They managed to make it to the train. That was the plus. The downside was that Sherlock's hangover had kicked in and it was making him absolutely insufferable. John had predicted this, though, and Greggs had called before they'd boarded the train.
"Sherlock, drink the damned coffee, then the water, and eat the pastie."
Sherlock looked nauseated.
"Seriously, pasties help. It's corned beef. It's lovely, really."
Sherlock scowled at him and snatched it out of his hand. He took a bite, chewed, and then swallowed.
"That's actually not that bad," he muttered. John beamed.
"Told you so. It'll settle your stomach."
Sherlock sipped coffee and smiled back, briefly before returning to the pastie.
"How on earth do they make these taste so…" Sherlock searched for the word.
"Nice?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.
"It's probably the grease," John said, and Sherlock shrugged. "I feel better already."
"Oh good. Does that mean you're going to stop being cranky and wearing sunglasses and start discussing the case?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow behind the glasses.
"What? It's kind of disconcerting when you're not blabbering."
"It's not blabbering, John."
"Well fine. Deducting. Deducing? Whatever."
Sherlock laughed.
"Well, I have a few theories. None of which are that this lady is a vampire."
"No, that would be mental."
"Well yes. And neither of us are exactly Van-Helsing."
"You know Dracula and not Twilight?"
"I read a lot as a child."
"A lot of Victorian gothic horror?"
"Yes. A lot of that. Anyway, I can think of a few reasons why she would be sucking on the neck of her child. But first, I need to see her, talk to the people around her. I need to make sure she is of sound mind, because, you are quite correct in your statement that people can actually believe that they are vampires."
"Rob said-"
"Rob is blinded. Why else wouldn't you contact the police when you found someone chomping on your child's neck?"
John had no response to this.
"No, we need to have a look around. We need to see the lady, the children, the maid, the household, the dog…"
"The dog?"
Sherlock looked at John, eyebrow raised in an oh-do-keep-up-John kind of way.
"Fine."
"I'll figure it out. Don't worry about that."
"Sherlock, any doubts I may have had about your genius were obscured when you came back from the dead."
"It's not the first time I've done that," Sherlock said, his voice low, thinking back to more desperate times when the boredom was too much and he turned to anything he could to help. His hand unconsciously moved to the veins in the join of his elbow where he could almost see the shameful pinpricks of scars beneath his jacket, shining out like a beacon. He had almost died then, lying on the floor of the flat in a heap after taking just a little bit too much. Mycroft had become concerned after Sherlock ignored even his most provocative texts insulting his intelligence. He'd beaten down the door and rushed him to hospital, sat beside his bedside for three days while Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness. When he'd woken up, Mycroft had shed a tear, and they both promised not to tell their mother about it. It would destroy her, after all.
Mycroft had accompanied him to the pharmacy every single day after that for methadone to relieve the symptoms until, eventually, Sherlock got bored of the bright green substance and just stopped taking it. Once again, Mycroft sat with him until the shivers and the sweats and the violent rages and cravings died away, and when he was clean his older brother had patted him on the arm and told him he was proud.
Sherlock still got cravings, of course. Being an addict never truly left you. He would always, on some level, be a slave to opiods.
He wondered if John had ever noticed the scars, the shakes, the sweats, the desperation. As his eyes followed Sherlock's hand to his arm, his face concerned, Sherlock realised he probably had. It was testament to him that he'd never mentioned it. Sherlock realised he should probably bring it up, should probably explain, but he was so disgusted with himself that he didn't want to. He couldn't have John thinking less of him because of something he was fighting. Something in the past.
"I'm sure it isn't," John mumbled, tearing his eyes away. "We'll be there soon."
John shut up and looked out of the window, watching the world rush by in the way it only can on a train as Sherlock drank more coffee and suddenly really wanted a cigarette.
