Sherlock had looked like hell in the clinic. It was one of the first things John had noticed, how, despite being freshly showered, despite the scent of lilac and pine cleaner lingering in the heavily air-conditioned air, the sanitation wasn't redemption. Surface. Like those air fresheners that don't eradicate the odor, only mask it for a short while.
Sherlock still looked like hell now, but in a different way. His body was crumpled in on itself like a piece of paper; he was seated on a station bench fastened to the wall a little lower than necessary; his fingernails were caked with dirt and his hair was stiff with something yellow. Greg, standing above, rested a hand on his shoulder, gripping, it seemed, both to offer comfort and to give a warning.
The first thought that snuck into John's mind was deranged, but he shook it away. He had strode in with white knuckles and a rant on his lips, Mycroft faithfully behind, but anger evaporated when he saw the exhaustion in Sherlock's eyes. How long had they been at this? When was the last normal conversation, thrilling case, argument about Cluedo? When had Sherlock stopped annoying the hell out of him and created hell for himself? When had either of them slept without demons creeping in at the seams?
He sighed, felt the exhaustion himself, and sat down. Sherlock looked away, ashamed. Cringing.
"He snuck out while working in the garden. Found himself at a bar and—"
"Greg." John put up a hand, with effort, eyes closed. "Not…no. I really don't care. Just…"
He shuffled from one foot to the other, glancing at Mycroft. "Alright, we can talk about it later. But we really need—"
"No." John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the one furthest from him, and let his forehead press against the side of his friend's. "No. Not later. Not ever, Greg, alright? I don't care what he's done. Just get the charges dropped, or send me a bill, or whatever, but I don't want to know. He's fine now, he's out, and we're….we're. We're here. Okay?"
A nod. Understood.
"Sherlock. We're going home. Greg, we can go home? Yes? Sherlock, come. It's alright. You're home for good."
Mycroft and Lestrade watched as doctor and detective left the station, silent except for muffled tears.
Neither spoke for a while.
"I need to know." Mycroft looked at the spot where the tip of his umbrella met the floor.
"We weren't called because he…" Greg sighed and shook his head. "Mycroft, I've been looking out for Sherlock for, what, fifteen now? Sixteen?"
"Your loyalty and sacrifices are appreciated, Inspector, and I assure you any charges can be—"
"No, not that. I'd clear his record for anything. Already been done. This kid has almost gotten me fired a dozen times. I don't care, I'd do it all again. That's what I'm saying. I care about him."
"No one's doubting you." Mycroft waited, but nothing came. "Greg. What did he do?"
He shook his head. "He just managed to be clever, you know, and break out. Whatever, I've already dealt with the clinic. He ended up at a bar, fell asleep in the corner. Owners thought he was drunk so they had him thrown out, but he put up a fight. Nothing nasty; I think he was just scared and weak. Didn't do any harm, but the place was pissed so we were called. Sally was here and called me. I made sure he didn't contact John until I took care of everything. Just thought it would be better."
"Could have been worse. But I sense there's more."
Greg smiled. "You Holmes brothers."
"It takes little to see you're distressed. Tell me."
"I talked to Sherlock before you got here. Gave him the spiel I always do—how I care about him, always have his back. Reminded him of what we went through he was younger. Usually I get an eye roll, a snarky reply, but not today. He bawled his eyes out, Mycroft. He's done. There's nothing left in him. Every man has his line, a breaking point, and I don't know what it was about today but he crossed it. All he could talk about was disappointing you, me, John. It's not just the drugs anymore. This kid thinks we care about him because of the neat tricks he can do. You know? And if he doesn't have that anymore…Look, I know it's cliché, or whatever, but he's trying to find out who he is. And he's looking through his own eyes and seeing nothing of value."
"What are you proposing?"
"Nothing. I don't know. I'm just worried. And I need to know that you know, and John knows, that this isn't just some substance abuse problem. This is Sherlock coming to terms with who he is."
Mycroft nodded, only now meeting his eyes. "John knows. I know. We have given him ourselves unconditionally. I fear there's nothing else to be done."
"You're giving up?"
"The opposite. Dr. Watson and I decided just today that we are what he needs."
"Mycroft. Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
"Hasn't that been your point?"
"Yes. But you know that means…"
"My brother believes he is the only one with flaws. With demons." Mycroft gritted his teeth. "It's time to show him how imperfect we all are."
"You'll even tell him about…?"
"It will be the death of me. But yes."