he stumbled up the stairs to John's bedroom—please, let it still be his bedroom—and collapsed on the bed, closing his eyes as the room started to spin. He knew he'd taken a little too much when he started to feel sick and clammy, but the damage was already done. He wondered what it would be like to not wake up, and entertained he idea of sticking his finger down his throat to avoid his ultimate end for a little bit longer. But then he remembered that John had said he was never coming home, and decided against it. If John was no longer a part of his life, his life wasn't worth living.
John sighed as he finished off his forth beer, glancing up at the clock. It was nearly five in the morning, so he called for Greg to come get him. He didn't plan to go home while drunk, aware he would only make a bad situation worse. He'd cooled down enough to be ready to forgive Sherlock, provided he filled the now glaring hole in his wardrobe, but was strangely deeply hurt by the fact that Sherlock had shown such little regard for his things.
He said as much to Greg as the cop drove him back to his place to crash, and the DI chuckled, prompting John to ask what he was laughing at, exactly.
"You haven't realized by now that you're in love with him, have you? That's why it hurts so much." Greg, who knew a little bit about the pain that love could inflict, was smart enough to know that John would remember the conversation in the morning, but pressed on anyway, knowing too that it was what his best mate needed to hear.
"You think he doesn't value you as much as you do him, but I'm pretty sure you're wrong. Sherlock's definitely a strange bloke, no doubt about that, but he does care for you in his own way. He just doesn't understand common sense if you don't explain it to him first. His brain, strange as it might sound, is too advanced for something so simple, unless you make him acknowledge it."
John thought about his advice until sometime around dawn, when he fell asleep in Greg's guest room, and thought about it some more when he went to the surgery a few hours later and handled his shift. By the time he was headed back to Baker Street, with a cooler head and a much better perspective, he'd decided that Greg had been right, on all counts. He had already forgiven Sherlock by the time he reached the door, unlocked and opened it… and froze, staring in horror at the drug paraphernalia sitting on the coffee table in plain sight.
He quickly ran to Sherlock's bedroom, only to find it empty. He nearly panicked and called Mycroft before he realized the door to his own room was open. Heart in his throat, not at all sure what he was going to find when he climbed the stairs, John headed up and saw Sherlock lying flat out on his bed, chest rising and falling, albeit shallowly.
Sherlock was floating in a fog, not sure if he was asleep or awake—or, for that matter, whether he was alive or dead. It didn't seem to matter, and the darkness that was all he could see embraced him gently, though he wasn't sure if it was because it was nighttime or because his eyes were closed. Or, if he was dead, it was entirely possible that this was his punishment. A world without light or sound, a world without John Watson… Sherlock sighed a little, his body sluggish, wondering if he could possibly prompt it to rise and go find another needle. He felt someone shaking him, heard an angry growl that vaguely resembled a human voice. He frowned.
"Go away," the consulting detective mumbled, trying to curl into a tight ball to escape the competent, warm hands that were shaking him… He gasped suddenly, shock shooting through him as if he'd just been submerged in icy cold water. The voice, the hands, they all belonged to one person—John, his John.
But on the heels of that thought came the realization that he surely must be dreaming, even if it was a vivid dream. He couldn't imagine the afterlife would torment him in this way, and he was obviously not conscious. John was gone forever, chased away by his idiocy, and even as Sherlock opened his eyes to see concern on John's face, a sharp pain hit his chest at the realization that he would never see that look of concern on the face of the man he loved again.
"John." Because he was there, and because it was only a dream, Sherlock wrapped his admittedly weak arms around John's waist and clung to him as best he could, feeling the shorter man tense for a moment before holding him close, sitting on the bed and pulling the limp consulting detective into his lap.
Even though he was relieved that Sherlock was alive, he couldn't help feeling ice in his veins. He knew it was irrational, but he blamed himself for Sherlock's relapse, understanding that he had been the trigger this time. His absence, and his rash declarations just before leaving, had prompted the tall man to abandon his hard-won sobriety and fall back into his old habits, undoubtedly assuming that he had no one left who would care what happened to him, except perhaps Mycroft, whose opinion didn't seem to matter much to him.
"Christ, Sherlock, what have you done this time? Why did you do this?" Cradling the younger man to him because the idea of not holding him when he knew now how he felt, and knew how close he had been to losing him simply because he hadn't been here to save him for once, was more than he could take, John carded through his hair soothingly with one hand while checking his pulse with the other. It wasn't as strong as he'd have liked, but it would do. He needed to get Sherlock detoxed and maybe get some food in him, if he could get it down, and then sit him down to have a proper conversation about appropriate versus inappropriate reactions to arguments, after the talk about appropriate versus inappropriate treatment of one's flat mate's things.
"It all hurts too much, all this pretending, and if you don't love me, I really don't wanna live." Sherlock mumbled the words against John's chest, and the doctor froze again, which Sherlock barely noticed. The world was getting a little fuzzy around the edges once more, but he wanted to hold on to this image of John for as long as he could. He wasn't sure, after all, that he would ever see him so realistically again.
"Sherlock, are you serious?" But Sherlock was fading out quickly, blackness encroaching rapidly, and he fell unconscious before he could so much as mumble yes.
"Fuck," John swore, and quickly carried him to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, he let the water spray them both even though he was still dressed, and Sherlock was still wearing trousers. He nearly swore again in relief when Sherlock started sputtering in reaction to the water hitting him square in the face, a pitiful moan leaving him as he batted weakly at the spray.
"There you go, honey. Wake up. I need you to stay with me, now." Sherlock had been dangerously close to not coming back, John realized, and wondered just how much he'd taken, and how long he'd been in the danger zone. Had he shot up as soon as John had left, or had he been alone all night thinking about it, so that John could have stopped him if he'd been there…
Deciding that he could deal with his guilt later, when Sherlock was out of the woods, John carried him down to his room, helping him dress in loose trousers—maneuvering him into them and barely resisting the temptation to look at him for longer than necessary—before sitting him on the couch.
This Sherlock was surprisingly docile, though John could tell he was starting to come back from the high, and John took his drug supply and flushed or destroyed what he could before quickly running up to his own room to change into dry clothes. After checking on the taller man again, seeing that he was actually sitting on his own power, though he was swaying the tiniest bit, John made tea and a few pieces of dry toast for him, setting them in front of him with a no-nonsense expression on his face.
Sherlock, who by this point was aware enough to realize that he was not only alive but awake, reached for the cuppa, his shaking hand managing not to spill much as he lifted it to his lips. When the warm tea hit his taste buds he began to shiver, and John darted up the stairs again, coming down with one of his oldest jumpers. He helped the consulting detective into it, ignoring a feeble noise of protest, and then they had an uneasy staring match while they drank their tea, each waiting for the other to say something, anything.
"Were you serious earlier, Sherlock?" The genius, who wasn't actually sure what John was talking about—his memories before John had given him a good soaking were sketchy at best from the time he'd entered 221B with his cocaine early that morning—tilted his head, trying to deduce what John was referring to. What had he said?
Before, the cocaine had, if properly used, sharpened his thoughts even more, to the point where he'd been able to solve even the most unsolvable cases. He'd forgotten, in his grief, to take into account the fact that his tolerance level would have gone down after so long without it, and he was well aware he'd overdosed. He was probably lucky to be alive, though he wasn't sure he considered it all that lucky, all things considered. John was probably disappointed in him, and there was a chance that, even though he'd come back, he would take his things and leave again.
He'd destroyed Sherlock's kit, but if he left, Sherlock could buy another. They were just things, after all, and the money didn't matter. Maybe next time, he'd just go ahead and finish himself off. Then he wouldn't be a burden to the man he loved anymore.
Sorrow weighing him down, Sherlock let his gaze drop to his cup, noting that it was empty. He didn't really care, but it was something to look at, rather than to try and fail to figure out what John was thinking. His brain was still not working very well, at least not well enough to let him deduce the shorter man when he was wearing a neutral expression, and his imagination was trying to run away with him. He blinked a few times sharply, feeling the tears burn his eyes again, and wondered when John was going to leave again, so he could go get more cocaine. He didn't want his pity; he wanted to be left alone to die.
"Sherlock, you told me you didn't want to live if I didn't love you. Were you being serious, or was that just the drugs talking?" John was desperate to know, and didn't like the way Sherlock wouldn't look at him. He hated it even more when he saw those eyes well with tears, before he turned further away, trying to conceal his expression.
"Why does it matter? You left, John. You don't care what happens to me; no one really does. Just leave again, won't you? No one would blame you. Everyone's always said I'm a lost cause. No one will bat an eyelash if you do the same. It isn't your fault, the way I am, and you did put up with it far longer than anyone else. Take your things and go like you'd planned to do, and enjoy your life."
Sherlock hadn't been able to keep the bitterness or the tears out of his voice, but he firmed his jaw, curling his trembling hands tighter around the cup until he was a little afraid of it shattering. He couldn't look at John, couldn't see the disappointment or pity in his eyes, so he closed his eyes against the slowly leaking tears falling from his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing normally. He wasn't going to sob again, at least not in front of John. After he left, he could let himself grieve again, but not yet.
"Answer the question, Sherlock. Oh, and for the record? You're obviously not at top form, or you'd notice the full duffle sitting on the floor with my clothes in it. I didn't come back for my things. I came back, period."
Sherlock stiffened, then his gaze flicked toward the doorway, where there was a full duffle just as John had said. Relief making him weak, Sherlock collapsed back against the back of the couch, staring at John with undisguised shock. His eyes were red-rimmed from the tears, and he looked a bit silly, with his hair half-matted to his head and his face blotchy with comically wide eyes.
"I… Yes, I meant it. But John, you don't… Don't have to, um… stay. I want you to stay, but I don't want your pity." Sherlock was saying so much more than the words that were coming out, and they both knew it. You don't have to love me back, but please stay. I don't care about my own life if you're not in it. The unspoken words were what caused John to move to sit on the couch beside him, gently taking his chin in his hand so that he could keep him looking at him, John eased closer until they were inches apart.
"I've never been here for obligation, Sherlock. I thought you knew that." Smiling gently, despite the long and serious talk they were going to need to have, John leaned in for the kiss. Even though the day had been highly emotional for both of them, their first kiss was everything a first kiss should be—soft and sweet and gentle, infused with love as the tenderness of the moment stripped them both emotionally bare.
"John?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, eyes fluttering open to look at the doctor in confusion and hope. His tongue flicked over his lips when they parted, as if to try and taste where John had kissed him, and the doctor leaned in and kissed him again with a little more passion, trying to soothe still but getting a little carried away by his own emotions.
"Relax, honey. Just relax for me. We'll talk about it all later. Come to bed with me. Let me make it up to you."
John's voice was deeper than usual, huskier, and Sherlock shivered.
"Is it possible to have make up sex if we weren't officially together?" Sherlock stumbled a little over the words, making John smile softly at him as he took him by the hand and led him toward his bedroom. He knew his own sheets would be covered in Sherlock's sweat, and that the room would likely remind him of what he'd done at least subconsciously, and decided that the downstairs bedroom was the best option.
He stripped them both slowly, but when they fell into bed together and began to touch for the first time, things began to pick up rapidly. Gone was any hesitation or worry. The grasped at one another restlessly, hungrily, trying to simultaneously crawl inside one another and devour each other, get so close that they could never be separated. The yearning had finally come to fruition and now they sought a definitive answer to the question that had plagued them—would they finally feel complete?
There was no adrenaline now, and no cocaine, but it didn't matter to either of them. They didn't need their fixes of choice, not when the sensation that was burning them up and melting them into one person and it was better than anything they'd ever felt, ever known.
They moved together instinctively, passionately, sighs and moans and pants escaping them as they both wound tighter and tighter, chasing both their own release and each other's, pushing one another ruthlessly to the edge and over, over as they cried out and came within moments of one another, collapsing together.
"I need you to promise not to do this again. Ever, Sherlock. I do love you, so by your somewhat confusing logic, that means that you should definitely want to live, and I need you to understand that I'm not going to be okay with you doing this again the next time we have a fight or whatever. Are you with me so far?"
"As long as you promise me make up sex instead of slamming doors every time we do fight, I think that can be arranged." Sherlock had recovered somewhat from his relapse, and his tone was just as dry and unemotional as ever. It was only his eyes that told John he was listening carefully, completely absorbed in their conversation. He was focused on John's face, studying him intently.
"I was kind of hoping for a promise with no conditions, but I suppose that'll do. I could have handled that better. I was just… well, I had this talk with Greg last night, and it's what made me realize that I was in love with you, and that's why I got so mad. I was upset because I thought you didn't care, and that kind of made me act… stupidly."
"I wouldn't call it stupid, John." Sherlock commented quietly, his voice a little sad, but mostly contemplative. "You were right. You do put up with far more than you likely should, and when I do something that irritates you or hurts or angers you, you have the right to tell me off for it. I just don't want you to leave."
John stared at Sherlock for a moment, then nodded.
"That's fair. Me leaving is officially off the table, when we're fighting. From now on, I promise to find another way to deal with my temper. But you have to find another way to deal with being sad or upset. Good?"
Sherlock nodded, then bit his lip and looked at John from under his lashes.
"Can we go make love now?" John blinked, gaping at Sherlock for a moment.
"Honey, we just did two hours ago."
"So?"
"Sherlock… Yeah, okay. Let's go. But we're going to have to talk about this, too, then. You can't just switch one addiction for another." Sherlock grinned mischievously, licking his lips.
"Oh, John. I'm not switching one addiction for another. Ever since we met, you've been the only fix I truly need."