Sherlock couldn't sleep; could hardly eat, and his concentration was pitiful. None of these observations would be so out of the ordinary if he had been working on a case, but he wasn't. No, it was something else that was twisting and contorting his insides, making him an insufferable fool to himself. The fact that he knew what it was only made things worse; he knew exactly what was happening, and he didn't like any of it.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. There were moments that he enjoyed, like when John sat himself down in his armchair, hair damp from the shower, bathrobe tied tightly around his waist, and his legs crossed so that his freshly cleaned skin hung out against the air. He also enjoyed when John leaned over his shoulder, nearly touching his cheek against Sherlock's, to see something on the laptop. The smell of John, whether it be his shampoo, his aftershave or simply just the mixture of cotton and sweat that came naturally to John was intoxicating; nearly better than any thrill Sherlock had ever felt before. There were moments when they just sat together in the same room, satisfied to be in each others company, and Sherlock could hear John breathe; slow, contented breaths that hit against Sherlock's ears like a happy symphony.
But then there were moments, like the one Sherlock was currently suffering through, where he wanted to just throw John in a box and keep him out of sight; when John was home from an early ended date, wearing his best dark jeans, and his favorite maroon button down, his cologne wafting into the kitchen from the living room while he paced back and forth mumbling to himself about what went wrong. It clearly wasn't Sherlock's fault this time (for a change); he had been in the flat all night catching up on an experiment. Not only was John's standard date night attire distracting every time Sherlock glanced out from the kitchen, but his distress was as well. The musings on whether it had been the choice in restaurant, the conversation (talking about cases seemed to worry most of his dates, but his job at the clinic always bored them, and he didn't like to talk about his time in the army) or maybe it had been that, on this particular night, John's date was nearly ten years younger than him; 32 years old, but mentally only going on 25.
Sherlock wanted to tell John that it was none of those things; that the restaurant he chose was as good as any for a third date, that a conversation with him could never be boring or worrisome, and that, while nearing middle-age, he was not too old even for the immaturity of her. That in fact, John was perfect in every way, and the problem lied with the woman, who was dating more than just John, and had been feeling conflicted.
But of course, that is not what Sherlock said when he opened his mouth.
"John, make some tea."
"You are two feet from the stove Sherlock, make your own tea." John snapped back to Sherlock's demand. Had it been a demand? Sherlock meant for it to be a suggestion.
"Not for me; for yourself. It will calm you down."
"I don't want tea." John said, the bitterness from his night still in his voice.
He had stopped pacing and was leaning against the entry to the kitchen, watching Sherlock hold a lighter to the end of a large, exotic looking leaf.
"Yes you do." Sherlock said, not looking away from the flames in front of his eyes.
John signed, and moved into the kitchen, "Yes, I do."
He filled the kettle with water, set it to boil and rummaged through the container of teas until he found a soothing earl gray. He dropped the bag into his mug and waited for the whistle.
"What are you doing anyway?" John asked, watching Sherlock gather the ash of the leaf and spreading it on a glass slide to then place it under the lens of his microscope.
"Cataloguing differences in the ash of tropical leaves burned with different accelerants."
The kettle whistled and John poured the hot water over the bag, some splashing back and hitting his hand.
"Right, and you need to know that why?"
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "Because I can know it."
"Ah, of course; silly me for even asking."
There was a slight pause in the room, and then John spoke again.
"I'll leave you to it then. Goodnight Sherlock."
"Goodnight John."
Sherlock had his eyes to the microscope, but he shifted his glance up just a bit so that he could watch John take his tea up the stairs. When he heard the door close he let out a relieved sigh. Good, now I can focus. He thought to himself; he was still dealing with the control portion of his experiment at a time when he thought he would be well onto his third accelerant.
Focus,however, did not return to him.
Sherlock's eyes kept glancing toward the stair case on the far side of the kitchen, kept thinking about John lying underneath his covers, no doubt taking care of his frustrations, sexual and otherwise, in a physical manner; that was after all the make of the male; Sherlock himself had given into the inevitable need for the physical release of tension a time or two before.
He breathed out an exasperated groan, and pushed his materials across the table in a half tantrum, letting them nearly fall to the floor. His infatuation with John was taking up more space in his mind than he realized; nearly every compartment had information pertaining to the different pitches in his speech pattern, the different gaits he used when walking, his preference for raspberry rather than strawberry jam on his toast, the different colors of his jumpers, and what mood he was in when he wore a specific one; every wire in his bloody brilliant brain was lighting up John. It needed to stop; Sherlock needed to stop.
He pushed his chair away from the table and strode quickly to where his skull sat on the mantle. He lifted it up to reveal his not too cleverly hid cigarettes. John kept them there knowing that when Sherlock feigned for one he was in such a flurried state he never remembered that was where they were, but he remembered now, and he needed one; just one to calm his nerves. He fumbled with the pack, drew out the long, smooth, white stick, plucked it between his lips and brought the lighter he had been using with his leaves moments before up to the exposed end. The fragrance hit his senses before the taste; the acidic smell of burning paper quickly mingled with the tobacco before fading into combination with the chemicals and additives. Then the taste came; bitter against his tongue, slightly peppery on the uptake. He crossed the flat and opened the window to slowly exhale the evidence of his weakness out into the winter night.
It had begun snowing several hours ago; slow at first, little flurries that fell down as if they were unsure if their presence was acceptable, but not long after the flakes grew, apparently not comfortable enough with themselves to completely cover the London streets and rooftops without the least bit of shame. It had rendered the streets outside 221B nearly devoid of life, just an amber glow reflecting against the heavy precipitation. Sherlock rattled off the components that made up the wintry substance in his head as he watched more fall and mingle into what was already there. His cigarette was nearly done, so he flicked it out the window where it disappeared quickly. He tried to content himself with watching the snow come down; though he absolutely hated sentiment, he did find the scene in front of him quite lovely to watch, and he was aware that some people found relaxation and peace in the natural forces of the world. Sherlock usually found peace and relaxation on the wrong side of crime scene tape and at the controlling end of a gun. He didn't have the option for either of those right now, so he continued to try with the nature thing.
It wasn't working.
He reached into the pack that he had tucked away in the pocket of his dressing gown, and pulled out another cigarette, popped it in and lit it. This one was a bit more relaxing than the first. He could feel the nicotine buzz through his veins, and course down to his extremities. By the time that one had been flicked out to the street underneath him he was feeling better, but still not right enough to head back to his abandoned leaves, so he took out another. Sherlock seemed to be on autopilot; when one cigarette was done, he pulled out another until he realized his head was pounding and his stomach was horribly churning (not to mention his lungs screamed every time he tried to take a breath of real, actual air). He stumbled over to his chair, and slumped against the leather, now cold and stiff from the open window. He closed his eyes trying to stop the fuzzy spinning, trying to keep the stirring in his stomach at bay, but it was only getting worse as the seconds passed. Sherlock leapt from the chair, ran through the kitchen, knocking the things he hadn't managed to push to the floor earlier now down onto the cool tiles with a loud crash and banged the bathroom door open. He immediately fell to his knees in front of the toilet and lifted the lid. He proceeded to vomit, loudly, and almost violently.
It was absolutely awful.
When he was finished, he rested his back end against the heels of his feet, wiped the corners of his mouth with his finger, and took in slow, deep breaths.
"How long have you been there?" Sherlock asked, not turning around, but knowing that John was standing behind him.
John was a doctor, and the younger brother of an alcoholic, so he had obviously seen people throw up many times before; likely a few people had actually managed to throw up on him, but in the two and a half years they had known each other, John had never seen Sherlock throw up.
"Long enough."
John walked to the sink and ran a cloth underneath the cold water of the tap, wrung it out and bent down in front of Sherlock. He dabbed the corner against the sweat on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock kept his eyes averted, looking at the pads of his fingers resting on his lap rather than at the sweet concern in John's eyes.
"Sherlock, you smell like a tobacco field."
"I may have gotten carried away."
John chuckled just slightly and used another corner to press against Sherlock's mouth.
"You've gone and given yourself nicotine poisoning no doubt." He stood up and tossed the cloth in the sink, and then went over to the shower and started it, running his fingers underneath to check the temperature. "Wash that smell off of you." He said.
"John, you don't have to-"
"Just do it. I'm going to get you a glass of milk."
John left the bathroom, and left Sherlock to undress and get into the shower. He still felt disgusting; the inside of his mouth tasted like he had eaten an ashtray from a rehabilitation center. He stood underneath the spray of the water, let it hit against the top of his head, roll down to his shoulders and slide down both his chest and back simultaneously. He heard John shuffle back into the bathroom, and saw his hand attached to a glass of milk appear behind the curtain.
Sherlock took the glass and drank; the silky texture coating the inside of his mouth. When he was finished he placed it on the side of the tub, and John's hand appeared again to take it away.
"What ever possessed you to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes?" John asked.
If things had been the way they were before, John would have been much more quick to interject into the situation; would have shown much more anger and much less restraint, but as things currently stood in the flat that they shared, John had been keeping his composure when Sherlock did something crazy, reckless, stupid; something so completely...Sherlock. Sherlock supposed that this was because of feelings John had not yet dealt with about Sherlock's return from the grave. The other possibility was that he had dealt with those feelings, and Sherlock's time away had just changed the way John saw him; it certainly had changed the way in which Sherlock regarded John.
"Boredom I suppose."
Of course that wasn't why. Sherlock had been bored without a case, but he had been finding other things to occupy his time.
"I know things have been tough, but Greg will get everything straightened out and you'll be back at it again."
Sherlock curled up the corner of his mouth at the sound of reassurance he heard in his John's voice.
"It's been six months already." He said, suddenly finding himself in a conversation about something he wasn't actually all that upset about.
He, surprisingly, understood it would take Lestrade some time to clear his name, some time to convince the higher ups that the DI actually needed the Consulting Detective from time to time; although, he wouldn't mind if it happened sooner rather than later.
Sherlock turned the water off and stood in the cold, empty tub aware that John had not left. He reached out blindly and grabbed his towel, wrapped it around his waist and pulled back the curtain. John stood opposite him, toothbrush and paste in his hand.
"Thank you." Sherlock said, taking it from him and stepping up to the sink.
"Will you be alright then if I go back to bed?"
"All out of cigarettes." Sherlock said, half joking just to lighten the awkward mood that had settled over them.
John went to leave, but stopped as he reached the hallway, and turned back, looking at Sherlock through the mirror. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but whatever it was died before it ever left his throat, and he continued on as he had been until he was out of sight.
Sherlock put his toothbrush and the paste back into the medicine cabinet. He pressed his hands heavy against the porcelain of the sink, and pushed his weight down onto his arms. He stared at himself in the mirror, trying to pinpoint exactly when it happened; when he let his guard down enough for John slip into his heart, and just when precisely did he, Sherlock Holmes, even become capable of loving another person the way human beings were intended to love? He postulated that it must have been from the first moment he met John; when he tried to actually impress him instead of just show off for the sake of showing off like he usually did, must have been when John so quickly proved that he was Sherlock's equal (a fan of risk, danger and other things that most people shy away from).
He supposed that he had loved him from the very beginning.
Not good.
Sherlock heard the clearing of a throat behind him; John had come back.
"I thought you were going back to bed?"
"I was, but I didn't hear you, so I was worried; are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm still a bit nauseous, so I was just taking a moment."
John slid next to Sherlock and opened the medicine cabinet, his bare arm brushing just slightly against Sherlock's cheek. He brought a bottle of thick, peppermint white liquid out, and opened the cap.
"Drink this; it will calm your stomach, but you're going to feel like shit for the rest of the night, and probably tomorrow too."
Sherlock took the bottle and took a drink; it tasted much like it looked; like mint leaves and sugar.
"Why did you do that?" John continued, "Why on Earth did you smoke all of those?"
"You asked me that already."
"Yes, well, I wasn't very satisfied with the answer."
"I was trying to get my mind to focus."
"I see. Do you want to talk about it?"
Sherlock wasn't sure what it was; what John was referring to, so he shrugged, letting John take the lead of the conversation.
"You've told me the why and the how of everything, but you never told me how you felt. I never asked, because I know you; you don't like to talk about your feelings over anything, but I've been noticing you haven't exactly been yourself lately, and maybe it would help a bit if you just talked."
Oh. John wanted to talk about that. Sherlock's three year hiatus from the world he loved, and his eventual return was something that he had put behind him rather quickly, but John had not, and had managed to assume that Sherlock had not as well.
"You must have been scared; lonely..." John kept going.
John looked so concerned, and so beautiful, sitting on the bathroom floor with his back against the tub, one knee pressed between his arm and his chest. Sherlock couldn't deny him this moment to feel important; to be the person that Sherlock Holmes opens up to about the dark blemish in his life. So, Sherlock slid down against the wall next to the bathtub, carefully aware that he was still only wrapped waist down in his towel.
"I was lonely; it's not that I'm not used to loneliness, but I had become to accustomed to the life we had been living; to seeing your face in the morning-" he stopped himself before he divulged too much about the things that Sherlock found himself missing about John, "I had gotten used to the routine and relative normalcy of living with another person, of having a friend."
Sherlock took a breath and continued.
"I was scared too; scared that I would fail-"
"Sherlock, I've never seen you fail at anything before; you're perfect."
Sherlock laughed, "Perfection is attained through fear." He said. Except for you, you've managed to achieve perfection just by existing John Watson.
"I was afraid that if I failed that you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would be killed, and that wasn't something I was willing to live with. If I had died in the process, so be it, anyone who mattered already thought that I was, and to be honest, I'm surprised I've made it this far."
"What does that mean?" John asked.
"Being in and out of hospitals when I was a child, the drug use, the risks I take on a case; I've exceeded my own life expectancy."
"Well, you better keep exceeding it; how else can we grow old and lose our minds together?."
"We're growing old together?" Sherlock questioned with slight amusement in his voice.
"Of course."
"Going to let me live with your wife and children and then lock me in the spare bedroom when company comes?"
John laughed, Sherlock could be quite funny when he wanted to, "I think it's pretty safe to say there are no wives or children in my future."
"One of your dates might turn out."
"Not likely; I think I have reached my peak and then passed my prime."
Sherlock found himself reaching across the space between them and placing his hand on John's thigh. His heart jumped in his chest at the surprise of what he had done, but then he noticed that John had not pulled his knee away, hadn't even jumped at the contact. Sherlock looked to his face to see if he could find an answer in his eyes, but they were closed; John was relaxed. Sherlock pulled his hand back to his lap anyway, and watched John's eyes open at the loss of the contact; was that disappointment; sadness in his eyes. Of course it wasn't; Sherlock must have been imagining it, but then again Sherlock's mind wasn't capable of making things up, except for that one time it did, but he had been drugged; there were no hallucinogenic chemicals in his system at the moment; just endless clouds of nicotine and tar.
They were silent for a moment, their breathing echoing against the tiles of the room.
"Did the medicine help?" John asked
"A little, yes."
"You should get some rest then; I'll clean the mess in the kitchen." John pushed himself up from the floor, and reached his hand down to help Sherlock up as well. He pressed his fingers onto the outside of John's hand, and smashed their palms together and allowed John to use most of his weight to pull Sherlock up to his feet.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes; I'm just going to throw it all on the table; you can sort it out tomorrow."
"Thank you." Sherlock walked behind John, watched him go into the kitchen and then went turned down the hall a little ways until he was in his bedroom. He replaced his towel with pants and a pair of pajama bottoms then crawled underneath his heavy blankets. He found, upon wrapping the thick duvet around his body, and pressing his head firmly into the fabric of his pillow that he was quite exhausted. He closed his eyes and hope his mind would shut off long enough to catch a few hours.