"What happened when your dad found out?" John asked.
They were on the floor that day, lying side by side on their backs and watching the rain cast shadows on the wall opposite the window. John was still wondering how he'd let himself get dragged to the floor- the room was big enough for it and he had to admit that he had found the soft rug in the middle of the room inviting, but it wasn't as if he had the time or an excuse to lie down on it. But Sherlock had insisted.
"The first time," Sherlock began, leaning back on his crossed arms behind his head, "I was careless. I'll admit I really did go too far. This is the deal I made with Father, to go through therapy rather than...rehab. He really didn't want a huge scandal but he doesn't believe that any of this is a real...problem. There're people who have so much less than me. I'll admit I'd gotten to a point where I couldn't remember the last time I was completely sober, but to my father my actions were unnecessary."
"Did you think you needed them? The drugs?"
They listened to the sound of the rain for a while, to the calm haze and the steady drum against the roof. They listened to every car that drove past, to the wet sound of tires as they grew and faded; to the occasional hurried tap of footsteps; to every slight movement the other made; to the imagined heartbeats of the person beside them that were too soft to really hear.
"If they stopped me from tearing myself apart," Sherlock murmured, "then I think they were...everything."
"Do you still think so?"
He hesitated. "I don't know."
"I just didn't want to have to come back to myself," he continued, "To the...noise."
"You said Mycroft is the same? How does he cope?"
"I don't know." He sounded so lost that John was tempted to pull him into a hug again, but he knew he couldn't. John had promised himself that that had been something he couldn't repeat, and he couldn't let it get out of control. Once was enough. "Considering we hardly talk now, I doubt I could ask him."
Sherlock sighed. "The first time dad found me, I'd given up trying to hide it. I didn't think he'd care when he'd never shown any sign of caring before. I'd switched to hash. It was easier to get, less expensive and not nearly as good, but it was good enough. When he finally noticed, he took one look at me and...blew up."
John winced. "And then?"
"Then he took everything. The drugs, my money, my phone, my computer...I wasn't exactly in the position to really fight back at the time since I was still...but after a few hours the drugs wore off and I...woke up."
Sherlock's words hung in the silence for a while as the rain continued outside. Sherlock was still staring vacantly at the ceiling when John spoke again. "Did he send you-"
"He didn't want anyone to know. He was ashamed of me, he always has been. So he kept me in the house, had my schoolwork sent to me at home, sent someone to look after me and try to get me to talk. He kept me there until I could function again. "
"How long?"
"Two weeks to be able to think straight. Another one was spent planning my suicide. Eventually I threw myself back into work because it turned out that was the only thing that barely kept everything under control. Puzzles keep my mind occupied. The harder they are, the less I have to depend on...other things."
Sherlock's breathing was calm, set to the same natural pace as the uneven, soporific beat of the rain. John sometimes wondered what made rain peaceful in the first place. It was only water after all.
"I'm glad I listened to him," Sherlock said softly.
"Hmm?"
"I'm glad I came here."
When their eyes met again, John felt a sudden tension in his chest, as if his ribs had gotten tangled in a string were being pulled through his skin, as if a weight had been dropped on his chest at the same time. It hurt to hold Sherlock's gaze and do nothing (although John wasn't entirely sure what he would do if he ignored the pressure pushing down on his lungs) but he resisted. He knew Sherlock could feel it because his expression changed from peaceful to strained in the space of a minute, and the room was suddenly too hot, and the air was slightly harder to breathe than it had been seconds before.
Sherlock swallowed. It was quiet enough in the room that John heard it too, and every muscle in his body locked for a full second before he calmed himself down. It was nothing, John reminded himself sternly, it wasn't going to turn into anything. He didn't want a repeat of Alice. No one wanted that.
But it was so obvious in Sherlock's eyes, and as John watched the boy moved a hand from the back of his head and moved downwards, searching for John's hand yet never breaking eye contact. John felt the heat of Sherlock's hand first, and then the tentative brush of his fingertips-
There was a knock on the door and they both jumped.
Sarah.
"Sorry, I was just checking," she said when John answered the door,, smiling apologetically, but also curiously glancing over his shoulder.. "It's just that it's ten minutes over now."
John startled a little. "Oh. Right." He looked back at Sherlock, was just standing up and picking up his schoolbag from the floor beside the couch and deliberately avoiding looking at anyone.. "Sorry."
"It's fine," Sarah assured him. It was still there all over her face though, and John wondered if Sherlock could see it too: the doubt and concern and disheartening relief that had been there all those years ago when it seemed like everyone would be talking about that incident until he died.
Sherlock did glance at the man before he left, and John wondered when he'd hear about that deduction next.
He wasn't looking forward to it.
