Define Vulnerability

Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

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Chapter 71

Friday morning - Part 2

"I have nothing left to fight with."

"I know… It feels like defeat. I've been there; I know how ugly this feels. Let me help… And if you don't want to see anybody about it…"

"I won't," Sherlock's tone was hard.

"Right, I know. I won't make you, but this is getting too much… We need to prevent this from getting out of control… and I'm obviously not enough to give you the help you need… your depression is worsening… So, please… take some meds… We need to get a grip on this…" Only after John had spoken he realised he somehow was doing what Ella had suggested, he put some pressure on Sherlock, urged him to take part and decide he needed to get better, even if he didn't like the paths to get there.

Sherlock took breath to answer but John was faster.

"If you don't do it for yourself do it for me… I… need… you."

The detective still stood motionless and in silence.

They had been at a similar point what felt like ages ago, before the first mind palace session. John assumed this was part of the daily fight and remembered it had been similar when he had been in the hospital during his rehabilitation.

He had been devastated and unmotivated and every day was torture. In dire needed for someone either to give him some TLC or to kick his ass to get some motivation back. But no one was there, which was maybe the worst aspect of it all. His life had been so empty and useless and he'd never forget how that felt.

Sherlock probably sensed feelings different, but the horror of it must be the same. John was ready to kick him every minute of every fucking day if necessary to make sure he knew he was not alone.

He was aware that Sherlock would not be able to ask for help, he probably didn't know what he needed and he was probably also more lost than ever in his life.

Without warning Sherlock suddenly turned around with an angry stare in his eyes and his hands in fists.

"Why don't you leave me alone?" Sherlock yelled.

John saw him shivering with but wasn't sure why.

What was it?

Anger? Fear? Panic?

He did a step towards John and the doctor wondered if he had gone too far. The expression on Sherlock's face showed something that was probably anger.

The delayed rage took him by surprise.

"It's alright to be angry," he tried to soothe. Mary had said he needed to be open minded, welcome him and listen. Now that his own anger had evaporated he needed to be outgoing with Sherlock, to soften the blow he had just thrown at him.

John felt quite bad about having lost control like this a few moments before.

"I am not angry. Go back to your life and let me alone! I am fine!" Sherlock continued, his face was distorted with anger or… disgust or something the doctor couldn't identify.

John did the only thing he could think off, he made a step forward with raised hands.

"Doesn't happen," he said in a very low and calm voice.

Hurt was oozing out of Sherlock, his defeated posture made John realise he had the urge to comfort him but he couldn't figure out how to actually do it. There was nothing he could do and he felt bloody helpless once more.

The only thing he'd do with every other human being - except Sherlock - was…

He made another step and came to a stop directly in front of Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what do you feel right now?" he asked carefully.

"I don't know," Sherlock's choked in a similar low voice.

There were a few moments of silence.

"Good or bad?"

"Not good."

"Sad? Angry?"

"Frustrated."

"You realise you describe every negative feeling as 'frustrated', do you?" John probed carefully. This whole conversation was a mess but at least Sherlock was talking to him at all.

"No… Yes."

"Can you actually distinguish between anger and frustration?"

"I don't know."

"When you throw things against the wall, what does it feel like? You must know. Why do you do it?"

"I don't know. Just… venting."

"Yeah, but what do you vent?"

"Frustration."

"Right. Are you angry at me for punching you?"

"No."

"Are you frustrated that I punched you?"

"No."

"Shit, are you glad I punched you?"

"I deserved it."

"That was not the question."

To his surprise the doctor suddenly realised they were suddenly not only talking but also Sherlock was opening up, answering his questions.

What the hell had changed within ten seconds that they were finally doing this?

"I hoped it would make you feel better," Sherlock explained.

"Seriously?... Er... That was not actually what I wanted to know, mate."

"I don't know."

"I will touch you," John warned.

Oh, hell.

Sherlock was a human being after all, and he had coped with John touching him before.

So when Sherlock didn't step back and continued to look away, the doctor stepped even closer, standing directly in front of the other man.

Then he moved up his arms and wrapped him in a careful hug.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock sucked in air in surprise and stiffened even more, but didn't try to move away.

John feared a more violent eruption might happen any moment and he held his breath. He expected to be told his sentiment was disgusting and useless, but nothing like that happened.

His friend had started trembling, but obviously was too stunned to react. John didn't dare to move either, and they stood there for almost fifteen seconds before John managed to gulp down his sorrow and blinked the tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

"I'm sorry I punched you… and that I was so very angry. I've already forgiven you, you know that, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Please, let me get you some stuff that dims those dark thoughts. Just for a few weeks… Please… When I came back from Afghanistan I… they offered me meds, and I refused. I had never taken ADs before and was not eager, but at some point I realised I needed more help than I thought and I gave it a try. It was not that I liked it, but it smoothed the path a bit, gave me the chance to have more strength for recovering. It was a necessary evil and I think you are at a similar point."

The doctor waited to see if it was the topic of medication that was getting to Sherlock so much, but the other man said nothing.

"Sherlock. I forgave you, but now you must forgive yourself, too."

John felt hot wetness on his face and was grateful that Sherlock couldn't see them. At least he managed to keep his voice in check.

Maybe they should both take something, he thought with sarcasm, this was neither very manly nor very British and proof enough they were both doing the opposite of well.

Sherlock hadn't moved the tiniest bit, and John didn't dare to break the contact to take a closer look at his face. Sherlock would have shoved him away if he had wanted to, though he was tense and passive, not responding at all.

John became worried, had he done the wrong thing? Messed it up even more than it already was?

Then Sherlock minutely let his head sink down and leaned it against the top of his shoulder with the slightest of touch.

John held his breath.

He felt Sherlock trembling and the breathing was sounding more and more strained, like someone trying to suppress fierce emotions by sheer force of will.

When John felt Sherlock lean against him minutely he tightened his grip.

This was good, a tiny gesture of trust and acceptance.

John's heart started to feel lighter immediately.

"Sherlock,… what I said before… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you with that. Yes, I was angry, a small part of me is still angry, but this is not the important part, the other ninety-eight percent of me are not angry any longer. Don't concentrate on those two percents. Let's both just wait until they are gone… They will vanish sooner or later," John tried to do what Mary had suggested, explain his emotions so Sherlock could understand what was going on and not misinterpreting things.

"Don't think this small part it is what I think, or want to hold onto. The important thing is… that you are alive… and to make you… us better and get over hurting about this. You know, almost dying trying to safe me and then kill me by killing yourself is kind of nonsense. And I don't want to be heading into that. And you don't either… Sherlock, I'm sorry I yelled. Those were words of anger, and the anger will be visible sometimes, but it's not what is important."

Sherlock still didn't move. This was the most trusting and vulnerable he had ever seen the man, this was profound.

They stood there, just stood.

Sherlock needed almost three minutes until his breathing finally lost the stuttering rhythms.

Another minute later John felt him sway slightly.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

The detective seemed to fight with something stronger again.

John let go of him to see his face, it was a mask, but the turmoil was clearly visible in his eyes.

"We need to sit down," the doctor whispered and tried to gently guide him sideways to sit on the sofa, but Sherlock refused to move.

"John, I…"

"What is it?"

Sherlock's distress was growing and it started to freak John out.

"I… I did…" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

"What, Sherlock?" John asked, alarmed.

"… something stupid."

"Sherlock?"

When he didn't answer immediately John did something out of impulse, he grasped the other man's lowered head with both hands, careful but determined, and made him look into his face.

"What did you do, Sherlock?" he was well aware there was a lot of anxiety in his voice.

"I… I took morphine… I mean I had a minor relapse… I'm …"

"Shit!" John let go of Sherlock's face and the detectives head sunk low without the touch again.

"Are you high?"

"Not now…. Few nights ago."

"Jesus," John fell into the sofa heavily and pressed his fingers into his eyes, he was feeling kind of sick.

"How much?"

"Small dose."

"How often?"

"Once."

"Really? What else?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, mate. Tell me. Just once is kind of not really believable."

"My secret hoard was discovered and removed before I had the chance..."

"What? By whom?" John remembered Mycroft had been in the flat several times, must have been him then.

"I am sorry."

"Er, Sherlock," the doctor didn't know what to say and looked up at the man still standing in the same position. John stood up and took him by the shoulders.

"Sit down with me."

He shoved Sherlock into the seating and sat down next to him.

John realised he had used the other man's name repeatedly because Sherlock seemed kind of out of it, absent... maybe dissociating slightly. He tried to keep him in the present, but was not sure this was working at all.

Sherlock leaned forward immediately and rested his elbows on his knees, buried his head in his hands.

John watched him closely, sitting on the edge of the seat.

This was so not good.

He was lost for words and shocked. But Sherlock had just entrusted him with something serious.

"Do you feel the urge to go out and get new stuff?... other stuff?"

"I don't know."

At least that was honest.

"Do you think you could tell me if you felt like it?"

"I don't know."

There was a long silence between them, and the not-moving thing on Sherlock's side made John really worried because he was also almost not breathing.

Was he that afraid of John's reaction?

"Why did you take it?"

There was another long silence.

"I needed a break, from all this… from everything, from the world…" Sherlock let his hands sink between his knees and his head sagged even further down.

"When was that exactly?"

"Monday night."

"Oh, bloody hell," John whispered, it was the night he had had kind of a meltdown after a nightmare about Sherlock's fall.

"You heard me, didn't you?"

There was no reaction for long time and John repeated the question.

Sherlock was obviously reluctant to answer.

Finally he just nodded.

"It stressed you so much you needed to dull the pain."

Another nod.

"Oh god, I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to feel sorry about," Sherlock grunted, slightly unnerved, rubbing his flat hands over his face.

"Yes, I do. During the past days I had nightmares every night and I myself am at a point where it would be smart to take some ADs. I decided I'll start as soon as Sarah writes me a prescription. How about you do the same? You're right, you need a bit of a break, something to ease this a bit, something legal and controlled, no drugs but medicine."

There were almost two minutes of silence before Sherlock nodded and John understood he was accepting the suggestion.

"Some mild ADs then?"

Sherlock nodded once more.

"Would you like something else, too?... Anti-anxiety stuff?"

Sherlock shook his head; John had expected that. This was more than he had hoped for and the ADs would be his first choice, too if he was Sherlock. There were still the meds for emergencies John had in store if need arises.

The doctor was relieved Sherlock had agreed on one hand but on the other it made him very uneasy because this really proved how close to the bottom his friend was. Hitting the ground might be fatal… The drugs would need at least two weeks until it worked properly, Sherlock would need someone here constantly, at least until then.

Letting him alone might be really dangerous according to what he had heard a few minutes ago.

John put his hand on the other man's back and rubbed slowly up and down twice to give Sherlock some more comfort, still anxious his hand might be shoved away.

But Sherlock sat up a bit, rubbed his face with his hands again and then leaned sideways – away from John - and sank down on the sofa, his feet still on the ground.

John stood up and made room for him when Sherlock rested his forearm over his eyes.

Then he went and put the kettle on. While it heated up he fetched a wet hot towel from the bathroom and returned to Sherlock's side.

The detective hadn't moved and John tipped his knee to signal him he should lift his legs onto the seat.

Since Sherlock's hand was hanging in the air John gently placed the cloth into it.

"Want some tea?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock nodded and when John headed back to the kitchen he saw Sherlock unfold the cloth and then place it over his forehead and his eyes, which confirmed John's theory that Sherlock was developing a massive headache, probably caused by the tension.

"You want something to help you sleep?"

"John… You know my standard answer to that. I… this is… don't ask me. I can't… I won't. Decide and go with it. Do not ask me, because the answer will always be the same. If you think it needs override, don't ask me, because asking feels like betrayal... or like you want me to refuse."

John's internal jaw dropped. This was quite an interesting statement.

In his world not asking felt like betrayal.

This was about trust, wasn't it?

He remembered the conversation with Lestrade. 'Just do it, he can't ask. Be brisk.'

Sherlock was prompting him to do the same right now!

Why wasn't he able to just say 'yes'?

John realised he had just found another issue he had been too blind to see, though he couldn't quite grasp it.

"But drugging you would also be betrayal."

"Yes."

"That's nonsense. What's the point?"

"No medications like that."

"Right."

Sherlock was the greatest control freak he had ever met. Well, the only thing John was sure off right now was that it meant trust, loads of trust.

The conversation had been quite a roller coaster and he felt quite spent, Sherlock probably wasn't better after his confession.

Since he had learned that Sherlock had taken drugs right in the beginning of their friendship he had wondered about what would happen if Sherlock had a relapse. He had never thought the other man would actually tell him that he had taken anything, especially not if John hadn't noticed on his own.

He had always thought if Sherlock had a relapse they'd shout at each other, Sherlock denying everything. Or that Sherlock would behave as if it was the most normal thing in the world, having none of the fuss John made about it.

This scenario was definitely the last he had expected, as was the choice of drug. Not cocaine to help him concentrate, but morphine to kill the pain - mental pain and maybe a bit of physical pain, too.

It was kind of surrender, first to the opiate and now to John.

On the other hand, this was good, probably the biggest step towards healing since the latest mind palace session, which was much too long ago for John's liking.

Deep in his thoughts, he stood in front of the kettle and it took quite some time to realise the water had started to boil some time ago.

The confidence Sherlock had just gifted him with affected him deeply and he fought tears once more while pouring water over the tea bags.

"You feel safe enough to sleep?" he asked once he was back in the living room.

"I don't want to sleep."

Sherlock had finally lifted his feet onto the sofa and was properly lying down now, thought his lower arm was still covering his eyes. He looked miserable and was trembling a bit.

"Yes, you do," John fetched a blanket and spread it over him.

"When have you last slept?"

John remembered his friend still had his shoes on.

"Some…"

"Yeah?" the doctor flipped back the duvet from Sherlock's feet and removed the shoes. Sherlock dragged his knees up as soon as he was finished and leaned them limply against the back rest.

"Sleep, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock mumbled, clearly exhausted.

"You're welcome," John answered as soon as he had recovered from the surprise about the words.

Saying thank you, that was new, too. Though he wasn't sure what he had done to be thanked for.

"Get some sleep."

"I hate sleep."

"I know, waste of time, stupid, only for normal people," John mocked kindly.

"No… nightmares," Sherlock deadpanned, removing the smile from the doctor's face immediately.

"Alright. Feel free to wake me if they get bad, you know I don't mind, right?… Just knock at my door... or text me."

John was sure Sherlock would sleep like a stone for at least a few hours.

He felt reminded of the moment where Sherlock had fallen out of bed after Irene had drugged him, out of his mind, uncoordinated and vulnerable.

Like back then he padded Sherlock's shoulder.

"And please... wake me if it gets too bad or you feel a certain urge… or if you just want company, we don't need to talk, we can just watch TV or talk about the case."

He expected Sherlock would make a dismissing remark but he just mumbled, "'kay."

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John stayed with him and watched him sleep the entire morning and early afternoon, the news about the relapse heavy in his stomach, but the trust warmed his soul.

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A/N:

I hope this wasn't too fluffy, but I really think Sherlock needed a hug from John after his return. Not too soon because John was still so angry, but in the end of the episode would have been nice. I loved that Greg did it, though.

Please review.