The mug was trembling as I put brought it to my mouth, the hot porcelain surface knocking against my teeth, burning my cracked lips as steam assaulted my aching eyes. John sat across from me, the little wooden table between us not allowing enough room for the bitter disappointment in his gaze to dissipate before reaching me. Without finding the motivation to take a sip, I set the full mug back down, pressing quivering fingers to the searing surface and hoping to find a bit of solace in the warmth, avoiding the eyes of my frustrated companion.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sherlock." John's voice was grim, the harshness of his tone sending painful waves of thought through my exhausted mind. I ought to be ashamed... I ought to be ashamed... Was I? I wasn't quite certain.
"How long has this been going on behind my back? Have you been shooting up cocaine every time my back's turned? Why would you ever even dream of doing this, Sherlock? I don't understand! Why would you risk everything you have, all your intelligence, your health, your life?" The betrayal and anger in his voice was evident; I could hear him enunciating every syllable in attempts to make me understand, to feel a piece of his fury. I remained silent, staring at the pattern of knots in the table without really seeing them.
"Are you even listening to me, or are you too busy feeling sorry for yourself now that you're down off your high?" John spat, his chair scraping across the floor deafeningly as he stood, bringing his palms down onto the table in rage.
Oh. This is what he had meant. This was shame.
I closed my eyes, feeling my face flush and back tingle with the desire to be pressed up against a wall, to hide away somewhere dark and cold where I would never be seen or heard from again. Nausea curled in my stomach when I looked up at him slowly, my face slightly more slack than usual, to find him staring down at me, a demand for a response in his eyes.
"I didn't know you were coming home, John," I rasped, unable to look at him for much longer than a second before turning my blurred gaze back to the table, folding my shaking arms in an outward expression of mutual anger, secretly willing them to hold me together for a few more seconds, "I didn't mean for you to see me like that..."
"Well, of course you didn't mean for me to see you like that!" he cried, his voice breaking into a caustic laugh of vehemence, "The great Sherlock Holmes, as high as a fucking kite! I can't even leave you alone for a couple of hours with you completely destroying yourself! I'm not your caretaker, Holmes!"
I glared up at him, guilt seeping through my innards. "I realize that, Watson," I snarled, reflecting his use of my surname, "I don't expect or want you to be. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself without you prying into my life."
John emitted another short, bitter laugh. "You're obviously not. Does Lestrade know about this? Is that why he never looks further than the microwave during his supposedly pretend 'drugs busts'?"
My fingers dug into my upper arms, cutting off the circulation in hopes that my left inner-elbow would stop its thirsty aching, a sigh escaping from my lips as that question dredged up those old, dark memories from the murky gutters of my mind. How could I even begin to tell him? How could he even begin to understand?
But he will understand, a voice whispered silently to me, Isn't John the perfect person to tell? He's a doctor, he empathizes with everyone, he's kind, and... he actually cares about you...
"John," I whispered, my faced flushed with red shame, "Sit back down. I need to talk to you."