Sherlock never heard the banging on the front door but he heard his name being called from the sitting room when he opened his eyes. There were two voices. Mrs. Hudson's shrill and familiar squawking reminded him so much of when his own mother would commence her caterwauling to get him out of bed on a holiday home from school. He couldn't identify the male voice calling for him, as he was still half asleep. He knew it couldn't be John; there was no doubt John would have skipped the step of calling for him from the sitting room and would have kicked in his own bedroom door in the case of an emergency. Mycroft was also immediately eliminated from the list of possibilities as Sherlock had rarely seen his elder brother riled enough to yell; cold stares and sneering sarcasm were Mycroft's forte. He yawned and pushed himself up on his elbow. He has been initially confused to wake up in John's bed but he slowly remembered what had taken place in the wee hours of that morning. As the recollection swept over him, he lowered himself back down to the mattress and pulled the duvet up to his ear.
"Sherlock?! SHER-LOCK?" Mrs. Hudson sounded panicked.
"I'm HERE! UP HERE!" He called in reply, making no effort to get out of the bed. The scent of John had enveloped him like a cocoon and he'd been having a decidedly pleasant, albeit non-erotic dream. He buried his face back into the pillow and tried desperately to return to the gentle embrace of sleep. He inhaled the perfume of John's bedclothes as deeply as he could but it was no use, his temporary reprieve from the drudgery of consciousness was over.
Frantic footfalls climbed the stairs, getting ever-nearer. The door swung open dramatically causing Sherlock to sit up in bed. There stood Mrs. Hudson, her spare keys to the flat still in her hand. Beside her was DI Lestrade.
Lestrade was breathing hard, he bent over and placed his hands on his knees struggling to catch his breath.
"Ah, Gavin. You look peaky, do you need to sit? I'm not comfortable with my personal safety as a citizen of this city; a Detective Inspector gasping for air after running up a few stairs doesn't exactly inspire confidence. Luckily for me I happen to be quite safe with a live-in army Captain –" Sherlock paused his critique when he saw the blanch on Lestrade's face at the mention of John.
"What's going on? What time is it?" Sherlock rubbed his eyes and squinted at the clock. It was 1:37. He was momentarily confused and looked out the window. The daylight confirmed that he had been sleeping for nearly 9 hours.
"John…hospital…accident." Lestrade said still panting.
"Sherlock, do get up – why are you sleeping in John's bed?" Mrs. Hudson inquired. She also noticed that Sherlock was still wearing the same clothes she'd seen him in the night before. What was once crisp and precisely ironed, was now rumpled and wrinkled.
"Hospital? What happened?" Sherlock leapt to his feet and pushed past him down the stairs in a panic. He slipped his bare feet into the first shoes he found and was out the front door before Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were down from John's bedroom.
"Hurry up Gordon…Gary…Grendel…"Sherlock shouted from the main floor.
Lestrade was soon trailing behind him out the door and the pair hopped into his police car and sped off to Bart's. Sherlock's annoyance turned into a fury when Lestrade couldn't answer any of his questions about what had actually happened.
"I don't bloody know, Sherlock. I heard it on my radio, there was static. I heard John's name and Bart's and I raced over to Baker Street." The detective pursed his lips in a scowl, he needed information and context; being told he'd have no option but to wait would simply not suffice.
Although cars were yielding the right of way as they heard Lestrade's siren blaring, Sherlock shouted abuse at him for not driving fast enough.
"If I have to stop the car to scrape some poor sod off the bonnet, it'll delay us even further. I can't drive over people, for fuck's sake Sherlock! We're nearly there!"
"'Nearly there' and 'there' are two drastically different things, or doesn't your miniscule understanding of object permanence extend that far?" He was anxiously hammering the palms of his hands on his knees and subconsciously pressing his foot hard down on the floor mat as if he had a second accelerator pedal.
With his peripheral vision, Lestrade saw the beads of sweat forming at Sherlock's temples and his upper lip. He'd never seen Sherlock so keyed up. He was doing his utmost to remain inscrutable but the seasoned policeman had seen that look on many faces in his tenure with New Scotland Yard. He feared that his passenger was on the verge of a panic attack.
Sherlock patted his trouser pocket and found his mobile. There was a missed call from John and two from a number he didn't recognize. Seeing the icon indicating a voicemail message, Sherlock pressed the series of keys allowing him access to his inbox. The message had been left hours ago while he slept wrapped in John's sheets. A calm voice spoke to him through the phone.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes – this is St. Bart's hospital. We understand that you are the primary emergency contact for Mr. – erm Doctor John Watson? I'm calling to let you know that Dr. Watson was brought in via an ambulance a short time ago. Please return this call. We have a secondary contact listed so we will reach out to them if we do not hear from you…" The caller left a phone number and hung up.
Sherlock felt numb. He'd missed a call from John and two from the hospital. He didn't have time to sort out all of the many rushing thoughts he had about being John's primary emergency contact. He leapt out of the vehicle as soon as it was at a reasonably slow enough speed to do so. He ran into the trauma unit and began bellowing at nurses and staff.
"John! John Watson! Where is John Watson? John!" A security guard began to approach him cautiously.
"Oi sir, keep it down please!" he said.
"My left bollock will keep it down! Where's John Watson?" Sherlock exclaimed. He forced his way through the double doors and began pushing curtains aside in each of the private cubicles calling for John. He could hear his pulse throbbing in his ears as he tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice. Lestrade followed behind, holding his badge up apologizing for Sherlock's behavior and asking the nurses to cooperate.
Finally Sherlock came to a body in a bed covered in a sheet. Nothing was visible except the patient's feet. One was bare, the other was wearing a trainer, which he recognized as John's.
Sherlock sank into a chair next to the bed with his head in his hands, feeling as if he were about to be sick. The seconds stretched out wide before him until time seemed to stand still. This was the end; he'd never get to speak to John again, never wind him up or bicker with him and never get to say any of the things he'd been holding back, waiting for the right moment.
"John…" He let loose a sighing noise as the air was stolen from his lungs. He raked his fingers through his sweaty mop of curls.
"Hmm? Sherlock? Is that you?" John's voice made the hair on the back of Sherlock's head stand on end.
He looked up and saw John peeking at him from under the sheet as he removed the earbuds that had prevented him from hearing the commotion. He pushed the sheet off and swung his legs over the side of the bed and looking at Sherlock intently.
"You're…not dead." Sherlock said.
"Now that is probably your most brilliant deduction yet. No, I am not dead." John teased, a grin hinting at his lips. Right at that moment, Lestrade walked by still searching for Sherlock. Catching a glimpse of them, he doubled back. He appeared very confused to see John sitting there mostly unscathed.
"But…what…Lestrade told me you'd been in an accident." A bubbling infusion of temper mixed with relief was brewing in his stomach.
"Oh. Nope, not me." John replied kicking his legs and hopping off the bed. He wasn't putting any weight on his bare foot. Sherlock looked perplexed which John found sort of endearing as it wasn't an expression he saw very often at all. He retrieved his discarded sock and trainer from a plastic bag that was hanging on the back of Sherlock's chair. He lifted himself back onto the cot where he'd been resting.
"I went for a run and stopped at a cafe for breakfast. While I was out, I ran a few errands," John indicated towards three shopping bags from Tesco tucked into the corner of the room. Sherlock also spied a woman's black handbag and was able to deduce that she was in her mid-thirties; about five foot four, right handed and lived less than five minutes' walk to a Caffé Nero. Whoever she was, she had long brown hair and had a casual but distinctly put-together style of dressing.
His attention snapped back to John, who started to explain, "When I was headed back to Baker Street, I saw a man get clipped by a car in a zebra crossing. I dialed 999 and went over to help but I wasn't looking where I was going and stepped into a sewer grate, twisted my ankle and fell down; I'm sure I looked a proper knob. I'm sure all the cans are dented to shit now but at least I didn't buy any eggs."
John showed Sherlock and Lestrade his bandaged forearm. Sherlock reasoned the injury was sustained from a fall of less than six feet, concluding John had tumbled down face-first while holding his mobile up to his lips and broke his fall on his arm.
"I had a missed call from you…" Sherlock said pulling his own mobile from his pocket.
"Yeah, I called when I was at Tesco – to see if you wanted me to pick anything up for you."
John groaned in discomfort as he pulled his sock on over his tender ankle. "Anyway, they gave me some pain killers – no, it's not morphine and no you bloody cannot have any –" John directed a look at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "I was just resting here a few minutes before they discharged me."
Relief washed over Sherlock like a warm bath but the sensation was fleeting; he angrily turned to Lestrade.
"You told me he was hurt…" he growled at the Detective Inspector.
"Well…yeah, to be fair he is hurt…" Lestrade gestured toward John's arm. "And I was only telling you what I heard on my radio. Someone reported a pedestrian getting hit by a car and mentioned John's name, I only concluded…"
"What only a prize idiot might conclude." Sherlock barked.
"Glad you see you on the right side of the dirt, John." Lestrade exhaled and turned to leave, waving over his shoulder.
"Yeah, thanks Greg, sorry for the trouble." He called back as he pulled his trainer on. He gave Sherlock an admonishing look. Clearly the 'trouble' John had referred to was standing before him wearing yesterday's clothes.
"Greg? Who's Greg?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head.
"Do you always have to make everyone feel like a tit?"
"Have to? No. But if that's the result of them being so utterly useless, so be it." John smiled in spite of himself and looked away, playfully rolling his eyes.
"I didn't mean to be so cross with him. It's just…I was concerned for your safety." Sherlock addressed John's trainers and cleared his throat.
John smirked briefly, he'd never heard Sherlock express that kind of remorse for his general dickheadish behavior before. "I appreciate your concern. You had me worried earlier. Did you manage to get much sleep?" John grimaced as he applied pressure to his sore ankle and Sherlock extended his arm so John could steady himself.
"Hmm? Yes, I did. Thanks. Your bed is much more comfortable than mine." Sherlock remarked.
"Borrow it any time you like." The words came out before he could suppress them down his throat and into his belly. John swallowed hard, the idea of Sherlock spread out in his bed was neither unwelcome nor unpleasant. "You really did worry me you know. I thought for a moment you were on something."
"Ridiculous. I haven't in ages." Sherlock replied, with a graceful, dismissive wave of his hand.
"It's actually not that ridiculous, nor has it been all that long. I found a used syringe in the bin two weeks ago, Sherlock. Honest to god with a mind like yours…"
"If you had a mind like mine John, you'd want a reprieve from it, too. Sometimes I envy you your feeble thought processes."
John raised an eyebrow at him and tensed his jaw. "Charming. Do you even know when you're being an unbearable prick?" Sherlock shrugged, indicating the conversation was over.
As they stared at each other a moment, a five foot three and a half, 34 year old brunette woman carrying a bottle of water and a packet of Hobnobs in her right hand entered looking slightly suspicious. She wore a tailored, dark blue tunic-style silk dress which fell just above her knee with a long black cardigan sweater over it. Her toned legs were bare and her simple black ballet flats showed definite signs of wear at the sole. Her long hair was swept over her shoulder in a neat plait which fell to her bust line. She wasn't wearing makeup on her olive-toned skin. There was just a touch of a pressed powder and a gloss on her full lips.
"Sorry I was so long – only I couldn't find my way back from the bloody – oh. Oh, so you're Sherlock Holmes." She handed John the items she'd purchased from a vending machine. He tore into the packet of biscuits, thanking her.
"Clara Watson, I presume." Sherlock addressed this to John directly, who nodded.
"Interesting. So while I am the primary, you've chosen your former sister-in-law over your closest blood relative to be your secondary emergency contact?"
"Don't pretend it's terribly mysterious, Sherlock." John said, shoving another biscuit into his mouth. "Harry isn't exactly reliable and I've always liked Clara." He smiled, held the packet out to her and she accepted one.
"John and I get on like a house on fire," she said, taking a bite of the biscuit. "He's almost all the best parts of his sister, without the penchant for blackout drunkenness." Smiling, she put a hand on John's shoulder and took a sip of water.
"Thank you for coming, Clarrie. I told them it wasn't necessary to call anyone. I'm truly sorry to bother you." She waved him off and went to retrieve her handbag.
"You don't have to apologise, John; I'm just glad you're alright. But maybe next time we get together we'll meet in a restaurant rather than here?" John smiled and nodded.
Clara draped the strap of her handbag across her chest and kissed John on the cheek. "Ring me, ok? Next week?"
"That's a promise." He replied.
She turned to Sherlock before she left. "It was nice to meet you." The mysterious smirk on her face and the look she and John shared before Clara departed puzzled him.
"Let's get home then." Sherlock said as he scooped up all of the shopping. Shortly thereafter, they exited the trauma unit where John blinked hard in the light. Sherlock hailed a taxi to bring them back to Baker Street and they rode in silence, each man pushed as far from the other in the back seat as possible.
When they stepped out onto the pavement in front of the familiar maroon awning of Speedy's, Sherlock unexpectedly took him about the waist as John reluctantly wrapped an arm over Sherlock's shoulders and together they climbed the stairs. Their height difference was proving to make this trek awkward so Sherlock stooped a little. John was pleasantly surprised at the thoughtful gesture, it was more considerate than he'd have given his flatmate credit for.
John tried to ignore the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. As they climbed the stairs, their hips and outer thighs were rubbing each other and Sherlock was gripping him with a startling strength. While they ascended, John felt his t-shirt start running up his side; a few more steps and Sherlock's hand would be on the bare skin of his torso. John became grateful when the pulsating pain in his ankle returned halfway up the stairs – the discomfort was a much-needed distraction from the confusing thoughts Sherlock's pseudo-intimate proximity was bringing forward.
"Well, aren't you going to carry the bride over the threshold?" John joked when Sherlock let go of him at the top landing. He quickly smoothed his shirt back into place and casually wiped his sweaty palms on the back of his thighs.
Sherlock half-smirked at John as he retrieved his keys from his jacket pocket.
"Oh stop it. If either of us is the bride, it's clearly me." Sherlock did a melodramatic toss of his curls for effect. He carried the shopping bags to the kitchen and began putting the groceries away.
John pouted his lower lip and nodded in agreement as he considered the point. "No argument from me on that."
Hobbling slightly to his chair John whinged, "This sodding ankle hurts. Can I have some ice in a tea towel, please?"
"Oh, erm- here." Sherlock tossed an ice pack at him while he removed his trainer and his sock.
"When did you buy these?" John asked, pleasantly surprised as he put it on his ankle.
"Hmm? Oh, I didn't buy them. Molly sent them over from the mortuary. She delivered a cooler full of tongues three days ago, I unpacked it last night and I kept them just in case."
John cringed looking at the ice pack knowing what it had previously been keeping cool. "Tongues?! What are you, the bloody Bratva now? What do you need to know about tongues?"
Sherlock laughed his deep-throated chortle. "I kept one or two for experimental purposes – by the way, the container at the back of the salad drawer, don't open it. The rest are earmarked as a little present for Mycroft. This'll teach my dear brother to tell our mother about my last chemical indiscretion."
After a brief pause, John took a fit of laughter and wiped his eyes.
"Poor Mycroft."
"You must be joking," Sherlock deadpanned.
John coughed and sputtered from laughing. "No, no I'm sure your course of action is best." He put his hand to his chest and took deep breaths as he gained control of his laughter, then he got to thinking.
"He's just…worried for you. He's an insufferable, pompous twat but he is your brother and on some level he does care for your wellbeing. I can't control my sister's drinking any more than Mycroft can control your substance abuse but that doesn't stop either of us from caring."
"Mmm." Sherlock said in his non-committal way.
John shook his head and resisted the impulse to punch his friend's lights out. He had flown to his sister's rescue more times than he cared to recall before he joined the army. There was a time that he thought every bartender in London knew his mobile number by heart. He'd gotten out of bed in the middle of the night, called to go down to whatever hole in the wall Harry had chosen for the evening, scooped her into a cab and gotten her home safely countless times. Before they divorced, he'd helped Clara choose a rehab facility for her. When Harry continued to drink after being discharged, John swore he was done; there was nothing else he was willing to do. He loved his sister but nothing he did would make her want to change. A pang of guilt struck him in the chest. He was not going to give up on Sherlock.
"I'm speaking as your best friend, Sherlock. You've got to give it all up for good. Calling it a 'chemical indiscretion' doesn't change the fact that it's a drug habit and it's incredibly dangerous. I've seen good men come home from active duty and they turn to smack to numb the pain. I know what I'm talking about. I'm not going to let that happen to you, you're too important to me – erm, to us. To all of us."
John sat forward in his chair and twisted around to look at Sherlock, who had obviously tuned him out. He had apparently finished unloading the food John had purchased and was intently examining something with the antique Bausch and Lomb microscope he refused to use anywhere but the kitchen table.
"Fine, ignore me. What would I know, I'm only a bloody doctor and someone who loves you." John lifted the ice pack from his ankle and pushed himself up from the armchair. He was able to put more pressure on his ankle and he walked steadily towards the bathroom. "I'm going to have a shower and a lie down."
Sherlock looked up in time to admire John's backside in the tight joggers. If he only knew how to tell John that part of the reason he felt the need to use drugs was to mask the pain of being hopelessly stuck on someone he couldn't have.
John avoided being in the same room with him and they barely spoke for the rest of that day and all of the next. Only the most essential words were spoken when a client came to see them about a case. It would be bad for business to let on that they'd had a row.
In truth, the longest conversation they had outside the presence of a client was when John was tearing through the medicine cupboard in the bathroom.
"Sherlock – where the fuck is the fucking bottle of fucking paracetamol I just fucking bought?!"
"It's under the lid of the turntable." Sherlock replied as he sat in his chair, pretending to read.
John limped back to the corner of the sitting room where he and Sherlock kept their joint collection of record albums. Sure enough, the bottle of pills was sitting there. John took it in his hand and limped back down the hall.
"Well, ask a stupid question. Good thing you put it in a logical fucking place." Sherlock heard John going up the creaky stairs to his bedroom.
Eventually, Sherlock found himself feeling remorse. He knew his drug use was problematic and he further knew that he could stop any time he wanted to, if he wanted to. If he had something else to concentrate his energy on when he got bored.
Upon hearing John stomp up the stairs to his bedroom after a shower, Sherlock decided to extend an olive branch. He collected the rest of the raspberry ripple from Mrs. Hudson and brought it up to his room. He hesitated briefly before knocking.
"If you're coming up to ask about taking that case involving the porch pirate Sherlock, my answer is once again 'no'. All we need is for a newspaper to get a photograph of you in another silly hat." A rather eccentric woman had come to them about the packages being stolen from her front stairs. She told them that if they took the case she'd prefer it if they hid in her bushes wearing fancy dress, complete with plastic swords, eyepatches and pirate hats.
"I still think it would be a fun case, John. You know how I like pirates." Sherlock said. He traced a fingertip down the wood grain of John's door, hoping against hope that he'd open it and face him.
"Sod off, will ya?" John sounded cranky.
"It would be easy money, it's obviously the boy who delivers her groceries. The size of the footprints in the mud at the bottom of the stairs belong to a boy of about 12. A delivery boy wouldn't look odd pulling packages in a wagon around a neighborhood where everyone minds their own business. And besides, that John – pirates." Sherlock said, suddenly realizing how cold his hand was from holding the bowl of ice cream.
"Sherlock did not you hear me say 'bugger off'?" John said, still through the closed bedroom door.
"John, I have a peace offering, will you permit me? Please?" He tried to keep from sounding desperate.
He heard John grumble something that very well could have been "peace offering my arse, you git" and then the sound of bare feet on the hardwood floor. The door opened with a creak.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock said plainly. He held the ice cream up to John, who pursed his lips together in a frown, took it and motioned with his head for Sherlock to enter.
"Ta." John said while a reluctant, forced smile teased at the corners of his mouth as he took the bowl. As upset as he was, he still recognized how huge the gesture was coming from Sherlock. He sat back on his bed, with a towel around his neck. Small rivulets of water dripped from the ends of his damp hair. His dressing gown was open revealing his bare chest and loose fitting cotton boxers.
"I know you're right. About the drugs. I know where it leads, I'm not stupid." Sherlock said with his hands clasped behind his back.
"I know you know you're not stupid. I'm worried you may think that you're invincible. That's what scares me, Sherlock." John took a spoonful of raspberry ripple.
"Oh, Christ that's better than sex," he said savouring the taste.
The two men locked eyes and John grinned, "Well, at least from what I vaguely recall of sex."
"Mmm." Sherlock grunted in agreement. He wondered just how long it had been for him. At least the twenty four months since he moved in, according to what he'd said earlier.
John had some more ice cream and eventually realized Sherlock was still on his feet, looking tall and awkward.
"Oh, sorry." He said, placing the bowl on the nightstand. He got up and lifted a stack of books off the chair at his desk and motioned for Sherlock to sit.
"Thanks." Sherlock began nervously drumming his fingers on the desktop. Pulling the towel from his neck, John ruffled his hair, getting as much moisture out with it as he could. He then ran his fingers through his damp hair, pushing it into its usual style without needing a mirror. He tossed the towel into a hamper by the door. Sherlock watched intently.
"I am a bit invincible, John. I've been indulging myself for quite a while, I know my limit. I'm not a common user who's going to overdose in a drug den."
John let the spoon drop noisily into the bowl. "Sherlock, you do realize that no drug addict thinks it can happen to them, yeah? You're no bloody different just because you're smarter than they are. Actually, you're so much smarter than they are, it makes you a complete sodding moron for even using drugs to begin with. That's my official diagnosis: the patient suffers from an acute and potentially terminal case of being so smart, he's an idiot."
"I'm sorry to be such a disappointment to you." Sherlock said, a hint of a snarl at his lips.
"A disappointment? You're not a disappointment. You're human; as flawed and imperfect as any man I've ever known. But you're also…the best man I've ever known and I'll be damned if I let you go down that destructive road." John turned away and placed the bowl on his night stand. When he turned back to Sherlock he had the St. Michael medal pinched between his fingers, dragging it back and forth along the chain as he thought.
"Mrs. Hudson gave me this for my birthday last year." Sherlock feigned indifference.
"It is possibly the most thoughtful gift I've ever received and I'm never taking it off. St. Michael – the patron saint of doctors and soldiers. Saint Michael the Archangel protects the good from the wicked and escorts the faithful departed to the gates of Heaven." John paused, still holding the medal.
"She even had it inscribed, see?" John closed the distance between himself and Sherlock. He crouched down, maintaining his balance with a hand on Sherlock's knee and took the taller man's hand as he placed the medal in his palm. Sherlock only gave the medal a cursory glance, he fixated on John's blue eyes which were burning into his own. He felt his pulse quicken and his skin warmed where John's hands made contact. The tips of his unruly curls lightly brushed John's forehead.
"Sherlock," John began again. "Now, I've no doubt that Mrs. Hudson holds us both in high regard. I've heard her call us 'her boys' to her lady friends on their bridge night; but this engraving – Cum homo hoc custodire non – "
Sherlock's face betrayed him. John saw his friend was taken aback by his pronunciation of Latin. John straightened his legs, rolled his eyes and laughed with his arms across his chest. Sherlock was instantly regretful, his skin now feeling deeply bereft of John's warmth.
"Yes, Sherlock – I may not have gone to some posh private academy, chock full of toffs but I did study Latin at school. I don't profess fluency but this roughly translates to "Protect this man when I cannot."
They held each other's eyes, neither daring to make the first move. In the end, it was John who closed in, his blue eyes piercing through Sherlock's hard exterior shell. No one looked at him like that. No one could ever make Sherlock Holmes feel vulnerable the way John could with a single, withering glance. Sherlock stood slowly, willing his knees not to shake. They were a mere breath apart when John finally spoke.
"Mrs. Hudson didn't buy this for me. You did."
Sherlock's nod would have been imperceptible to anyone not standing as closely as John was. They both felt stuck in place as if frozen to the spot. John felt Sherlock's breath on his face.
"Say it." John said, his voice a whisper.
"It was me."
