This largely came out of wondering what would happen if John snapped. Then I wondered what would happen if Sherlock snapped. Or if they snapped on eachother…? Also, it came from reflection on what happens when I snap, which is rather John-like, if you were wondering. No ownership claimed here.
They were fighting again, in the kitchen again. Why were the fights always in the kitchen, where your feet got cold on the tile, which could only makes things a bit worse?
The argument had started not-so-unusually, when John noticed Sherlock's predictably poor state of health during a challenging case and tried to reason him into eating, or at least drinking. Many favorite old lines came out, John quoting statistics on dehydration versus brain efficiency, Sherlock riffing on the odds of a case being solved as a function of the times it goes unsolved, and so on.
The thing was, it wasn't just a normal argument, and Sherlock knew it, knew it was only a matter of time before John noticed too. When the pause came, he knew, felt it like the calm before a storm, no deductions needed.
"Hang on, Sherlock… your pupils over-dilated. What…"
Sherlock didn't reply, let the Army Doctor take in all the symptoms, let him make his own deductions. He wasn't surprised when John's eyes quickly narrowed in understanding: he was expert in his field.
He was surprised, however, at his own sudden boiling raging anger when John gingerly, disgustedly, pushed up Sherlock's sleeve far enough to reveal the track marks. He released the fabric and then started quietly, "Sherlock, you're going to destroy yourself, and you owe the world more."
Then there was a lot of yelling, so much and so loud that the always-there alien part of Sherlock's brain wondered if the neighbors would report it, while the rest of him was shouting that he didn't owe anyone anything, that he was an adult, that he was different, that he was bored! And right over him, John was yelling back such John things, about responsibility and health, and descriptions of the druggies he saw at work every day—"They're ruined and they're pitiful, and I don't want that to be you, you great idiot!"
And Sherlock drew back his arm and punched John in the face. Hard.
John stumbled back against the counter, but did not fall. He didn't retaliate, either, which was impressive given the soldier's instincts that were surely drilled into him and surely took great control to hold back. No, he just stood there, all emotion suddenly gone from his face, but not the stoic look he so often wore like a transparent mask. He looked coldly calculating, and for the first time since he'd met him, Sherlock couldn't tell what John was thinking, and that turned all the anger burning in his chest to a cold lump in his stomach.
And he realized that after making this one desperate drugged move, after using physical violence on his only friend for, what, for caring too much, Sherlock didn't know what to do. Once you've gone to that level, you rather expect the other person to take the lead, don't you? Not that Sherlock had ever done this before—had ever had anyone to do this to—but he had expected to be fighting John by now, at least still shouting back and forth, until someone had stormed off, until John stopped. This was supposed to be how it worked.
But now, it seemed, John had stopped, only without the leaving, and he just kept looking at Sherlock, that detached assessing expression the only thing Sherlock had to analyze, and it told him nothing. It was in stark contrast to the vivid bruise slowly spreading over his jaw, his split lip trickling a little blood. John had not made a move to wipe it.
Sherlock felt the tension unbearably, he wanted John to hit him, wanted to know what he was thinking, wanted to tell him that he hadn't meant to hit him, he just. And he wanted John to hit him.
Sherlock opened his mouth, not quite knowing what he was going to say, just knowing he needed to break the silence, and this was not normal for him, not any of it. "John, I—"
He was immediately cut off by John's hand, which he had raised in a quelling gesture, simultaneously tilting his head and closing his eyes, like he was listening for some elusive sound, his brow furrowed in slight concentration.
So Sherlock waited, waited for the other shoe to drop, waited for John to do something, anything, preferably something violent or telling. But he didn't, and so Sherlock could help breaking the silence again (again, and he never broke the silence, the silence was his friend and it had betrayed him, like he had—but he couldn't finish the thought just yet).
"What are you thinking?" It was rough, rushed, as he blurted it out before he could be hushed, and he himself winced at it.
John didn't hush him, just straightened his head, lowered his hand, opened eyes that were still cool and steady, and before he spoke Sherlock had enough time to realize, with a jolt, what John Watson he was facing. This was the soldier.
John just said one word: "Deciding." It was so detached, so clinical, so simple, and it sent Sherlock's brain spiraling into different patterns of thought.
Was he deciding whether to hit him back? How to retaliate? His next course of action? What kind of person Sherlock actually was? Whether or not he should stay? All these options and more spun through Sherlock's head in a kind of panic, the kind where you really wish you could turn back time, the kind where you know what's happening is your fault, but you still don't want it to happen.
He was speechless, until John turned to go, when he realized that the only bearing he'd had on John's "decision," whatever it was about, was punching him in the face, and that really wasn't acceptable.
Even then, though, all that he could say was "John? John!" No clever arguments, no redeeming words, and they weren't enough. John kept walking in measured footsteps to his bedroom and shut the door so quietly Sherlock could barely hear it from the front room.
Click.
Sherlock was not good at waiting. He stood in the kitchen a few more seconds, wondering if this was what shock felt like, and how a blanket might ever possibly help, and basically trying to think about anything but what John might be deciding, before spinning to snatch up his coat and vanish from the apartment to go to the second-to-last place he wanted to be.
When Mycroft answered the door, sizing him up in seconds, Sherlock almost turned and left, but Mycroft seized his sleeve and dragged him in. My, aren't the Holmes brothers being unusually physical tonight? said a small snide voice sounding suspiciously like Moriarty from the back up Sherlock's head, and Sherlock remembered that it was like that sometimes, coming down off it and hearing strange thoughts, but he forgot to make a snide comment about Mycroft's weight or lack of umbrella before it was too late and every second he hadn't spoken had been counted.
Mycroft watched him for one more moment, the door already shut (when did that happen?) before folding his hands. "Well, brother. How badly have you screwed up now?" he said in the most unconcerned way possible, but Sherlock could tell from the dip of his chin that tea was inevitable. Sherlock couldn't think of a time he'd wanted tea less. Tonight, though, he followed his brother into the sitting room.
No, this isn't done (of course not!). I'm thinking there will be one more part. It's not written yet, so do your part to support starving muses and review!