"Hysterically, he wonders if this is the same thing: withdrawal from John. If so, he prays to whatever deity was listening that it would take him this time, because he didn't know if he could make it through to the other side. He didn't know if he wanted to."
Lestrade has always been there for Sherlock whenever he reached his lowest. He's there when Sherlock can't find the strength to stand...
It was April, and the rain in London was pouring down in sheets, beating a steady tattoo against the gutters of 221B.
Sherlock sits in his chair, his blue dressing gown hanging off one shoulder exposing his ratty pyjama shirt; the one with the hole near the collar that John had darned at least a half a dozen times for him in the past. With one long pale finger, he traces the stitching absently at the memory.
"I don't know why you don't just get a new one, Sherlock," John said as he pulled the thread through.
"I don't want a new one. I like this one. Besides, aren't you always going on about saving money?" Sherlock said dismissively, peering into his microscope.
"Oh now you start to take my financial advice?"
"Better late than never."
"Sherlock, you just bought a pair of shoes that cost over two hundred quid because your other one's got a bit of mud on them," John said breaking the thread with his teeth and setting the needle on the table. He takes off his glasses and inspects his handiwork with a fond smile. It didn't need to be said that the reason Sherlock refused to part with the shirt was because John had gotten it for him as a joke when he was in Dublin at a medical conference all those years ago. It was rather juvenile, with a slew of random scientific equations plastered to it for effect, ('Really, John, given the subject, E=MC2 is hardly in context.') the witty phrase "It is Scientifically Proven that I Am the Centre of the Universe" brandished across the chest. ('Not the point, Sherlock.')
"It wasn't just a 'bit of mud' John. We traipsed through a swamp if you recall," Sherlock said arching an eyebrow.
"Yeah, yeah," John grumbled affectionately and folded the threadbare shirt. "Shall I make tea?"
Now, Sherlock pulls at the collar, twisting until the seam pops and unravels so the hole is big enough to stick his fingers through.
A peal of thunder clashes over head with darksome fury, resonating in his hollow chest.
He stares numbly at the empty chair across from him.
John's chair.
He hasn't left the flat in eight days, afraid of being delivered back into the cold cruel arms of the world he had known for so long before he had a friend. Before John.
The torrent lashes violently against the window, and it's almost akin to the anger he feels constantly simmering under his flesh that always seems stretched too tight over his bones these days.
He leaps to his feet and flings open the window, the wind gusting through and disturbing various stacks of paper, and sheet music. He bends forward at the waist as far as he can and lets the deluge claim him, the frigid rain beating down on his head and the back of his shoulders like shrapnel.
Lightening arcs across the sky, and Sherlock gives a shattering howl in time with the crash of thunder just so he can feel something in his chest other than grief and agony for a change. However, this catharsis has the opposite effect and instead of relief, the liturgical kyrie ripping itself from his throat is like the final crack in the ice. Before Sherlock realises, he's sinking to the floor with his back to the wall, his knees curling up close to his body in attempt to hold himself together. His face is wet with both rain and tears and he buries his head in his hands and heaves over and over, the air in the room seeming to wane by the second. He's so busy trying his hardest not to fall apart completely, that he doesn't notice someone enter the flat with a startled cry, dropping a few bags of shopping on the floor, and rushing instantly to his side.
"Sherlock?" a voice says. A set of strong hands grip his shoulders, and for a moment Sherlock's eyes fly open at the familiarity of it all. But when he registers Lestrade's pinched and worried face, he slams them shut again. For a moment he thought —
"No, no, no," Sherlock moans, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter.
"Sherlock, look at me son," Lestrade says in a gentle but firm voice. Sherlock's surprised at the grounding effect it has on him, and despite the crushing sorrow he manages to lift his head.
"He's gone, Greg. And I — I can't —" he grinds out.
"I know. I know," Lestrade soothes, and before Sherlock has a chance to react, he's being pulled into a fierce embrace.
A distant part of him knows he should be mortified; ashamed at being seen at his lowest, but it's not like Lestrade hasn't seen him like this before. So because of this, and because of the fact that the Earth's orbit seems intent on shaking him off its surface, he clings back just as hard, because if he doesn't he will be aimless and adrift in that horrible vacuum of dark and space.
"You're burning up," Lestrade says after Sherlock's trembling has died down some. He gently leans Sherlock back against the wall so he can get a better look at him, and brushes the hair back from his forehead so he can lay a cool palm against his fevered skin. Sherlock's eyes close briefly at the sensation, and his shoulders droop with exhaustion. "Can you get up?" Lestrade asks.
Sherlock doesn't say anything, but lets himself be hoisted to his feet by a strong arm around his waist. "There's a lad," Lestrade says softly and they make their way down the hall towards Sherlock's room. They don't get very far, however, when Sherlock suddenly veers right and scrambles across the bathroom tiles, barely making it to the toilet. He retches over and over voiding the meager contents of his stomach until he is reduced to dry heaving, his insides curdling.
Lestrade comes over and sits on the edge of the tub and rubs gentle circles into his back. It is a familiar routine from when he was shaking and sweating the chemicals out of his system as withdrawal tore through his body. Hysterically, he wonders if this is the same thing: withdrawal from John. If so, he prays to whatever deity was listening that it would take him this time, because he didn't know if he could make it through to the other side. He didn't know if he wanted to.
Finally, the cramping in his stomach eases, and he slumps bonelessly against the wall of the tub. Lestrade stands and retrieves the flannel draped over the edge of the sink, and runs it under the faucet. He sits back down and places the cool rag against the back of Sherlock's neck despite the fact that his hair and his clothes are still soaked from the rain and cooling against his skin.
"Hit and run. How unfair is that?" Sherlock says, his voice wrecked. "He survived a war only to get killed by some idiot in a sports car."
Lestrade doesn't say anything, he just turns the rag over to the cool side and puts a hand on his shoulder as the trembling returns. Sherlock doesn't know how long they sit there, but the next thing he's aware of is Lestrade sitting him on the edge of his bed, and easing his wet dressing gown off his shoulders.
"Here," he says reaching for Sherlock's shirt.
"No," he says weakly pushing Lestrade's hands away.
"Sherlock. You'll freeze."
"I don't care," he says his voice breaking at the end entirely spent due to emotion and the acid from his stomach.
"All right. All right," Lestrade says, and guides him to lay down. He immediately curls up on his side wishing he could fold in on himself until he disappeared. Lestrade smoothes the duvet over him. "It's gonna get better, son. I promise," he whispers, but Sherlock doesn't hear already half way gone to sleep.
The last thing he feels is a gentle hand carding through his hair as he sinks.
AN: Wow. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I am leaving this as a one-shot for now, but I have an idea for multiple chapters. But this was tough for me to write, and if I don't really get any feedback I'm not sure if I will continue. Thoughts?
Thank you so much for reading.
Again I apologise.
*gives snuggles and hot cocoa*