"Tell me about the way the light falls across your floorboards at two thirty in the afternoon; how panic sets in when you wake up in the middle of the night, the moon tracing you over like a crime scene. Of Chiaroscuro. How one night, you woke up, with the light falling over your cheek - with the darkness creeping over from the other side." -Shinji Moon, Let There Be Light
John sits uncomfortably in one of Mycroft's plush burgundy office chairs. He is, once again, confined within the eerily silent walls of what is known as the Diogenes Club. Opposite sits the elder Holmes, the physical embodiment of the British Government (if you can trust Sherlock, which John does).
A small coffee table separates them.
"His crashes are getting longer," John states quietly.
Mycroft is silent. After a minute of quiet contemplation, he asks, "How long?"
"Latest one is going on about a month now. Longest one he's had since I met him."
There is a pause.
"He has bipolar disorder, doesn't he? The symptoms all are there, these aren't just bouts of crippling boredom, are they?"
It had taken longer than it should have, to make the diagnosis. The first time the thought crossed his mind, he had erroneously struck it down. This was Sherlock, after all. Sherlock, who was wholly different from anyone else John had ever met. And because he was Sherlock, because he was atypical, John had not thought possible this might be his affliction - merely another of his eccentricities.
John watches as Mycroft closes his eyes briefly.
When he opens them, they are distant. John knows he is no longer looking at him, or anywhere else in the room for that matter. His gaze is turned inwards, looking within the depths of his vast mind. Depths that John cannot possibly begin to fathom.
"He received the diagnosis when he was a boy. Mania, interposed with brief periods of depression. I knew, of course, before everyone else. Everyone in the family thought it was merely part of his temperament, nothing to be done in regards to it. His temper tantrums were of explosive proportions. He barely ate or slept at all back then, less than he does now I'm afraid, and when he did it would only be for a few brief hours. Even in infancy the symptoms were apparent. Whereas most infants spend an average of thirteen hours a day fitfully asleep, Sherlock would spend an average of five or six hours."
Racing thoughts, even back then, John thinks dryly.
Mycroft nods as though having read John's thought process and falls silent once more, his gaze in a still far off place.
This is the most John has heard either brother speak of their shared childhood.
He tries to imagine a younger version of Sherlock, flinging objects nearest his reach all throughout the house, perpetually snapping at everything and everyone; his temper a wild, undomesticated, merciless animal on the loose.
"His headaches are worsening. He just sulks about in the flat all day, in a kind of catatonic-like state; he moves, but barely," John continues, as if Mycroft had not spoken a word. He knows it is better to act as if he hadn't heard all Mycroft had said, knows it's better to not acknowledge the weakness Mycroft has just revealed. He knows John has heard, knows he will stow away the given information.
At this, he can see Mycroft's eyes regain focus. Watches him steeple his fingers beneath his chin, achingly reminding John of Sherlock in that moment. He wonders if the detective is still laying on the sofa, staring at the far wall. It is the continuation of this action that has prompted him to seek Mycroft for answers.
"Is he on medication?"
John is almost startled as Mycroft switches his fully focused gaze upon him. He can acutely feel Mycroft's eyes on his skin as they take him in. Usually, John would struggle to give nothing away, bar his face from all expression, but this is important, this is for Sherlock. So this time, John merely relaxes his tense muscles, lets his face break open with emotion, lets Mycroft see his deep rooted concern; because Sherlock has been like this for days, and John just doesn't know what else to do, he is at the edge of turning frantic, at the very edge of unbridled panic.
After a moment, Mycroft speaks.
"He ceased their use years ago. Claimed they muddled his mind."
"Did they?"
"I don't know. I wasn't around to observe closely enough."
John is quiet for a while, contemplating. Something prickles at the edge of his mind.
"When did he start using the cocaine?'
John is a doctor. He knows the symptoms of bipolar disorder, knows that sometimes those who have it favor the manic energy, the racing thoughts, the sleepless nights. And who wouldn't?, he thinks, when the alternative is a crippling, sense of apathy, ennui, melancholy, and numbness? John has known patients to seek out ways of inducing the mania, who discontinue their meds because of the fog they cause, longing for the euphoria the mania produces to set in.
"University. Not long after he quit his medication, I'm told."
"So the cocaine…" John trails off and looks to Mycroft whose face wears an unreadable expression.
"Yes, I am afraid so, John."
"Jesus… Sherlock..."
John leans back, closes his eyes, runs a shaky hand over his haggard face, and just breathes.
Now he knows. Knows the purpose the cocaine served. An induced euphoria, a relentless manic episode used to keep the impending crash away. The cold irony is that, while cocaine increases dopamine neurotransmission, its prolonged use hinders the brain's ability to naturally produce it resulting in a perpetual crash, an inability to experience euphoria as before. As a chemist, Sherlock must have known this, yet he choose to do it, regardless of the inexorable consequence. This is all John needs to know in order to fathom the sheer desperateness Sherlock must have been undergoing at the time.
"You mustn't let him spiral, John."
"There is a shipwreck between your ribs. You are a box with
fragile written on it, and so many people have not handled you
with care." -Shinji Moon, What It Took To Understand
Carefully avoiding the step near the top that creaks, John soundlessly enters the flat. He is not surprised at what he finds.
Sherlock is a prostrate figure on their well worn sofa, all long limbs and pale skin.
Without question, Sherlock Holmes is a beautiful man. Whether flopped down unceremoniously on the couch, sulking in his chair, poring over experiments, or haphazardly running about, in his suit or in his gown, the man is beauty incarnate. Even now, as he stares blankly at their fireplace, all long limbs curled up, sharp cheekbones, his hair an unruly mop of unwashed curls, the light from the window falling upon half his prone form, he is utterly beautiful.
For a minute, John pauses at the threshold, keys still in hand, and merely stares.
Until he hears Sherlock's breath hitch in pain. He's had a migraine all day; it would let up for a couple of hours, but then relentlessly come back with all its agonizing force.
Right, John thinks and gets to work.
He hangs his coat on the rack, places his keys on the nearest surface, and heads for the bathroom in search of his medical kit. Rummaging through it he discovers the Paracetamol and shakes out two small white tablets. Clutching them in his hand, he determinedly heads back towards the living room.
John is beginning to learn that when Sherlock is in this state, depressed and unmoving, he cannot be bothered to get up to do something about his pain - or anything else for that matter.
He sets both pills down atop the table in front of Sherlock, in perfect view, and makes toward the kitchen. Once there, he takes the kettle out, fills it with water, and sets it to boil atop the stove.
John waits.
He waits not just for the water to boil, but because Sherlock needs him to wait. He is aware Sherlock is laying on the sofa, gathering the will necessary to move, to sit up, reach across to the table, take hold of the tablets, and swallow them whole. John knows that if there were a choice, Sherlock would prefer he not see him like this, in what he considers to be a state of undeniable weakness - a sharp contrast to the wildly energetic man he initially met. So John, the considerate man he is, allows him what privacy he can.
When he returns to the living room, steaming tea mug in hand, both tablets are gone.
Without pause, John makes to sit at the end of the sofa where Sherlock's head is resting. Before sitting, he gently runs his fingers through the curls he loves, and slightly tugs. When Sherlock lifts his head, John can see a small gleam in his eyes - they are more focused than they have been these past few days. John can practically hear the rusted gears of his mind turning; he has never done this before. Once John has comfortably seated himself, he tugs Sherlock back down so that his head rests atop his lap. He is unsurprised at the lack of resistance, for Sherlock is utterly pliant whilst in this state of apathy and ennui - a sharp contrast to his manic phase during which he is a wild eyed, obstreperous man, difficult to pin down.
Ordinarily, his modus operandi when it comes to dealing with these black moods, is simply to wait them out, finding little he can do to help them along. But that was then, and this is now. They've never lasted this long.
Mycroft's words resonate within the walls of his mind.
You mustn't let him spiral, John.
John may be a medical man, but his skills solely lay in treating physiological injuries; even he is unable to cope with his own afflicted psyche. Who is he to deal with someone else's? He can keep someone from bleeding to death, but has no clue how to defibrillate Sherlock back to life. This is not a problem he can easily stitch up, a bone he can easily set - it is an affliction of the mind.
When it comes to afflictions of the mind, John Watson is a lost man. But here, with Sherlock's head resting upon his lap, he does what he can.
Sherlock remains pliant and languid as John - with the care reserved for clamping ruptured arteries and stitching lacerated skin - softly runs his fingers through entangled unwashed curls. Sherlock's eyelids droop and John can feel him minutely relaxing. John hears Sherlock let out a soft breath as he massages his scalp, gently, in small circular soporific motions.
He does not know how long he sits there, massaging, caressing; but eventually, the light from outside dims, and his own eyelids droop only to fall close a short while later.
"One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place."
Emily Dickinson
It is the middle of the night when John awakens. Sensing the lack of weight on his lap, the empty hands fisted atop his thighs, the lack of a familiar presence beside him, he groggily opens his eyes.
Sherlock is a still robed figure, standing by an open window, a haze of cigarette smoke swirling and curling about him.
Light streams in from the street lights outside slightly illuminating the planes and angles of Sherlock's pale face.
It is the middle of February and cold brisk air enters the flat; John, in only a soft thin jumper, fights the urge to shiver.
The flat is hauntingly quiet and there is a stillness in the air, a stillness that is almost melancholic.
Can a stillness even be melancholic? John wonders.
It would have been unnerving, if the man hadn't spent the past month in such a paralytic state.
John watches as Sherlock raises a dangling cigarette to his lips and takes a drag. Watches as he slowly exhales.
"You didn't sign up for this." He says this in a resigned tone, states it like he would a fact at a crime scene.
He doesn't turn around when he speaks, merely stands there staring, smoking.
They are the first words Sherlock has spoken in a month.
As Sherlock raises his hand to take another drag from his cigarette, John rises from the sofa, makes his way over to where Sherlock stands, wraps an arm around his slim waist, and steals the cigarette from between his slender pale fingers, just as it kisses his lips. Sherlock sharply sucks in a breath and glares. A glare John decidedly leaves unacknowledged much to Sherlock's annoyance.
John takes a long drag. He hasn't smoked a cigarette since his last days at the RAMC. Breathing in, John embraces the familiar tightness in his lungs, briefly shutting his eyes. For a moment, he can feel the hot Afghan sun on his face, his arms; can feel the dry wind on his hair accompanied by the ever present grains of sand.
He is unaware of the piercing look Sherlock directs at him.
"There's always something," Sherlock sighs softly under his breath, pupils blown wide, surrounded by bursts of gold, a slight scowl on his face.
John dismisses the comment, exhales, opens his eyes, contemplates the smoke curling about them both; tracks its slow steady escape through the open window. Below them, a few passersby walk the sidewalk. A cab passes.
After a pause he says, "Yes, I did. The first day we met, remember? You said 'sometimes I don't talk for days on end.' Moved in the very next day, didn't I?"
Sherlock takes the cigarette back from John, taps it against the ashtray laying atop the windowsill to dislodge the ash, brings it up to his mouth, and pulls a drag, the corners of his lips imperceptibly curved downwards. Still, without facing John, he quietly - yet firmly - states, "It's been sufficiently more than a few days, John. Besides, it's different now that we're…" He mumbles and trails off at this last bit, expressing his meaning by vaguely gesturing between them with the hand holding the cigarette, incidentally giving rise to meaningless smoke forms.
John waits and watches as the smoke disperses, the shapes no longer distinguishable.
"Now that we're lovers?" John finishes for him after a while, a sudden feeling of apprehension gripping him. They've never defined what they are to each other. When they had begun sleeping together three months ago, they had wordlessly agreed not to discuss it, to not pick apart with words whatever tentative fragile thing they had created between them.
"Is that what we are?"
"Do you disagree?"
Sherlock stubs out the cigarette and stares at him as if he were a confounding - and thereby riveting- new piece of evidence at a crime scene. He searches John's face, looks piercingly into his eyes, deduces him. Sherlock's face is half in light and half obscured in shadow.
Heart beating in an unsteady, quick, arrhythmic rhythm, John forces himself to meet the detective's unwavering gaze. John knows there is a chance Sherlock will disagree, claim they merely have sex, that it's essentially meaningless, that their relationship does not breach the boundaries of friends and flatmates who simply happen to have sex every now and then.
"No."
John releases a breath he'd been holding unawares.
"I know precisely what I signed up for, Sherlock."
"Really, John? Because this isn't something that can be fixed. This will never go away. I would understand if you decide this isn't something you can handle, if you decide to leave because of it. Others have left before you," he finishes quietly.
At the mention of that silent admission, John's heart clenches tightly within the confines of his chest cavity.
"Don't be daft. It doesn't become you." John manages to retort with a low warm chuckle, severing the eye contact between them, while extricating a cigarette from the box laying atop the windowsill, and lighting it. He notes that only three cigarettes remain. Tonight will be a night of indulgence. "I'm not going anywhere," he states calmly, exhaling, his warm brown eyes seeking Sherlock's own multicolored ones.
John knows Sherlock, almost as well as he knows himself. They've been flatmates and friends for the better part of two years now. He knows he can offer the man innumerable assurances, knows he would not trust any single one of them. Yet, John provides him with the assurance, because it is the only thing he is capable of giving at the moment.
John is fairly certain he's in love with Sherlock. Has been since before they gave rise to this thing between them. He vividly remembers the first time. It occurred, like many of these things do, in a haze of post-case adrenaline. He remembers pressing Sherlock up against the wall of the narrow hallway, how Sherlock's manic grin wilted and faded, his expression turning pensive. Remembers how Sherlock's eyes lowered, gazed down at his mouth and lifted back to his eyes. Remembers the explosion of gold at the irises as his pupils blew wide open as John slowly leaned in, waiting for some kind of rebuff, and when none came, kissed him. He remembers the warmth and softness of his pliant lips, his heart beating faster than he thought a human heart could possibly beat.
"I love you," he finds himself stating and nearly clasps a hand over his mouth like a small child who has blurted out a foul word for all to hear, before he can restrain the impulse. But he was a soldier goddammit, a damn good one at that. Now that the words have left his mouth John would not back down, would not put up a false pretense of taking them back. Suddenly, it is important that the man before him be made aware of this untimely stated fact as soon as possible.
John firmly plants his feet on the floor, straightens up, ignores the sharp tension in his shoulders, and waits.
He expects the silence that follows. Knows this is a piece of data Sherlock will need time to process. Taking a breath, he lets his fingers reach towards the cigarette box, clasps one between his fingers, lights it, and brings it up to his lips. He takes a long slow deep drag and lets himself be steadied by the smoke burning and tightening his lungs. Silently, Sherlock stretches out a hand for the cigarette. For a moment, John can feel the detective's ever present comforting warmth seeping into his skin as his fingers gently intertwine themselves with his own and squeeze. John exhales and opens his eyes, the tension that had gripped him gone.
For a while, they stand in subdued silence, the detective and his faithful blogger, somberly smoking as the first licks of dawn approach over the horizon. They stand there passing lit cigarettes back and forth between them. And when Sherlock turns to him, holding a cigarette between pale pink lips, a light in his eyes, John reaches up, wraps a hand around the taller man's neck, brings his face down to his, and parts his lips to kiss him.
When smoke has all but filled his mouth, John pulls back and sees something in Sherlock's gaze, in the explosion of gold at the irises, that is answer enough to the unspoken question hanging in the hazy air between them.
"Off to bed then," he says with a warm smile, his face illuminated in gold by the far reaching rays of the rising dawn, his fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Join me when you're ready, yeah?"
John's eyes close at half mast when he feels Sherlock rest his forehead against his own, his breath a warmth comfort he can feel on his own cheeks and lips. For a moment, he indulges, reaching up into the warmth, catching the man's mouth into another kiss, the bittersweet taste of the cigarettes they have spent all night long smoking between them.
When he pulls back slightly, looking directly into Sherlock's glazed eyes, he thinks he will never tire of this, never tire of the sight before him. Sherlock's pupils are blown wide, the gold in his eyes almost all encompassing, his lips slightly swollen red, breath coming in fast. John is reluctant to take a step back, to head off to bed, but he has an afternoon shift at the surgery and sleep is an unfortunate necessity.
Imperceptibly, Sherlock nods in agreement to a question John had forgotten he had asked just mere moments ago. And with that, John pulls away, heading off on an inconceivable trek to chase down sleep — inconceivable for as long as the sheets next to him were cold and empty.
Looking over his shoulder, he silently watches as Sherlock once more turns to face the open window, pulls out a fresh cigarette from a new pack, and lights it, his robed figure highlighted by the golden rays of dawn.
"I am vertical
But I would rather be horizontal." -Sylvia Plath, I Am Vertical
It is seven am when life begins to stir in the apartment building across the street from 221b.
Standing by the window, bow in one hand, violin in the other, a lit cigarette resting upon the overfilled ashtray, Sherlock plays as he observes the evolving scene before his eyes.
He watches as the elderly woman in the second story flat slowly commences what he knows is her daily routine. Watches as she shuffles about preparing breakfast for both herself and her husband, how she lays out his daily pill cocktail beside his glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, slight tremors in her papery hands. Watches as she shuffles off to water the few plants within the flat, the small collection of bright garden flowers at her window; watches as her husband emerges to kiss her weathered wrinkled cheek, adoration warming his eyes.
His calloused violinist fingertips press themselves against taut cords and the note he plays thrums, holds, stills, and slowly dies. Grasping both bow and violin in one hand, he reaches out for his cigarette with the other.
He takes a long, deep drag, ignoring the tremors in his own hands.
The night has been anything but simple, and while his body and limbs still feel somewhat heavy, his brain a little hazy, he cannot help but contemplate the life before him. Glancing up, he sees a young woman preparing for what life outside the comforts of her edifice has in store for her. Sees as she surreptitiously slips off her wedding ring, hiding it within the dark depths of her purse's side pocket, a befitting abyss. She's cheating on her husband. But that's alright, because Sherlock is aware her husband is doing the same.
His mind — slow, heavy, and hazy as it is — can clearly see the sharp contrast between her and the elderly woman residing a floor below, between the couple above and the one below. As he begins to play once more, he cannot help but wonder how people can do this. How people can intertwine their lives with someone else's so seamlessly to the point of no visible division. How people effortlessly slip from "yours" and "mine" to "ours." He wonders if there is an exact moment where this occurs, when everything becomes "ours." Perhaps it occurs gradually? Is it an inevitable transition, a result of having lived with someone long enough to make such distinctions trivial and redundant? Or is it born of something more, of something simultaneously inexplicable and unnamable?
With a pause, he wonders how much pain is involved in reestablishing such distinctions, how much anger, how much grief and loss and heartache. And he wonders about the souls of those who have survived. Does anyone ever truly survive? It seems to him people generally return a little less them, a little more broken than before, pieces of themselves forever lost, left behind, or irreversibly bent. Can that truly be called survival, if every time more of one is missing? What if one day there isn't enough of one left?
Seeing the evermore blurring lines found within the flat, he knows his chances of survival are low, knows the odds worsen each time the clock on the wall performs it's revolution. He knows the process has begun. There are times where a simple glance at an object sitting atop the tabletop cannot be fully deemed his nor John's. He uses John's laptop enough that he's given up his vain attempts at password protection. There is a shared set of bills stabbed through together to the fireplace by a pocketknife, whether his knife or John's he does not know, and the bills are theirs. If such distinctions should need to be recognized once again, these lines brought back to focus, he knows a piece of himself will be left behind. The question is, just how big of a piece? How much of himself is entangled in theirs, in ours?
He hears the soft tread of footsteps climbing the stairs as the last note rings out; he holds it for as long as he can. Hearing the soft thud of an object being rested against the wall, he sets his bow down, puts his violin in its battered wooden case.
He doesn't bother turning around; he knows who is there, can feel the thrum of their presence like a note on his violin.
"Which is it this time, Lithium or Olanzapine?" He wonders aloud upon hearing the sound of something being set on the kitchen table.
"Olanzapine." Comes the laconic reply.
"Don't be wasteful," his brother says as he comes to stand next to him at the window, grabbing Sherlock's abandoned cigarette from the ashtray, a prim frown pursing his lips.
Sherlock watches Mycroft from his peripheral. His sleeves are uncharacteristically rolled up revealing pale forearms; dark circles inhabit the space beneath his eyes, the lines around his mouth tight. Sherlock wonders if he is the one who put them all there.
"He's still here," Mycroft states softly, exhaling a haze of cigarette smoke out the window to join the ever passing winds.
The unspoken, implicit where else would he be? is as loud as a gunshot in Sherlock's ear. He can clearly hear all his brother is not saying, all he is dancing around, all that quietly resides in the silence encircling them both. John loves you; he won't leave you. At least, not yet. Sherlock is well aware that love — like all emotions — is conditional. Everyone has their boundaries, their limits, their conditions.
Lighting another cigarette, he wonders how his lungs must look like, how blackened they must be, how filled with tar. He's lost count of the number of cigarettes he's smoked - he's been more or less chain smoking since he woke up, the once empty ashtray is filled to overflowing. His lungs feel uncomfortably tight, his breathing shallow; he can't seem but to be pleased at all of this.
"I know," he says, hands unsteadily bringing the cigarette up to chapped lips.
"I thought you were better, brother mine. Stable, after the drugs."
"I was better. I was stable." His voice sounds hollow, empty.
"Enlighten me. What, then, destabilized you?" he asks, turning to face Sherlock for the first time since appearing at the flat.
"Apparently, this is normal." He says indicating himself with a slight flick of the hand. Inhaling, he takes a short drag of his cigarette. Exhaling, he quietly continues, "Relapsing isn't rare, Mycroft. 'Stable' is not a possible perpetual state of being. No one can live the entirety of their life on a plateau."
"No, I suppose one can't. Just how far have you relapsed?" With the hand holding his cigarette, he gestures to the cigarette Sherlock is smoking, his lips pursed.
"I'm clean, Mycroft," he replies exhaling, lips pulled down in a faint frown. Smoking an innumerable amount of cigarettes one day did not mean he would be snorting powdered cocaine the next. It still surprises him, seeing everyone's continued distrust when concerning his drug addiction. He has been clean for years now, remained so after undergoing detox in one of those expensive facilities Mycroft had hoisted him off to at the time.
"I care for you, Sherlock. I car far more for you than I do anyone else," he states in his usual calm, soft demeanor. There is a part of Sherlock that wishes for nothing more than to chip away and crack his brother's calm armor, to twist and bend and stretch until it all just snaps.
"Not sure the good inspector appreciates that. He is your husband after all."
"Sherlock."
It is the tone that has him snuffing out his cigarette and meeting his brother's eyes. It is soft, tired, and wary, containing a well of sadness he was unaware his brother possessed. He sees it in his eyes, sees what they never discuss, never express, merely hint at — if at all. He sees a well of warm love, deeper than the well of sadness, filled with a lifetime of years together, of all the years they had no one else to rely on but each other. Why is it everyone has picked this night, this day, to propose their love for him when both his brain and body are in a hazy state of utter numbness, when feeling has all but left him?
Leaving his own cigarette in the ashtray, he stalks off, muttering he needs to use the restroom. Mycroft will see the action for what it truly is — never mind his actual need — as an attempt to hide himself away, to put distance between his brother's words and himself. He honestly cannot be bothered to feel even an ounce of shame for running away.
When he returns, the ashtray has been emptied and washed. With displeasure, he notes his remaining cigarettes have been taken. The coat and jacket his brother had taken off and placed on the coatrack are missing, as is his brolly. There is a single cup of tea laying atop the little side table Sherlock and John have placed between their two seats, steam steadily rising.
Settling himself in his chair, cup of steaming tea in hand, knees tightly drawn up, he lets his mind wander to John. John, who claimed he wasn't going away, wasn't going to leave him, who said he knew what to expect. Sherlock cannot help but question it all. He wonders at the conditions. Because yes, this might be John, but there are always conditions. Sherlock knows humans are incapable of unconditional love; the very notion they are is nothing but absurd. He isn't being cynical, just truthful; he's being honest with himself, with the world. He knows there are terms and conditions, knows everyone has limits and boundaries; knows that it is okay, it is alright, they exist for a reason. They have purpose. They set aside the behavior we are willing to accept from what we are unwilling, or incapable of accepting. They protect one. It is unreasonable to ask or expect someone to drain themselves until there is nothing left of them. That isn't love. It is selfishness. And if there is anything Sherlock understands in this world it is selfishness; he is intimately familiar with it's nature.
There is nothing Sherlock can do, but hope. Hope that John has realistic expectations of him, of them, of this thing that keeps pulling him down, deeper every time, only to skyrocket him so high the ground doesn't exist; where falling doesn't matter if there is no ground to hit, but doesn't mean he won't try to.
He was never very good at hoping.
"And though the waves might bring you
down and though the currents might
pull you under, the sky is always still
right above you." -Ian Thomas
Sherlock remains awake for a while longer, curled up in his armchair, silently drinking his tea, staring at the small white bottle set atop the kitchen table. He fights to ignore the sudden nausea, the headache once more building behind his temple, the immediate pavlovian reactions of his body to the sight.
He remembers the pills, the seemingly endless and varied supply of bottled capsules his family would bring home to him like bottled multicolored candy. Remembers the ones that would cause him to vomit, to either lose or gain weight; the ones that clouded his thoughts, leaving his brain in a perpetual haze and fog. He remembers the ones that made it all worse, brought him to the brink, almost toppled him over the edge; and the ones that caused him to soar higher than he ever thought possible, the ones that caused his neurons to rapidly fire, his thoughts to flicker fleetingly from one to the next, a seemingly endless torrent of words and ideas. But he also remembers the ones that had kept him stable, kept his thoughts organized, his mind as clear as possible, kept him on a balanced edge; the ones that slowed down his life from a mercurial roller coaster to a level plateau.
With a deep breath, he closes his eyes for a moment and focuses on the positive; tries not to scoff at the banality of the mental act. He knows there is a balance, somewhere. He's felt it before, the calming, unshifting ground beneath the stable plateau.
He wants it back; yearns for it back, so much so it is painful. His eyes unexpectedly burn at the memory of stability and he finds himself rapidly blinking to keep the moisture he knows is present contained.
Eventually, he rises, pours his unfinished tea into the sink, quietly places the cup within it, and soundlessly makes his way towards his bedroom. At the threshold, he pauses abruptly, his breath hitching in his throat. His fingers twitch for the familiar shape of a cigarette as he observes the slow and steady rise and fall of John's chest, his sleeping form curled, burrowed in the sheets, and turned away from the door. He takes a deep breath, an unexpected burning tightness in his lungs, a burning he cannot attribute to smoking.
He supposes it's their bedroom now.
Sometime around eight am, John feels the covers of the bed being pulled back, hears the soft rustling of the sliding cotton sheets, feels the side of the bed dip as extra weight is added, can hear the faint groan of the springs.
Even before the army, John had been a light sleeper, waking up due to all sorts of sounds in the dead of night. His breathing changes, merges into a pattern of wakefulness he tries to hide; Sherlock needs to sleep and he knows the scientist will promptly dismiss the idea of it if John is to awaken.
He focuses on the sound of Sherlock softly breathing next to him, lets the sound lull him slowly back into unconsciousness, along with the warmth of the limb hesitantly slung over his own waist.
John awakens to an empty bed, cold sheets, and the strident blaring of his alarm forcing his bleary mind into consciousness. Turning off his alarm, he rolls over onto his back, heaving a sigh, and lays there with an outstretched hand atop the cold sheets stretching out beside him. Glancing over, he can just about discern the spot where a head previously lay on the pillow, the creased outlines of a familiar body he could identify by trace alone.
He knows Sherlock went to bed sometime in the early morning, hazily recalls having felt a dip in the mattress, a warm arm around his waist, the steady breathing of another body beside his own. Bringing his eyes over to the bedside table, he notes it is nearly twelve in the afternoon; he has a shift at the surgery at one-thirty. With a groan, he untangles himself from the sheets, attempts to rub the sleep off his face, and enters the bathroom with the hope a shower will both refresh and fully waken him as he stands enveloped in the warmth of the steam.
A half hour later, he opens the bathroom door, freshly showered, shaved, and dressed, only to be met with a silence so profound it is deafening to the ears. He allows his head to lean back against the wall with a thud, tries to clear the ringing silence from his ears. He isn't delusional; in fact, John considered himself a realist, a pragmatic— though he isn't in the realm of Sherlock's cold cynical pragmatism. This is why he sort of expected the oppressive silence...just not so soon. But John knew Sherlock would need his space, would feel the need to reinforce boundaries— no matter how briefly— after their emotional talk last night.
The silence sits heavy upon the deserted flat and John, taking a deep breath through his nose, continues making his way down the hallway and into the living room. He is so immersed in his thoughts of Sherlock, he nearly misses the sight of the man himself, sitting upon a stool at the kitchen table, staring fixedly into his microscope, as still as a statue. John pauses at the threshold, before gathering his thoughts and calmly walking in.
"Morning," he says, his voice sounding too loud in the silent, still space. He walks over to the cabinets, opening the one to his left where the kettle is and promptly sets about making tea. The only acknowledgment he receives from the detective is a small hum as he further adjusts the scope of his device.
Once he gets the kettle heating, John turns around, leans against the counter, and watches Sherlock. He's pleased to note Sherlock has taken a shower, his hair still damp upon his head, drops of water steadily traveling down his neck from the ends of his hair. He finds Sherlock's silence and stillness a bit more disturbing than usual; there is no energy emitting from Sherlock's inert form. For some reason, after last night, a part of himself awoke this morning with the hope Sherlock would be back to himself, hoped he would wake to Sherlock energetically imploring him to skip his shift at the surgery, that they had a case on and the game was on-no longer paused. As a doctor, he knew he should have known better; Sherlock wouldn't simply get better over night, or even over a few days. Sherlock may be different, unique, special, unlike anyone he has ever known, but the man is still human and recovery is a process.
John recognizes there's something to hang on to; it's been days since Sherlock found the energy to shower, but today— whether because he had the energy or simply felt too unclean— he had showered and slept in their bed last night, after countless nights and days spent alone laying on the couch. That alone proves sufficient to bring a smile to his lips. This is a step, a small one, but a step nonetheless, and there is no such thing as an insignificant step in a scenario like this.
"Are those pills?" he asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice, spotting a familiar prescription bottle set atop the table, placed right next to Sherlock's microscope, out in the open.
"Olanzapine" the detective inexpressively states, the calm tone of his voice an attempt to mask the tension John can see is growing within him; his spine has straightened, his shoulders tensed.
It takes John a moment to get it, to sort through his extensive mental pharmaceutical repertoire. Olanzapine...a small white pill...used to treat Bipolar Disorder. He can't help his sharp intake of breath.
"Have you…?" he trails off, hesitant to ask. Mycroft had detailed a clearly failed history of prescribed pharmaceuticals in regards to Sherlock's illness, and John didn't believe Sherlock would look to them now, even if he has been low for a while.
"No," Sherlock states and there is no hint, no clue in his tone to imply what he intends to do.
John is knowledgeable enough to recognize the pill bottle's mere presence within their home is meaningless in terms of Sherlock's intentions. Moreover, he's fairly certain Sherlock remained within the flat for the rest of the night/morning, meaning he wasn't the one to purchase them, to seek out whatever relief they may bring. Mycroft must have brought them over, a move that speaks to how worried— and perhaps desperate— the elder Holmes must be. And while John typically advocates the use of government-approved pharmaceuticals, they are still a choice— a choice that solely belongs to the patient.
"Do you want them?" he forces himself to ask, to continue casually leaning against the kitchen counter, attempting to exude an air of calmness and normalcy; all the while trying to hide the spike of fear he feels at the thought of Sherlock refusing the medication. It's rare, he thinks, for a person in Sherlock's condition to get better by themselves, to plateau, and remain that way for a prolonged period of time.
His question is the first thing he has uttered all morning that garners an actual, significant response from the man currently in front of him. The effect is immediate. Sherlock's entire being stills, John is certain he even ceases breathing for a moment, and then his body straightens itself only to fully turn in John's direction. John tilts his head to meet Sherlock's steady gaze; he patiently holds it and they remain that way for a while, the tension in the room slightly rising, as they are locked together as if in a silent battle of wills. A battle John isn't truly partaking in. This is Sherlock's choice and he wonders how long it will take for Sherlock to realize that, to see in John's eyes the open earnestness that resides there, to stop preparing himself for a fight that is never going to come.
After a couple of minutes, John speaks, unwilling to continue their silent one-sided battle, "Love," he softly begins, "if you don't want to take them, throw them in the rubbish bin."
Sherlock's eyes imperceptibly widen and John struggles to stamp down the sadness that threatens to overwhelm him. He tries not to think of the parents and various other family members who had pushed and pressured Sherlock to take medication, who had treated their use as a foregone, inescapable conclusion, no matter Sherlock's protests.
"No," he answers before the question can even be posed (he thinks he can feel it already forming in Sherlock's own lips), "I'm not going to tell you to take them, Sherlock. Not if you don't want them. This is your choice."
Sherlock gazes back at him curiously and settles for a simple nod in response. The kettle promptly whistles, announcing its readiness and John turns around to fix his cup of tea and begins preparing breakfast, for he's sure Sherlock has not eaten either. The pills remain atop the table, but John refuses to assume this means the detective will take them.
A half hour later, John is preparing for his shift at the surgery and Sherlock is still sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the opposing wall of cabinets, the prescription bottle a nagging, conspicuous presence by his side. He isn't debating whether or not he should take them; he had already made that decision in the early hours of the morning, before having burrowed himself in John's warmth, enwrapped in the sheets of their bed.
He hadn't expected John to say what he said: "this is your choice." Mycroft had merely left him the pills as an offering, one he could either accept or reject; but Mycroft knows Sherlock's stubborn will, he won't take them if he truly doesn't wish to. Perhaps John knew this too, and instead of engaging in an argument with Sherlock regarding them, he simply saw how futile it would be and decided to play a nice card, proclaiming he had a choice, in the hopes Sherlock would look upon his offer favorably and thus take them, giving in. But John isn't like that, says the rational part of his mind, the part that doesn't spend its entire neurological power in paranoid search of trickery and manipulation. John simply doesn't manipulate people; it isn't a part of his nature.
Perhaps the doctor's words hold a deeper meaning, an implicit message pertaining to the sense of ownership and right individuals believe they hold over their "significant others." Perhaps the words were merely John's way of informing him he holds no power over him, no right over his body and mind. That while everything has now become theirs, Sherlock still belongs to himself and himself alone.
It's the most comforting thought he has had in weeks.
John is rushing down the stairs in a desperate search for his wallet and ID badge. He thinks he may have left them somewhere in the living room, probably next to his laptop; although he's not sure where that is either, since he's certain Sherlock had been the last to use it. When he gets downstairs, his eyes rapidly scan over the stacked objects strewn across the living room; it's as if more than two people live in their flat. He stills as he gaze moves over to look through the kitchen doors.
He silently watches as Sherlock rises from his stool, searches one of the cabinets for a clean cup, fills it to the brim with tap water, leans his hip against the counter. The movement allows John to notice the two white pills the detective holds in his hands. With bated breath, John watches as Sherlock tips his hand up against his mouth and takes a sip of water to wash them down.
It takes him a moment to react, but once he does, he merely strolls into the kitchen and casually asks Sherlock if he has seen his wallet and ID badge. If Sherlock wonders at the small, yet brilliant grin grazing John's lips, he doesn't say.