Sherlock had gone more than three nights without sleep many times before, but only when he had a case to keep him occupied or, years ago, when he'd been high for days at a time. Though he was still anxious and jittery after watching John's basketball practice, he knew he was going to have to force his mind to give into his body and sleep that night. It was difficult to relax, though, even once he was in bed and listening to John's steady almost-snoring. It seemed the anti-depressant had been good for something; much as he believed sleeping so much to be a waste of time, he hadn't minded the way it had reliably dropped him into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was much preferable to what he was doing now, at least: lying awake and trying to keep his mind from racing back to all the useless, disturbing thoughts that tormented him.
At some point he did fall asleep though, because he dreamed. He didn't know if John had a nightmare that night, but he did. He could hear himself whimpering, and knew he was asleep; several times he thought he woke up, but then found himself still stuck in the dream. John falling from the fire escape, but hitting the ground and not moving at all this time. John falling at basketball, tipping over in the chair and skidding across the floor when the straps that held him broke. John falling from the fire escape while strapped into a wheelchair, the metal that was meant to aid him only serving to injure him more. Finally he whined loudly enough that John woke up and nudged him until he opened his eyes. Sherlock found himself curled on his side, the sheets soaked through with his own rancid sweat. "Am I awake?"
"Yeah, love. Are you sick? You're so warm." John pulled himself up to sitting and put a cool hand on the side of Sherlock's face.
Sherlock closed his eyes at the soothing sensation and then blinked them back open, remembering the dream. He sat up quickly, kicking the sheet away, and pulled his legs up so he could turn and face John. A wave of dizziness made his vision grey out momentarily, but he was more concerned with checking on John. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yeah, of course I am. You were the one having the nightmare this time." John leaned back and regarded him through the pre-dawn gloom. "You be okay while I go to the loo?"
Sherlock nodded and sagged back against the headboard. He watched John get out of bed, relieved to see that he was able to do so. Just a dream. He's not hurt, not any worse than he was already. He shuddered and shut down the memory of the dream. Not real. It had felt real, yes, and he hadn't been able to find his way out of it until John woke him up, but it was over now. No reason for it to bother him.
The bedroom was extremely warm, or maybe John was right and he was getting sick. He pulled off his pyjama top and tossed it toward the laundry hamper. Better, feeling the room's cool air against his chest, but he was still rattled by the dream. Sleep was supposed to calm his nerves, not make him more agitated. All right. So the meds were good for preventing nightmares, or at least preventing me from remembering them. Still not worth it if they make me sleep through John's bad dreams, though. He twisted his lip at the irony and settled back to wait for John.
When he returned Sherlock lay on his side and pressed himself against him, needing the reassurance of their bodies close together. John touched his lips briefly to Sherlock's forehead. "I don't think you're feverish. Good."
Sherlock snuggled tighter against him and John said, "Mm, it's lovely that you want to cuddle but I can't sleep like this and my arm's still a little sore from basketball."
"Sorry." He reluctantly eased his upper body away, though he kept himself pressed from knees to ankles against John's leg. It wasn't the most comfortable position and he felt a bit guilty because he knew John might not have welcomed the contact if he could feel it, but he needed to touch him as much as possible. Rather than fading as Sherlock tried to go back to sleep, the bad dream stayed with him, twisting each time he closed his eyes but always much worse than reality.
After an hour or so he gave up. He rolled over and stared at the outline of the window as the dull morning light crept higher and he waited for John's phone alarm to go off.
When it did, John cursed and fumbled at the nightstand until the beeping stopped. Sherlock slid out of bed and picked up his pyjama top from the floor next to the hamper; he'd cooled down not long after he'd awoken but getting out of bed to retrieve the shirt before now had seemed like too much effort.
"You don't have to get up, Sherlock." John was still in bed, rubbing sleep from his own eyes. "Are you feeling okay?"
Sherlock shrugged and dropped back down onto the bed next to him, then rolled onto his stomach to bury his face in the pillow. John ran his fingers through the hair on the back of Sherlock's head. "You never went back to sleep, did you?"
Sherlock shook his head, pillowcase scratching against his face with the motion.
"Must've been quite a nightmare."
"Mmm-hmm." Sherlock didn't offer details and John didn't pursue it, for which Sherlock was grateful.
"I need to shower so I can go to work. Don't fall asleep on your stomach like that, you'll be complaining about your back for days."
"I'm not going to fall asleep." Sherlock turned his head so he could see John.
John pursed his lips and Sherlock was seized by the sudden certainty that he knew that he had stopped taking his meds. He knows. Of course he knows. He's a doctor—he notices these things. Which didn't really make a whole lot of sense, because there was nothing for John to notice. The only thing that had changed when he stopped the amitriptyline was that his sleep schedule had gotten a little unsettled. He's going to want me to start taking it again because he thinks I'm depressed. But he wasn't depressed; he was just so tired. In a few more days when his sleeping straightened out he would tell John he'd stopped taking it and John would see that he was fine. Until then, he needed to distract John. He amended his earlier statement. "I'm not going to fall asleep because then I won't get to see you before you go to work."
"All right." John tossed the sheet and blanket off his legs, partially covering Sherlock, and then gave his bum a pat through the covers. "Why don't you get up and make us some breakfast while I'm in the shower, then, hmm?" He raised an eyebrow and Sherlock relaxed. Making breakfast was a small price to pay in exchange for avoiding being nagged about his psychological state.
Once he got up and started moving around, he felt a bit better. Maybe he had gotten more sleep than he thought before he woke up last night. He made eggs and toast and had a pot of coffee brewed by the time John emerged from the bathroom. The coffee didn't settle very well in Sherlock's stomach, but he drank it anyway so he could wake up all the way.
"You're eating some of that, too," John told him when Sherlock set the plate in front of him at the table.
"Not the eggs," Sherlock said. It hadn't really bothered him while he was making them, but now the smell of cooked yolk was turning his stomach. He sat down at the table across from John and picked up a piece of toast. "It's too early to eat anything that heavy."
John shook his head and grinned around his mouthful of food. "You're lucky you've never had to work a job with a regular human schedule."
Sherlock nodded his agreement and tore off a bite of the toast. John didn't comment on the fact that he skipped the butter and marmalade, and the dry bread calmed his stomach enough that he was able to eat two pieces and finish a second cup of coffee.
When John left Sherlock sat down with his laptop and tried to update some of his wasp data. He worked for a few minutes but the spreadsheet layout made him dizzy and the screen seemed too bright again today. He closed the computer after making only a few entries, head spinning. He hadn't gotten to the data analysis he wanted to do, but even entering the numbers he'd collected earlier in the week seemed too complicated at the moment. Maybe a shower would help clear his head.
Somehow the shower made it worse. Instead of soothing him, the hot water seemed to encourage the headache that was forming at the base of his skull. If he didn't know better, he would have said it was from lack of caffeine. By the time he was dressed, the headache had grown and spread, so he made himself some tea just in case that was the problem. There was still coffee left in the pot but he didn't think his stomach could handle another cup. While he waited for the kettle to heat he washed the breakfast dishes; John would be happy that he'd tidied up, at least.
He sat down with the cup of tea and tried to decide what to do with himself for the next seven hours or so. He was still fairly exhausted, but trying to sleep again was out of the question. If he had another dream like the one last night and woke up without John in bed next to him . . . . Nope. Not that tired.
He drained the last of his tea; the cup rattled when he set it back on the saucer. He exhaled slowly and held out his hand, dismayed to see that he could not still the slight tremor. He frowned and admitted to himself that there was only one thing he really wanted to do today, only one thing that would make him feel right. I really, really need John to be here now. Not possible, but there must be another solution. Over the past few years he'd learned that when his mind turned onto this jittery, unsettled path it was best to surround himself with others. John was the best option, of course, but other people could substitute if necessary. Yes. Talking to someone who wasn't unbearable would help pass the time. He jogged down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's flat, but she wasn't home. Entirely too much of a social life for a woman of her advanced years, if you asked him.
Another plan, then. Lestrade. John would be thrilled; he would think Sherlock had had a sudden urge to review ridiculously simple cases. He headed out the door; there were no taxis in sight, so he started down the sidewalk. Before he could fully process what he was doing he found himself entering the corner shop.
This won't work. He knew better; he did. Nicotine was a stimulant; any sense that it calmed the nerves was purely psychological, born of years of conditioning that had taught him to relax when he had a cigarette in his hand.
The man behind the register was the same one who sold Sherlock newspapers and milk nearly every day. Now he made no move to ring up the pack of cigarettes Sherlock requested. "You don't smoke, mate."
"I'm not your mate. I'm your customer. How much do I owe you?"
"A fight with your boyfriend's no reason to start up a bad habit again."
"I'm not—we're not fighting." Was there anything more tiresome than an ordinary person who thought he knew how to deduce? Sherlock thrust a ten-pound note at the man and grabbed the package from him the moment he retrieved it from the case under the counter.
He couldn't smoke in a cab, so he walked to the Yard instead. It was only a couple of miles; he smoked three cigarettes on the way. It had been two years; he thought he might not enjoy the taste or that he would have forgotten how to breathe through the urge to cough, but he fell back into it without a hitch. The first cigarette was every bit as glorious as he remembered, from the bitter flavour to the strangely comforting sensation of smoke filling his lungs, but by the third one he was regretting the decision to buy them. The nausea he'd felt on and off since he'd gotten out of bed was worse now, and while he'd never cared about the long-term effects cigarettes would have on his body, he did worry about what John would do if he knew Sherlock had slipped back into his old habit. He stubbed the third one out before he reached the filter and increased his walking speed so he would get to the Yard before he was tempted again.
Lestrade took one look at him when Sherlock walked into his office and said, "Out."
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock took his hands out of his pockets and straightened his shoulders so his coat would fall properly around him.
"Get out of here. Go home. I don't know what's wrong with you but you look like hell. Either you're upset and need to go home to John or you're sick and I'm not having you spread whatever you've got around here."
Oh, please save me from more amateur, incorrect deductions. "I'm fine. I thought you'd been jonesing for me to come around and do your job for you. I'm here. Don't complain."
Lestrade somehow managed to back Sherlock out of his office simply by stepping toward him. Sherlock stopped and held his ground in the doorway once he realised what was happening. Lestrade crossed his arms and lowered his head toward him. "I mean it. You need to go home."
"John's not home," Sherlock said. His voice sounded pitiful in his own ears. "I mean, he's at work, and I've got the day free so I thought I'd stop by and see if you had any urgently unsolved cases you needed me to work out for you." He thought he got the balance of disdain and indifference right that time.
Lestrade shook his head and didn't move to let Sherlock back into his office so Sherlock looked around until he spotted Donovan sitting at her desk. She was watching him already, not pretending to work, so he strode over to her. Even if he couldn't berate her into giving him a case she would most likely be good for a little verbal sparring, which was always very soothing to the nerves.
"Jesus, Sherlock," she said when he got close. "Did you smoke the whole pack at once?"
He startled at her perspicacity but then remembered he must smell like smoke. Lestrade wouldn't have noticed because he smoked too much himself. Shit. John will know. He rubbed his hand across his face. He shouldn't have come here. He shouldn't have bought the cigarettes. Now he needed to shower again before he saw John, and try to air out his coat. Even if John wasn't too upset that he'd smoked, even if he was understanding, he would be disappointed, and Sherlock didn't want to face that right now.
Donovan squinted at him, a mix of compassion and suspicion in her gaze. "You have a fight with John or something? You should go apologise to him."
"No, we didn't have a fight. Why does everyone think we had a fight? And why would you assume I would be the one to have to apologise?"
Donovan rolled her eyes and Lestrade came up beside him and clapped a hand to his shoulder. "You really do look like shite, Sherlock. Seriously, go home and go to bed and wait for John to get home. He'll take care of you."
"I know he will," Sherlock said, and dropped his head. How much more pitiful could I possibly be? He squared his jaw and straightened his shoulders again. "But I don't need to be taken care of. Everyone has been nagging me to come here, but as I'm clearly not wanted, I will leave. Don't bother texting the next time you actually need me, though."
"Sherlock—"
He didn't let Lestrade finish. He turned, letting his coat flare out behind him, and ignored the whispers he heard as he left the building; he couldn't tell if they were sympathetic or mean-spirited and he wasn't particularly eager to find out.
Once outside he found a seat on a bench so he could collect his thoughts for a moment. He didn't know why he'd assumed being around other people would make him feel better. Other people were useless idiots. Lestrade and Donovan: what had he been thinking? Donovan's got Xanax in her handbag. The thought surprised him with its appeal: calm the anxiety and maybe even get some restful, dreamless sleep. He allowed himself a moment to luxuriate in the memory of the distant, detached feeling the drug had produced the last time he'd taken it and then dismissed the idea. He wasn't going to go back inside and ask Donovan for a pill. If he had some at home, maybe, but John never allowed him to keep that sort of addictive substance around the flat. Probably with good reason, yes, but still, it would've been nice to have the option available.
He leaned his elbows on his legs and rested his head in his hands. His head was throbbing but he needed to think about this rationally. His main problem was still lack of sleep; the few hours he'd gotten last night hadn't been enough to make up for the nights missed before that, and that was why he'd been so anxious for the last couple of days. He closed his eyes and spent a few minutes forcing himself to breathe deeply. He knew how to control anxiety; he'd been controlling it since he was old enough to recognize the feeling, and it was frankly quite maddening that it was getting the better of him. Yet now he was only able to last a couple of minutes before he compulsively checked his watch for the time. Six more hours until John comes home. He knew he wouldn't feel better until then, wouldn't be able to relax until he could lie down with John's comforting arms around him and let his breathing slow to match John's steady pace.
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, teasing the sides out and then tamping them back down into a semblance of a human hairstyle. Maybe. He couldn't spend the day with John, but if he timed it right he might be able to catch him on his lunch break. He rose from the bench and looked around for a cab. If he hurried he should be able to shower, get the smell of smoke out of his coat and make it to the clinic before John took his break.
Mrs Hudson still wasn't in her flat but Sherlock knew where she kept the Febreze, which he hoped would take care of the coat. He left the remaining cigarettes in one of his hiding spots in her sitting room, then went upstairs to shower and wash his hair again even though he hated to do that twice in one day. His breath was a bigger problem; he brushed his teeth until his gums were sore, scrubbed at his tongue with the toothbrush bristles and then returned to Mrs Hudson's to nab a couple of peppermints from her candy stash. Satisfied that he'd done all he could to rid himself of any hint of smoke, Sherlock hailed another cab and headed to the clinic.
John was already in the staff kitchen when Sherlock got there, scrolling through something on his phone, the crumb-dotted wrapper from the sandwich he'd brought spread out on the table in front of him. He'd abandoned his wheelchair in favour of a one of the kitchen's ugly, stackable chairs and he had his legs stretched out, feet resting on another chair across from him. Good for his circulation and leg muscles; not so good if Sherlock wanted to sit at the table with him. But then John looked up and smiled and Sherlock felt the knot in his chest loosen a bit. He crossed the room in three long strides and settled into the empty wheelchair with barely a second thought; John no longer seemed to mind Sherlock sitting in it as long as he didn't move it out of his reach.
John leaned over to give him a peck on the lips. "Didn't expect to see you here. Everything okay?"
"Yes, fine. Thought you might want some company." Sherlock swallowed. It was fine; everything was fine. He was with John and no one else was here with them and he could relax for a few minutes. "I didn't know you'd be done with lunch already."
"Yeah, I got the first shift. Got a few minutes left and then I have to let Nancy have her turn. It's been pretty slow today, for a Saturday. Everyone should get a chance to eat."
"That's good, good." Sherlock folded a thin crease into the edge of John's sandwich wrapper, brushing the crumbs toward the middle. A few minutes. I guess it's better than nothing. He took a deep breath and exhaled and cast around for a topic of conversation that didn't make it obvious he was here because he was desperately out of control. "What were you looking at so intently just now?"
He reached for John's phone but John laid a hand on top of the screen. "Nothing much," John said, looking embarrassed. Sherlock squinted at him. What could he possibly be embarrassed about on his phone? He wrinkled his brow and John bit at his bottom lip and lifted his hand. "I was just looking," he said, and tapped the home button to turn the screen on. Numerous possibilities, most of them either disturbing or amusing or both, flickered through Sherlock's head and then he looked down at the phone and frowned. "Wheelchairs?"
"Sport chairs. Basketball chairs, specifically." John spun the phone around so Sherlock could see. "I thought if I'm going to play maybe I should buy my own, but they're expensive. More than that chair, and that wasn't cheap." He nodded at the wheelchair Sherlock was sitting in.
Sherlock ran his fingers over the slim armrests on the chair and then drifted his hands down to fiddle the locking mechanisms off and on a few times. He expects me to tell him to go ahead and buy it and not to worry about the cost. That was what Sherlock always said whenever John fretted about money. Well, not this time. John could afford whatever he wanted to spend on himself, anyway; he was the one with an actual paying job at the moment. "John, you've been to one basketball practice. You might not even end up liking it."
"I like it, Sherlock. And anyway, I said I was just looking. I'm not buying one yet."
"Good." He leaned back in the chair again before noticing the tightness building around John's eyes. "It's not that I don't want you to play—"
"Yes, it is. You've made that pretty clear."
"No, I—" The thought of John playing was even worse now than it had been yesterday; half of the inescapable dream last night had involved John being smashed to pieces on the basketball court. He tried to think of a way to reason with John without angering him. "John. Objectively, is playing basketball really a good idea? You could break an arm. What would you do then? You wouldn't be able to work."
"I could still work with a broken arm, Sherlock. People do that every day, even doctors."
"But you need to be careful. You don't exactly have any limbs to spare." Shit. I'm an idiot. He tried to backtrack, but John didn't give him the chance.
"Get up. I need to go back to work." John's voice was tight, not his own.
Sherlock swallowed and stood up; he could feel his eye starting to twitch, both at the prospect of John being angry at him and at the idea of him possibly getting injured again. John didn't look at him while he pulled his legs from where they were propped on the other chair. Sherlock stepped back to give him room, ignoring his instinct to move closer when they were both upset. John put his hand on the wheelchair and it rolled a few inches away from the table. "You left the bloody lock off, Sherlock," John growled, and pulled the chair close again so he could re-engage the mechanism.
"Sorry. I'm sorry. I—" He put his hand on the back of the chair, more to steady himself than to help John, and John said his name, low and threatening.
"No," Sherlock said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He couldn't have John angry at him, not now. "I am sorry. Please, believe me. If you want to play basketball, you can."
"I know I can. I don't need permission from you to do anything."
"I didn't mean. I know. I know. It's just . . . ." Sherlock wasn't sure how he meant to finish the sentence. This unfamiliar lack of clarity that muddled his own thoughts was intolerable; was this how ordinary people felt every day? He held up his hands in defeat.
John stared at him for a moment, then seemed to relent. He hefted himself into his chair, putting his back to Sherlock. "You don't have to watch me play, if it's going to make you so upset." He balled up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it toward the bin. It hit the wall and then fell to the floor.
Instead of making a crack about basketball skills, Sherlock walked over so he could pick up the wrapper and throw it away for him. Everything is wrong right now. "I want to come to the games. I want to support you."
"No, Sherlock, no." John shook his head; his voice was even and steady but his nostrils were flaring and his hands were curled tightly around the rims of his chair. "You don't want to support me. You want to direct me into carefully controlled activities that you choose for me."
"What? I do not." That made no sense; he certainly hadn't chosen any activities for John. Everything John was doing lately he was doing on his own. "I supported you going back to work, didn't I? Even though I'd rather have you home with me."
John closed his eyes; Sherlock could see his chest rising and falling, a physical representation of him mastering his anger. He's doing a good sight better than I am at controlling himself, I'll give him that.
John opened his eyes and spoke, his voice clear and careful. "I have to go back to work, Sherlock. I'll see you tonight." He wheeled himself toward the door.
Sherlock hesitated, then jogged a step after him. "Wait. Please."
John stopped and didn't move or object when Sherlock crossed the room to stand in front of him. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. "I haven't been feeling my best the last couple days."
"Yeah, I noticed."
Who cares if he knows I stopped taking the meds? Sherlock felt himself relax more than he had in days and sank down onto John's lap. He buried his head against the side of John's neck. John's arms tightened around him briefly but then he pushed Sherlock back by the shoulders.
"Sherlock. Were you smoking?"
Sherlock gulped. He thought he'd cleared up all of the smell. "I—"
"Because you stink like bloody Febreze and what else would you be trying to cover up?"
Lots of things—decomposing organs, raw sewage, bad Indian food—I can think of so many. He tried to smile and John gave his coat collar a deep sniff and then shoved him off his lap.
Sherlock stumbled to his feet and John glared up at him. "I am working until five. I will be home before six. We are going to have a little chat, then, about whatever the fuck you have been up to the last couple days, hmm?" John tipped his chin down and looked up at Sherlock with a particularly menacing tilt to his mouth.
Sherlock nodded. He honestly had no idea what John thought he had been up to, but he knew he couldn't keep going on as he had the past few days.
"All right. All right, then." John clenched his fists once, exhaled and then nodded at him. "Go home, Sherlock. Try to get some rest. I know you haven't been sleeping well, and honestly you look like shit."
Sherlock nodded again and then lunged toward John, wrapping his arms around his neck, probably smothering him in the process. He tried to tell him he was sorry again but his throat was suddenly too thick.
John grunted and hugged him back and then pushed him away again. He ran a hand gently down Sherlock's cheek. "I'm serious. You haven't been yourself, but whatever's bothering you, it'll be okay. Just go home for now, all right? And don't smoke anymore."
Sherlock stood up, slightly embarrassed; he hadn't even thought it was possible for him to be embarrassed around John, but he supposed that was a good measure of just how terrible the last day or two had been. He smoothed his coat and flexed his fingers before putting his hands in his pockets, hoping he looked collected and under control. "I'll see you around six, then? Shall I order something to eat?"
"Whatever you want." John glanced over his shoulder at the door and then up at the clock on the wall. "Look, I really have to go. I'm sorry. I hate to leave you alone when you're not okay, but I'll see you in a little while, and we'll have all day together tomorrow, I promise."
Sherlock turned his lips up a bit and kept his hands anchored in his pockets and followed John out of the kitchen. He wanted a goodbye kiss but there were several patients in the hall and he knew that could be troublesome for John so he settled for another shared smile, this one more real on both their parts, he thought, and then he headed out into the street alone again.
He meant to go home. Truly, he did. He even gave the cabbie the right address, but before they'd gone more than a few blocks he changed his mind. John was right. He wasn't himself; he wasn't okay. The cigarettes hadn't helped, but they almost had. Those first few drags, they'd felt so good, tasted both dirty and pure and he had been himself, for a moment or two. John was right. He needed to sleep and they needed to talk. But maybe he could get back to himself before he did either of those things.
It had been a long time, but he knew of one reliable way to clear his head, to make himself sharp and fully awake instead of dull and fuzzy-headed. John wouldn't approve, but he didn't have to know. He'd done a rubbish job covering up the cigarettes, but he had hours before John would be home again. As long as he didn't use a needle, John would never know. He had plenty of time to find one of his old acquaintances, get high, and come down again. Plenty of time.