Title: Maintain Consciousness

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended

Warnings for mentions of previously used drugs and a bit of dark!Sherlock and one offensive word.

Chapter 4

Sherlock

Sherlock stayed in the bathroom for a complete ten minutes before he could seriously consider what Molly had told him. One year. He'd already left John for a year. No wonder John was going insane.

He thought of the drugs John had been stupid enough to take. Cocaine was an intense drug, and Sherlock had truly enjoyed the feeling it gave him, that is, until he'd begun to work with Lestrade. The cases had taken over being his drug. It wasn't necessarily the adrenaline rush that accompanied the cases; it was the feeling of thinking in the mind of a killer or a thief. He enjoyed placing himself in the place of a killer especially, because it gave him a controlling feeling. It gave him the perspective of death in a new way. When he investigated a murder, he got to play over the scene in his mind over and over again until it was instinct, what the killer did. He played the part that ended the life. It satisfied his need for superiority that he couldn't experience any other way.

He supposed Anderson was at least minimally right; he was indeed a psychopath.

What he couldn't understand, though, was why John would even think of him ever again after his death. It wasn't as if he had changed John's life at all. He had just given him something else to do, even if that meant John didn't get sleep or food or something that he thought he needed. In all seriousness, he had deprived John of the life he had hoped to lead. John was a simple man who needed a simple job, a simple girlfriend, and a simple little home with a simple little family. Sherlock had stripped him of that opportunity and forced him into a tragic, devastating, and even terrifying environment. In everything Sherlock had done with John, there was always a little fear that John's PTSD would spring up, but it seemed to go away when he was with Sherlock. Anyways, the fear always vanished soon after it became apparent.

Sherlock just didn't understand. Why would John think of the idiot genius that had ruined his life on this particular occasion? Sherlock had thought that after his funeral, John would just throw himself into his work, eventually earning enough money to leave 221b and buy his own flat or house on the edge of London. Obviously, he was wrong, and now John was getting drunk and shooting up? How did it come to this? He wanted, no, he needed to keep an eye on John. He surely couldn't do that, so he'd have to find someone else to do it.

The only people who knew he was alive were Molly and Mycroft, and he was not going to ask Mycroft for anything. Molly, it is, he thought. He didn't know if she would agree, though. She was already giving him a place to stay and food when he needed it. Hell, he walked out, just ask her.

Molly was clearing the dishes from the table when he emerged from the bathroom. She gave him a partly annoyed, partly sad look. He ignored it and stood at the edge of the kitchen, hands stuffed in the pockets of his cumbersome jeans. Molly stopped what she was doing and faced him.

'I need you to keep an eye on John.' Sherlock said. He waited for the 'no', but it didn't come. Instead, Molly simply nodded and didn't say anything. 'Yes?' He was a bit bewildered.

'Yeah, sure.' She was impassive.

'You'll do that for me?'

'No.' She smirked. 'I'll do it for John. I don't exactly owe you anything. In fact, you owe me a lot more than you think, and someday you'll have to pay up, but John needs help, and I'm the only person who honestly knows him well enough to take care of him. I'm not doing it for you.'

'Oh.' Sherlock stumbled, reorienting his brain to the outcome. 'That's great of you. Do you think, though, you could let me in on how he's doing, his doctor's reports, his health status, et cetera?'

Molly laughed. 'Sherlock, even though I work at the hospital, I doubt they'll let me in on all of the information, but yes, I'll get you what I can.' She resumed her previous duties.

Sherlock found himself quite taken aback by her generosity. He was seriously underestimating her. He nodded and turned, heading for the door.

Molly noticed the now-empty space where Sherlock had previous stood and poked her head around the corner to see him pulling on his jacket. 'Where are you going?' She asked, fully stepping around the corner.

'I'm heading out.' Sherlock said, as if it was normal, and in fact it was. Molly should have guessed. Sherlock never stayed for long. He typically only stayed until Molly had given him what he needed. She had been surprised this time when he'd actually stayed for the night. Of course, he'd only waited for her to find out what was wrong with John and had just happened to fall asleep while waiting. Molly found herself smiling at the memory of Sherlock on her bed, sprawled out, mouth slightly open, eyelids closed, breathing softly with just a hint of snoring.

'What?' Sherlock saw the look on her face.

She shook her head. 'Be careful,' she always warned him the same way. 'Don't hesitate to visit.' She also knew he didn't text or call her because of safety precautions. He surely would be back to visit in the hopes of gaining information. That was fine with her.

She watched as Sherlock opened the door and took a step out. He turned back. 'Thank you, Molly.' He nodded, face stoic. Then he walked down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, collar up, and his hair being rumpled just a bit by the wind.

~xxx~

John

Water. Rushing. All around him. Waves crashing. Surfs breaking. Rocks. No, sharp rocks. Foam pounding. Sand beneath his feet that feels so fucking good. Cool breeze. Alone. He's alone. It's – cold. Cold water. Drowning. Like…breathless. He can't breathe, that's his problem. There's something rushing through his body. It's euphoric. Now he can't breathe. His throat constricts. His eyes are dry. His stomach squeezes together. His heart pounds in his ears. His throat burns. His skin crawls. He can't breathe. The water pours over the rocks and over him. He is drowning. He can't see. He is alone.

John jolts awake. He can't breathe. He can't see. The lights are bright, and for a second, he imagines that he is actually drowning, but then the light dims and he can hear a faint beeping coming from beside him. There is suddenly a woman by his side. She is comforting him, pushing his shoulders back down onto the bed. She is pretty, like his last girlfriend was. He didn't remember her name. He doesn't actually remember anything. He relaxes into the woman's arms, allowing her to coax him back to sleep. He complies, letting his eyelids droop.

He is alone again.

~xxx~

Six hours later, John woke up again, but this time, he let his eyes adjust first. He could first make out the wall opposite him, plain, nearly white, decorated only with a simple picture of flowers. Then he let his eyes drift to the sides of the room. They were the same color, but these were decorated by a chair on the left and a table on the right. Sitting on the table was a plate of food. John smelled the anesthesia and anesthetic and immediately recognized the hospital surroundings. He became panicked; his breathing became erratic and fast-paced. His eyes darted around, worried, wondering why he could be there.

He heard the beeping become faster and forced himself to calm down. He laid his head back down on the pillow and regulated his breathing. In, out, in, out. Steady rhythm. Still, he couldn't stop the eventual checkup by the woman. He studied her clothing and concluded that she was a nurse. She was kind and spoke in hushed tones. John thanked her before she left.

~xxx~

When Molly found out that John was awake, she had excused herself from work to head upstairs to his hospital room. She knocked softly on the door and pushed it open when she heard his voice. He was smiling at her, a tray of hospital food in his lap. His mouth was stuffed and his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. Molly let a small giggle escape her mouth.

'How are you?' She shifted uncomfortably in her lab coat and stood at the edge of his bed.

'I'm good, doing better every minute.' He smiled and choked a bit on the food in his mouth.

'You ready to go home?' John nodded and Molly smiled. 'Well, they said you're doing well and you can go home tomorrow morning.' John smiled bigger and stuffed another bite in his mouth.

When Molly checked her watch, John mumbled, 'you can go back to work. Thanks for coming to see me.'

With that, Molly ducked out. She made her way back down to the morgue, catching the elevator just as someone got out.

She had noticed that John was surprisingly chipper. She wondered why. Maybe he didn't remember what had happened and was just imagining that everything was okay. She hoped he was okay.

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