Sherlock,
John was staring blankly at the laptop screen, wondering what to say next. He knew that if he had any chance of persuading Sherlock to come home, he had to keep reminding him that there was something to come home for. The problem was, he was running out of things to say. Obviously he could keep begging, but that didn't seem to have worked. Sherlock wasn't going to read any kind of gossip or trivia if it wasn't work-related, and the notoriety of the Moriarty affair meant there was little to add. It was all in the papers.
He wanted to tell him that Molly had applied for a transfer; but Sherlock probably wouldn't care. He also wanted to tell him that he was seeing a therapist who thought that John wasn't dealing with his friend's death; but it wouldn't be the same without him physically there to laugh. The words wouldn't come.
John wanted to tell him that he'd left a void. The absence of him was everywhere he looked. Every time he made a cup of tea, he'd open the fridge cautiously; then remember there wouldn't be anything in it. He kept half-expecting his clothes to disappear again, kept wondering why it took so long to have enough clothes to put in the wash, kept opening cupboards and only finding food, kept looking around and waiting and hoping and still- nothing. No change. No bullet holes in the wall. If something went missing it was because he'd misplaced it. When he was watching the news, he kept hearing things he knew Sherlock wouldn't know and would desperately try to delete from his mind; so he'd turn to taunt him...and he'd stare around the empty flat, suddenly aware that he was alone.
He'd spent the last night in Sherlock's bed. It was probably the most use it had ever seen. It still smelled like him. John had laid there for an hour, staring at the empty space next to him, feeling the absence and almost being crushed under it. He had stared at the empty space and run through the memory of the last time he'd been there.
Sherlock had been tearing his way through the flat for over an hour. The contents of the various kitchen cupboards were strewn over the floor, papers had been flying everywhere and the letter opener had come dangerously close to John's head. Sherlock was desperate for a fix and he knew that somewhere, John had hidden his heroin. He didn't know where, he just knew that it wasn't where he'd put it and he'd checked all the places John would usually hide something. He'd taken books of the shelves- accidentally ripping a couple of pages of the older volumes with his desperate shaking; he was convinced that there must be some between their pages- and when they'd turned up empty, he stopped. Behind him, John carried on pretending to read the newspaper.
"You're not going to find it." Sherlock whipped around and saw John doing his best imitation of nonchalance, pretending to be interested in the sex life of some footballer. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. For some reason, John's feigned confidence made him lose his temper. He picked up the books he'd just been searching and started throwing them at him. "Ow! What are you- ow! Sherlock, stop it!"
"Give it to me!" Sherlock went over and grabbed the front of John's shirt, pulling him towards him until their faces were barely three inches apart. "Please, John! You don't understand- I need it, NOW!" John smiled a sad smile, put a hand on Sherlock's face, then started trying to remove the fingers clutching at his chest.
"I'm sorry Sherlock. I can't. Mycroft took all of it." Sherlock seemed to take several seconds to fully comprehend this, and John spent that time eyeing him warily. Turning him down for his hit could have dire consequences. Hoping to earn himself a little sympathy, he added "I'm so sorry."
Sherlock closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Eventually, his grip on John's shirt slackened and he laid his hand flat. John thought he saw a single lone tear escape, but Sherlock stood suddenly and turned around.
"I'm going to go and buy some, you know that."
"No," said John softly, trying to be understanding, "you're not. You know that." He laughed quietly. "I can give you cigarettes instead if that's any good to you?" Sherlock's ears pricked and he turned around, surprised.
"You wouldn't."
"I would." Sherlock looked torn. John had always been surprised that Sherlock's nicotine addiction seemed to be every bit as strong as his one to heroin, but that day was the first time he had ever used that fact to his advantage.
Around an hour later John found himself laid next to Sherlock, having passively smoked an entire packet of 20 superkings. The doctor in him was highly displeased, but as it seemed to have satiated Sherlock he didn't much care. There was a slight mist still hanging in the air, and he wasn't looking forward to trying to get the smell of stale cigarettes out of the flat. He looked over at his best friend, whose eyes were still closed as he rode the last wave of his nicotine high; and John's mind started to wander. He began wondering how on Earth Sherlock had managed before having John there to help. He'd always had Mycroft, sure; but it wasn't the same. Mycroft intervened when an obvious crash was coming, but the one that day had caught them both completely unawares- one minute he was fine, the next he was tearing the house apart looking for the little bag of white powder he'd thought was hiding somewhere.
He'd lied, of course, about its presence in the flat. As a personal joke he'd hidden it under the washing basket. The closest Sherlock ever got to the washing basket was if he happened to drape the shirt he'd been wearing somewhere in its vicinity. Mycroft had wanted to create lots of little bags- some icing sugar, some flour- but John was too lazy. It also somehow felt too cruel.
Sherlock opened his eyes to find John staring at him. "What?"
John started out of his reverie. "What what?"
"You were staring at me. Are you judging me for failing?"
"No, I was just...thinking." At any normal time, Sherlock would have made some kind of snarky comment about John's thinking capabilities, but on this particular occasion chose to keep his mouth shut. He smiled a little smile and searched his friend's face, wondering what John had been thinking about that he didn't want to share.
They laid there for another hour before John nodded off. Sherlock sought out a blanket, covered John, and then went downstairs. He agonised for a few hours over whether it was acceptable to go out and try and score after John had given him an entire packet; then went back upstairs and got back in the bed. He so badly wanted to go score that he didn't want to be alone.
John stared at the screen, looking at where he'd typed out those three little words he'd promised never to say; the three words that represented the one time he'd betrayed Sherlock in any way. He wasn't going to send it. Not yet. He just wanted to have it out there. He just wanted to know that he could say it. He closed the laptop without saving anything and went up to bed.
