Since It Greg and John had grown close, despite the fact that for the first few months John had been so overrun with grief and anger he hadn't even spoken to him. When Greg had called round he'd shouted, almost punched him, and Greg had taken it. John, for a short period of time, had blamed him, and Greg blamed himself – not to mention being blamed and demoted by his department for letting an 'unstable psychopath' escape. It had looked like the two of them were going to fall apart.
And then, one night, when he couldn't stand it a second longer, John had gone round to Greg's. He'd been at his very lowest, near-delirious; grief had driven him half-mad, and he hadn't slept properly in weeks. It was impossible to sleep a full night when all he heard when he closed his eyes was the jabbering of a dying man leaving a note, too high-pitched, panicking. It had been Sherlock's voice that haunted him most, more even than the blood on the cracked pavement. The voice, and then the silence left behind.
It had been snowing outside, but he hadn't been wearing a coat; it had been all he could do to remember the way, blinded by unshed tears and the darkness.
Greg had opened the door, taken one look at John, and let him straight in. He'd looked more than exhausted, and his flat had been a tip, covered in dirty laundry, old case files and bills. He hadn't bothered to tidy up when John entered; both of them had been past caring about appearances, and even though it could only have been about two in the morning, Greg had opened a bottle of cheap wine. They'd got three-quarters pissed, sitting surrounded by old press clippings. John couldn't bear to look at them, and somehow he couldn't drag his eyes away either.
They'd ended up crying on each other's shoulders for an hour, alone, wringing out every last drop of aguish and silently agreeing never to tell anyone because it wasn't proper for grown men to cry. John had wondered who'd invented that unwritten rule, and if they'd ever watched their best friend jump off a building.
It had been Greg who recovered first; perhaps he'd had less internal agony to shift away through saltwater, or perhaps he was just better at being calm. He'd seen John carefully through the rest of his gut-churning tears and passed him an old handkerchief to dry his face with. Exhausted, John had slumped back on the nearest chair and tipped his head against the rest, watching the snow fall past the window.
"I loved that man, Greg," he'd murmured eventually, uncaring about what he said. Sherlock was dead, and John had finally begun to push the memory of him to somewhere he could look on it without going crazy. "I know what I said about us just being friends, what he said about not being interested, but…after the first few weeks I got to know him, really got to know him, and after that…I loved him. God knows in what way or how, but I did."
Greg hadn't even had the grace to look surprised. He'd just sat there, and when John hadn't gone on he'd crossed one leg over the other and poured another half-glass of wine. John remembered watching the bubbles pop one by one at the top of the liquid.
"You split the yard in half," he'd said eventually. "One lot thought there was no way a nice bloke like you could possibly be anywhere near emotionally attached to Sherlock Holmes."
John had raised his head a little. "And the other half?"
"Thought you were sneaking off between crime scenes to shag each other."
"And which side were you on?"
There had been a long silence before he got his reply. "Neither. I certainly didn't think you were emotionally unattached; any idiot could see that. On the other hand…I'm not sure Sherlock was exactly the shagging type."
John had laughed then, snorting inelegantly into his wine glass. "Doubt he ever had time; if he wasn't on a case he was always fiddling with some damn experiment. And I mean…if we had been together, I'm not sure that would have been the point of it. Shagging." He'd sighed. "We weren't in any kind of relationship – not that I would have objected entirely if…well if things hadn't worked out the way they did. He would have though."
Greg had merely given John a long look. "I don't know. You never saw Sherlock before you met him – if he didn't hold some kind of special area of that massive brain of his for you, then I'd be very surprised. He cared, certainly."
John's hands had shaken when he'd looked down at them. "Not enough to let me talk him out of it."
"Don't." Greg had put a hand on John's shoulder, leaning forwards awkwardly on the sofa. "Don't think like that, it'll drive you mad."
"I still believe in him. I think he was trying to make me hate him; all that crap about magic tricks and god knows what. But he was brilliant, Greg, and I knew it, and he knew I knew it."
Greg's hand had moved away and rubbed his tired eyes, rimmed red as if someone had taken a clumsy felt-tip to them. "I think he was a good man. And no matter what I did at the time…well, I don't think he was a fraud."
John had smiled properly for the first time in weeks.
After that, things had gotten better. Greg had got John to come out of the flat, had brought him round to the pub and practically forced him to talk to people, to interact, to live. He'd even recommended John's current flat to him, after John confessed that the old one created too many memories – he couldn't move without looking at something that set him either crying or shouting in anger. He'd got by day to day, thinking about how the next morning could only be superior to the last, thinking about how tomorrow would always be better, and it had worked. Slowly but surely, he'd clawed his way out of whatever pit he'd been submerged in.
If Greg hadn't been there, John wasn't sure how he would have managed.
And so, lost and trembling, sitting in his kitchen with a not-dead Sherlock almost in pieces on his sofa, John rang him, even though Mycroft was family, even though he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, it was Mycroft who had the resources and there was probably nothing Greg could do. Part of him tried to make the argument it was because Greg was a policeman, and when people panicked they called the police, but the rest of him knew Greg wouldn't be able to help in that respect, and that John was calling him because he was selfish. He needed a friendly face, someone he'd talked to more than twice in the past three years.
Someone who hadn't abandoned him.
"John?" Greg's tone was curious. John could hear the sound of the football game that was on, coming from the television in the background. "What is it?"
"It's…" He glanced through at the lounge and lowered his voice. "It's Sherlock. He's…he's not dead."
The sound from the television vanished abruptly, and there was a pause before Greg spoke. "What do you mean?"
"He's here, on my sofa. He's alive…but god, Greg; he's in a state…"
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Yes!" It came out almost as a snarl. Sherlock twitched, and John lowered his voice again. "Listen, I know it sounds mad, but I'm looking at him right now…and I need your help. I don't know what to do."
Another pause. When Greg spoke again his tone was guarded – John could tell he was worried about one or both of their sanities – but there was the rustling sound of someone putting on a coat. "I'm coming over. I'll be there in about ten minutes."
"Thank you." John swallowed. "And don't knock when you get here – just text me and I'll let you in."
He rang off before Greg could finish the questions already coming out of his mouth and hurriedly got to his feet to go sit by Sherlock, monitoring him as he slept – was it sleep? Sherlock looked as if he were more comatose, chest barely moving, no natural turning or twitching, apart from when John had raised his voice. He looked more than exhausted – he looked half-dead.
There were cuts, John realised, on the back of Sherlock's head, some of them more recent, some healing. One or two scars. A long line over his neck; faded white tissue that looked as if it had been done with a deliberate technique rather than by accident. The finger that stuck out oddly, fourth one on the left hand. After that he couldn't see below the throw, and he didn't dare violate Sherlock's trust by looking, even if he wanted to – even if he wanted to make it better.
John's phone vibrated in his pocket and he heard a cough from behind the door; he could hardly reach it fast enough, but he opened it quietly, checking it didn't snag on the remains of the box and make a noise.
Greg was soaking wet and looked a mixture of worried and pissed off. "John, what the hell-"
"Shh!" John put a finger over his lips and pointed at the sofa. "Don't wake him; god knows what he'll think."
Greg's mouth was slack and his face almost grey as John pulled him inside and hastily shut the door, and then pushed him through into the kitchen. "That's Sherlock…" he breathed, feeling blindly for a chair and slumping into it. "How can it be Sherlock?"
"I don't know." John found a second chair and sat, keeping his voice low. "He just showed up at my flat in a box…like parcel or something, like someone wanted me to have him."
Greg tugged a hand through his hair and leaned over to get a good look at the huddle under the throw, blinking and blinking as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He looked to John, as if to double check he could see it too, swallowed, and took a deep breath.
"Any idea who could have sent him?" Ever the policeman, John thought – going straight for the suspects and not questioning how or why. Push aside the emotions, do your job.
"None. He didn't have anything on him, no clothes. He didn't even recognise me at first; he's been hurt, badly, and kept in the dark for a fair amount of time – the light's hardly bright in here, but it bothered him anyway." He clenched his hands. "Greg, I don't know what to do."
"Get him to a hospital." The answer was immediate, almost sudden. "Like you said, he's in a state. He needs checking out."
John sighed. "I asked him if he'd let me take him but…he didn't to want to. He wouldn't even let me look him over."
"I don't care," Greg murmured. "He could have infections, internal injuries – you're a doctor John, you know how serious these things can get if they're not dealt with, and you don't have access to the equipment to find out what's wrong for yourself."
John looked at him helplessly. "I can't, I just can't…he wouldn't trust me again, he'd think I was trying to hurt him on purpose or something."
"John, you know it's what's best for him."
"It took him whole minutes to even recognise me!" he hissed, clenching his hands again, twisting the fingers together. "The only thing he'd say was 'don't kill John'." His voice wavered and cracked. "And even afterwards…he thought it was a dream. He didn't…I can't take him around strangers after that…I think it might kill him. Both of us." He put his head back in his hands, breathing shakily. "Greg, this is a nightmare…" He should have been happy, should have been shouting for joy that Sherlock was back, that the miracle he'd begged for had happened, and here he was going to pieces. He felt like he should get his head examined.
A hand touched his knee, reassuring. "Does he have to know he's been to hospital?" Greg's tone was cautious, dropping to an even quieter volume. John looked up.
"What?"
"You could…I don't know, slip him a couple of sleeping pills and get him to a hospital. The state he's in you could be there and back before he wakes up."
For a second John thought it might work – if he were willing to go that far. And then his face fell again. "They wouldn't look at him without waiting for him to wake up again."
Greg raised an eyebrow. "Please, don't tell me you don't know about the bending of rules that goes on when Sherlock's around. I was kidnapped by his brother a couple of times as well you know – we can get away with anything."
John blinked. "You really think…"
"I do." Greg craned his neck to look at Sherlock again. "Once we get him sorted we can move onto the how and why."
It was like an electric shock; the confusion that had been threatening to overwhelm him for the past twenty minutes was cut through, because someone else had suggested it, had told him what to do. Ever the army man, John thought as he nodded, pulled his mobile out of his pocket and handed it to Greg. He felt almost ashamed for not being sensible himself.
"Mycroft's number's in the contacts, can you call him and explain?"
"Don't you want to do it?"
John felt his cheeks pale. "I can't handle him. I haven't spoken to him properly in three years; I don't know how to explain…this."
Greg inclined his head and accepted the phone, although John could see his hands were shaking minutely. He wasn't as calm as he seemed.
"Mycroft, seriously? No wonder he introduced himself as Mr Holmes – his family really weren't thinking when they came up with names, were they?"
John let out a weak chuckle as he rummaged in the fridge for a leftover tub of chicken soup he'd made a couple of days ago. His brain had switched onto some sort of 'next step' mode, where all he thought about was the practical thing to do immediately. Nothing ahead of that – thinking that way would break him down within ten minutes.
When he thought the soup was hot enough to be appetising, but not so much to burn cracked lips, he turned off the hob and poured it into the nearest bowl, a new bowl, one with little blue stripes Clara had given him for Christmas. He had two of them because they 'came in sets', but he didn't think he'd ever used more than one at a time since he'd got them.
Greg was still talking quietly into the phone as John went to the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen where he kept over-the-counter painkillers and vitamins and rummaged right to the back, pulling out bottles of mouthwash and cough medicine until…yes, there they were. A small packet of sleeping pills, which his psychiatrist had advised him to try. He'd never touched them, but they were still in date. The recommended dose was two. John put in two and a half, breaking the little plastic ovals – bright yellow, what a stupid, cheery colour for sleepingpills – open and pouring the powder into the soup before stirring the whole thing thoroughly. He hoped it wouldn't taste any different. If Sherlock noticed…he had no idea how he would explain.
Greg was off the phone and watching him intently. "You're doing the right thing John."
John looked at the soup sitting the bowl and hesitated before picking it up. But Greg was right; Sherlock needed a hospital. He sighed. "God, I hope so."
Thanks for reading! Reviews welcome! I'm really glad to know people are finding this story interesting.
To be continued!
