I want to thank everyone who has sent me a review or a message concerning this or any of my other fics. This fic is one I consider to be my baby; it is the first Sherlock WiP I started on and thought of the most and i have big plans for it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy planning and attempting to write it. Every review I receive lifts my heart and although i haven't responded to each one personally please know it's so encouraging! I cannot tell you how much it means to me; at one point I considered stopping my fics and taking them down and all it takes is these reviews to bring me back.
I would like to apologize for the length of this chapter; I am sure it's longer than the first 8 and maybe the longest chapter I've written yet. But it had to be done to show the development of what's going on in this chapter along. *Eyeroll* Yeah, it's ocmplicated.
In addition to that I would like to just make a note that This chapter is mostly (until otherwise indicated) taking place in the past. The first sentence should tell you that but I've been confused by those kinds of chapters before. It should be clear when we go back into the present, towards the end. I hope you enjoy! I've been working on this part for a long time and it is so far one of my favorite chapters. Happy reading! Please let me know what you think :D
It was immediately following the so called "pool incident" that Sherlock Holmes threw himself into an unhealthy load of research. Jim Moriarty was the one and only thing Sherlock read, wrote, ate, slept, and breathed for that period of time. John watched him do it, day after day-Sherlock would wake up, grab the laptop, read the paper, laptop, paper, doze off. He barely ate (he rarely ate before, of course, but this time it was nothing, not even tea). John encouraged him to eat constantly.
"It'll help your brain think," he'd try, and Sherlock would huff in response. John was proud of himself when he convinced Sherlock to drink just one cup of tea. It seemed a petty accomplishment, but he took what he could get. Eventually Sherlock would consume just the one cup of tea, and one of coffee each day. If John ranted on about it hard enough, he convinced Sherlock to have some burnt toast or even a biscuit with cheese. Sherlock would be angry at him for an hour or so, but it wore off the deeper he delved into the research.
Finding information about Moriarty proved to be more difficult than Sherlock thought, and more often than not, his brain felt too full of the information he didn't need rather than information he could use. Twenty-six days after the incident was when he smoked his first cigarette in over eighteen months. He found it in his top desk drawer. Within twenty-four hours he had purchased and smoked through three more packs. It was an easy fallback for Sherlock, one that helped him clear his mind for long enough to scour another article and file it away as needed. It wasn't until seven days after that John came home and saw him lying on the sofa, cigarette in hand.
"What is that?" John asked, taking a breath. Sherlock stared at him for a moment.
"It is a cigarette."
John rolled his eyes. "I know what it is, why do you have it? You quit ages ago." He toed off his shoes.
Sherlock breathed out a smooth cloud of smoke above his head. "I'm smoking it."
John was irritated now. Cheeky bastard.
"Sherlock, you shouldn't be smoking."
Sherlock looked at him, uncaring. "I could go outside if you'd prefer."
"I'd prefer you didn't smoke at all!" John exclaimed.
Sherlock looked at him, surprised. John was honestly surprised at himself. It was only smoking, for goodness' sake. Nearly everyone smoked in London, these days especially. But smoking was something different for Sherlock. It wasn't just a habit for him. And John didn't want Sherlock to rely on it, especially with Moriarty. He was vulnerable enough.
John shifted his weight to his other leg. "Look, why now? You've quit. This isn't going to help find him in the immediate future."
Sherlock sighed and finished off his fifth cigarette of the day. "Clears the brain."
"What about the patches?"
"Not effective enough." Sherlock pressed the end of the cigarette into the ashtray on the table.
John sighed. "Is this really helping?" It'd be the only reason he'd let it happen, and even then, he felt a weight in his stomach.
Sherlock looked at him. "I'm waiting for the click in my head. When it comes, I stop."
John rubbed his eyes, not even caring to understand that one. "Is this going to be a permanent thing?"
Sherlock turned his head again. "Not sure."
John sighed. "I want this to stop eventually. If nothing else, it'll make the flat reek."
"I said I would smoke outs-"
John stopped him. "No, Sherlock. This can't go on. Do what you need to do, and then that's it." He turned went to the kitchen.
Sherlock responded with the click of the lighter on a new cigarette.
And so Sherlock was smoking again.
Two weeks later John was on his way to pick Sarah up from her office. They were going to get dinner after work and maybe a movie. It would have been their twelfth date (after the pool).
When he knocked on the door, the only response he got was a coughing fit from the inside. He opened the door and saw Sarah, seemingly neck-deep in tissues and coughing into another one.
"I'm guessing tonight's off then," he said, smiling and sitting down.
"No, no, I'm fine." She rubbed her nose and started piling the tissues in her trash can.
"Sarah, you need rest."
"I'll be fine."
John gave her "the look". The one he gave Sherlock when he needed to eat, the one gave him when he didn't sleep, the one he gave him probably ten times each day. It was the look that guilted you, the one that made you admit defeat.
Sarah laughed. "Oh, shut up. I'll take some cough syrup tonight." She stood and grabbed her coat from the rack beside the window, but John stayed seated.
"You need to rest, Sarah, seriously. I need you healthy this week, someone's already called in and you're the only other capable one here. Not like-" Sarah hushed him, quieting a fit of giggles. He laughed too, reaching behind him to shut the door.
"Fine, "Sarah said, smiling, "You win. I'll go home. Rain check, then." She sat on the edge Of John's chair, turned toward him. He grinned.
"Yes, don't try to get out of it now. You've already played the sick card. That's all you're getting."
Sarah smiled and leaned over slightly. "It really is too bad I'm sick. I've been looking forward to kissing you."
John's heartbeat sped up and he looked to Sarah's lips, licking his own.
"I don't see why you being sick has to change those plans." He looks into her eyes.
Sarah grinned wide and leaned closer. "You're a doctor, you know better than to be kissing sick people."
"I never follow my own advice." John sat up straighter, feeling Sarah's breath on him. He felt his body move out of sheer want, and his lips touched hers.
Sarah leaned into him quickly, slowly slipping down the arm of the chair and into his lap. John reached up and held the back of her head, fingers threaded through her hair. She turned more toward him with her upper body and John knowingly pressed into her; the new pressure made his pulse rise even higher, if even possible. Sarah pressed into John's lips harder, and John replied; breaths of warmth making him shiver. He gripped her side with his hand; moving quickly with his lips. Her hands reached around and gripped John's neck and shoulder.
Suddenly Sarah pulled away, John leaning after her. She smiled a sweet smile at him.
"Keep that up and I may recover much more quickly," she giggled. John laughed and swiped his thumb over her shoulder.
"I'll keep it up then, once you do recover. You need sleep, though. And fluids. All that crap."
Sarah laughed, standing up and slipping her coat on. "I'll call you tomorrow, then?"
John handed Sarah her purse and opened the door. "Of course."
John took his time coming home. It was nice, not having to rush back to the flat because of a text from Sherlock saying he needed him but not explaining why. John never knew how seriously to take these texts anyway; once it was to send a text to a murderer, once was when he was locked up in his own closet (John never did find out why).
John considered texting Sherlock, telling him he was on his way home. No, not this time. Sherlock will ask for him to pick something up, he'll tell him to hurry up he needs him, he'll make a crack about the cancelled date. John could definitely wait until he got home for that.
The walk home felt shorter than usual. John stepped inside 221B and took his coat off, heading upstairs. What he walked into made him stop.
Sherlock was lying on the couch, head in the direction of the door. His head was back and eyes closed. But what stood out was Sherlock's left arm. His sleeve was pushed up and a piece of fabric tied was around his upper arm. That normally would have been enough for John but he couldn't move, and he soaked up the image. He would never forget it. Sherlock's arm dangled from the couch, crook upwards. There was a pinhole dot of blood there, and less than a foot away on the ground, a syringe. Glass and with something still in it, but nearly gone. John thought of the first night they spent together, after A Study in Pink.
Why, though? You're so smart. Why do something like that?
Sherlock sighed and sat back in his chair. "Not important."
John shifted uncomfortably. "You know they're bad for you, but you did it anyway. Is that...was that some sort of thrill?"
Sherlock sat up in the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees and hands folded under his chin.
"No. Not a thrill. Escape, I suppose." He waited for John's reaction.
John looked confused and laughed a little. "Escape. Oh."
"Is that amusing?" Sherlock retorted.
"No, no, I just…" John looked away from Sherlock's intense stare. "Just a long day, I guess. You know, just killed a guy."
Sherlock chuckled, to John's surprise. John laughed, too, and after a few seconds Sherlock relaxed again, leaning back.
"My body moved too slow for me, is all. Hard to run cases when you need so much sleep."
"Was it…was it a lot, then?" John looked at him. Sherlock cracked his knuckles, crossing his leg.
"At times. I took enough until I felt…" he paused.
A click.
"…no need for it. It got out of hand at times."
John crossed his leg too. "Who got you clean?"
"Collaborative effort. Mycroft informed Lestrade when I collapsed in the house, because Lestrade was closer to the flat than him. I woke up in the hospital two days later. Lestrade said no more, or no more cases." Sherlock exhaled.
John looked down. "Right, well, I'm glad you're clean then. Bad stuff."
Sherlock said nothing and went to his laptop.
John moved automatically, dropping to his knees next to the sofa. He held his fingers over Sherlock's wrist and -his pulse was there, but barely. John put his hand up to Sherlock's face and slapped it lightly. His own pulse drowned his ears.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock didn't move. John started panicking, checking Sherlock's eyes. What the hell was Sherlock thinking, anyway? Why would-
Sherlock stirred then, opening his eyes slowly. He jumped up, surprised at John leaning over him, face to face. They stayed like that for a minute; Sherlock shrunk back into the sofa's pillows and John above him.
"Wha-" Sherlock looked around, wide eyed, at his surroundings. "What are you doing?"
John leaned back and rested on his knees. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sherlock sat up, scratching his head lightly. "I thought you had a date."
"So you decide to start using again?" John yelled louder this time. Sherlock leaned back again, folding his hands.
"I decided to start using yesterday. Your date just brought the opportunity." He said simply. "Had a row with Sarah, then?"
John stood up and picked his coat up from the floor. "No. And stop changing the subject. What in God's name were you thinking?"
Sherlock shrugged slightly. "Just taking a break."
John took a deep breath and slung his coat over the chair. It all settled in now, what had happened. The seconds caught up with him. He suddenly felt angry and turned around.
"No. You're not doing this. I'm calling your brother."
Sherlock laughed. "Surely Mycroft knows already, he's probably looking for a trustworthy supply for me to use." He sat up and rolled his sleeve down. "It's not as if I've relapsed into a state of helplessness."
John tilted his head, dumbfounded. "You're too smart to get into that again, why do it?"
"I said, I needed a break. Did you not hear me?" Sherlock said, irritated.
John leaned forward, throwing his hands up. "You were unconscious! And what would have happened if I hadn't come home? You'd never wake up?"
"I took the minimal dose-" Sherlock stood, trying to argue.
"The minimal dose is nothing, Sherlock!" John was yelling now. Sherlock stopped and moved his head away, seemingly offended. He watched John breathing hard for a moment.
"This…" Sherlock paused, "whatever effect my using has on you is not desirable, John. Please file away your thoughts and opinions for the time being. I haven't got the time to console you for problems that aren't yours." He walked to the kitchen, putting the kettle on. "I'll make the tea, just…sit down or something." He waved his hand.
John took a breath and sat in his chair, waiting quietly. Soon there was a cup of tea in his hands and he was taking the first sip. Sherlock sat in his own chair, cup in his hand. He set it on the table and opened the paper.
Neither of them said anything. John sipped his tea and Sherlock turned the pages of the paper over, reading slowly. Eventually John had finished, and held the cup and saucer in his hands above his lap.
"So I'm just supposed to not care?" He looked at the paper until Sherlock folded it over, his face coming into view.
"Yes." He looked surprised that John was even asking.
John blinked. "You could be killing yourself. You will eventually." He gripped the mug's handle with his fingers.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Shut up, John."
John didn't say anything else that night.
And so Sherlock was using again, too.
John watched him every minute he could, after that. He took early shifts so he'd only work when Sherlock may be sleeping (not that Sherlock had a regular sleep schedule, but John tried), and he stayed at home when he could. Sometimes John couldn't tell when Sherlock had taken anything; on a normal day Sherlock could be quiet, irritated at little things, bored, etc. But sometimes John could tell the slight difference. Sherlock would lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling; but instead of the normal fashion of doing so (bored, of course) he would look dreamily, as if the ceiling or any other object he inspected had some sort of secret he wanted to figure out. Other times John could tell when he was on something different; Sherlock would pace around the house, mumbling to himself- and then he would crash and fall asleep, or lie on the floor whining about being tired or bored.
Mycroft came over more now, too. He and John searched the bedroom and the kitchen for anything. Mrs. Hudson would help, asking Sherlock to run errands so they'd have a chance to look around. Naturally, Sherlock knew. But John never found anything to hold against Sherlock which made the whole thing more difficult.
"It will stop when he is presented with a hard lesson proving to him that he needs to," Mycroft remarked.
"He's your brother, send him to rehab!" John said.
"You really think we can do that? If Sherlock want a clear mind he will clear it, no matter the results."
Two weeks had passed since Sherlock's headfirst dive back into addiction, and John was reading a book in his chair. The door downstairs slammed with a thud. John's eyes grew wide- he could have sworn Sherlock was in his room all day. John waited a few seconds, listening, until he heard Sherlock's voice mumble something unintelligible. So he did leave. John must have not been paying attention. Good Job, John.
The footsteps came up the stairs slowly but loudly. Each step was a loud shuffle into the carpet as Sherlock seemingly dragged himself up the stairs. He stopped at the doorway and looked inside, his eyes darting across the room. John watched him.
Sherlock's eyes were moving awfully fast, and his head tilted a bit. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, wringing his hands before shaking them, as if they were wet. John watched, eyebrows furrowed, and wondered what it was. He'd seen it before.
"Are you okay?" He asked, with a quiet voice. Sherlock shifted his gaze to John. "Fine."
John kept watching him. Sherlock moved slowly about the room, gathering a few of his things (laptop, notebook) and heading toward his room. John craned his neck to see him pass. "Where are you going?"
Sherlock stopped. "Bored."
John turned more and looked at him. "What are you doing, though?"
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, an odd gesture for him to do, and went into his room. John went back to his book, shaking his head. He ignored the heavy feeling inside, the one that told him to worry.
Two hours later Sherlock still hadn't come out of his room; and John did get worried. It was silent, too. It was silent a lot at 221B, when Sherlock was in a bad mood or when he was thinking, when he was (rarely) sleeping and in the mornings. But John learned that there were two different kinds of silences at 221B now. There was the normal one, a silence of voices and all things communication, and then there was this one. It was an empty silence, nothing moving inside the flat. No chimes from Sherlock's phone, no keyboard buttons being pressed clacked away on, and no Sherlock loudly pacing the floor. It felt weird, this silence. It seemed loud, if that made any sense. John set his book down and stood, heading over to Sherlock's bedroom door and lightly knocking.
When John knocked on Sherlock's door, one of two things happened: Sherlock would either yell at him to come in (in the fashion of annoyance, usually), or he would yell at him to go away (also in the fashion of annoyance). Usually Sherlock didn't care if John came into his room as long as he knocked. He always gave him a response. Sherlock always replies. But this time, John stood, ear to the door, and waited for a response. There was nothing. The silence felt even louder in John's ears, and his pulse picked up. He turned the doorknob (surprisingly, it was unlocked), and opened the door to look inside.
Sherlock was lying on the bed, facedown. His left arm hung over the edge of the bed and his face was turned away from John, right arm huddled close to his body. It took John three seconds to get over the denial that he might have just been unconscious; yes, he could have been sleeping, but he barely did that anyway. Once again the tell-tale syringe and Sherlock's sleeve pushed messily up the elbow told John all he needed to know.
He tried to roll Sherlock over with ease (a difficult job; Sherlock felt heavier than usual and him being on his stomach proved to be an awkward position), and open his eyelids. His pupils didn't respond- and that should have told John, should have forced him to slip his phone out of his pocket and call 999. His pulse was faint-he was a doctor, Jesus, John, call an ambulance- But John struggled between the two very worst parts of himself. One part told him everything was fine, all fine, Sherlock would wake up and it would be fine. Sherlock would wake up and be okay.
And then there was the other part of John, the pessimist, the worrier, the no-nonsense John Watson that spoke the truth and I told you this would happen, Sherlock that told John what he dreaded. That Sherlock was dead, and even if he did call 999 it wouldn't matter. Time stood still as John called Sherlock's name. It stopped and John wished with everything he had that he could transfuse the sound of his own hear pounding over to Sherlock- and two things happened in one second:
John reached for his phone, pressing the first 9 in a series of three.
And Sherlock shot straight up in bed, gasping for air and scaring the shit out of John. The phone fell to the floor.
John grabbed Sherlock by the arms and forced him to lie down again, and Sherlock's gasping turned into panting, which morphed into him swearing under his breath. Sweat beaded on his brow and he locked eye with John's, exhaling and unsure what to do. He knew right away why John was looking like that. It made for an awkward awakening and an even more awkward silence afterwards.
John stared back at him for exactly thirty-two seconds before standing quickly, hand up and slightly pointing at Sherlock as he prepared what he was going to say. But John had no clue what he was going to say, or even what he wanted to say, so he did the first thing that came to mind.
Suddenly Sherlock's left cheek throbbed and he was slightly turned over, holding it with his right hand. He peeked up with his eyes to see John leaning over him with his right hand still fisted, shaking it slightly as if he were trying to stop himself from punching Sherlock again. Sherlock shifted slowly and sat up a little, leaning his back against the headboard. And after sixteen more seconds of Sherlock being stared at like he was the Devil himself, John spoke with such a harsh voice that Sherlock stopped breathing (how ironic, he thought).
"That-" a point of his finger to Sherlock's dresser where the vial sat- "is enough. If you are going to kill yourself kindly to me the favor of being far, far away from here. Because if I come home to you doing this again I swear to Christ alive that you are going to wish you overdosed, wished that it was painful and excruciating, rather than having to deal with me punching you ten times harder than I just did now."
Sherlock swallowed and his eyes met John's. That was the angriest he had seen him ever in the months they'd been living together. John looked like he was having an out of body experience, clenched fist and rapid movements in his chest. Sherlock stared, wide-eyed, and John wondered if he was actually scared for a second. No, this was Sherlock. He wasn't scared. But John hoped in the very least the words startled him a little. But it seemed a silly threat, either way.
John blinked and looked down at his hand, unclenching it. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath, not looking back at Sherlock before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. He went straight to his own bed then, although the idea of sleep was far away.
And it was a good thing, Sherlock thought, that John didn't look back up at him. Because Sherlock knew if John had looked up and met his eyes again, Sherlock would have asked him to stay there. Maybe not with words, he reminded himself, because how do you even ask that? But Sherlock knew that he would have asked John to stay in his room that night, because the idea of being alone scared him. And John would have stayed, just because Sherlock asked. That was the part that scared Sherlock the most, for some reason. He lied down again, but his eyes never closed more than to blink every nine seconds.
Sherlock walked into the living room the next morning with the long black case in his shaking hands. He stood in front of John's chair, and John looked up at him after setting the paper in his lap. Sherlock slowly extended the case out, licking his lips.
John spent the next six days in and out of the bathroom with Sherlock, with a cool rag in hand and a weight lifted from his shoulders. It was the worst detox Sherlock had ever been through, and yet it was the best at the same time. Sherlock never once said thank you to John, but at three in the morning on the fifth day, Sherlock fell asleep on the cool tile with John's hand in his, pressed over his sweat-soaked tee shirt where Sherlock felt his heart would be if he had one.
It was the only time John felt he might have been a hero to anyone.
Distract: v. To divert attention from; to confuse
The thirteenth of April, 7:12 pm.
John walked home from the clinic in the rain (he was back to working now, but it was only his second shift that week), stopping to get takeaway. Sherlock had been particularly insufferable that morning, whining about Why wasn't his face any better (well, because you keep scratching at it) and Why can't anyone write a decent news article without-(then don't read the paper, Sherlock, do something else!). John left, sighing into the sun that seemed promising but broke at about noon, and since then the rain urged John to hurry home despite the fact that he could have done without Sherlock's complaining for a few minutes longer.
But once he stepped into the living room he wished he'd been there sooner. John felt something pang in his chest as he saw the sight of Sherlock on the couch. He was in the exact same position as he found him the afternoon of the last cancelled date John ever had with Sarah, except that his eyes were open and he was awake.
John sighed and carried the two bags of food into the kitchen before going back to in front of the couch, his hands on his hips. He wasn't sure if that was to show Sherlock he was angry or if it was because his hands were shaking. Sherlock only sighs and looked at him before saying one thing:
"It won't kill me."
And because John didn't have the heart to remind Sherlock (or himself) that it could in fact kill him, and because he didn't even know how he'd even begin to argue, he only walked back into the kitchen and wondered why Sherlock was at it again. Was Moriarty back, bothering him? And he just didn't tell John what was going on? It would make sense, the way Sherlock's been. John bit his lip and started making a plate for himself, wishing he could understand. And then John thought od something else- the way Sherlock said it. Which word had the emphaisis on it? It won't kill me? Or it-
Sherlock sighed and turned his face into the couch cushion, closing his eyes and wishing he could forget the look on John's face.
