He waited for nearly an hour before giving up. There was no use in living in constant worry about Sherlock. He never used to care about where his flatmate went off to and what calamities he got mixed up in and there was no reason to continue that now. But he still felt oddly responsible for the man. There was something so childlike and impulsive about his behavior that was no longer accompanied by the endless resources of his former self. He was defenseless and vulnerable and John had absorbed all that fear.
He turned on the television and forced his attention on the news program. It was about the economy and the prime minister but he couldn't focus. All he could see was Sherlock dead on the ground after getting mugged or walking into oncoming traffic and getting hit by a car.
The pain pills were in his bedroom and he simply didn't have the strength to get up and get them. His shoulder ached and his head throbbed. The infection was surely coming back since he'd skipped his last appointment but, deep down, he didn't care. There was something so hopeless and unnecessary about his own health. It seemed secondary to everything else. To care about his own recovery felt far less important. He was the only one tasked with rehabilitating a genius and that was a full-time job in itself.
He sank back in the chair and willed the pain to subside but that only made it worse. The more he tried to ignore it the more biting and agonizing it was. He bit his tongue and tried to hoist himself out of the chair but he wrenched his shoulder just enough to pop his stitches and cause his wound to rub against his shirt.
He yelped in pain and fell back in the chair.
No more.
He stayed put and let the pain flood his body. It was so much easier than trying again.
The door opened and the fuzzy dark figure walked in quietly. John didn't have the energy to speak so he grunted a hello.
"John?" Sherlock said with a hint of concern.
He tried to sit up and appear strong for Sherlock but it was impossible.
"What's wrong? Are you all right?"
The concern was disarming but welcome. He gestured towards his back.
"What can I do?" Sherlock asked as he took careful steps towards John.
He mumbled and pointed towards the bedroom. "Pills. On the table."
Sherlock dropped what he was holding and made quick pace to the bedroom. John hadn't seen him run that fast in months. He must have looked worse than he thought.
Sherlock returned with the pill bottle and a glass of water. He dumped the pills into John's hand and carefully handed him the glass. His movements were so gentle and deliberate and he knelt in front of John the entire time. As he took the pills and drank the water, he felt his head begin to clear. As he focused on Sherlock, he saw such concern in his friend's face.
"Thank you," he said quietly as he handed the glass back to Sherlock who set it beside him and stayed in front of John.
"Do you need anything else?"
John tried to sit up and gain his composure. The look on Sherlock was alarming and meant that he was farther gone than he'd care to be. If he'd gotten to the point where Sherlock, of all people, looked worried then he'd let himself go far enough.
"I'm fine," he said. "Don't worry about me. I just...I was behind on my pain meds and I got sleepy."
Sherlock shook his head. "You haven't been taking these. The bottle's nearly full."
"I forgot…" he said.
Sherlock scowled. "Not acceptable. You need to take them. Otherwise you're just making it worse."
John couldn't believe the words coming out of Sherlock's mouth. "Oh you're one to talk."
Sherlock got to his feet and took a few steps back. "I know. But that doesn't mean-"
John felt a sudden surge of energy as the pain pill's placebo effect on his psyche began to take hold. "No, no, you don't get to play concerned with me now. Where were you when I was in hospital, hm? How about when I stayed up all night because you were medicating yourself with hard drugs and I was worried you'd do something stupid?"
Sherlock looked at him, stunned.
Immediately John felt terrible. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be saying that to you. It's not your fault. I'm just tired."
Sherlock turned and grabbed the sheet of paper from the table. "I took a job."
"You what?"
"I took a job."
"No, I heard you," John said. "I just don't understand."
Sherlock held up the paper. "What is there not to understand?"
John sighed. "What's the job?"
He was afraid that it would be another side-project with Lestrade that would just send them both further and further down the rabbithole. Sherlock couldn't take another disappointment. Another string of failures would kill them both.
"It's with Mycroft."
He couldn't stop himself from laughing. "It's with Mycroft?"
Sherlock looked at him with complete seriousness. "Yes."
"It's just-Mycroft. I mean, are you serious?"
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. It will pay the rent and you can take leave from the clinic."
The clinic.
He'd only told one person about his leave.
This was Mycroft's doing. He'd forced Sherlock into this against his will. John felt such guilt as Sherlock looked mournfully at the paper. "Don't take it."
"It's too late," Sherlock said. "I already have."
"Call him up," John said. "Tell him that I'm more than ready to go back to work. You're not well enough for a full-time job. Especially with your brother."
Sherlock stood and stared at his feet.
He couldn't let Sherlock do this to himself. Working for his brother would be a nightmare. He'd be subordinate to a man that he fundamentally disliked doing a job that he used to be far too intelligent for and now probably could barely accomplish. He'd be miserable.
This was unacceptable.
"Did you hear me?" John asked.
Sherlock looked up with tears in his eyes.
Shit, John thought. It's too late.
"What?" John asked.
Sherlock took a deep breath. "Stop. Stop trying to take care of me."
"Jesus," John said. "That's not what I'm doing."
"Of course it is," Sherlock said. "You're ill. Obviously. Now stop it. I'm doing this."
John sighed. "You're going to hate it."
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath. "You're not doing this anymore. You're not going to die because I'm being selfish. No. So stop."
"Die?" John said with surprise. "Who said that I'm going to die?"
Sherlock looked away. "I can't…not by myself."
John tried to get up and comfort his friend but he still was stuck to the chair. What had Mycroft said? "Sherlock, I'm just tired. I'm not going to die."
"My mother…" he began.
"Your mother had cancer. This is completely different," John said.
"I exhausted her," Sherlock said. "All those years that I was a bother just because I thought it was more fun to be clever than normal. She spent so many years putting out fires. She never got to enjoy herself. And then I finally left and she got ill. It's my fault…"
"I don't have to do any of this, Sherlock."
He looked up with tears in his eyes. "Then why do you?"
The answer came so easily he barely had time to formulate the words. "I'm your friend. I'm your family. I want to."
Sherlock gave the slightest hint of a smile and then held up the paper. "Then that's why I must do this."
John sighed. He was right. Sherlock's sacrifice was no different. "Just don't kill him on your first day."
Sherlock laughed. "I'll try. I make no promises."