Relapse
"Jesus Christ, "John heaves whilst leaning his back against the door of 221b. His lungs have never burnt more than they do right now and his legs have never ached so much, but during this moment he is just relieved by the knowledge that both he and Sherlock are safe in their Baker Street flat.
"Yes," Sherlock gasps as he greedily inhales and exhales repeatedly, fighting to catch his breath. Much like John, he finds himself appreciating how their home is nice and safe. In fact, Sherlock has a new found appreciation for the worn leather loveseat, abandoned half-drank teas and old morning papers scattered around their living room. "I've never been caught up in a gang fight before. Not like that one, anyway." John looks up now his head isn't hammering and glares at the taller man; getting over his initial relief immediately and regaining sparks of the fiery anger he had felt a few minutes prior to their escape.
"Gang, Sherlock! We just got…" He pauses and runs a hand over his sandy hair, "What the bloody hell were you doing there!?"
The doctor stares down at the ground again, and for the first time he notices the gun sat too comfortably in his palm. His finger is still on the trigger; protection, self-defence. How did that get there? When?
"I shot someone."
Sherlock feels tendrils of guilt forming in the pit of his stomach; he has to remove his shabby blue scarf as the air surrounding him as suddenly become quite stifling.
"You saved my life, John."
John's face twists in to an expression of hatred as he empties the remaining bullets in to his hand and launches them across the room. Sherlock stares silently at the weapon for a moment before turning to John. His hands are shaking; every muscle in view is tensed, and his eyes are full of fury. A fury aimed at the Detective.
"Why were you there, Sherlock?"
If Sherlock was ordinary then he would have flinched at the calm, detached tone in which John spoke. But this is Sherlock Holmes – the only Consulting Detective in the world – so instead he heads in to the kitchen, scouring the room for something to occupy himself with. He finds a half-read book on Psychological theories that he had bought to laugh at, so he opens that and pretends to be interested in the outdated and ridiculously simple case studies on criminal minds.
John, on the other hand, doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He has killed two people tonight. What scares him is not that he has murdered for the quadruple time but that he feels no remorse for doing so. It disgusts him. Who gave him the right to play God with their lives? Why is that vile weapon one of the two safety floats he has amongst this abyss of dark, dangerous memories? And why was Sherlock around violent gang members?
"You didn't answer me," John growls, spotting Sherlock in his chair at the table as soon as he joins his flatmate in the kitchen.
Sherlock doesn't answer.
He just sniffs and turns the page.
This angers John further. He just saved Sherlock's life and now he's going to sit reading a book!? How can he be so calm? How can he act as though he… John's brain cannot even convert his emotions in to words. His movements feel alien as he suddenly grabs the book from his flatmates hands and slams it down against the table; he proceeds to wrap a strong hand around Sherlock's slim shoulder to pull him up, but he is distracted by the sudden yelp of pain that erupts from the latter's lips.
That's when he notices the stain of red on Sherlock's shirt.
"What the…? Jesus, Sherlock! Your arm-"
"I'm fine," he growls, standing to tug his shoulder from John's grasp, "Just a cut…"
"Oh no you don't!" The Doctor grabs Sherlock by the wrist and plucks at the slice in his shirt to admire the wound. "Bloody hell, there's glass in there! Sit down and take off your shirt."
"I can do it myself," Sherlock grumbles, "Later."
"Shut up and go sit on the sofa, I'll do it."
With a slight pout, Sherlock eventually gets off his chair and goes back in to the living room. John grabs all the necessary equipment needed, some of which is makeshift (including a bowl, some tweezers, some antiseptic wipes and a bandage) and then follows Sherlock, who has turned all of the lamps and the fire on. The golden lighting of the room almost reflects off his pale skin; skin of which John can see more of now he's out of that shirt. He almost winces himself when he sees the gash in his friend's arm - pieces of glass are still poking out of it grotesquely and dried blood is surrounding the entire area.
"It won't take long," John murmurs, setting the bowl down on the coffee table and tearing in to the packaging of one of the antiseptic wipes. He begins by cleansing away the congealed blood and then uses another wipe to clean the tip of the tweezers. Luckily the cut isn't deep, so it won't need stitching, but the removal of the leftover glass won't be pleasant. "This is going to hurt."
"I wasn't expecting it to be an enjoyable experience," Sherlock replies in a tone that gives John half a mind to make the removal extra painful, but he quickly realizes that would entail stooping to Sherlock's childish level and decides against it. As John removes the first shard, Sherlock hisses in pain, and the doctor cannot help but flinch.
"Sorry. I did say…"
"You are a mystery, John."
John almost drops the tweezers.
"What?"
"You heard me quite clearly."
"I think I just heard you call me a mystery, but I can't be too sure because that would mean I just heard you admit that you can't figure me out." John finds himself smiling, "Me, 'ordinary John Watson', a mystery to the 'master of deduction'?"
"Don't flatter yourself!" Sherlock says whilst rolling his eyes. The conversation pauses as John removes another shard; Sherlock doesn't speak again until he hears the offending object clink in the bowl. "I mean your emotions are a mystery…" When it becomes clear that John isn't going to interrupt, Sherlock continues. "A few moments ago you killed for me. You didn't hesitate or even think – you just did it and didn't even consider the consequences. You were angry; although I cannot be one hundred per cent sure you were angry at me. It seemed that way, but as soon as you noticed I was injured you…" He frowns, being at a loss for words. For once.
"I wasn't mad at you," John mutters distractedly, "I wasn't mad at all, really. I was disgusted with myself for being able to… For using the gun again; for being too comfortable with it; it's a weapon, Sherlock, but it feels more like a friend than a bloody killing… thing—Oh, sorry," He stammers as he removes another piece of glass a little too forcefully. "And I used it to save you. Every time I've used that gun since coming back to England was to save your life… And I don't feel any remorse for that. I am not at all sorry that three people have died, because you have got to live."
The Consulting Detective doesn't know what to say to that, so he remains thoughtful. John takes this the wrong way, however, and immediately thinks that he has said something to cause Sherlock to take back his 'mysterious' compliment. He doesn't know why this causes heat to rush to his cheeks, but it happens nonetheless. They remain silent as he removes the last few shards and cleans the wound once more. It isn't until John's putting the bandage over the cut that they speak again.
"I wanted more." Sherlock admits.
"More?"
"Drugs, John… I wanted more. But my dealers weren't all too pleased with me. That case involving the twenty-year-old a few months back ended with one of their top providers being sent down because of me, so they wanted revenge. That's why they attacked me."
So many thoughts are gushing through John's head that he doesn't really know what to say. Why now? What brought this on? Why did you start this? What am I not doing?
"I'm sorry."
Sherlock turns with the grace of a panther, upon hearing this. John is startled to see anger flaring in the galaxies of his eyes.
"Don't do that. Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault, John. The way my mind works, the way I do things… When you're wound up you can sit in front of the telly or read a good book. The media offers wonderful distractions for many people, but something so tedious doesn't help me. I need something stronger, and I thought…" He trails off, and the anger fades from his eyes. "I'm sorry you had to do that for me, tonight. It was pathetic of me."
"No, it's fine. It's all fine."
But Sherlock doesn't feel fine. As John goes to clean up the mess they've made he cannot help but stare down at that gun. John's armour; the only piece of Afghanistan he cannot bear to let go of. He's been trying, but Sherlock caused him to relapse tonight. He's sick of being so selfish. He is tired of having John do everything for him. What makes it harder is John never even complains; it's hurting him. John Watson is in a bad place, and that thought terrifies the 'sociopath' so much that he forgets all about his drugs. They seem childish, now. Irrelevant and unnecessary.
"John?"
"Yes?" He asks, turning from the sink to see Sherlock walking over to him.
"Thank you."
"Erm," John's eyes widen in surprise. It's not every day you hear that. Before he can say any more, however, Sherlock continues.
"I've been incredibly selfish with you and I've realized how wrong that was. I caused you to relapse, tonight. It won't happen again. I don't want… I…" He releases a frustrated groan, which John understands to mean that he cannot put his thoughts in to words, but he seems to understand what Sherlock wanted to say. He just nods.
"I, er, appreciate it. I'm going to go to bed."
But before John passes him, Sherlock quickly grabs his wrist, and in a moment of boldness he grabs the army doctor's face with his free hand and pushes his lips to his own. Neither knows who is the most surprised by this, because John never thought Sherlock could be so sentimental, and Sherlock never thought he would be pathetic enough to instigate such contact… But this is John, and he's grateful for his presence tonight, and in a way both of them just know that this doesn't have to mean anything. So, when they pull away, John just smiles up at him.
"You're welcome," He whispers.