Mycroft
I didn't know what I had expected. Certainly not this. I had never seen John Watson cry. Not even at the funeral. Not even as he gave the eulogy. Not one single tear had left his eyes.
Fear, then, had struck me, not only for William, but for John Watson, for their souls. Looking in through the window in the door, that same fear turned my blood to ice. I allowed a few more minutes of comfort that would never have been accepted from me before I entered. John stepped away from the mortician, as though he'd been burned. "He's asleep," he said thickly, dragging a hand across his face to hide the evidence of his shame.
How could I judge him?
I moved aside to let Ms. Hooper out, keeping my eyes on William to give John a moment to himself.
He needed William as much as William needed him. They would heal better together. At home.
God will it.
"We need to talk," I said, finally looking back at John.
"Yeah, we do," he muttered angrily. "He's not coming back to Baker Street. Keep him. I don't want him there when he's...I can't. He's worse than dead right now, and I can't help him. I'm not sure I want to. He did this to himself," John said calmly, his eyes betraying the pain his voice hid. I simply nodded.
How could I judge him?
He was right.
"Understood, Dr. Watson," I said, unable to keep the ice from my voice. I turned my gaze to the EKG, settling into a mask of emotionless calm. "I shall oversee his detox, then have him transferred to a rehabilitation facility until he is clean. From there, he will be moved to a discreet institution. It is what is best for him at this time."
Wrong.
John nodded, shouldering past me roughly on his way out. I couldn't be sure if he would return or not. My heart sunk, freezing solid in my chest as I looked back to William.
His eyes were open. A tear traced down his cheekbone.
He'd heard us.
Shit
