This is just something that… happened.
A look into what happened between that scene in the hospital and that scene with the hug.
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John had to take all of Sherlock's weight when they returned to Baker Street. With an arm under his armpits and Sherlock's hands grasping at his shoulders he half dragged the detective, who had discharged himself early from the hospital, up the stairs and into the flat. He dumped Sherlock ungracefully onto the sofa and walked into the spotless kitchen (Mycroft's men had obviously been back; there were no traces of drug paraphernalia left), clicking on the kettle with an unusually aggressive hand.
"I don't want tea," Sherlock's pathetically croaky voice had called out, him trying his hardest to sound like the normal arsehole he usually was, but coming off more like a child who needed constant attention.
John ignored his words, slamming two mugs onto the counter and throwing a teabag into each. Hot steam soon blew into his face and he filled the mugs with boiling water, adding five spoonful's of sugar to one and just a splash of milk to the other. He stalked back into the room, placing the sugary tea in front of Sherlock.
"You're going to drink the tea, because that is what I'm telling you to do," His voice was loud, pinched; John may have saved Sherlock's life but he wasn't done being angry with him yet.
Sherlock looked shrunken on the sofa, his battered and abused body disappearing beneath his large coat. His eyes darted around the room either unable to look at John, or unwilling. With a quick nod, a pale hand reached out and took hold of the mug, bringing it to his lips shakily.
John watched him drink the entire mug of tea, his own left forgotten on the coffee table. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now; he hated this man, he was sure he did. He hated how he (and everyone else) had shown up at his therapy session. He hated how well Sherlock knew him, knew his habits and patterns. He hated how he'd felt when he'd burst in on Culverton suffocating him. He hated how Sherlock knew what he'd bring to his bedside to say goodbye. He especially hated the way he felt when he realised why Sherlock been hurting himself. Hated him.
But he'd still done it, saved him. He would have even killed Culverton Smith if it meant that Sherlock survived. And worse still, even though he promised himself he wouldn't, he had come running when Sherlock texted him to pick him up from the hospital. So where did that leave him? Was this man his best friend, or the sole reason that John Watson's life was shit?
"You don't have to stay with me," Sherlock stated, a little power returning to his voice after the tea. He'd crossed his arms over his chest, effectively swaddling himself in his own coat as he attempted to appear unaffected. "I'm not a child you know, I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."
John laughed. Out loud. A cold and harsh noise, not the usual laugh he'd use when amused. He shook his head, "Are you kidding me, Sherlock? You damn near killed yourself with drugs, and you think I can just leave you alone to carry on the destruction?" John's voice had become very high pitched and desperate-sounding at the end, he coughed self-consciously, "I mean, as a doctor. I can't have you going on like this."
"As a doctor," Sherlock repeated, almost knowingly. But his arrogant façade had dropped again and his eyes grew dead once again. The detective slumped back further onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling, ignoring John's presence.
Frustrated, John sighed and picked up his tea, draining it despite it being barely lukewarm at this point.
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This routine continued for the next few weeks. Himself, Molly and Mrs Hudson worked out a routine to make sure Sherlock was not left alone at any time. Lestrade helped whenever he could, covering shifts and providing cases Sherlock could solve from within 221B. Mrs Hudson took the night shift, as it was only practical, Molly the afternoons and evenings after work, and John took the morning shift. Sherlock was always less agreeable in the mornings.
"I need some; let me have just a little bit!"
"No, Sherlock! Christ."
Sherlock and John were stood at either side of the dining table, having a blazing row. As John shouted he shook Sherlock's phone, which was tightly gripped in his right hand. Sherlock's desperate eyes followed the phone, his hands reaching out to grab it.
"Just a small dose will reverse some of the negative effects of my 'come down' so to speak and will improve brain function overall," Sherlock rationalised, his deductions a shadow of his former self.
John chuckled humourlessly, "How you, one of the smartest men I've ever met, can tell me, a doctor, that letting a junkie have cocaine is a good idea, I do not know."
"I am not a junkie," Sherlock hissed, gripping the table with white-knuckled hands.
"Yes you are. You're addicted and it's dangerous," John bit back firmly, slamming the phone onto the table so hard it might break, "Besides, I think Mycroft has scared off every drug dealer in London; no ones going to give you your next fix, Sherlock."
Sherlock's face had soured considerably at the mention of his brother. He stormed into the living room, throwing anything he could find onto the floor; seemingly trying to find any drugs that might have accidentally been left behind. As if the spooks Mycroft had sent around would be so careless.
John followed him, gaping at how much devastation Sherlock could cause in just a few seconds of madness. He shouted, "Stop it! Christ, Sherlock, stop that! There's nothing here."
Instantly the madman paused, Billy the skull in his hands poised to throw. He turned to John, eyes wide and bloodshot, his whole body quivering, "You don't understand, John. You don't understand how this feels. My mind, it wont stop. It would ever stop. It's racing and racing and racing and I feel like I'm going to pass out with the exhaustion of it all." His voice, which began frantic, slowed and shook, "I just want it to stop."
John suddenly feared his former best friend was about to break down crying in front of him. He watched Sherlock's shoulders and chest heave and his eyes close, noticing how dark the circles had grown under his eyes and the lines on the face that hadn't been there when they'd met.
"Look, I know I've never taken hard drugs or experienced what you're currently experiencing, but I have treated so many patients going through the same thing," John spoke as calmly and as kindly as he could manage, his compassion and still-present feelings towards Sherlock taking control of his mouth, "And I know it's bad now, but I promise you it does get better. In fact, I know you know, deep down, that it gets so so much better."
Sherlock's voice was small, "Did they have a brain like mine, though?"
John almost laughed out loud. It was so hard, despite the anger and the misery, that the original chemistry between him and Sherlock still existed and reared its head only to make John question his decisions. These moments erased the ever present figure of Mary, standing in the corner watching over the proceedings like a twisted judge, deciding their fate. In fact, John saw her less and less the more time he spent at Baker Street, finding her only speaking to convince him of things he already knew, and to push him further towards Sherlock.
She spoke now, though, "Comfort him. He's hurting and he's your best friend." She was always the voice of reason in his head, despite having never really been a source of reason in her life. John knew it wasn't really her, that his subconscious was generating these images to tell him what he was desperately repressing.
But he still replied, "I don't have a best friend. I can't do that." His voice was weak, broken. The voice of a man desperate to run away from the truth.
Sherlock either hadn't heard him or chose to ignore the hurtful words directed at a ghost.
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A few days later Mrs Hudson let John know the news that she was having to go away for a night, to visit a friend who'd been taken ill, therefore he would have to stop at Baker Street with Sherlock.
She told him that Sherlock had not slept in his bed since returning to the flat, choosing to sleep on the sofa whilst Mrs Hudson listened out for him on a video-enabled baby monitor downstairs. Or on particularly bad nights, she slept on the sofa instead whilst Sherlock paced the flat, desperate for drugs or anything that would stop his racing mind.
John took all of this in with a heavy heart, feeling daunted at the prospect of sleeping anywhere near Sherlock, if he even slept at all. John still had not slept since Mary's death; kept awake by mirages of her sitting next to him and images of Sherlock torturing himself for his benefit. It wasn't fair, how could his two best friends hurt him like this?
He arrived at Baker Street early, standing outside the door listening to Molly quietly telling a silent Sherlock about her day at Barts. Every so often Sherlock would ask her a question about the bodies she'd examined and Molly would provide him with all the gory details that he craved. John despised how his chest had tightened with jealousy at their easy friendship, that Molly had the capacity to forgive Sherlock so much easier than he did. That Sherlock hadn't hurt her as much as he'd hurt him.
John could listen for long, though, as Sherlock's brain still deduced easily that he'd entered the house. His voice shouted out, "Come on John, you know the way in."
Trying to appear unfazed by this, John pushed open the door and strode in. The tightening in his chest grew at the sight of Molly sat in his old chair and Sherlock sat across from her, looking much more coherent than John had seen him these past weeks.
"You're early," Molly told him with a frown, even John could see the disappointment in her eyes.
He shrugged, "Ran out of stuff to do at home."
The truth was he'd sat around all day, staring glassy eyed at the television, thinking about sleeping at 221B again. Would he sleep in his old room? On the sofa? There was even a part of him that was looking forward to being back in the flat properly again, leaving this big empty flat that was full of ghosts and returning to the place he was once happiest. Even if he wasn't anymore.
"You don't have anything to do at home," Sherlock spoke almost arrogantly, causing the other two to stare at him because he almost sounded like himself again, "You don't have Rosie, because Mrs Hudson took her away for the night with her. You said yesterday that your neighbours keep bringing you casseroles and pies so you don't have to cook. That house is always spotless because you only ever use the sofa, one glass and one plate. Mrs Hudson does your laundry whilst you're here and you're still not working. So you came here because you couldn't bear doing nothing anymore."
John stared at him unabashed, wondering how he could be so blasé about his grief. He coughed, "Great, yeah. Thanks." With a shake of his head he turned and ascended the staircase, taking a deep breath before he pushed open the door to his old room.
He wished he hadn't. The room was coated in a thick film of dust, only cut where Sherlock had filled the room with all of his eccentric items that didn't fit downstairs. His bare mattress was propped against the wall and the bedframe was now home to a long abandoned experiment which seemed to consist of his old clothes cut into strips and dipped in various corrosive acids. But even this was dusty and long unused. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep up here, there was barely enough floor space for him to reach his mattress, and he didn't even have a quilt or a blanket.
With a sigh he clomped back down the stairs, just in time to call out a goodbye to Molly who was walking out of the front door.
When he returned to the living room, Sherlock was slumped so low in his chair only his upper back and shoulders were actually touching the leather. His eyes were closed as if he was sleeping, but John knew there was no way he would fall asleep that quickly.
John began tidying away various mugs and case papers from around the flat; Sherlock had obviously had Lestrade watching him this morning to cover his shift whilst he prepared for the night one. He'll have had a lovely day of talking about murder in the morning and corpses in the afternoon, so John hoped he would be in an agreeable enough mood so this night would go smoothly.
As he turned to put away things in the kitchen, Sherlock spoke, "I'm sorry."
John wheeled around on his heels, staring at the man who still looked like he was sleeping. Perhaps he was sleep talking?
"I know you don't want to sleep here, but Molly and Lestrade both have work in the morning and Mrs Hudson refused to stay."
Running a hand over his face, John replied, "Well I don't sleep anywhere, so that's not the problem."
"Fine, you don't want to be here at all," Sherlock amended petulantly, "I can't understand why you even come back. Don't give me the whole 'I'm a doctor' speech because there are thousands of addicts out on the street, go help them doctor."
If he was completely honest, John had no idea why he did come back. Why he was giving up half his day, everyday, to receive abuse and hassle from a man he claimed to hate. Sure, it was something to do. It kept his mind off of Mary and the unbearable guilt he felt following her death. Each time he stepped back into 221B, into Sherlock's influence, he felt the image of her fade slightly. He didn't have to have her finish his sentence for him, because Sherlock was here to do that.
He chose which part of Sherlock's words to focus on carefully, "So you admit you're an addict, then?"
Sherlock's entire face tightened, his brow furrowed and his eyelids fluttered slightly open, "I do admit I have some kind of a problem."
"Good, well, that's good," John nodded ultimately too many times, feeling more self conscious as he did. This was definitely a turning point with Sherlock, he was apologising, he was admitting his problems. Hopefully this 24-hour baby sitting thing would be ending sometime soon. He continued what he was doing earlier and placed the mugs into the sink and the papers on the dining table, as an afterthought he grabbed a takeaway menu, "Chinese?"
Sherlock nodded minutely, moving to a more ordinary sitting position.
The food came quickly and the two men ate in a rather amicable silence, the only quarrel over whether or not Sherlock deserved more spring rolls because was, in his own words, unbelievably malnourished. Of course John gave in and this lifted Sherlock's black mood, meaning he allowed John to turn on the TV to whatever rubbish was playing that night. Sherlock even made deductions about soap characters' true motives for their affairs and who they'd be in a relationship with the next week, which almost made John smile. Almost.
It wasn't quite the way things used to be, it couldn't be. Sherlock still was a mess of stubble and cuts from where John had hit him, and John was still occasionally making conversation with the ghost who resided somewhere behind Sherlock's chair. But it was better than the fights and the tense silences of before, so things were slowly improving.
John wasn't sure at what time his exhausted body had given up, but he awoke in broad daylight with a crick in his neck and a glass still in his hand. But it was the first time he'd slept through the night in months and for that he could take the sore neck.
When he opened his eyes he saw that Sherlock was still sitting across from him and had found his way into the liquor John had brought with him (to self medicate if sleeping at 221B became too much). In fact, he seemed better for it, Sherlock was sitting upright in his chair, his eyes reasonably bright as he apparently watched John sleep.
"Did you sleep at all?" John groaned, finally stretching out his aching muscles.
"No. You didn't do a very good job of watching over me, I could have done anything whilst you were asleep," Sherlock commented, the hint of a smirk on his lips. It soon dropped when John gave him an unforgiving glare. His eyes dropped to the glass in his hand and back up to John, "I think I'm ready to talk about it now."
John frowned, still not fully awake, "Talk about what?"
"What happened. You know, why I did this to myself," Sherlock explained, looking a little vulnerable despite pretending he was annoyed John didn't follow his train of thought, "Although I assume you saw the DVD Mary left. It was in the DVD player when we got back."
John nodded slowly, licking his dry lips. He jumped up from his seat, "Just one second, I need to brush my teeth and stuff."
He used this time to take a moment, anticipating what Sherlock would be ready to say as he stared at himself in the mirror. John took extra time doing his hair, washing his face and getting dressed, even though he knew the only people who would see him were Sherlock and possibly Molly. But he realised he couldn't take too long as Sherlock would begin deducing what he was doing in here, returning to the living room as nonchalantly as possible.
Then, because Sherlock was looking at him so expectantly, he decided to make them both coffees. Sherlock took his with little enthusiasm, but did give up his half empty scotch glass when asked, which was a positive sign.
As soon as John sat down Sherlock began to talk, detailing why he'd gone to such extreme lengths to 'save him'. As he spoke, Mary butted in from behind, translating the Sherlock-speak into plainer terms for him to understand. However, at the back of his mind, John knew everything she said was coming from his subconscious and these were his own interpretations of Sherlock's words. What it really boiled down to was that Sherlock had decided to trash himself on drugs and poke a serial killer repeatedly until it seemed he was in enough danger that John would have to return to his side; but he hadn't accounted for his own addiction and reactions to the drugs which made the whole thing spiral out of control.
John began to react and talk about to Sherlock as he got on to the idea that the drugs were broadening his mind, realising Sherlock was insinuating that being on drugs was a good idea. However the conversation began to steer in the direction of normalcy and friendship, so of course John panicked and announced he was only there to keep Sherlock off of said drugs.
"I thought we were just hanging out?" Sherlock responded, a mixture of snide and smugness in his tone. He knew John was only there out of duty, but he also knew, nay hoped, that he also wanted to be there as a friend.
He looked down, avoided Sherlock's eyes, and pulled out his watch, "Molly will be here in twenty minutes."
Sherlock then responded, in such a level tone John actually began to believe him, that he could last that time without John's presence. John took this as an escape route, instantly outing down his mug and rising from his seat to leave (despite the subconscious voice of Mary begging him to stay and keep talking to Sherlock). John knew this conversation could lead to some kind of reconciliation between the pair and he wasn't sure he would ever want that.
As he reached the door, however, Sherlock asked him the one thing he'd never anticipate.
"Are you okay?"
And he's not. And he tells Sherlock he's not. In fact, John hadn't been okay in quite a long time. But with Mary's help he manages to tell Sherlock that he didn't kill his wife, that the only person that killed his wife was Vivian Norbury and that was only because Mary had decided to jump in front of the wrong bullet. Or the right one, depending on whether she was really intending to die that day.
Sherlock looks bawled over by this confession, admitting himself he felt Mary dying for him had given his life some kind of value it didn't have before. John knew that despite his arrogance Sherlock had some self esteem problems, but not thinking his life had value until someone gave theirs for his? That was heart-breaking even for John to think about.
"It is what it is," John finished, feeling resigned to leaving with this friendship still irretrievably broken.
But as he turned to leave once again, a text alert sounded. A text alert that he still remembered perfectly from over two years ago. He felt the familiar tensing of his chest and the white noise in his ears. Sherlock attempted to deflect from the insinuation, claiming some bollocks about text alerting changing themselves, but John knew. He realised not only was Irene Adler still alive but Sherlock was still texting her.
What did this mean? The irrational part of his brain jumped to the conclusion immediately that Sherlock loved Irene, which manifested in Mary telling him just that. John's mouth felt dry, he recalled all the missed chances and almost-could've-would've's that had happened since that case and realised perhaps the reasons nothing had ever happened, that way, was because of this. Sherlock had always been going behind his back with her.
His hands fisted as he stared at Sherlock, who was obstinately staring in the opposite direction. Why would she be texting him if not for a secret relationship? For help, or out of sentiment? Then John recalled he didn't know when Sherlock's birthday was. He was sure a sociopathic, all-knowing person like Irene would have her ways of finding out. So he decided to make the deduction that it was Sherlock's birthday.
"Thank you, John. That's very kind," Sherlock actually seemed touched at the sentiment, more than (John hoped) he'd seemed when Irene's text alert had sounded.
Soon the pair got into a strange argument where John found himself convincing Sherlock to take this chance, because it might be the only one he ever had. John was thinking about the stag do, the fall, Mary shooting Sherlock, Mary, the cheating, everything. He decided that if he wasn't getting love, that pure all consuming love people went on about, then Sherlock should find that with someone else. Because he obviously didn't want it with John. He didn't even know when his birthday was, for god's sake.
John found himself shouting, "Do you have the slightest idea how lucky you are? Yes, she's a lunatic, she's a criminal, she's insanely dangerous. Trust you to fall for a sociopath."
He wasn't even sure if he was talking about Irene, Mary or even bloody Sherlock at this point. All he knew was all of this was insanely overwhelming and scary, that Sherlock could be in a relationship and him not for once. But he couldn't stop the words that were spewing out of his mouth.
"As I think I have explained to you before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people-"
"Would complete you as a human being."
"That doesn't even mean anything."
"Just text her."
John tried very hard to supress the thoughts he had when Sherlock used the non-gendered term for girlfriend, which was oddly unspecific for him. He tried really hard to be happy for Sherlock, finding some kind of twisted love even if John had just assumed for years that he was incapable.
"That chance doesn't last forever, Sherlock, because it's gone before you know it. Before you know it."
Before he knew what he was doing John began confessing his deep dark secret. That he'd cheated on Mary. Telling him that wasn't the person he nor Mary thought he was. He couldn't stay faithful, he couldn't even go and save his best friend without his dead wife on a videotape telling him he should. He told Sherlock that Mary made him a better man, moulded him into the person he was but that wasn't really true. The person who'd shaped the course of his life the most was the man sitting in front of him, but through old resentments and new anger he couldn't tell him that. Instead he claimed it was Mary, that getting into a relationship with a woman had worked for him so it could work for Sherlock too.
Why he was telling Sherlock this of all people he didn't know, but soon he was talking to the ghost who had been ever present throughout this whole conversation. He admitted to the Mary in his head that he wasn't that person, that he'd cheated every time she stepped out of the room. He ignored the fact Sherlock would only be able to see him talking to the empty space on the other side of the room and washed himself of his sins. He told Mary, and in effect Sherlock, that he hadn't found everything he was looking for in Mary. That he wanted more and the first chance he had he jumped on it.
"Well then, John Watson. Get the hell on with it."
And suddenly she was gone. And John was crying. Tears were flowing fast and heavily down his face which crashing into his hands. Tears dripped onto the carpet but he didn't wipe them away. Crying for all the death and the pain he'd encountered. Crying for Rosie, for Sherlock, for Mary.
He felt Sherlock take him in his arms, and he was too overwhelmed to even react. Sherlock's hand traced the spine of his back whilst the other slowly, carefully, cupped the back of his neck. He felt the heavy weight of Sherlock's head rest on top of his own and he felt safe and protected. Of course he was always going to forgive Sherlock. He was always going to love him too and he felt that love radiate between them and they were closer than they'd ever been before. John never wanted this moment to end and the tears did not seem to want to stop flowing. He knew he was dampening the front of Sherlock's shirt, but he didn't seem to mind as he whispered words of comfort in his ears.
And everything felt right in the world.
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