"Hello?" Greg called from inside the apartment.
"Hey, Greg," John said as Sherlock led him into the living room. Sherlock sat on the couch, occupying all three seats, and pulled John into his lap, who spread across the couch. Sherlock lied to sit that way with John, as he could monitor John much more easily than from a distance.
"Thanks for getting the stuff for me, Greg. Your soup was amazing." John smiled.
"You're welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed it; it's a family recipe."
"Speaking of family, being a groomsman, we have to discuss what you're going to say in your speech, by which I mean 'no embarrassing stories', Greg." Sherlock said lightly.
"Embarrassing stories? I mean, you've walked in on us a few times, uh, sorry, but that's not exactly wedding material." John said.
"Before you were around, Greg saw me in a few compromising situations of my own." Sherlock confessed.
"What, back when you were a fierce, young, even-more-unmanageable junkie? You were so much fun. I'm glad you're no longer high… Babysitting you isn't my division anymore." Greg said with a wicked smile.
"Yeah, I used to be a big, terrifying, sweaty, drug-addled mess. Now I'm just a big, terrifying, self-addled mess."
"You never really explained exactly why you did drugs, Sherlock, which you promised to do." Greg mused softly, his legs crossed. His gaze lifted to lovingly to Sherlock, his head cocked a little sideways.
"That I did. You know I can't handle boredom. I need constant stimulating, and I must always be engaged. Stagnancy; I can't stand it, not should I have to. At least I now have John to keep me stimulated and engaged." He commented in his deep baritone voice.
"Excellent. I'm a consolation prize against drugs." John rolled his head back to look at Sherlock.
"No. You do things to me better than cocaine." Sherlock rephrased. He exhaled nearly completely, at the thought what John did to him. With Sherlock deflating himself like that, John was able to reach his head back and briefly kiss Sherlock along his jugular vein, causing a surge of endorphins to bloom within each man.
"Well I'm glad that I have some purpose, here." John said sarcastically.
"Bloody oath; he was an absolute nightmare before, honestly. When he was coming off a long bender of coke the last time, do you think he'd go to a bloody program? What did you say? Not my division, Lestrade. You bastard. The few days you were going through withdrawal weren't the best. That was only a week or two before you came along, John." Greg reminisced happily.
"But you've been clean for a few years." John said, puzzled.
"Well, you'd call it a relapse, but I don't; I wasn't chemically addicted, but I was to the feeling it created, which is something I can now get elsewhere. I needed stimulating." Sherlock explained in a deadpan voice.
"Well you could have bloody well died, Sherlock." Greg said seriously, as though the words left unsaid were louder than the ones they did utter.
"Anyway, I asked Greg, and he's agreed to be your groomsman." Sherlock said, diverting the topic. John smiled, his sweat-glistened brow gleaming in the light of the fire.
"Oh, Greg, thank you," John said sincerely.
"Wouldn't have it any other way." Greg nodded.
"Jesus; we're getting married." John sighed.
"Make sure he picks a nice suit, Greg." Sherlock laughed.
"I'll coordinate with Mrs Hudson to make sure you match." Greg said.
"How did you know?" Sherlock asked.
"Deductive reasoning, Sherlock. Heard of it?" Greg said playfully.
"I see I have taught you at least a few things." Sherlock retorted.
"Well, I'm going out for dinner with Molly, actually. I should probably head off; don't want to be late." Greg said
"It's a bit late for dinner." John said.
"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Greg smiled. "If you need anything, call me, alright? Mycroft may be the British government, but I'm Scotland Yard and we're a right side quicker. Don't get up; I'll see you later, alright?" Greg said, leaving with a kiss on each man's cheek.
"Thanks, Greg." John said.
"Bye," Sherlock called.
"Well, I do believe there's crap telly to be watched." Sherlock decided and switched the television on.
"You have to eat, Sherlock." John sighed as he stretched a little to allow Sherlock to get up.
"I know there's no point in arguing with you, and you're ill, so I'm going to be nice to you." Sherlock decided. He threw a blanket over his companion, and turned the kettle on.
"Tea isn't food, Sherlock." John called disgruntledly.
"I'm well aware, John." Sherlock called back in a monotone voice. He grabbed some drop scones and buttered them while the kettle boiled. He placed the plate of scones on the table next to the couch; there was more than enough for two.
"I'm not hungry, Sherlock."
"Neither am I, John."
Thankfully, the kettle boiled. Sherlock brought over the teapot, milk, and two cups. He poured tea just the way each man took it. He climbed back in behind John and buried his nose in John's damp, warm neck.
"You're an idiot, Sherlock." John sighed, frustrated. Sherlock recoiled a little at the usually loving comment.
"Sherlock, I– "
"It's fine. I love you, too." Sherlock whispered into his neck.
"Hello, boys. Oh, John, you look terrible. This came for you today while you were sleeping." Mrs Hudson handed a letter to Sherlock.
"Thanks, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock squeezed her on the hand lovingly. The intimacy that Sherlock and Mrs Hudson shared was a very important one to each person; without each other, they each had little else.
"When did it come? Who delivered it?" John rasped.
"The postie at the usual time. Why?" Mrs Hudson explained.
Sherlock opened the letter carefully. The paper matched the one from the people causing them grief. Mrs Hudson waved goodbye as she shuffled out of the apartment.
"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," John called out.
"John, it's the same… asking why we aren't playing along with their boring little games."
"Show me." John grabbed the letter from Sherlock and with fervour, he read it.
"Nothing short of infuriating." John sighed. Sherlock reclaimed the letter from him and put it aside. He reached his hands around John's middle, and pulled him in, holding him tightly.
"John, stop. Don't doubt me; we're doing the right thing by not engaging in such nonsense, believe me." Sherlock kissed John's neck.
"I trust you." John asserted. John trusted no one but himself, and Sherlock, and for him to display such candour was a rare thing.
"Then stress less." Sherlock implored. "You need to concentrate on getting better, and if you're stressing out, you're not going to do that effectively and I won't allow that." Sherlock stuffed a whole scone in his mouth and devoured it.
"Told you you were hungry."
"Shh." He said eating another, mostly to appease John. "That doesn't make any sense! The culprit cannot be the husband!"
"It's a television show, Sherlock."
"It doesn't make any sense, John."
"This episode has less continuity than one of the Scotland Yard Police Chief's theories, John, honestly."
"I'm well aware, Sherlock. Well, no, actually, I'm not, but I'll believe you."
"Can't you see? It doesn't work like that. The husband simply wouldn't leave his wife's body like that; he confessed to adultery and he simply doesn't care about her, especially post mortem. I highly doubt he cares much for her corpse anyway; he knows there's nothing there, she's gone. The culprit loved her." Sherlock ranted.
After a short silence, John spoke.
"What do you think is after death?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"You say this now, but have you ever been in love with someone and had them die on you?"
"Well, yes. It nearly killed me via cardiomyopathy." Sherlock stated in intrigue; he wasn't sure where John was going with all of this.
"Doesn't count."
"Why not?"
"Well, after you jumped off Bart's, I couldn't move from that pavement. I sat there for days, clinging to my last memory of you, hoping, praying for that connection we had to stay open, if a little one sided, but in my mind it wasn't. For the first few days, all I could think about was the phone call. My last words to you, and your last words. It took me a few days for my mind to wander a little further back; the things I said to you earlier that day. I called you a machine and you said that alone protected you, and I said that friends protected people, but by you making yourself alone, you were protecting me, and that was the thing which kept me warm at night. It's all I could think about. You did that for me. As he had to sedate me and drag me away from the building, Mycroft went to the top and found your phone, which he later gave back to me, and God, just to hear your voice. I don't know if there's anything after death but after watching you die, I would really like there to be, because I don't know how to cope with the possibility of losing you if I can't ever have you again. It's why I thought about joining you, every day." John confessed. It was the first time they'd really spoken about what had happened.
"I know what you did, I watched." Sherlock wiped a silent tear from John's face. "I'm not leaving you, ever again. You do understand why I did what I did, though, don't you?"
"There were times when I considered following you off that building, Sherlock. Inconveniently enough, Mycroft would always show up when the ebb and flow of hopelessness got too much and I was going to do something."
"I know, John. He has us under surveillance, and I had him put… more invasive cameras in here."
John remained silent, understanding the implications.
"I saw what you did to yourself, John, what I did to you." Sherlock sighed with a heavy heart. He moved his hands to the top of John's thighs where the self-inflicted scars were still healing, and John flinched a little.
"You saw? You saw me do that to myself and you let me?" John asked darkly.
"It was either that or we'd have both been killed, John. You don't think I wanted to be with you? It hurt to see you like that. It was like watching you throw yourself off a building, but slower, incremental, a more painful death and I did that to you. We're getting married. We came back from this; we're alive. I can't forgive myself for what I did to you and I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I love you and I need you. I'm sorry." Sherlock monologued into John's shoulder. He pulled John closer, still wary of the still tender ribs John suffered, as well as the sudden surge of hot anger John presented.
Sherlock felt his body start to rise into a panic. He started to breathe deeply to counteract the hyperventilation that usually ensued after he felt the panic rising. John, still wrapped up in Sherlock's body and under the blanket, seemingly programmed to notice such things, interlaced his fingers with Sherlock's, and tilted his head back, nuzzling into the taller man.
"Shh," John soothed. "I didn't know it affected you so severely."
"John, you quite literally broke my heart when you were shot."
"Oh, when you put it that way," John laughed; trust Sherlock to see something as that the way he did.
"Are we okay, John? We'll make it, won't we? If anyone can make it, it has to be us, doesn't it? I suppose they all say that, and really mean it as I do, too, but we can, can't we?" Sherlock fretted.
"I remember days when the only time you'd be frustrated is if I doubted you. When did you become so sentimental? Getting daft in your later years, eh?"
"Mycroft used to joke that I'd die before I became emotional and sentimental, and I suppose he was right." Sherlock said nonchalantly.
"Don't tell him that." John laughed. "Can I go to bed yet?"
"You slept nearly all day. Fatigued already?" Sherlock asked in concern.
"Yes, admittedly."
"Hmm. Let me check your blood pressure first. Stay there." Sherlock instructed.
"You're compiling data, aren't you?" John stated.
"Yep, have been for quite some time, now, John. Now shush. Give me your arm." Sherlock said, and promptly decided to remove John's rather large sweater.
"I'm cold"
"It's just for a minute."
Sherlock placed the cuff and inserted the stethoscope in his ears. He held the diaphragm of the stethoscope on with one hand wrapped around the skin just below John's elbow and the bulb in the other. He inflated the cuff, slowly cutting off blood supply. He finished taking the reading (ninety-eight over sixty one, a slight improvement from the morning, but barely significant), left the cuff on, and he moved stethoscope's bell to John's chest. Heart still fluttering, almost struggling to pump effectively.
"Deep breath, please," Sherlock asked.
John's heart sped up as he inhaled, and decreased a little when he exhaled.
"Neat. Does your heart usually do that?"
"Do what?"
"Speeds up upon inspiration and Slows a little upon expiration." He said, still listening.
"Never taken much notice myself. Last time I listened to my own heart was in med school, trying to learn."
John coughed, his heart stumbled a little.
"Nope. No more AVCs, thank you, John."
"What? I'm sorry, I guess?" John said, clearly exhausted. "Bed time, I say." He sighed, his eyes drifting shut.
Sherlock continued to listen to John's heart as John fell asleep, and for a while after. John's heart pumped a little slower, with more ease than in John's waking hours. Risking waking John up, Sherlock slowly reinflated the blood pressure cuff still attached to his arm, and tried to take a reading as gently as possible. His blood pressure had not dropped any further, thankfully. Knowing John's back would regret sleeping on the couch the next morning, Sherlock scooped up the still-slumbering John and delivered him to bed. John wasn't as heavy as he looked; his heavy sweaters gave him extra bulk. He looked so small and vulnerable against the large bed with the pale sheets. His eyes closed, his face barely wrinkled, and with the absence of one taken by the land of dreams, John's flu-reddened face could have been that of John, a young man, age twenty. Sherlock delicately pulled the covers up to John's chin and slid into bed beside him.
"John," He began softly to the slumbering man. "I love you. I worry about you immensely and I would cease to exist without you. I can't comprehend the pain I have caused you and my inability to empathise the way everyone else does is finally causing me stress. I want to know how you feel, all the time, I want to know how to make you feel better, or when and how to let you grieve so you can move on and get better. I wish I were ordinary, John, so those empty words weren't so empty. Crap telly taught me a few things, you know. I wish I knew how to articulate exactly how I feel, so we could connect like others do. Be well, John Hamish Watson. We can do this together." Sherlock monologued to John who remained none-the-wiser to his confession.
Sherlock curled up next to John, not quite touching each other. Sherlock promptly fell asleep.
