Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence


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Pair of Wings


It is very early morning in London, the time when the cleaning brigades have just finished their work and the commuters have not yet arrived. There are not many people in the streets, as most are still enjoying their breakfast or traveling by train or underground into the city.

It is the time Sherlock loves his hometown the most. He likes the night, too, but the morning is the most peaceful part of the day. He can remember incidents when he was grateful for the peace of a London morning, especially one memorable occasion when he found shelter from a particularly vicious dealer by returning to Mycroft´s house. Other times, he was just glad to feel like the only living person on the streets, cherishing his solitude.

He has been following familiar paths without thinking, trying to get rid of the agitation the memory of his captivity in the disused quarry in Kent has caused. And he has dumped the stash of cocaine in one of the first gutters he passed, making sure to get rid of temptation. He knows he is too wired to be able to resist, especially since John is not available to listen to him. If he is completely honest with himself, John has been the main cause for him to stay clean for more than mere months. Irene was right: John is his compass, and he needs him badly, especially now while he is weak and unstable.

His feet carry him all the way to St. Bart´s. It was Mary who suggested he should go back there. She considered it a "cathartic experience," and Sherlock, for whom it has been far too dangerous to come close to the hospital in the past months, thinks it is high time he takes her advice. Probably he will at least get rid of the tantalizing nightmares of falling and dying he had since the day he jumped off the hospital´s rooftop.

He is standing in the same spot John had been standing and tries very hard to picture what exactly he has put his friend through. He remembers John shaking his head, shouting at him, trying to stop him. And he remembers his own determination, fear, and pain.

It starts to rain, but the detective doesn´t take notice that the heavy fabric of his coat is getting soaked. This is something he badly needs to do: just to stand in this spot, reliving his memories, trying to fathom John´s agony. Perhaps if he can grasp the meaning, no, the feeling of what it is like to watch a friend taking an irreparable action, he will be able to comprehend why John is so determined to push him away.

The rain subsides after a while and Sherlock clutches his mobile, his face still turned up toward the roof, deep in thought.


John is up early. He has slept only fitfully, dreaming of the bee man again. The strange creature has made a steady appearance in his sleep lately, and he knows that it is somehow connected to Sherlock. He moans as he remembers his unwanted companion and although the flat is eerily silent he decides not to check in on the detective. "Not his baby-sitter," he reminds himself bitterly, and settles for breakfast.

Half an hour later the door slams shut and Sherlock strides in, his coat wet from the fierce showers the earlier bright morning has turned into, a tight expression on his face. Without a word he shrugs out of the dripping garment and turns to the range to set the kettle on.

After several minutes of silence, John falls to the temptation to feed his curiosity.

"You´ve been out?" he asks curtly.

There´s a tell-tale wince in Sherlock´s shoulders which indicates he must be rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Clever observation, my dear doctor," he answers and turns to face John. "As these rooms are neither a prison nor a rehabilitation facility I am certain that I am allowed to leave the premises as I like." His frown deepens and his lips curl in a sarcastic smile. "Or should I take it that you were actually worried?" If John were still willing to listen to him, he would probably make the effort to explain he went to St. Bart´s and why. But as things are, he would only waste his energy.

"Not at all," John answers curtly. "Why should I be?" That is a lie. Sherlock, too fixed on his own thoughts, has been unobserving enough to miss John´s swift examination of his hands and eyes. John, as things stand, would never acknowledge his relief on finding his flatmate´s pupils are not blown.

"Why indeed," Sherlock acknowledges. He is starting to add something, but a knock on the door interrupts him.

"Come in, it´s open," John calls, mug in hand. He expects Mrs. Hudson with some homemade delicacies to feed his haggard flatmate, but a far younger woman enters.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I´ve been waiting for Sherlock, and…" Dr. Mary Morstan falters, sensing the tension between the two men. The detective still stares at John, his expression grim but his eyes betraying a pain Mary can´t place. John has deliberately turned away from his gaze, facing her with his most charming smile.

"I am sure he was going to see you any minute," he states in his most charming voice, and Sherlock winces and slams the mug he has retrieved from the cupboard down on the table.

"I can talk for myself, thank you very much," he snarls, and looks at his private consultant. "I needed some air. It is rather stifling in here," he explains, sending John a telling gaze.

"I guess," Mary answers with a tiny sympathetic smile, regarding them both. "If you have a minute to spare, will you come down to my rooms for our session?"

Sherlock nods. "After breakfast," he promises.

Both men watch her leave, Sherlock wrinkling his nose in annoyance that he is forced to undergo treatment, John mesmerized by Mary´s elegant movements and the swing of her ponytail.


Sherlock has just grabbed a newspaper and sipped from his mug – tea, no coffee this morning, for he is already nervous and has no intention to get even more anxious than he already is due to his recent detox, when there is commotion downstairs and the sound of steps on the stairs are heard.

Mrs. Hudson peeks in, cheerily announcing their visitor. "Boys, it´s Lestrade! Sherlock, love, you´d better be presentable."

The detective abandons mug and newspaper and steps forward into their living room, adjusting his collar. "Aren´t I always?" he asks his landlady with a genuine smile, and she tuts and slaps him playfully on the chest.

All three of them stall in their movements when the Detective Inspector enters. John is instantly reminded of the last time all four of them met, of Sherlock´s arrest at Baker Street, and clearly Sherlock thinks the same.

"No handcuffs this time, Lestrade?" he asks sarcastically, by way of a greeting.

Lestrade raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Not today. As long as you follow me voluntarily and you´re not high," he replies. If he is aghast at how pale and worn Sherlock looks, so much resembling his former self of all those years ago when Greg arrested the most brilliant-minded junkie he ever met, he doesn´t show it. "But I´m afraid you will need to accompany me in a police car."

Sherlock, who has already shrugged into his coat, fastens his scarf. He looks at the inspector, his nose wrinkling in disgust, but says nothing. Then he straightens up, hovering over the smaller man like a vulture. "You´re still doubting me," he accuses him. "Just as you did when you came to arrest me."

Lestrade stares back, but doesn´t flinch. "So there´s your chance to prove we were wrong," he replies, evenly. "And please save your delight about our reunion for later."

Sherlock shoots daggers at the policeman but becomes aware of the wrinkles circling Lestrade´s eyes, revealing a suppressed smile of deep relief, and his expression softens. He turns swiftly and opens the door with his usual verve. "Not after you, then," he says, already hurrying down the stairs.

John´s eyes meet Lestrade´s and John only cocks an eyebrow while the elder man sighs openly.

"Insufferable as ever," he says, which brings a tiny, knowing smirk to John´s lips. Then the Detective Inspector is gone, as well.