Still Talking When You're Not There Chapter Six
John walked down the aisle of the supermarket, the wire basket clutched in his right hand. Didn't need a trolley these days; only shopping for one. It still took some getting used to. Lord knows, Sherlock didn't seem to eat that much, and what he did had to be cajoled into him. But, it was surprising how much waste there was now. A lot of food went off before he could get around to eating it.
He could hear Sherlock's reasoning, echoing around his head every time he went shopping. (The supermarkets pre-pack excess, John. It's all about profits. You can't buy exactly what quantities you need anymore. They call it 'convenience' packaging, but it's calculated to make you spend more.) It was a strange sensation, all these months later, to be hearing that baritone voice in his head, especially since he could count on the fingers of one hand the times they'd ever actually been food shopping together.
But, he understood Sherlock's point now. One portion packs were more expensive per gram than the two serving sized versions. And the family sized packages cheaper still. Feeding himself these days was almost as expensive as it had been for the two of them at Baker Street. Still, there were some advantages. He looked in his basket at the single pint of milk. It would last him exactly two days. No point in buying a quart; it would go off before he could finish it. No more opportunities for Sherlock's repeated statement of the obvious- We're out of milk again, John, as if he hadn't noticed.
He was in the aisle with jams, chutneys, mustards and so on. A bottle of ketchup now lasted months, whereas before it might make only three weeks. Sherlock liked the combination of sugar, salt, vinegar and tomato. (It's an explosion of contrasts, makes most boring food marginally more interesting.)
He stopped at the jams, searching the shelves for his favourite: Bonne Maman's strawberry preserve. He never varied- it had to be this brand or nothing. One of the reasons he bought it now was because it always brought back a memory- of Sherlock in his suit, standing at the fridge with the jam jar in one hand and a spoon, just shovelling in mouthful after mouthful. They were about to go out on a case, and at the time he'd thought that Sherlock was stocking up on the sugar, knowing that it might be days before he'd deign to eat again.
It was only later, when the case had been solved so quickly that John didn't even have time to say goodbye to Lestrade before they were off back to Baker Street, in fact much later that night, when John figured out why Sherlock had a craving for sugar.
They'd come home in a taxi, and John remembered catching the first hint of tobacco smoke for almost two months. That led to him accusing his flatmate of smoking a cigarette on the sly at the crime scene.
"So, Sherlock, you solved this without really needing me to even look at those three severed arms with the odd tattoos. You just wanted to keep me busy so you could sneak off, didn't you?"
It was the start of realising that whatever rules had been agreed before, Sherlock was not going to play by them now. "If Mycroft can cheat, and not tell us the truth, if he can expose you to that CIA man putting a gun to your head, why should we abide by his rules."
The doctor in him pointed out that someone recovering from pneumonia shouldn't be smoking; it had nothing to do with Mycroft.
There'd been no reply. Sherlock was off in his Mind Palace again, where he had been spending a lot of time since the incident in Irene Adler's bedroom in Belgravia.
The memory of their argument later that night still resonated in his head as he joined the queue at the check-out line. He'd never been able to use the self-service tills since his 'row with a chip and pin machine' and the embarrassment of having to confess it to his flatmate. Now, he had time to kill so he stood in line, patiently waiting his turn and remembered the night of their argument.
The smoking had just made John seethe, all the way home in the taxi. Sherlock promised, and here he was breaking the rules. What else was he doing? If John couldn't trust him to fulfil his promise on smoking, then what else might he be getting up to behind his back?
As soon as they got home, he'd cooked a meal in silence and delivered it to where Sherlock was sitting working on his laptop. When the brunet looked up at John, the doctor had just glared at him, as if daring him to break this promise, too. When Sherlock sighed, closed the laptop, took the plate from him and started to eat, that's when John realised that something more serious was at issue. If he's being obedient on this, it's probably to throw me off the scent of something far worse that he's doing.
When John went to bed that night, he suddenly went pale. No, please, not that! He recalled how Sherlock's face had been flushed, and his sudden craving for sugar that afternoon. He fished under his bed for the sports kit, and rummaged in the bottom for his rugby shoes. The right one had a bottle stuffed in the sock. A quick squint at the volume in line with the tiny dash made by the blue marker pen - whew, it's still the same. He looked down at the bottle, in a mixture of relief and regret at his lack of trust. The codeine linctus had been necessary to help Sherlock get over the cough and sleep, but he knew the dangers of having a prescription opiate in the house with an addict. He hadn't got rid of it before, just in case the cough returned in the first few days, but if he was able to smoke again, then John should ditch it now.
He went downstairs and into the bathroom, so he could pour it down the sink. That's when he looked at it again in the brighter light. He marched into the living room, where Sherlock was now stretched out on the sofa. "Sherlock, A doctor knows volumes and dosages. Three doses of 15 ml, one per night. There should be more in here, about 30ml more." He was livid and he didn't care if his flatmate knew it. "You took the trouble to move the marker line. Shame you couldn't change my ability to measure dosages."
Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, looking at John with an unreadable expression. Then he stood, took the bottle out of John's hands, and walked into the kitchen, unscrewing the top as he went. He ran the tap and poured the contents down the plughole.
"You should have disposed of it, John."
"I know, Sherlock, but really? Codeine? WHY?"
"There are some things worse than cigarette smoke."
"I know that, too, but that doesn't answer my question- why?"
"Because I need to think. Mycroft is hiding something important. He's broken the terms of our negotiated agreement- we were supposed to share. Something has happened and he won't tell me what it is. That's dangerous with Moriarty out there. Dangerous to you. Need I remind you f the CIA gun to your head? When I close my eyes that's all I can see. In the meantime, just when I really need to focus, you've emptied the flat of caffeine, you ration the nicotine patches and won't let me smoke. The alternative to a perfectly reasonable dose of codeine would involve going out to buy cocaine, which for obvious reasons, I think would be …a bit not good. So, just think of it as the lesser of many evils."
John had just sighed and looked away in disappointment. He remembered asking Sherlock whether the results were worth it. Sherlock had frowned and said he needed more data before he could answer the question.
He started putting his groceries onto the belt. If only I'd known then what was going to happen. I wonder if the whole downward spiral started right there that night, the path that ended up on the Bart's roof.
A wave of sadness came over him. Strange that the pain of loss wasn't going away, despite the passage of time. Too many what ifs to ponder. What if I had just had it out with him then and there, got him to talk to me about Irene Adler, and about Moriarty, convinced him to keep me in the loop? Instead, John's censure lay like a heavy cloud over Baker Street for the next week. Sherlock just retreated back into silence. And that was the week when Adler started Round Two, without John being made aware of what was going on.
"Excuse me? That will be £7.20, please. Do you need help with the packing?" John sighed and looked at the checkout girl. "No thanks, I can manage on my own."
Author's note: If you aren't following my story Crossfire or Got My Eye on You, then you might want to because they both cover aspects that relate to this story.