"Would you know where your mum keeps the tea?" John asked, shutting the water off as the kettle filled. Proper busy work.
Mycroft stepped up to the table, placing his hands at the back of one of the dining chairs, gripping the back in an uncharacteristically nervous fashion.
"John, I know that this-"
"Ah, never mind, found it." John interrupted brightly, his movements in pulling down cups and all the tea-making accoutrements not enough to hide the sounds of Sherlock's footsteps on the floor above them, nor enough to quell the unease that continued to plague him. He was still shaking with left-over adrenaline from the encounter with Sherlock, unable to categorize the hollowness that their clash now left him with. "Milk and two sugars, yes?"
"None for me, thanks."
"No sugar, really? Don't let Sherlock hear you say that. He'll be on for days about how you're dieting-"
"Dr. Watson!"
John seemed just as startled by the sudden and unusual outburst from the reserved British civil servant as the man was himself. Mycroft shuffled where he stood, visually discomfited by but managing to persevere none the less, now that he had John's full attention.
"Dr. Watson," Quieter this time, his voice settling back into it's familiar calm, posh tone; once again, the unruffled diplomat. "John, I know this is asking a lot of you."
John scoffed, clearing his throat with a raised brow. "You think? I do have a few things on my plate just now. A job. A wife. A baby on the way. I would have thought you would haveknownthat."
"Of course," He replied snidely because Mycroft knew everything, it went without saying. Ever. "That's why I've taken the liberty of informing your employer that you will need to take a few days, which they were happily willing to oblige."
Of that John was certain and he had no desire to know the circumstances under which his 'leave of absence' had been negotiated. Sometimes less was more when dealing with Mycroft Holmes, but it didn't stop the rise of ire at the presumptuousness of Mycroft taking such liberties with John's livelihood.
Some of that anger must have shown on John's face for it quickly prompted the patented Mycroft Holmes dubious brow lift.
"John, have I misunderstood that where my brother is concerned, you aren't willing to do all that you can?"
The implication- "No! You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for him." That is a truth that John has never and could never deny. But- "Of course not, but Mycroft, what youdon'tunderstand is thatIdon't appreciate being taken for granted."
That comment caused Mycroft to draw himself up sharply and for a second John could have sworn something like guilt flashed in his eyes only to quickly disappear and leave John questioning his own state of mind.
"I assure you, that was never my intention. None of this-" He cut himself off abruptly, nervously shifting his eyes to the side as he slid a hand down the front of his waistcoat.
Now, while John Watson was no Sherlock Holmes, he could still read people to an extent and what he was reading now in the face of Mycroft Holmes was a lot more guilt than made sense in the situation. "None of what?" He hedged curiously.
The sounds of a door slamming and unidentifiable movements from upstairs caught the attention of both men, and Mycroft used the disruption effectively to stop John's line of questioning. "I've taken the precaution of supplying you with a basic medical kit, anything you might need to aid a patient-"
"Through narcotics withdrawal." John sighed heavily, scrubbing a weary hand down his face. "Jesus, Mycroft, don't you think it would be better if he were in hospital or a clinic somewhere?"
"You're a doctor, John, more than capable."
"Yes, but is this ethical? Is it even the right thing to do? Shouldn't he have a say-"
The knuckles of Mycroft's hands turned white as he gripped the chair fiercely. "Did you see him? Did you hear him, John? Do you think he is capable, in this moment, of making any kind ofinformeddecision?"
Frustration mounting, John leaned his back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms tightly across his chest and knew Mycroft was right. "Shit." He hissed under his breath. "Yes, all right. Ok, but..."
Apparently, John's acquiescence was all Mycroft had been waiting to hear as the man stood up straight, his veil of aristocracy once more slipping into place. "Very good. Now, our parents are out of town. I thought it prudent, at the time of Sherlock's imminent departure from the country, that they should have something to take their minds off the situation. I've sent them on a three week cruise of the Greek isles."
"Lovely." John continued with the ritual of tea-making. "And rather convenient, seeing as how Moriarty suddenly turned back up."
"Well, yes. It was...serendipitous." Mycroft's tone was odd, but John let the thought dissipate as one of the men in Mycroft's employ entered the kitchen, handing over several file folders to his waiting employer. "Thank you, Miles." He offered quietly with a quick nod, staring at the documents in his hands before looking back to John.
Absently, John stood to attention upon seeing the intel, assuming the definition of his current job description was about to expand to include aiding Sherlock in his recovery and to help track down Moriarty.
"It's going to be a few days until Sherlock's up to par and able to get to work."
The look on Mycroft's face was bizarre, almost as if he didn't know what John was talking about until he followed John's eyes back to the files in his own hands. There was more going on here than John could quite grasp at the moment and Mycroft's following words did nothing to counteract his uneasiness.
"There is nothing I would not do for my brother, John, if you know and believe anything of me, I hope you understand that fact above all else."
The sounds once more of Sherlock from upstairs- the slamming of another door, closely followed by the rush of running water (nice to know Sherlock was following John's order for a shower)- offered Mycroft a moment to corral his thoughts before continuing with his weighted words. As he began to speak, the sound outside of a large engine filled the room soon followed by the familiar pulse and thump of a helicopter rotor. John found the fact that therewasa helicopter in the back garden (hehadwondered how Mycroft had managed to arrive so quickly) less surprising than the honest and rare emotion he heard resonating in Mycroft's words.
"You have my sincerest apologies," John started to interrupt this second rare offer, but Mycroft held up a hand, shaking his head as he continued. "Plans have a way of not always working the way we would want them to. No matter the amount of attention or care we may put into them."
John snorted with disbelief. "The great Mycroft Holmes is not infallible, is that what you are saying?"
"Human error." Came his blithe reply. He handed John the folders he held reluctantly. "You will have some time on your hands in the coming days and I hope the information you find in those files, though painful as some if might be, will perhaps help you to better understand my need to apologize pre-emptively." He sighed heavily, and John recognized his weary expression as a reflection of his own and sensed the need to remain silent. Sentiment didn't come easily to the Holmes brothers and John was keen to let the elder Holmes have his say without distraction.
Taking a deep breath, Mycroft concluded. "John, at the inception of your involvement with my brother, I turned to my assistant and commented to her that you would either be the making of my brother or make him worse than ever."
It seemed the world froze in that instant, as John sensed the magnitude of what his next words could mean; that John Watson could be seen as Sherlock Holmes' redeemer or his utter downfall. That his involvement with Sherlock could come down to such a black and white scenario was a hard pill to swallow, but John forced his question past the choking bitterness.
"And, what's your verdict?"
A long moment passed before Mycroft answered quietly, "You have been the best thing that could have ever happened to him."
Stunned by the enormity of the comment and incapable of responding, John succeeded in dragging a chair from the table and collapsing into it before his legs gave way beneath him as he watched Mycroft leave.
He held his head in his shaking hands, and closed his eyes to focus on breathing, not at all certain when it had all become too much. This day. This bloody fucking day, would it ever end?
The roar of the helicopter lifting off and moving quickly away brought him back to himself and he pulled closer the files Mycroft had left with him. He was too tired to make any sense out of anything just now, but they were there and he had nothing else to do at the moment.
The folder on top was the thickest, containing more material between it's non-descript brown cover. The front was stamped in block red ink as 'classified' and 'top secret' and it was so Bond-esque and cliched that it made John smile.
But that smile was soon frozen in place along with the blood in his veins as he opened the front cover to see, paper-clipped to the inside, a sheet of paper with the heading from the Central Intelligence Agency bearing a photo of Mary alongside the bio of one, Alina Avramenko.
God damn fucking Mycroft! A cold, murderous rage immediately blinded John and he was on the verge of screaming; of shredding every last page of that fucking document; of tearing down the entire bloody house when an horrific crash sounded from upstairs.
With a soldier's reflexes, responding to external stimuli without thought, quick and immediate, John was up the stairs and pounding on the locked bathroom door before he even realized he was moving.
"Sherlock!" His fists beat violently against the door in his panic, a welcome outlet to the continued onslaught of his rage,the only answer to his anger, the sound of the shower. "Open this bloody door,now!" He tried not to think of the last time he had begged someone to open a door- Major Sholto on his wedding day- and that John had been, on that day, begging the Major to let him in in lieu of letting himself be murdered made John utterly desperate now. "Sherlock. Sherlock, answer me!"
He thought he heard a weak utterance of his name but couldn't be certain it wasn't just wishful thinking combined with the lulling hush of the running water, but whether he heard it or not was clearly unimportant in light of the lack of clear response from Sherlock.
Giving up the wait, John braced himself, feet apart, shoulder turned in and put all his force behind one hearty heave as the lock of the old door gave way and he stumbled into the bathroom. In the blink of an eye, John took in the scene in utter horror and disbelief. In the washbasin, a spoon and lighter, a small square of aluminium foil with several heinous small brown 'rocks' of heroin; on the floor a used syringe alongside the belt of a dressing gown and the pile of Sherlock's soiled clothes he wore earlier. Sherlock lay at the bottom of the large claw-foot tub, halfway concealed by the torn shower curtain that he must have pulled down over him as he fell.
John rushed to his side, shoving the material and the rod that had once held it in place quickly to the side, the movement causing the younger man to stir, turning his head in John's direction. There was a massive swelling the size of a goose egg on his forehead, but luckily no laceration, above his left eye where he had apparently hit it as he fell.
"You bloody idiot," John hissed, reaching forward to take Sherlock's chin in his hand, tipping the younger man's head with a gentle touch, inspecting for any further damage before moving on and quickly assessing for further injuries.
"John." The detective slurred, his speech sluggish as John inspected a wrist for range of motion.
John shuddered with a kind of relief, that loan word a ballast in the chaos of the moment. He reached around the detective to turn the faucet valve, diverting water from the shower head to stop from flooding the bathroom completely and allow the tub to begin to fill. Sherlock was shivering and John thought they might as well make use of the warm water while they were there since it was obvious Sherlock hadn't beenshoweringto any effect.
Ignoring his glaring nudity, John continued his examination of Sherlock, turning his head once more to face him. Sherlock blinked slowly and John noted the constriction of his pupils with a kind of despair. A plethora of curses fought to make their way past John's lips but the doctor recognized their effect and meaning would be lost on the drug-addled lunatic and reserved their use for a later time when their consequence might be maximized.
Once it was obvious that the bump on his head was the extent of Sherlock's injuries, John ignored the puddle on the floor as he was already mostly soaking wet, and sagged to his knees beside the tub as Sherlock started to mutter, "Stupid, stupid," to himself.
"Careful, Sherlock," John reached out a steadying hand as Sherlock shifted closer to the side John was propped against.
"Fascinating." He whispered, leaning in close, squinting his eyes as he observed John. "I'm an idiot. Attention, not enough attention to the dose. The strength was obviously superior," His words lisped, slippery and loose against his tongue. His hand rose from the water, hovering just at the porcelain's curved edge, "Normally calculated, carefully, so I could always hear your voice, but now this is...splendid."
John held his breath listening to his rambling as Sherlock's hand moved forward, fingers trembling. Sherlock's eyes grew wide and his head tilted as his fingers brushed John's jaw.
"This," he whispered. "If I could stay just like this. I could keep you here with me." His fingers now skimmed along John's jaw, his index finger moving to trace John's bottom lip, a whisper of touch that held John breathless. Sherlock's kaleidoscope eyes were eerily incandescent, too unnaturally bright with the pinpoint constriction of his pupils offering minimal contrast, but beautiful none-the-less and they held John enthralled, frozen in the moment and desperate from the gnawing ache that was blooming in his chest.
Sherlock never touched John, or anyone really, for that matter. Of course, there had been the occasional moments; the helping on or off of a jacket (or vest of explosives); the incidental brushing of fingers when passing cups of tea (or holding hands while being chased by the Met). There had been their hug at the wedding, though that had been unbearably one-sided, and the altogether wrongness of their farewell handshake of days before. Besides John, Sherlock shared the occasional embrace with Mrs. Hudson, and John had been the unfortunate witness to the hideous kissing between he and Janine, but as for anything more that John had either observed or participated in beyond those few instances, Sherlock and John were decidedly non-demonstrative.
So, it was only natural that this moment should be so profound. That it wasn't an unusual circumstance for John to wish for more as he held still and let Sherlock touch.
"But, it's all wrong. I've lost you already. Over and over again. No matter what I do, it's never enough. You can't be mine because I'll disappear, they'll make sure of it. I'll have to leave you again because I haven't been burned enough. Not enough. Never enough." Sherlock thrashed, sending water splashing over the side in sudden agitation and John ached with despair as he began to comprehend the depth of Sherlock's anxiety.
"Shh, it's ok, Sherlock. It's ok, calm down," John shushed as if trying to calm a startled animal, holding his hands out to offer the younger man some sort of solace.
"You're not safe. Oh, God, you. You're not. I can't keep you safe, John. I can't." He pulled away from John's grasp, leaving him a helpless witness to the fear and anxiety that took control of the brightest mind he had ever known.
The tears welling in Sherlock's eyes were heartbreaking as he sagged once more against the edge of the tub, the last of his energy now depleted, as he relapsed to the lethargic state induced by the drugs.
He shook his head. "I can't do it again." Sherlock's eyes closed, his words thick on his tongue, the effort to force them out nearly too much as John struggled to hear him. "I can't live in a world without John Watson. I can't, I won't, not again."
Anguished by the desperation of Sherlock's words, and longing to comfort and reassure his best friend, John leaned over, wrapping his arms around the slender shoulders of the lost and broken younger man, pulling him in close, protected and cherished. "You don't have to, Sherlock." He whispered against Sherlock's forehead, closing his own eyes as Sherlock nuzzled close, his nose buried in John's neck, his arms closing tightly around John in something that felt like desperation.
"Please," Sherlock rasped, his breath hot against John's throat. "Don't let me go, John. Please."
"Never." Was his solemn vow.
Wrapped together in their insulated cocoon of SherlockandJohn, both men luxuriated in the symbiosis of comfort the simple act of holding the other provided. The precious moment came to an unwelcome end as Sherlock's trembling morphed from emotional overload to a reaction to the rapidly cooling temperature of the water he still sat in. John gave up the ghost of the bath's original intent, leaving it for later, when Sherlock could properly manage a wash once more on his own.
With great effort- Sherlock wasa lot of consulting detective to handle, high, wet and naked- John somehow managed to haul the lanky git out of the tub without killing either one of them. Sherlock swayed on his feet, but otherwise remained still as John attempted to dry him to some extent.
"Too good," Sherlock whispered rather despondently. "I could never be good enough for you."
"You're the best man I've ever known." John admitted honestly, though they had both heard him say those same words before, John didn't believe he had ever meant them more than he did in this moment.
"I'm tired, John."
"I know, Sherlock. It's going to be ok," He assured softly, wrapping a towel around Sherlock's hips and laying another across his shoulders, John momentarily gave into the tenderness of that quiet moment and leaned in to press a small kiss to the stubbled curve of Sherlock's jaw.
They shuffled their way down the hall, John managing to all but carry the taller man into the first open bedroom door they came to and maneuvering the lumbering addict into the bed.
"This isn't my room," Sherlock managed sleepily as John pulled the duvet up and over his shoulders.
"It's not? Oh, that's a bit too bad for you now, isn't it? Seeing as how I'll now have to search yourroom from top to bottom so as not to repeat this major cock up." John's words dripped in frustrated sarcasm.
Sherlock nestled further into the blankets. "You're disappointed."
"Just getting that, are you?" John had moved away to relocate the waste bin to Sherlock's bedside. He knew once the younger man started coming down, it was not going to be a pleasant experience and having the bin close might minimize the mess later.
Doctor Watson mode once again engaged, he made mental notes of what to expect in the coming hours and how to prepare for them. Some water at Sherlock's bedside was needed; he hoped the med kit Mycroft had mentioned contained some form of anti-emetic as dehydration could be a major concern since he was unaware of the last time Sherlock might have drunk something, let alone eaten.
He was pulled from his list-making when he felt Sherlock slip his hand into his own. John'seyes fell to where Sherlock's pale, slender hand lay in the palm of John's before looking to Sherlock who peeked at him over the edge of his blanket, all big eyes in a too-pale face, looking so unbearably young and heartbreakingly lost.
"I'm sorry."
John cleared his throat and nodded once as he gently brushed the hair back from Sherlock's forehead, careful of the still painful looking contusion there. Sherlock's eyes slid closed with a sigh, his head following the movement of John's hand as if to prolong the contact between them. The innocence of the action caused something in John's throat to tighten painfully. "Rest, now," he managed to choke out before turning on his heel and all but fleeing the room.
John collapsed against the closed door at his back, slipping to the floor, as his tears started to fall. He folded up on himself and his cheeks were wet before he could rest his forehead to his drawn-up knees.
