Hi everybody!
I don't even remember when I last posted. I had a bit of a hectic year in general, but I hope you'll be happy with this very dramatic chapter :)
Thanks everyone for your reviews since my last update. I could not respond to all because some were written by guests, but I would like to let you know that they still help me write! Even if it takes ages ;)
37. Breaking point
It was April and the first hints of spring life presented themselves. The air was softer and the scent of budding flowers drifted in the air. The kids at school had shed their woolly hats and scarves and were getting excited about sports games, final exams, holiday plans, and, of course, the school play.
Mr Brook had involved pupils from year 2 and 3 in the school play and since the Easter holidays held rehearsals twice a week, once with the entire cast (in the PE room to have enough space) and once with only the main players. After Eric had gotten over his first shock of having to act with Olivia, he dutifully learned his lines and everybody was quite impressed with his acting skills. He seemed to have grown up a little since Mr Brook took him under his wing.
"Do you think Eric looks older now?" Lucy mused while the girls sat on some chairs in the back, watching him rehearse a fight scene with a boy from the 2nd year, Mr Brook dancing around them giving directions. Eric's movements were confident and he was quick, probably from all the practice of beating people up, Olivia thought. Still, he was polite to her. He had lost his leading position in the group of bullies in favour of being tutored by Mr Brook and participating in the play.
"You mean since he's lost weight and stuff?" Rose asked.
"Yeah I guess. And now he's being nicer to people."
"Maybe… a bit. Don't buy it completely though. I've never seen anyone change so much so quickly", Rose said.
"That's because Mr Brook is a good influence."
"You don't seriously fancy him do you?"
"Who, Mr Brook or Eric?" Lucy smiled mischievously.
Rose snorted in laughter. It seemed Lucy was never shy of fancying people, even though she and Tim were stuck to each other like glue outside school hours.
For a few minutes they watched in silence as the boys attempted to "kill" each other on stage. It was amazing to see how Mr Brook directed Eric. A mere click of his fingers or a movement of his eyes adjusted the boy's posture and timing, almost like a dance. Olivia wondered what it would be like to trust somebody so fully to be able to just let go and be guided like that. It made her feel strangely jealous.
"Mary will be having her baby soon", Rose announced. "Her due date is in two weeks."
"I wouldn't want to be in her shoes," Lucy said. "I don't think I could deal with all the pain and the blood."
Rose paled.
"What do you mean blood?" Olivia asked.
Lucy's back straightened as she lifted her chin and explained. "Well, the baby will probably be covered in blood and slimy stuff, but it also needs to come out, which means lots of things sort of… rip."
Olivia grimaced and Rose let out a disgusted noise.
Lucy, encouraged by their shocked reactions, continued. "If she doesn't open up enough by herself or if the baby's head is too big, they might take some scissors and-…"
Olivia slapped her hands over her ears while Rose tried to cover Lucy's mouth, laughing.
When it was clear Lucy got the message Rose sat back down in her own seat. "Well, let's hope that the baby doesn't come too soon because John is great these days. He's completely distracted. He even let me in without a note the other day when I was late. Just asked about Mary."
"Oh don't worry, he will probably be even more distracted afterwards" Lucy grinned.
Olivia smiled at her friends and imagined John with a tiny baby in his arms. He and Mary would be amazing parents.
"Right. Who wants to rehearse lines with me?"
The four hours a week Olivia spent in rehearsal were basically all she had to look forward to. She could either talk with her friends about random things, or concentrate on acting, which she felt she was getting better and better at. Mr Brook was a very good teacher. He ensured she got the right encouragement and always let the pupils have fun, letting them come up with lot's of creative ideas, many of which ended up in the play. That, plus the chocolate bourbon creams he often brought along, made him the favourite teacher of many.
As her mentor he was kind and considerate and didn't get upset when she failed a test. He was there if she decided she wanted to talk to him, but didn't push her in any way. It made her feel at ease and took some of the pressure off her school work.
In classes Olivia had difficulty concentrating, and found that she really didn't care anymore whether Mr Anderson got angry or not, whether Mr Holmes would notice when she hadn't done her homework, or if Mr Watson found out that she had stolen medication from the nurse's office.
It had been easy enough after observing at what time the nurse went for lunch every day. She had not even felt guilty about it. The sleeping problem was solved for at least a month and she didn't look like a zombie at school. It meant that the main physical sign of her private life was dealt with, and the minor ones were getting easier to hide with practice. The flinching, which had started to happen anytime someone male came close to touching her, was now nothing more than a tightness in her shoulders that lasted less than half a second. Keeping the flares of anger under control was just a matter of keeping her mouth shut, keeping her eyes fixed on a neutral spot.
When rehearsals were over she walked home through a blossoming London, a liberty that Seb only permitted because he didn't have the time to drive her and her dad was not able to drive. During the walk she took the longest route and slowed down when home came in sight.
Seb was there half the time, coming up with more rules every day. She hadn't even been shocked when he told her she would need permission to shower for longer than 5 minutes a day. He had taken the key of the bathroom and threatened either of them would come in if she stayed under longer, ripping away any privacy she had left. Her father said it had to do with the high water bill he couldn't afford.
Sadism.
It was what got Seb off, she thought. He loved watching her, telling her things he knew would frighten her, such as that maybe she should move to another school, or that maybe she shouldn't go to school at all once she turned sixteen so she could take care of Jeremy full-time. Sometimes he would corner her in the kitchen, whispering and coming close and watching her crumble with fear before turning away with a wide grin, sky high on his power trip.
The thing she found that helped was, zoning out, going to into robot mode when she stepped into the house. She did everything mechanically; eating, listening to Seb's lectures, getting dressed, cleaning, and waiting in the dark in her room at night, hoping sleep would come before the sound of her dad stumbled upstairs. It was the only way she got through the approximately 14 hours she was stuck at home every day, by letting her head filter out almost every single input and by medicating herself into the night. When she woke up she could not remember what had been for dinner the evening before, and shutting the door behind her at seven in the morning was a relief.
It worked like this, but deep inside she knew she would not be able to keep it up. The summer holidays were less than three months away, and there was no way she would survive them. It had taken her some time to get to the conclusion, but it was clear to her that both her living with her father and involving any authorities were not possible. Sebastian would try to keep her home and let her father continue the touching, the kissing, the groping, the things she could not admit to herself in broad daylight. Telling Mr Holmes or Mr Watson would mean police investigations and she had no doubt Sebastian would do anything to discredit her.
The problem now was to decide on her alternative, a step for which she had not yet mustered the strength.
While nature awakened and grew in strength, Sherlock's physical and mental health declined.
Mrs Hudson was still annoyed about her ruined romantic endeavours with Mr Chatterjee, Molly refused to let him into the lab on Lestrade's orders, and that man was being annoyingly good at ignoring him. Even though he was crawling out of his skin of boredom, Sherlock would rather relapse than seek out his brother. Mycroft was silently making a point, while sending his minions to keep an eye out in case Sherlock got himself into trouble.
This meant he had very few activities to distract him. He experimented of course, driving Mrs Hudson even further up the walls with toxic fumes and flammable 'incidents'. He consumed increasing amounts of alcohol, convincing himself that it didn't count as a relapse if it wasn't inhaled, sniffed, or injected.
Of course he could speak to John, but knowing his best friend was either at school, frantically trying to sort out marks and 'bad news meetings' before the end of the school year, or at home with Mary, checking her and the baby's vitals every five minutes, he'd rather not waste time on that.
Instead he decided -absolutely not obsessively- to closely monitor Olivia's academic progress.
Well, that is if you can call failing progress.
He'd never taken a particular interest in any of his pupils' marks besides jotting them down whenever John said it was necessary. Hell, he had never cared about his own marks, or attendance, or getting expelled. His mother had been called to school at an average of 3.7 times per month. Even to university once… but that had been because they thought he'd gone insane.
Olivia's marks for every single subject –except the non-subject of theatre- had been slipping ever since the New Year, and particularly sharply after Anderson had discovered her homework fraud.
Half an hour after his discovery he'd already come up with 23 reasons why her academic work was suffering. Most of those reasons had something to do with the two men currently running her home-life.
"You haven't been doing your homework."
Silence. Her eyes followed the workbook that he unceremoniously dropped on her desk. She just sat there with her hands in her lap, staring at the wood.
"Let me rephrase that. Why have you not done the homework I told you to do?"
Sherlock had thought about going to Richard, but figured he'd be giving the man the perfect fodder to throw back in his face. He would also have an answer to every accusation and was basically impossible to reason with. The realisation that they were actually very much alike came at him, but he ducked away just in time for it to hit his frontal cortex and happily ignored it. Speaking to Richard would have been terribly inconvenient in every way, so he had selfishly decided to speak to Olivia instead. The class had vanished at the sound of the bell but he'd ordered her to remain in her seat.
Through the half-open window the birds could be heard chattering excitedly. Olivia's discomfort at being alone with him was tangible and that didn't do wonders for his mood either.
Olivia studied her desk and was now slowly tracing her fingernail through one of the grooves in the old wood. She looked healthy and rested, even from up close, so physical health reasons for her failing could already be crossed out. Sherlock's gaze was clinical and impatient. He found it simultaneously confusing and fascinating to notice that his sentiment for her had changed. What used to be a mix of adrenaline, fascination, and attraction when he found himself alone with her was now overpowered by frustration and protectiveness. Not to mention the guilt.
Lestrade's insights had made him feel inconveniently guilty. As much as Sherlock had tried to deny it, the man's words had turned Olivia into a victimized child; one that he had personally damaged. And now she was punishing him by letting the destruction continue without him.
Sherlock was not good at this.
She refused to look at him and he could not muster the patience. He inhaled deeply through his nose.
The sound of it seemed to prompt something. "I was busy," she told the desk.
He let the air go and then bent over so that his hands leaned on the desk in front of her, his face hovering above her.
"Look at me."
Reluctantly, she lifted her head to look him in the eye.
"You've been busy for the past three weeks?"
She nodded.
"Am I to assume you haven't been doing any work for your other subjects either?"
"Why don't you deduce it?" she said with a sigh and a wave of her hand.
It was clear that she no longer felt the same way about him. She had stopped doing her best for his class and was not interested in his approval. He could not detect any anxiety, except maybe in the tightness of her shoulders.
"No need to deduce. I have seen your marks. And I predict that you will not pass to the next year."
She glared up at him. Her jaw was tight now.
"Mr Brook says I don't have to."
He stood up and crossed his arms, one eyebrow rising.
"Mr Brook is wrong. He shouldn't give up on you like that. And you shouldn't either. You're smart. If you would just stop being lazy and put in a little effort", he snapped.
This seemed to have an effect, but not the one he'd hoped for. Her expression settled into a dark frown, her eyes narrowed angrily.
"Why would you care? Mr Lestrade said you should only help me in emergencies, anyway."
A kick in the kidneys would have been preferable. Sherlock willed himself to stay calm.
"I would say failing every subject is an emergency. I'm sure it's enjoyable to forget about homework and dance around in costumes after school hours, but it means you'll get behind on everyone else and will have to stay at school a year longer. You're better than that," he bit.
"I'm not failing theatre."
"Irrelevant."
"I don't have to listen to you. You're not supposed to bother me because it is not an emergency! Please leave me alone."
She stood up. Her chair would have toppled over had there been no desk close behind it. Sherlock noted her neat uniform, her combed hair, and her eyes that were sharp. Obviously her sleepless nights were over. Was that also because of him?
"Your sleeping problem is gone. You are rested while you don't have access to room 221. You just need to make an effort. Just because you're traumatised doesn't mean you're excused from getting an education."
Sherlock knew he was not handling this the way he was supposed to. He was treating her like a witness to a crime. Like he could get the truth out of her by upsetting her. Except she was not a random witness, and he was incapable of being his cold distant rational self. At least she hadn't stormed out yet.
"Don't tell me to put in effort when you don't put in any effort anymore", she said.
His first instinct was to shout back at her that she was crossing a line, but realised on time that that would be extremely hypocritical of him. She was looking at him as if he might become violent.
He took a deep breath. Getting angry wouldn't work.
"Sit down."
She obeyed, slowly smoothing out her skirt without looking up. Her defiant attitude had made way for self-consciousness.
"Would you wish for me to make more effort?"
He could see her think.
"Not for me. I… just… think that maybe you're not… well."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "You're worried about me?"
"Well, sometimes you don't feel like teaching and you look… pale."
Pale. That was probably the nicest word she could have chosen to describe him at that moment. Sherlock grabbed the chair from the desk in front of hers and sat opposite her.
"I can only tell you that I'm absolutely fine and that it is not your job to worry about me. Although I'm touched."
The fact that he would be touched by her words made her look up at him. His face was more gentle and earnest now than a few minutes ago.
"I realise that you prefer Mr Brook as your mentor. This is a choice that I know I must respect, but it will not stop me from wanting to ensure you're alright. Do you think that you went along with Sebastian's suggestion to change mentors because you knew Mr Brook would be less observant than I?"
"Maybe… a little", she whispered.
"And does Sebastian often make such suggestions?"
"Sometimes. Not all the time." It was painful to see how the girl froze and make herself smaller.
"Could it be that he picked Mr Brook because he knew Mr Brook would leave him alone?"
"I don't know." Her voice was soft and strained.
"Are there things he does that you think are inadequate, abnormal, or hurtful?"
Thick tears were making their way across her cheeks down to the wood of her desk. She roughly wiped at her eyes as if she was angry at herself for crying, and held her hands in front of her face, elbows resting on the desk.
"Have you noticed any changes in your father's behaviour since Sebastian arrived?"
Her quick irregular breathing told him she was properly crying now. Sherlock let her cry. After teaching so long he was no longer uncomfortable around crying people, and he knew there was no use in telling her to stop. But it only seemed to get worse as her chest heaved and she didn't seem to be getting any air inside. It looked quite similar to the way she'd acted after her rage against Anderson, but not quite. The testing flicker of her eyes to his face told him enough.
"Oh quit it. It's embarrassing."
A confused glance. She instantly stopped heaving.
"Does that seriously work on Richard?" The corner of his mouth crooked up.
She nodded hesitantly and he could see her mouth twitch.
"He's even thicker than I thought."
She let out an involuntary giggle. Within a few seconds they were both smiling. A wave of inconvenient affection went through Sherlock at the sight of her sparkling eyes.
But when after a few minutes she wiped her eyes again he realised not all of her distress had been an act. They were red and watery and looking at him questioningly, as if he would disclose the correct answers to his questions. Sherlock was worried.
"I'd still appreciate an answer."
The mood between them tipped back to tense. Her mouth opened and closed, trying to form words and trepidation rose in Sherlock's chest. Finding out what was happening would give him the means to finally do something for her, but it might at the same time expose his complete inadequacy. How many clues had he missed, selfishly trying to establish his own relationship with her?
He reached out as if to touch her hand, but pulled away as she started speaking.
"I.."
She might actually say something usable this time. It seemed to take ages for her to find words.
"I think…"
"I think that maybe… Sebastian isn't very good at his job."
Sherlock could hardly supress a sigh.
"Why is that?"
She looked away, still wiping at her eyes. For a moment she went completely still, and then she shrugged.
"You'll have to be more specific than that."
"No. I don't want to talk about it."
She moved to get up again.
"Then how am I supposed to help you?"
"I… I don't want you to."
She picked up her bag but didn't take the time to grab her pencil and notebook from her desk, running out as fast as she could.
Ten minutes later, after most pupils had left the premises, Sherlock stood in the schoolyard smoking a cigarette and studying the weeds growing in between the stones.
There was a "tsk tsk" from the doorway. John stepped outside, clearly on his way home. His face was a mix of exasperation and worry.
Sherlock leaned against the wall, frowning at the tips of his shoes for a moment.
"What are you pouting over?"
"Olivia is going to fail this year."
John nodded understandingly. "Most probably."
"You're aware?"
"I might be a bit preoccupied but I'm not blind, Sherlock. I always have meetings with each mentor to discuss their pupils. I've been trying to get a hold of you to schedule something, but it seems ambushing you is a better strategy. How long have you not slept, by the way?"
Sherlock ignored that last part. "So you had this meeting- Brook really doesn't care if she passes?"
"Of course he does, but he thinks -and I agree- that Olivia has had enough on her plate this year. She has finally found something she is passionate about, and we're not going to take that away from her to study 15 hours a day in order to maybe narrowly pass her exams. Next year she can make a fresh start and regain some confidence in her studies. Right now she needs to relax, which seems to happen during rehearsals."
"I could have made her pass. And she could have done the play next year."
John smiled. "Yes you could have. You could have put her on a gruelling tutoring schedule till six everyday while letting you tell her how much better she needs to be and she would have hated you by the time summer comes."
Sherlock sighed, acknowledging John's point.
"But nobody questions why her marks are so low."
"From what Brook tells me she just needs something to rebuild her confidence and find some joy at school. Taking the pressure off her course work is already helping to solve her sleeping problems. Her father is not completely stable but the social worker is there almost every day to help. Richard said he would speak to them again soon to discuss Olivia's options for next year. For now she will do the school play –which I still expect you to attend by the way-, and she will then have a whole summer to relax. I will advise Jeremy about options for therapy, which could be beneficial to her. By the time she comes back to school I hope she will be feeling better. She basically lost almost all parental support in one year, which is extremely tough. I'm amazed at how resilient she's been, actually."
Sherlock sniffed. He could not disagree that Olivia was remarkably strong.
"You're letting Brook do all of it", he said accusingly.
A hint of compassion passed John's face, but he looked resolved.
"He's her mentor now."
"I don't trust him and I don't trust this Moran fellow."
John looked alarmed. "Has she spoken to you about Sebastian?"
"The only thing I could get out of her is that he's not good at his job."
"The only thing you could get out of her? Sherlock did you start interrogating again?"
"No." Sherlock scuffed his right foot against a patch of grass.
"Did you make her cry?"
"I did not. She did that all by herself."
"For god's sake Sherlock. No offence but if someone requests to change mentors there are certain boundaries you have to respect. It's now Richard's job to monitor her progress, not yours."
Sherlock opened his mouth but John continued. "My child is going to be born any day now, Sherlock. I don't think you will ever understand how much attention that requires. And I will be away from school more once he or she is here. I'm happy Olivia feels comfortable with Richard and he seems to have things under control. And you've not been able to give me one good reason to distrust him or Sebastian. So if you want to get their backgrounds checked by Mycroft, be my guest. But don't come to me on a hunch. You don't do hunches."
Sherlock cleared his throat and gave curt nod. "Alright. I will."
"Good"
For a while John looked out over the schoolyard while Sherlock smoked. The question with which Sherlock broke the silence both surprised and pleased John.
"How is Mary?"
"She's… big. And round. And she hates being pregnant. There are loads of… uncomfortable side effects that I won't bore you with."
"Appreciated."
"Neither of us can wait for it to be over. It's not ideal like this, towards the end of the school year. But I've given Sally Donovan some of my workload, which is a relief. And I can't wait to meet my child." John beamed.
"Excellent. Did I tell you my middle names?"
"Several times." John smiled strangely at his friend, a smile Sherlock didn't fully recognise.
"What? You wouldn't want to give him an average name."
John started walking away. That strange grin still plastered across his face.
"Or her. I have to go. Eat something Sherlock. Please?" he said before turning towards the car park.
"Wrong."
"Feckin' hell!" Lestrade could only just suppress the urge to jump. "You wanker." The DI was on his lunch break, chasing a lead on a hunch. He had just radioed the office, asking for a search warrant for the old Victorian house behind him when the familiar rumbling voice appeared an inch from his ear.
Sherlock couldn't avoid looking smug.
"You know you shouldn't make an officer jump, we have dangerous reflexes."
"It seems yours have worn out then."
"Twat."
It was a Tuesday afternoon and it was raining cats and dogs. One of those days with rolling clouds that made it feel like the sun had set already. Neither of them were the type to carry an umbrella.
"Let's go inside, I'm getting soaked", Sherlock said, shifting impatiently back and forth on his heels.
"I was just about to-"
"I know, and it would take too long for your mentally challenges officers to find the door of New Scotland Yard. He might be dead by the time they manage to get here." Sherlock stepped up to the front door and tested the lock.
"Stop that. What do you mean he would be dead? How do you even know who I'm looking for?"
"Martin van Elsen, 6 years old, son of Hans and Julia van Elsen, a banker and an art dealer, disappeared this morning. No note, no call, no demand for ransom. The kidnapper aims to give the boy a peaceful death by letting the kitchen fill with carbon monoxide. Knowing he left the building fifteen minutes ago, we should not wait for a warrant or backup, especially not if you wish to keep your job." The consulting detective held up a pin in his leather clad hand.
Lestrade let out a groan. "Do it quickly. But I swear… if this is one of your horrible jokes I will rip you to shreds".
"Wrong, again." Sherlock said triumphantly as he wriggled the pin around inside the lock. "If I'm joking you would still need me to actually locate the boy afterward."
Within seconds they were inside, their footsteps heavy on the old oak floor. Sherlock appeared not to be joking as he tightly held his scarf to his mouth and nose. Lestrade pulled up his collar to do the same. At least Sherlock was smart enough to stay behind him as they searched the place, throwing open windows as they went. Surely, in the kitchen an ancient gas stove was audibly leaking, and little Martin was tie-wrapped to the sink.
The plastic was visibly digging into his wrists, but he was already unconscious.
Sherlock switched off the gas and knocked out a window while Lestrade checked the kid's vitals. The relaxation of the DI's shoulder muscles told Sherlock that the boy was alive.
All was fine then.
He picked the lock of the back door to let some more fresh air into the kitchen. Lestrade cut the child loose, picked him up and sat down on the step outside into the garden. His little legs flailed about as he was hoisted up onto Lestrade's thigh, holding his head and carefully checking the eyes. Sherlock was happy he didn't have to deal with 6 year olds. They were so… miniature and had no capacity for logical thought. He truly wondered why the parents were so desperate to get him back.
Although now he wasn't completely sure what to do with himself.
"I'm glad you had the sense to listen to me. It only pr-"
"Fuck off Sherlock."
Sherlock frowned, unsure why Lestrade was suddenly in such a bad mood. The kid was alive, wasn't it? It was definitely squirming now.
"I still need t-"
"Shut up or I'll punch that smirk off your face," the DI said aggressively.
Still met with a blank face, Lestrade let out a frustrated growl. "You knew the killer left fifteen minutes ago. You saw him leave. You were here and you knew the kid was dying. And you WAITED FOR ME TO TURN UP. He could just as well be dead by now! And for what, so you had a chance to show off? Because God forbid Sherlock Holmes perform any trick without an audience."
Greg was sure the veins in his neck were showing, but he didn't care. The boy stirred in his arms and let out a sob, responding to their rumbling angry voices.
Sherlock huffed, his collar turned up against the rain. Without the adrenaline rushing through him, Greg suddenly noticed how awful his friend looked with his hair wet and in a coat that seemed too big.
Sherlock huffed. "It's not a trick. I knew where you were and how long it would take you to drive here. I calculated the time it would take for a space that size to fill up, how old the victim is… I knew how much time there was."
"If you ever have to defend yourself in front of a jury, Sherlock…"
You'd lose merely because they'd despise you, Greg thought but didn't say.
"Then I hope the majority of that jury understands basic chemistry," the man spat back at him.
"It's not about the bloody science of it. You deduced the method this guy would use to kill and you deduced that he had not hurt the kid in any other way. Are you really too arrogant to understand that you could have been wrong? That you might not have all the variables? Or that you might be a couple minutes off?"
Sirens could be heard coming closer. The boy sobbed again and tried to pull himself out of Lestrade's grip, looking rather pale.
"It doesn't matter. I was right. And he's fine."
Sherlock pulled a cigarette out of his coat pocket and reached for a lighter.
"Are you fucking kidding me?! You want to blow us all up?" Lestrade bellowed.
"I'm outside."
Still Sherlock pocketed the cigarette, looking slightly guilty but not much.
Martin convulsed and vomited. Greg held him so that most of it at least landed on the grass and not on him, and shot Sherlock an angry glare.
Sherlock grimaced. "If he can vomit he'll be fine."
Police could be heard inside the apartment and a few seconds later a young officer stepped outside, returning her gun to its holster. "With all due respect Detective Inspector, you could be heard yelling from the street. I suggest I take the boy to be checked by the medical team so you can… sort this out." She gave Sherlock a disdainful glance.
"Good thinking sergeant Llewly."
Lestrade stood up and carefully handed the kid over, who seemed relieved to be taken away from the two angry men. Sherlock was about to make a snide remark when Greg turned back to him, still looking murderous.
"Do you think I'm too thick to understand that this whole display is you trying to get back in 'the game'? As if I would ever let you?"
The younger man squared his shoulders and lifted his chin as if to compose himself. His gaze flicked back to the broken kitchen window.
"Arrest the mother. No self-respecting murderer would leave his victim while still alive and risk interference. She wanted him to die painlessly. The kid obviously knew too much about her affair with the drugs baron."
"What?"
"You didn't see her shoes?"
"Her shoes- you followed me this morning?" Greg asked but was not surprised. Then he realised something. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
Sherlock let out a bark. "They don't need me. I'm not wasting my time in that god-awful place while I can do actual work. If you won't let me on a case then I don't know why I just broke into this house for you. And you know I can find Moriarty."
Lestrade groaned at the mention of Moriarty.
"Do you think I doubt that you can't solve the case? Of course you can bloody solve it. And you will be certain to leave a trail of destruction behind you. It's not your talent that's the problem Sherlock, it is your lack of basic human understanding of what's right and what's wrong!"
The tall man gave him a deadly stare, but he had never looked so small. Lestrade didn't feel like holding back now. It felt great bringing Sherlock's ego down a notch.
"And aside from your screwed up moral compass, you can't even take care of yourself Sherlock. You don't eat unless John shoves it into your mouth and you don't know when you need to sleep. And you are risking losing your job because Richard is everyone's favourite teacher now and because Olivia made the wise decision not to talk to you anymore? You drop everything you've built up because you're jealous and immature. I actually wonder who is more of a child, Olivia or you."
Sherlock had already left. The slamming of the front door could be heard all the way in the garden.
"Hello?"
"You're not John."
"Um no", the female voice on the other side said. "…this is Janine, Mary's friend. Uhm… I'm at their place to pick up some things to bring to the hospital. Who is this?"
"Sherlock."
"Oh right, John's detective friend… Well, they were very well prepared, but her water broke while they were at the gynaecologists waiting room, so that was convenient, but they need their bags. You know, fresh set of clothes, toothbrushes and such."
"What is the room number?"
"I don't think they have one yet. Mary's just in phase one and after the delivery she'll be moved again."
"Oh."
"Can I give them a message?"
"No need… thank you."
"If I were you I'd try calling Bart's tomorrow morning. They'll be able to give you the room number then."
"Fine."
"Have a lovely ev-"
"Dad?"
"What is it my dear?"
Jeremy was sitting at the kitchen table bent over some paperwork. He was wearing the same shirt as yesterday and his hair was a mess. The circles under his eyes had darkened and etched themselves on his face over the past few months to the point they might never leave again.
He did seem sober, however.
Looking up, he noticed his daughter frowning at her hands, her jaw tight. She was standing on the other side of the kitchen, with her back against the counter.
"What's wrong?"
She looked at him then.
"I just… do you know how long Seb is staying… with us?" Jeremy took a deep breath at the question.
"I mean… he's not… I don't think social workers usually spend so much time at people's houses. And he yells."
Her whispering words pulled at something in Jeremy's heart.
"Listen Olivia, I know… Seb is not particularly… easy to be around. He is hard on both of us and he can be a bit… aggressive. But you have to understand that changing social workers is very difficult. I mean, he would be upset, we would have to request to be assigned to someone else… they would need a good reason to go through all that trouble for us."
Her lips slightly trembled.
"But he scares me." It came out all squeaky.
Jeremy sighed.
"Has he ever hurt you? You need to understand that he is only trying to help us get better. He helps remind you of your homework, he brought some routine into our lives, some rules to keep us organised, and he got me new medication that keeps me more alert over the anti-depressants. And look," Jeremy gestured at the documents in front of him, "he even lent me money to get back on track with the bills."
Olivia remembered the mess in the living room a few months ago and new layer of dread settled in her stomach. "You borrowed money from him?"
"Oh honey… I shouldn't have told you that. I'm sorry. Don't worry about it. I'll make sure we get by. But Seb will be with us for a while."
Olivia could not hold back the tears any longer. They were barrelling thick and hot down her cheeks, accelerated by her shaking shoulders. She covered her face with her hands. She kept them there as she heard the scraping of his chair on the tiles and his heavy footsteps coming towards her. Eventually his arms encircled her until his hands rested on her back, rubbing comfortingly up and down.
Olivia didn't move an inch except for the sobs that wrecked her body.
"Shhhhhh. It will be okay." He soothed. "It's all going to be okay. I will talk to Seb and see how we can maybe give you some more space."
For a while they stood there, Olivia with her arms clenched in front of her and he with his arms around her. Even though it felt like a fatherly hug and reminded her of before her mother died, she could not relax into it.
He kept mumbling soothing words and stroking her gently, and kept it going while he kissed the top of her head, the warmth of his lips leaving an uneasy tingling on her scalp.
"Don't cry."
His lips planted soft kisses on her temple, her cheek. His body was leaning over and his head tilted to the side to reach. Olivia felt her muscles freeze familiarly. It always happened when he touched her like that, and it usually helped her retreat into her own mind, blocking out sound and images. It usually happened in her dark bedroom while she had her back to him, and mostly she managed to pretend nothing happened when the dent in her mattress disappeared and silence surrounded her. But this was different. This was intimate. This was in the kitchen where the light was too bright and his face was in front of hers and she could not pretend to be asleep.
Olivia squeezed her eyes shut as his mouth touched hers. "I love you', he whispered against her cramped lips. It was as if he was playing pretend, she thought. He administered kisses to her closed mouth, his saliva wetting her face. He was like a kid practicing on a doll. Except that he wasn't a kid and he was working from memory.
A car honking outside made him pause, and Olivia finally felt her limbs move. He didn't stop her from pushing his arms away and it was surprisingly easy to walk away.
Jesus, I could have done that earlier, she thought while she ran up the dusty staircase. In the bathroom, she washed her face at the sink and wiped her mouth till it was red. Holding onto the sink, she focused on the layer of dust that had gathered on the white stone. She had stopped cleaning the house and it had gotten dirty over the past few weeks. On a subconscious level she had always expected the day would come again when Mr Holmes or Mr Watson would visit. Maybe because they were curious, or worried, or needed to speak to her father. But Mr Holmes didn't love her anymore, and Mr Watson did not have the time. There was no point in cleaning.
Then she noticed the loose strand of short dark hair curled up against the side of the sink and it made a shiver go up her spine. Just in time she shifted to the toilet and landed on her knees, gripping the seat tightly.
Twenty minutes later, when the retching had finally subsided, she was exhausted enough to curl up in bed and fall asleep almost immediately.
10 p.m.
Sherlock walked the streets of London like a prowling leopard; stalking fast along the pavement with his collar turned up, his eyes still sharp despite the five fingers of whiskey at home, scanning the doors of bars and clubs.
John was at the hospital. Mary was having John's baby.
It was fine. He would have time again tomorrow.
Right now he just needed a distraction. Just for tonight. He'd stay out a couple of hours, get his mind off things, go to sleep, and then this horrible day would be over.
He tugged his collar a bit tighter –it had stopped raining but it was still water cold outside- and walked on. London's clubs were still the same as six years ago, when he frequented them in his capacity as consulting addict. There were still queues of shivering young women outside in short skirts and bare legs, there were still bulky bouncers at the doors (some of them even seemed to remember him, mostly eying him with suspicion), and the music was still too loud to have a normal conversation. Sherlock decided to enter a mainstream club he'd hardly ever been before.
Even here were still low-level dealers ordering expensive champagne at the tables in the back.
Sherlock had never been a dealer, mind you.
He had been an expert at telling who would rip you off, who had meddled with the product, and who had money they didn't want anyone to know about. Sherlock in his mid-twenties would pick out the somewhat trustworthy ones and help them with their deals. In return he received any drug he asked for, and he didn't ask for much. Only whatever covered his personal use. The jobs brought him to the deepest underground crime circles of London and to the most secret rooms harbouring hidden pleasures. It had kept him occupied.
Tonight, however, he was not even scratching the surface of this tantalising underground network. He only observed them from his role as posh lonely Londoner looking for a good time. He stood at the bar on the side of the dance floor, sipping something ghastly that was said to contain 50% alcohol, watching the crowd move to the beat of a song he vaguely recognised from John's car radio. It didn't take long before a girl came to stand next to him at the bar, smiling. Her hair was long and blonde and fell down to the top of her bum, just where her soft skin was visible between her skirt and her top. Sherlock didn't smile back but let his eyes wander her body. 25, PhD student, biology, broke up with her boyfriend two weeks ago. Looking for a distraction, just like he was.
She ordered two cocktails and handed one to Sherlock. "I'm not a patient person", she said, leaning close to him, and held up her drink. He smiled and let his condensed glass touch hers. They spoke a few sentences while they drank, but she was mostly busy touching him, stroking his arm, his hip, his abdomen. He let his voice go lower than normal, and rumbled something in her ear about her skirt. Her body shivered and moments later he had his tongue in her mouth and her leg was planted between his.
She asked him to dance with her, but he declined. This was not what he needed. It was too early, to soon, to safe. He needed something else, worse? No not worse. Different. Something in which he could lose control. He downed his drink and excused himself.
Stepping outside he could feel the effect of the alcohol pleasantly dulling his senses. It must be around midnight now, he judged from the number of students outside, stumbling their way to catch the last tube. The next club he entered was only a few streets away. The bass could be heard from outside and the crowd was very different from the previous place. Sherlock ignored the queue of mostly pumped up men outside and was let in by a bouncer he'd always liked back in the day. Down the stairs he passed by the cloakroom, where he deposited his coat and jacket, and then walked into the mass of writhing arms and hips and torsos. This was the kind of place he longed for: filled with people on all kinds of edges, and mostly anonymous. Nobody here would blame him for not following social convention, for being rude, for being himself.
He made his way to the bar and ordered another drink, downed it and ordered another, which he took to the side of the room. It always took a moment to get used to the loud noise pounding his eardrums and the flashing lights making his eyes squint. The smoke that used to make his eyes water was no longer there, the smell of sweat all the more obvious.
"You alright mate?" a voice to his left sounded. The man… boy – he could not be more than twenty- was leaning with his elbow against the wall just above Sherlock's shoulder. He was grinning and his eyes showed tell-tale signs of heroin use.
"Fine."
"I think you could use another one of those." The guy gestured to Sherlock's almost empty glass.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, making no attempt to be polite. He threw back the rest of his drink, swallowed, set the glass down, and walked into the mass of dancing people with as much arrogance as his loose muscles could still muster. Once out of sight of the boy, he let himself be moved by the crowd, the music having a particularly seductive swing to it. He moved for a while, with different people, alone, and he was forgetting, finally.
His (howmanieth?) drink had lots of ice in it. Would he even know how to order such a thing? Oh, right, the boxer in the tight T-shirt had asked for it. That's why he had two of them. Making his way back through the crowd it took him a while to locate the guy, partly because there were so many people trying to distract him and partly because he was so easily distracted. Once he was spotted the boxer smiled and pulled Sherlock closer. They were of similar height, but the guy, Dan, if he remembered correctly, was a lot more muscular and sported a fading bruise on his cheekbone. Sherlock could basically trace his abs through his shirt, and a thrill ran down his spine at the idea of the strength of his counterpart. Dan held his cold glass against Sherlock's cheek and some drops trickled down his neck, mixing with sweat. Sherlock ran his tongue along the glass while keeping his eyes fixed on Dan, whose mouth opened in a moan.
They drank, and danced, and drank, and Sherlock actually enjoyed the feeling of the other man's sweaty hands on his ass. Dan commented on Sherlock's hips, or rather, the way they moved, laughing when he received an extra seductive slide for his compliment. Suddenly lips were pressed against Sherlock's mouth, and strong fingers snaked under his shirt, holding onto his sides, sliding along his moist skin.
Sherlock's hair was sticking to his forehead and he could feel beads running down his back. In any other situation he would be desperate for a shower and a fresh suit, but not here. Here everything was dirty and sticky and he revelled in it. He threw his head back and deleted all the other people in the room.
They played; grabbing and shoving each other from side to side, not to hurt but as a show of power. Making each other wince with their teeth and moan with their hips to the rhythm of the music.
"God I want you", Dan groaned into Sherlock's ear, palming the obvious bulge in his trousers. Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded. He let the bulkier man shove people aside as they moved to the back, the fog in Sherlock's head was perfectly pleasant. Thick enough to not worry about… well, whatever it was that made him start drinking, but not enough to feel sick.
A door opened, and they entered a brightly lit space that hurt his eyes. Squinting, he recognised it as the men's room. Through the haze the noticed the greyish tiles and the man standing at the latrines to the left. The man zipped up and hardly gave them a glance as he disappeared back into the noise behind the door.
"In here."
Sherlock stumbled into a cubicle and pulled Dan with him, the door banging against the frame. They didn't waste time. Two of Sherlock's buttons popped off, bouncing away on the floor as hands roamed his chest. Tongues fought for dominance, and although Sherlock was a good match, he knew that in a real fight he would not stand a chance against the other, especially not now. The idea was dangerous and it turned him on even more.
After fumbling with his belt for a bit, Dan growled in frustration and pulled Sherlock zipper down, reaching into his pants and pulling out his cock. Sherlock shuddered, closing his eyes to enjoy the sensation of a calloused hand on his warm hard flesh. Dan sought his lips again and he opened wide, letting his mouth be ravaged.
The hand gave him a few tantalising strokes. He had been waiting for this. The drinking, the dancing, it was all to prepare him for this moment of complete distraction. Abandon. Possible destruction.
"Oh god, you're leaking".
Sherlock choked as he felt a thumb rub along his wet glans. Suddenly Dan was on his knees on the cold filthy floor and took Sherlock almost entirely in his mouth. His cheeks hollowed and the warm, wet, spongy feel of it made Sherlock gasp. His breaths came hard and fast as he leaned his head back against the wall. His left hand held on to Dan's hair and his right to the door handle. He couldn't help but thrust his hips and Dan didn't seem to mind, moaning around him.
For a few minutes Sherlock was gone. His eyes closed, mouth open, and focused on the tongue sliding along his shaft. The man with his mouth on him, what was his name again?, was good at it. The moan he let out was drowned out by the sound of the music as the door to the men's room opened and closed.
Nobody was crowding Sherlock's face anymore and there was cold air in the room. Despite the pleasure spreading through his groin he became more aware of his surroundings. He kept his eyes closed, but he could hear the drum of the music getting louder and fading again. He could smell the mix of sweat, urine, and bleach. He could hear voices, and something banging against a cubicle wall a couple of feet away. The one in the other corner then, most likely. Opening his eyes everything was blurry but he could see the door to their cubicle was ajar. Nobody in the room was paying them any mind.
"Hey, what's wrong? Not your thing?" Dan asked from around his waist.
Looking down he could see the guy had unfastened his jeans and was fisting his erection, still sucking on Sherlock's now only half hard cock.
"Keep going", Sherlock said, accentuating his words with a little thrust.
"Oh come on. I'm not resuscitating your dick". Dan got back up to his feet and pulled his jeans up a little. "I know what will help". He grinned and pulled out a clear little plastic bag out of his pocket. He stepped out into the main space, which now only contained a couple snogging against the opposite wall. Sherlock could still hear the pounding against the wall a few cubicles down from him, but his eyes were on the little bag that was now being tipped over on the side of the sink, it's contents landing in a little heap. His heart was suddenly pounding in his chest and his hands were sweating. He could hear Dan sucking it up through his nostril and he could see him shiver. He could almost feel the sensation himself.
"Oh god that's good. Take some. I swear it'll get you hard again."
Sherlock kept his jaw tight. He was still stuck to the wall inside the cubicle. Dan stepped back in with a grin, holding up the bag in front of his face.
"No!"
Dan shrugged and shoved the bag back into his pocket. Sherlock had the urge to either wrench it from him or to run.
"Killjoy. I thought you wanted this."
His heavy scent crowded him again as his neck was covered in wet kisses.
"Is there something else that can help? Do you want me to fuck you? I'd love to have your pretty arse spread open for me", he moaned to his skin.
Sherlock shook his head.
"For fuck sake man! How do you want me to get off?"
The shouting was overwhelming his senses and Sherlock kissed him, snaking his hand in between them. Anything to keep him busy right now and for Dan to just shut up. The man moaned and urged him on, and came 30 seconds later. Sherlock wiped his hand on jeans and shoved his own now completely flaccid penis back into his pants and zipped up. Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve he took one more look at the guy, who was now leaning over the toilet and peeing with terrible aim. He didn't even notice Sherlock walk out.
Greg was woken by his phone ringing.
He had been sleeping on the couch anyway, so he was able to stumble up and pick up within three rings, hoping his wife had not been disturbed.
"Yeah." He listened to the message and groaned. "I don't care. Let him sleep it off in a cell, or a park."
"No… yes that's true. No I don't. Fine. Alright. See you later."
He rubbed his face and turned to get dressed, but Catherine was standing in the bedroom doorway.
"Serious?"
"I… don't know yet. Gotta take a look."
She nodded and walked back towards the bed. By the time Greg was dressed and said goodbye she was already back asleep, or pretending to be.
It was 3.36 am when he pulled up in front of Mycroft's house, office, headquarters, whatever. It was a ridiculously big building in Whitehall, which he had come to know quite well during the Moriarty investigation. It had been a few months now since he had last been there.
Mycroft opened the door himself. Despite the hour he was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie.
"Detective Inspector. Good of you to come. I apologise. Normally John would be here, but for obvious reasons I did not bother him tonight."
Greg nodded and followed Sherlock's older brother into the library.
If the sight of Sherlock would have been comical had it not been so sad. Sherlock had been half sitting and half lying on an armchair while reaching for the open bottle of expensive looking scotch on the coffee table. A few seconds after the two older men came in, he lost balance and toppled over onto the plush carpet.
Completely oblivious to who were watching him, he crawled up onto his knees, grabbed the bottle, and used the back of the chair to lift himself up to a standing position. A drop of amber liquid trickled down his chin as he took a swig from the bottle.
Mycroft cleared his throat loudly and Sherlock snapped his face towards the sounds wildly. His eyes widened upon seeing his brother and remembering what he came here for.
"Mycroft! I need a- a word." Sherlock wiped his chin with his sleeve and staggered back a few steps until he found the support of the mantelpiece.
"I think you need more than a word, Sherlock."
"Listn Mycroft. Listen." He waved the bottle. "YOU… are ruinning my life. Andats… unacceptable."
"And how exactly am I doing that, dear brother?" Mycroft said calmly. "You seem to be doing an adequate job of that yourself." He walked further into the room and sat in one of the big armchairs facing Sherlock. He looked dangerous. Greg kept standing a few feet behind the armchair, thinking this was a conversation he didn't really want to get involved in.
"How? How? You don't let me arm myself against a mass murdrer! You rather let people die than give up your stupid game. I can catch him. I know his mind", Sherlock said, putting emphasis on "mind" by pointing to his temple with the pinkie of the hand holding the bottle. Greg recognised the hint of a lisp Sherlock used to get when he was high. A speech impairment he'd gotten rid off in his youth, he once told him.
"Sherlock, if you actually knew Moriarty he would not still be a problem in the first place. And even if you do, sooner or later you'll be off your mind on something vile and he will beat you, again."
"If you lemme back on the case I wouldn't HAVE TO BE OFF MY MIND! Do you have ANY idea how fucked up tis for you to have me wait patiently, knowing that an highly intellgent psychopath is circling around, killing people that look like…like…" Scotch was spilling on the floor.
There was tremor in Mycroft's voice when he spoke next. "I know exactly what it's like to have to helplessly watch my loved ones slowly be destroyed, Sherlock."
Sherlock broke eye contact and raised the bottle back to his lips.
"Could you please stop poisoning yourself for just ONE MINUTE!" Mycroft shouted.
Greg was shocked. He'd never heard Mycroft raise his voice once. Sherlock was obviously also taken aback. He'd lowered the bottle and was staring at his older brother.
"Sit down."
Slightly swaying but still clutching the half empty bottle with white knuckles, Sherlock got back to the armchair he had originally occupied and dropped down into it.
"I did not intend to share the following information with you because I believe your ignorance is possibly helping keep Moriarty satisfied, but currently this is the best option I can think of." He left a dramatic silence. "From the moment I took you off the case there has not been one single orchestrated death related to Moriarty's drug."
Greg could see the wheels of Sherlock's mind turning. His lips were pressed tightly together.
"There have been the usual overdoses we've seen before, of course, but no murders."
"None that you have been able to identify, y'mean."
Greg took a step forward. "Sherlock, it's true. Everything stopped the moment you were denied access", he confirmed.
"Moriarty was playing a game and he obviously only wants to play it with you. As long as you refuse… or are prevented from challenging him, he's not interested. I'd like to keep it that way."
"He's not gone, Mycroft. If I beat him then we'll all be rid of him forever."
"And you would be willing to risk the lives of your friends and your pupils for that? Without even knowing you will succeed?"
"msmarter than you, Mycroft. I'll catch him."
"You've failed before. And I will not stand by and let you destroy the lives of others. John has a newborn for God's sake. You're doing enough damage to yourself."
Sherlock was rolling his eyes like a teenager.
"You're pathetic Mycroft. All of this is coming from sentiment."
"Something you possess quite a lot of, little brother. And it seems to be both your strength and your weakness. It gives Moriarty an unfortunate amount of leverage, but at the same, time John and Lestrade's loyalty to you have kept me from forcing you into a rehabilitation clinic more than once. They are much more patient with you than I am." He turned to Greg. "Detective Inspector, I believe my little brother might have… made some regrettable choices tonight, possibly with lasting consequences. I trust you to make sure he gets home safely and doesn't choke on his own vomit tonight."
"Whatre you on about, lasting consequences? Were you following me?"
"I don't watch surveillance material if I don't have to, Sherlock. It's tedious."
Sherlock gave him a challenging look. "You don't kn-"
"What you did tonight is written in your staggering walk, the redness of your eyes, the missing buttons from your shirt, and the stains of bodily fluids on the front of your trousers. Please spare yourself the humiliation of making me recount your evening in detail. I feel like I've gone ten years back in time."
Sober he would never have given Mycroft the satisfaction, but Sherlock frowned and looked down at his front.
His brother sighed.
"Let's go Sherlock", Greg said and extended a hand, but Sherlock only had eyes for his brother.
"No! Mycroft! I need access to your files. We need to know evrything there's to know about Richard Brook and Sebastian Moran."
Mycroft sighed and stepped out of the room. "I think we all know that I am not going to give you access to anything. Goodnight Sherlock"
"So, from now on I want you to stop bothering me at crime scenes. You're not on the Moriarty case because there is no case, and you're not on any other case because you're… I don't even know what you are Sherlock. An addict? A sociopath? Self-destructive? Mentally unstable?"
"No need tgo on."
They were in 221b's bathroom after taking a cab from Mycroft's.
"Well, apparently you've not learned from the first hundred times."
Sherlock huffed as he made an attempt at taking off his jacket while Greg watched. It got stuck around his elbow.
"What brought this on Sherlock? Something must have happened to make you go out to intoxicate yourself and do… well whatever it is you did. Is it Olivia?"
"What? Why would I care about that- her?" Sherlock was still stuck at the elbow and Greg held his sleeve so he could shrug the jacket off.
"Because the last time we had a proper conversation you said you loved her."
"Yes… well. You shouldn't have been so stupid as to blieve me. Course I don't. Maybe you should leave now Lestrade. I can get myself into bed."
Greg noticed Sherlock was getting paler and holding on tightly to the sink. A sheen of sweat on his forehead told him enough.
"You're nauseous aren't you?"
"I'm fine. Just go away", Sherlock said as he closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
A few minutes later Sherlock was flushing the toilet and getting back on his feet while trying to hide his embarrassment. He was trembling from head to toe and white as a sheet. Greg poured him a glass of water.
"Why are you even here? I thought you said I was a child and that I should leave you alone."
His skin was pale, his eyes sunken, and his suit trousers were too loose. It was difficult not to feel a pang of sympathy for the lost man who currently looked more like a boy.
"Look, Sherlock. Just because I think you're an absolute moron doesn't mean I want you wandering the streets in this state. I do hate being your nurse. And I'm only doing this once because John isn't here." He handed Sherlock the water.
"What on earth have you been up to tonight? I absolutely do not want details, but just tell me… did you do anything… risky?"
"Not your business."
"I know, but I want to save you the humiliation of Molly asking you this. So, did you use a condom or not?"
Sherlock gave a small shake of his head without looking Lestrade in the eye. Greg sighed.
"I will call Molly first thing in the morning to tell her she can expect you in the lab. You will let her take urine and blood samples without protest. I will ask her to check for any type of drug and STD possible."
This time Sherlock nodded. "Can you… can you not tell John?"
"Nice try."
Now it was really time for Sherlock to get to bed so that Greg could go home and get a few more hours of sleep. Greg didn't try to hide the shock he felt as Sherlock unbuttoned his clothes with shaking hands. Every rib was visible and his shoulder blades and hipbones stood out a little too distinctively, and Greg made a mental note to ask Molly to check for any other deficiencies in his blood. There were scratches and other unidentifiable marks on his upper body and buttocks, and Greg had to bite back several burning questions. Even in his choice of sexual partners Sherlock seemed to be destructive.
Silently, he helped Sherlock into the shower and found him a towel. When he got out he looked a little bit more present, but his eyes were redder than before. Greg knew better than to try and engage Sherlock into more conversation, but sincerely hoped John would have some time to spare for his friend in the coming days.
Sherlock startled awake. After realising his body hurt basically everywhere, he realised that the phone was ringing. It was 10 am. He didn't want to get up but the stupid noise didn't stop. Stumbling into the sitting room in his pants he grabbed the phone and had to lean against the wall to make the dizzy spell fade.
"Good morning Sherlock."
"John." His voice was raspy, but that didn't seem to worry John.
"How are you feeling?"
"Crap."
"Not unexpected. I heard you had a bit of a shit night last night." There was not a hint of accusation in his voice.
"Depends on how one looks at it."
"Very funny. Hey, I heard you're stopping by at Bart's today and I would like you to come say hi."
Sherlock just breathed.
"Mary's in room 346."
"The delivery…"
"Went very well. It took a solid 9 hours, but both mother and child are doing marvellous." He could basically hear John's grin through the phone.
"His name is Hamish and I would like you to meet him, Sherlock."
Thanks for reading! Would love to hear from you!