A/N: Hey so there be some Mature Content here. But not the sexy kind...read the title of the fic, yo. Honestly i'm not feeling very p0rny right now so you will find no sex here, just pre-slashy overtones and cuddles and talking. Oh boy. And while i do think gayness is *damned* hot, i want to keep this *mainly* a friendship piece. In a way it's almost hotter when two dudes can be close without sex. But yeah. It'll still a bit slashy, because this is BBC Sherlock we're talking about. Thanks for reading, folk.
Glitch: Blind Melon
At least take your jacket off. John tried to catch Sherlock's jacket sleeve as he stalked past, but his friend pulled away and continued to pace.
Sherlock hasn't spoken to John at all on the cab ride back to Baker Street. His fatigue was beginning to show a little, as took him much longer than usual to climb the seventeen steps, but upon entering the flat he immediately began to pace the length of the living room muttering under his breath about the case. He had not stopped moving since.
Do you want to watch telly or something, John offered. i'll stay up with you. He could see tiny beads of sweat forming on Sherlock's brow, glistening in the firelight. The shadows under his eyes were slowly turning from gray to winestain purple. John turned up the television and went over to look out the window, trying to block out the manic tapping of Sherlock's black oxford shoes.
It didn't work.
Sherlock, he said half-heartedly. i know you're upset about the case but you really should sit down for a minute. Do you want to pass out again like you did last week. Sherlock ignored him except for a slight headshake. After a few more attempts at communication John could bear the tension no longer, it was suffocating him pushing down his throat and he couldn't bear it. He turned off the television and left his flatmate to wear a track in the floor.
It was two thirty in the morning when John sat up in bed and decided that sleep had deserted him for good. Outside, thin clouds rolled over the moon like ghosts. The flat was blessedly silent but not completely dark like it was when all the lights were out. John picked his faded gray T-shirt from the floor and pulled it on as he made his way towards the source of light. As he predicted, it was coming from Sherlock's room.
Sherlock's bedroom door was open a crack, so John had no compunction about knocking briefly before pushing it open.
Sherlock, i—oh God. John felt his heart buck up into his throat.
Sherlock was sitting on his bed with a short pink tube and a hardback copy of War and Peace in his hands, apparently having just finished snorting a sizeable line of cocaine off the cover. He looked up at John with sullen indifference, his silver eyes gleaming flinty in the lamplight. Then he very slowly and deliberately pressed the tip of his ring finger to the book's surface and raised it to his mouth, rubbing a thin coating of power over his gums.
John wanted to leave, but he didn't. Instead he rubbed his tired eyes
crossed the bedroom
and seated himself in the chair across from his friend.
Why, he asked. Sherlock made a dismissive noise and put the book down on his bedside table.
Surely even you can deduce why, John. He plugged one nostril and sniffed hard before swallowing. But honestly, it's really none of your business.
How can you…wait, what the fuck is that, John asked suddenly, pointing to the tube that Sherlock still held between his spidery fingers. Is that a. Is that a tampon tube, Sherlock Holmes?
Yes. Sherlock shrugged. It's completely sanitary, i think you of all people can appreciate that. John pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb.
Just. Let me take your pulse. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
That's completely unnecessary.
Let me take your pulse, John said again. Sherlock languidly extended a willowbranch arm towards John, who took him by the wrist and pressed two fingers against the radial artery. The heartbeat he found there was a little fast and fluttery, but not enough of either to cause alarm. John dropped his friend's wrist and frowned.
i thought you mixed cocaine in solution. Snorting seems a little too crude for you.
i couldn't be bothered, Sherlock admitted, pulling on his robe. i didn't want to wait. He was not looking at John but instead at an invisible point on the wall behind him.
i wish you would talk to me, John said sadly. Before it comes to this. Sherlock smirked and took a cigarette from his silver case.
And why should i do that.
Sherlock, you're my best friend. John's voice cracked a little. We live together. i want to know when you're this unhappy.
So you can search my room and lecture me and beg me to talk about feelings, Sherlock said bitterly. No thank you. He sprawled back dramatically onto the bed and turned his back to John. The strike of a match was the only sound in the room, and for a minute or two John sat watching little coils of smoke trail up from the ball of long limbs and blue dressing gown.
John looked at the door. Then he got out of the chair and sat on the edge of the bed. A few smoke rings drifted up from Sherlock's curled form, but he did not move.
Listen, John started. You're a genius Sherlock, nobody denies that. i realize that you fully understand how much cocaine can damage your body and your mind—John paused briefly for emphasis—we've had that conversation before. But the end, it's your life. i have no right to interfere. Unless you really start abusing yourself, that is. Then all bets are off. He had to pause for a moment to get ahold of himself.
So next time, please just tell me when you feel like you need to resort to drugs. i promise i won't berate you or lecture you or throw out your stash. i just want to know. That way, even if i don't succeed in talking you out of it, at least i won't be too shocked when i walk in on you putting half of Bolivia up your nose. John laughed, half-hysterically. i must be a complete idiot like you're always telling me. i mean, i've been a doctor for ten years now, and i fancy myself a pretty intuitive bloke. But. With you i never see this shit coming.
That's because you idolize me, Sherlock said wearily, sitting up. He took a long drag off his cigarette, exhaling two even columns from his nostrils. You'd like to imagine that i am above such base, instant gratification. He smiled grimly, his pupils blown black wide. Sorry to disappoint.
It's not like that, John retorted. i just don't see why you jumped straight to coke because a few cases didn't pan out the way you wanted
Do you think i look forward to losing a case just so i can get high? Do you honestly think i want that? Sherlock snarled softly.
But Lestrade told you he has other investigations lined up, John pointed out. It's not like you're out of work here. i don't understand, Sherlock—
For christ's sake...Sherlock looked daggers at him for a moment, and then the anger was gone. i don't understand either, alright? He lowered his eyes and stared at his knees, all the fight suddenly burned out of him. i don't understand it either. i wish i did. Sherlock crushed out his cigarette and dropped his head into his hands. You have no idea what it's like in here, John.
You're right, John said. i don't. Sherlock fell silent again, grinding his teeth and tugging compulsively at a lock of hair. A steady pressure began to build at the corners of John's eyes and he cringed against it. He had never seen his friend so exhausted and distraught and infuriated with himself, and it picked at John's heart like a scab.
Come here, he said gently. Sherlock glanced at him before scooting over so that their knees were touching, so that skin and bones and rigid muscles were pressed against him. John tentatively put his arm around the detective and smiled when Sherlock slumped against him instead of flinching away. He smelled like smoke and raw silk.
i don't think any less of you, you know, John said quietly. i just worry, that's all. Sherlock lowered his sweaty head to John's shoulder and drew a slow, shuddering breath.
That's better, John murmured, rubbing his hand up and down his friend's back. Just relax. Sherlock was still trembling slightly, possibly from the cocaine or from lack of food or a combination of the two, but he'd stopped grinding his teeth and his breaths were evening out. John just sat with him and rubbed his back and waited for the rigors in his limbs to calm, waited for him to calm,
and even out,
and come back down.
