A/N: Just a heads up, this chapter does include a couple sentences that describe an injury that aren't super graphic but might be unsettling for anyone who is sensitive to that sort of thing, so I've marked the beginning and end of that paragraph with an asterisk. Feel free to skip/skim. Also, there's some extra profanity. John has a very foul mouth.
When you go long enough without sleeping—and it must be a very long time, especially for one already accustomed to long periods of waking—when your days and nights begin to bleed together and your dreams and your nightmares become inseparable from reality—you begin to realize just how frail the separation between madness and sanity really is.
The only sleep Sherlock has gotten in days—maybe weeks—who knows?—has been a couple minutes—maybe an hour—here and there when he nods off after injecting a particularly heavy dose of drugs into his system.
Although at one time that would have been enough, it isn't anymore—not for him, not now, not here.
And while he knows he's here for a reason—there must have been a reason why he torched the life he once had to get lost in a foreign land—there are many days when he can't remember what that reason was.
Where once he was like a bloodhound in pursuit—unwavering in his single-minded purpose of dismantling Moriarty's network—now he's just lost, no scent in sight.
Sometimes he starts to wonder—what would John think of him now?—as he vomits the contents of his nearly empty stomach into the toilet—as he nods off while smoking a cigarette and nearly sets the sofa on fire—but then he pushes the thought away and digs himself deeper into the hole.
There's only down, there's only falling, there's only the silence and oblivion that comes from a needle and a drug, and although some days he manages to pull himself free for a few lonely hours, most of his time is spent pursuing the high—finding the drugs, buying the drugs, taking the drugs—it all feels so good, in a world where anything else feels so painful as to be unbearable—and he wants it to stop—wants to want it to stop—but any remaining impulse control has dissolved, and the line between want and need has disappeared completely.
He can't continue, not like this. He has to find a way to end this spiral into the gutter, but where are you supposed to go after you lose yourself in a drug binge because the only thing that kept you from falling down the rabbit hole was an imaginary person in an imaginary room in your own mind?
This has to end—somehow, someway—probably sooner rather than later—but he's not sure when or how or why—and even if he knew this would assuredly end in disaster, he's not sure he has enough resolve left to fight for any other outcome.
"Sherlock, if you wanted me to come back, couldn't you have come up with something that didn't involve almost getting yourself killed?"
John doesn't even bother trying to conceal the anger in his voice, but Sherlock—lost in the physical pain, the emotional hurt—is undeterred, lashing out with angry words of his own.
"Maybe if you showed up before I ended up in mortal danger—"
"If you hadn't been so busy getting high like the complete and total ass that you are—"
"If you spent more time being a doctor and less time chasing around normal women who you could never hope to sustain a relationship with—"
"Christ, Sherlock—Just shut up for once in your life. You just got stabbed in a fight with a drug dealer, and you're really going to start in on my dating habits?"
"I nearly got stabbed by a drug dealer—it's only a scratch—and you started it."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you—"
"No, stop this now. Just stop talking for thirty seconds so I can figure out how to help you. And for fuck's sake, put some pressure on that 'scratch.'"
Normally, during a fight like this, Sherlock would have dramatically thrown himself onto the couch and curled up into a ball to stare petulantly at the back of the sofa until John relented and apologized for something that is not really his fault, but the gash in his side cannot be so easily ignored, especially when he looks down and sees the tear in his shirt and the blood seeping around the edges of the fabric.
"That was one of my favorite shirts."
Although John is now clearly making an effort to keep his emotions under control, some of the exasperation still seeps through.
"If you liked it so much, maybe you shouldn't have worn it when you went out to buy heroin from a gang of Eastern European thugs."
"How was I supposed to know they would be so hostile?"
John has never been less amused by Sherlock's attempts at false naiveté.
"Well, I'm no genius consulting detective, and I don't have much experience buying illegal drugs, but even I have the sense not to use my 'brilliant powers of deductions' to taunt drug dealers."
"Some people would say that common sense has never been my strong suit."
"Yeah, and those people would be right. Damn it, Sherlock, some days I wonder what you ever did without me."
The answer comes out before Sherlock has a chance to stop himself—
"Drugs."
And they both cringe at the blunt truth of that one word.
Mercifully, John moves on without commenting further.
"Okay, let's take a look at the damage."
"Trying to get me to undress again?"
"Just take off your damn shirt."
Clearly John is not in the mood for this particular back and forth, but Sherlock can't quite help himself from firing back—
"Well, since you asked so nicely—"
Sherlock pulls off his shirt—sending a new wave of pain coursing through his side as some of the fabric sticks to the edges of the wound—and for the first time takes a moment to assess the damage.
*
While the bullet hole in his left shoulder was neat, symmetrical, almost surgical—this is a different matter altogether—messy, uneven, like someone took a dull butcher's knife to a piece of meat and gave up partway through—but at least the knife only grazed the outer edge of his right torso, deep enough to open up the flesh, but not so deep as to injure anything important, although it was only the luck of a well-timed dodge that prevented him from ending up with a knife in his gut.
Still, something needs to be done about this, but he doesn't know—can't think—his brain feels slow and feeble, and—although the pain isn't helping—he can't deny that the failing of his mental faculties, the tremor in his hands, and the sweat forming on his temple probably have just as much to do with the last of the drugs leaving his system.
"You're going to need steadier hands than that if you're going to sew this up yourself."
"It's not very kind to taunt a dying man."
"You're not dying, Sherlock, not this time, not even close, but it would be best if we could close up this wound. Do you have sutures in the first aid kit?"
"Of course I don't have sutures in the first aid kit. Do you really think Mycroft was planning on having me sew myself up in the event of a drug deal gone wrong?"
"Can you at least check and see?"
Sherlock grumbles and scoffs, but nevertheless does what John suggests.
"Apparently my brother does plan for every eventuality."
"Told you."
"Smug doesn't suit you, John. You should stick with either anger or excessive sympathy. Not everyone can have my range of complex emotional expression."
"Yeah, well thank god not everyone can manage to be such an arrogant—"
"Really, John, don't you think I deserve a little more consideration? After all, it is your fault that I—"
"No, no, no you're not going to go back to trying to blame this on me."
John takes a deep breath, clearly trying to get his anger under control.
"Okay, look, let's stop trying to figure out blame and focus on fixing you up."
Sherlock's never considered himself squeamish—after all, he regularly stores dismembered corpses in the fridge at Baker Street—
"Without any regard for the discomfort of his flatmate."
"You're a doctor. I can't see how a bag of thumbs should put you off your dinner."
"I'm going to ignore that last part and focus on the 'doctor' bit. I need you to do everything I tell you to, exactly as I explain it. It won't take long for us to sew you up."
"By 'us,' you mean 'me.'"
"I'll be here for moral support."
Sherlock prepared to fire back with something about 'too little, too late,' but the expression on John's face is enough to stop him from giving voice to that particular sentiment.
Instead—for one of the first times in his life—Sherlock attempts to listen and obey, although his attempts are only met with partial success.
"This is going to hurt a bit—"
"This already hurts a lot and I haven't even gotten to the part where I'm supposed to sew myself up."
"Yeah, I'm not sure why your brother had the foresight to include sutures but not lidocaine."
"Presumably because he likes to see me suffer. As do you, apparently, since you were so quick to shoot down my idea—"
"Sherlock, there is no way I'm going to agree to you shooting up heroin before sewing your own skin back together."
"Maybe you and Mycroft should start a club for sadists. Actually, this does bolster my long held belief that all practitioners of medicine are secretly sadistic—"
"Please stop stalling. Delaying isn't going to make this hurt any less."
"No, but a heavy dose of opiates would."
"For Christ's sake Sherlock—"
"Really, John, so much profanity—"
That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as John's tone shifts from tired and frustrated to quiet and dangerous, each word seething with pent up anger and radiating with a power that is uniquely his.
"You want profanity? Fine, let's talk about the fact that the only reason you have any god damn drugs left to take in the first place is because you pick-pocketed a drug dealer after he nearly disemboweled you with his knife. Jesus Christ, Sherlock, could you have any less regard for your own well being? Do you ever bother thinking before you launch into your next foolish, self destructive, self-imposed mission? Do you pause for one moment to think about the few people left who still care about you? Does that matter to you at all?"
Suddenly Sherlock very much regrets his attempts at levity, and as the truth behind John's words sinks in, he begins to feel very, very tired, and the effort of remaining upright and conscious starts to feel like more than he can bear.
"John, please—just tell me what to do."
John must have noticed the weariness in Sherlock's voice, and that awareness is enough to curb his anger, at least for the time being.
"Fine, talking can come later. Let's get you patched up."
John steadies himself—a deep breath—and then he continues.
"First you need to clean the area thoroughly with soap and water."
And Sherlock does as he's told, washing the area, following instructions carefully, as John walks him through each step. Although his body is tense and he can't help but bite down hard on his cheek at the pain of the needle in recently torn flesh, it's over faster than expected—only took a few stitches, and now closed, the wound looks much less threatening.
He exhales, feels the tension in his body release, the adrenalin fading—but then, before he can relax into a few moments of calm—
"Sherlock, how could you do this to yourself?"
There is a tightness in John's voice, but Sherlock recognizes it not as anger but sadness, maybe even grief.
"How could you do this to me?"
Sherlock feels more miserable in that moment than he ever thought possible. Ten more stab wounds would be less painful than this conversation. And all he can say is—
"I'm sorry."
It's the most sincere apology he's ever offered, even if it doesn't quite count since he's only talking to himself.
John's expression is sympathetic.
"I know you are."
Although it hardens a moment later when he continues.
"And you're going to be even sorrier very soon, because—listen to me very closely—I don't care what else happens while you're in this godforsaken country. There will be no more drugs."
Sherlock doesn't bother replying to that, although he does glare miserably at John.
For his part, John seems much more cheerful.
"Try to get a good night's sleep. You're going to feel like shit in the morning."
A/N: Don't worry, there (probably) won't be any more stabbings or shootings for Sherlock after this. But at least John's back!
I had originally planned to have only one more chapter after this, but I actually may extend the story by an extra chapter or two. I think I might want to take a little more time to explore Sherlock's adventures/experiences pre-The Empty Hearse, especially since in the actual series we only get a few glimpses into what he went through while he was abroad. I'm still doing adjustments to Ch 5, so we'll see.
I hope you liked this latest installment! Getting feedback on my writing always makes me very happy (whether it's praise or constructive criticism), so if you have a moment to leave a comment, that would be very much appreciated :)
Thanks for reading!