Disclaimer: I don't own a thing
John, some time later, walks back to the inn almost in a trance. He looks like he's holding it together better than all of them, despite being very recently drugged. That's because the denouement of this case from hell was…familiar. Oh, no, he's not used to chemical weapons and insanity. But having to shoot attackers (never mind it was only a semi-feral dog) and seeing people explode? He's more inured to it than any person should have to. He doesn't lose it. If anything, Frankland's gruesome death snaps him back to sanity, or whatever passes for it in the army.
At the moment, Henry looks as if he's not sure that what he's seen is actually reality or just another nightmarish delusion, hoping to blink it away. Lestrade is shocked, his breath loud next to him. Can't blame the inspector, he might be used to dead bodies, but seeing someone alive get ripped apart is something else. Your first one always hits you hard. At least, this time it's not a friend. Sherlock…Sherlock is still way too close to the minefield, and John is tempted to march to him and drag him to a safer place. Instead, he allows the sleuth to stare to his heart's content as long as he keeps perfectly still, eyes roving over the scene. Probably cataloguing the area the body parts covered in relation to the presumable charge, or some other such madness.
In the end they all shake the scene off and retire though – not much to do there, what with their villain being strewn on a considerable radius – and if John is a bit of a walking, not-talking flashback in the process of happening, well, at least this means he doesn't need help, because he's not sure anyone is in a state to provide it anyway.
After realising that there was no waking up from it, Henry threw up in the most spectacular way possibly and then…well, John assumes that Lestrade helped him crawl back home. He's bound to help people after all, and out of all of them, was the one who'd been less involved and so was less weary. The therapist waiting for him at his house will also gain a pretty penny tonight for sure.
This leaves him and Sherlock alone, or…how was that joke's punchline? "They're two, and we're alone." Because after his betrayal, there's no way that he would ask Sherlock fucking Holmes for help to deal with the…the whole matter. And as much as he would, in any other circumstance, care about his, well, even only his flatmate's (if their relationship was straightforward like that) reaction to the experience, he's in no condition to help anyone right now. Thanks to the fucker. And he's not going to get in the car with him, thank you very much. The dog is dead, the minefield is behind them, he has a pair of perfectly serviceable legs and the consulting git has proven beyond any reasonable doubt that he's likely to be a danger rather than a companion in times of need.
Besides, being 'out in the open' forces him to not have a breakdown (bless training, again) so feeling exposed actually helps him to keep his wherewithal until he'll be back in his room. There have been enough hysterics today. Frankly, there have been enough hysterics for a whole year, but John knows better than hope for quiet from tomorrow onwards. Not without moving out of the house, and his stubborn streak – of which generations of Watsons have been proud – won't let him flee the place. Not until the 'thing' with his idiot…mate resolves one way or another at least.
Yep, it would help if they talked about it, but John has always thought (and too many events reinforced that idea) that actions speak louder than words. And it's rarer to lie through them, as few people bother to put in the effort anyway. He's always trusted – always loved, to be honest – that they needed no words. A look, a nod, and the detective would read his mind. And frankly, while Sherlock often seems to fall in an 'open mouth, insert foot' routine, his actions aren't usually malicious. Well, weren't usually malicious. Seriously, what the fuck got into Sherlock today?
Well, it's not like he can ask now. Possibly not ever, because not asking questions whose answers you can't stand to hear is always a good policy. At least, the drug doesn't seem to have affected him physically. He arrives at the inn in a good time (though of course Sherlock's car is already there), pointedly ignores the concerned look from the one of the owners behind a desk at the moment, and marches upstairs to his own room.
Once there – safe, as much as he can be – he finally breaks, again. He throws up what little is in his stomach – and then some more, for good measure. He curls up in a ball of misery because fuck it, he'd trusted Sherlock with his life so many times, and apparently he'd been wrong all along.
He knows he's rejected, knows he's not up to genius Holmes fucking standard, but – He'd never believed the man when he claimed sociopathy, because his manipulation always seemed to be limited mostly to case matters. How had poor lovely Molly's treatment not tipped him off? He's told himself Sherlock hurt people unintentionally, nine out of ten. He's tried helping, becoming his social niceties teacher if he couldn't be a proper soulmate.
Now he's here, in this tiny room in a stupid inn in a godforsaken place, and he's not just admitting he's been wrong, he's reconsidering Donovan's warnings. At the same time he's wondering if next step in his flatmate's plans, after using him, is killing him (and using his body parts for further experiments, no doubt), he knows he's not going to leave Baker Street.
Not just because he's too stubborn to save his life, but because a part of him – a small, defeated, but insistent part of him, chirping about paranoia and 'maybe not the best idea to make major life decisions now, buddy' - insists that this whole fuck up is not a symptom of a major trend. Donovan is insufferable and envious, and unlikely to be right even about the time of day.
Too exhausted, physically and mentally, to argue with himself much further, John throws his clothes to the floor, and showers as accurately as he can. He was outside the radius of the blast this time, but he's been hit by human remains after a mine went off often enough (honestly, even once is more than enough) that he's not certain he'll ever feel clean again.
When the hot water runs out, he shivers and deems himself as cleansed as he'll ever get. A quick drying, and he falls in bed, eyes closing almost instantly. Now, if only his brain would shut down just as quickly…. It's not even that sleep doesn't come, because it does. He's too drained for insomnia. But his dreams, if you can call it that, ensure that there will be no true rest to be had.
Predictably, he's back on the battlefield, the Afghan sun beating ruthlessly down on him. As if remembering lost friends isn't bad enough, though, now his brain conjures Sherlock – in a uniform rather than his signature coat, and just as argumentative. At least, he doesn't outrank Captain Watson – that would really be a bit much. But dream Sherlock still refuses to listen to orders first, and pleading later (because John doesn't mind his own pride more than keeping his men safe). Obviously, that attitude gets the sleuth killed. No points for deducing how.
John wakes panting, heart in his throat, at 4 bloody AM, and curses everyone with the most florid language he can think of. From their poor helpless client, without whom they wouldn't know about this whole mess in the first place, to the inn owners and their brilliant (ah!) idea of cashing in. Everyone in the stupid base – scientists and military personnel – with their insane experiments (seriously, what the fuck) and their worse plans for their application.
The Major knew about Frankland's past. At this point, it wouldn't surprise John if the researcher had let the other know what he was planning. Not even war could shake his faith in the inherent goodness of people, until proven otherwise, but this…these people home and safe and supposed to be the best in their fields, and yet still thinking playing god is the best idea since sliced bread…can a rotten apple be a whole research center? Or are human fundamentally monsters, only behaving because they know they can't get away with it? No, no, people are not monsters…it's the paranoia, isn't it? He's still somehow under the influence.
That brings him to even more creative curses, against the bastard he lives with for some reason. Well, that reason looks mostly like masochism right now. You always discover new things, even about yourself. He would have sworn this wasn't his kink.
John opts to wash his face, the water freezing cold. Hopefully, it will shock the nightmare out of him. And if it wakes him up too…who cares. It's not like he hasn't lost plenty of sleep in his life. It might help, actually. He's not sleepwalked yet, never been one, but with the drug, who knows what might happen. It's not like the research on it ever concluded properly, so one can't be sure of all the possible side effects. And when one is a former soldier with a gun in his side table, possibly sleepwalking during another nightmare/flashback episode, in an inn full of people, is not an option.
He has killed people before, of course. But they all deserved it. And even if Sherlock might quip that getting rid of a few monster chasers might be favourable for the human gene pool at large, the blogger doesn't feel incline to smile. He needs to purge himself – of the drug, of his anger…of a soulmate who sees him like a guinea pig. Or a beagle, maybe. They did experimentations on beagles, didn't they? Even in the world out there, not at Baskerville where they have no compunction toward any living being. Someone that follows you, wags his tail at you, if you only let him…and despite that, you experiment on them, because it's all they're good for in the end.
Still, the idea of actually cutting ties with Sherlock is intolerable. Fuck. A thousand times fuck. Someone up there hates him, doesn't He? Why would they tie him to the insane genius otherwise? What has John done wrong to deserve being treated like this? He's never really believed in reincarnation, but you know, maybe he was Mengele in the past. It would explain why despite everything he tries nobody seems able to bring themselves to love him. Not his family, not so many flings, and not even his fucking soulmate, for whom he's evidently disposable.
One good thing is that at least the violent instincts from before seem gone. He's just…so…tired. And not (well, not only) because it's the crack of dawn. Just tired of…everything. Puzzling over things. Trying to figure out how to become worthy. He's himself, and Sherlock is Sherlock, and maybe that's why the universe threw them together – the one who has no idea how to love and the one who doesn't deserve to be loved. (Fuck the universe!)
Well, he has plans now. He'll just forget they're supposed to be tied to each other, stop obsessing about what to consider the detective, and treat him as obviously the man wants to be. They're flatmates, sometimes colleagues. He'll be civil. He'll even make small talk about experiments, whether or not he's involved in them in any capacity. And if he happens to take a few more shifts at the hospital, well, he's always been strapped for cash, and a man cannot always rely on borrowed money, no matter how nonchalantly it's offered.
When it's finally proper morning (and a decent hour to eat, he's ravenous, considering how long he's been awake already) he doesn't wait for Sherlock. Doesn't try to find him. Just orders the biggest breakfast on the menu…and of course, that's when the detective comes to the common room, too.
Considering how bad he's glared at, despite having the foresight of bringing a peace offering, the sleuth seriously considers for a minute just turning away. Waiting it out. Possibly days. Despite the crowd of hound-chasers, it's unlikely that the owners will have urgent need of his room in the nearest future. Especially if news of the monster being just a (now dead) dog will spread as quickly as that of its existence.
Okay, to be fair, maybe bringing him a cup of coffee might not have been the best idea. Not after he drugged the last one. But the case is finished, so there would be no reason for him to adulterate this one. He might not adhere to most people's ethics, but his actions are always logical. Now, next step – distract John with meaningless chatter. That will make him have a sip (his blogger really is inattentive with his mouth when otherwise busy), so he will finally figure out that it's unsweetened and untouched in every way.
The doctor's caretaking routing includes offering food and drinks all too often, so of course Sherlock would model his own behaviour after him. Whom else does he have to imitate? Mycroft's overbearing kind of 'care' is annoying, and the last thing he wants right now is to annoy John even more.
Now, if only he was adept at small talk – he can do so, somehow, when he's in character, some dull persona obscuring his nature. But right now, pleasantries on the weather or some other idiocy are as far from his mind as the cycles of comets. The case is the only thing his struggling neurons can find for a friendly chat. After all, they're going back home, and there's no way he will live with an outraged John Watson, or – worse – one who gives him the silent treatment. Fine, using him might have been cruel (teen!Sherlock is still whimpering that they made a horrible, awful, unpardonable error) but John has been more attentive towards Henry than his…colleague, at least. The blogger should have expected some kind of retaliation.
So of course they end discussing the poor dog who's been just another of the innocent, manipulated victims of this mess. The one the detective sympathises with the most, actually. While humans should be able to reason and figure out what's wrong (even their client, however empty-headed, looked for help because he knew something was fishy), the poor hound trusted his owners – and they abandoned him, once he didn't behave – because they left him in an area chockfull of airborne drugs. Sherlock is sorely tempted to ensure they will be somehow punished.
Instead, he states the obvious (which seems to be the whole point of small talk) and ignores when John implies he has no idea about what feelings might make someone refuse to put a pet down. No, worse than ignores – he agrees with his blogger. Because explaining he actually has a heart, is capable of caring – for a pet, another human, even a silly skull – would take too long and this morning is not for arguing. It's for soothing John after what he's gone through.
As usual, Sherlock's timing is the worst. Because, if talking about the case – as expected – distracts John enough to drink (really, it's a wonder how the man hasn't been deadly poisoned before meeting the detective), it also means that his own actions during the investigation are open to discussion.
And well…he should have known better. He suffered the effects of the H.O.U.N.D. drug first, and knew how downright terrifying it was. The detective needs to defend his own choices, because admitting that he might have taken a decision under the influence of the very same drug would undoubtedly cause John to further escalate his reaction.
So, as much as it hurts him to keep the façade up, it's still his best bet pretending to be a mad scientist. One that would not be out of place in one of the superhero movies that John seems to believe are necessary in everyone's life. Because "I was drugged, upset, bitter and vengeful, and I blame the first for the others, because the idea of punishing you would have never entered my brain before. Not for the very reasonable choice of wanting to ignore their bond. He's a fucking junkie (well, former junkie, but don't they say once one, always one?), he should be able to realise when he's still high. He should know that following his instincts is a really bad idea when he's not logical. (Teen!Sherlock is quietly whimpering in the background that this whole case has been a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and should never have happened. None of this.)
Well, at least John has one satisfaction for the day – slapping in the detective's face (not literally, even if after what he's done, maybe he deserves it) that his deductions were wrong. While John was drugged, it wasn't the sugar. Which means his…partner in investigation (let's settle on that) endured disgusting – for him – sugared coffee for nothing. Honestly, Sherlock still can't imagine how anyone can stomach their coffee entirely black, but that's just one more of John's quirks.
Actually, the whole reason John was dosed is probably that Sherlock warned the base of his intent. A forewarned Frankland might have thought that arranging a leak in the pipes would confirm the sleuth's preconceived notions, and point suspicions towards anyone who still habitually frequented Harry's home. Still, if the scientist thought that the consulting detective would take the evidence of John's breakdown and not further personally analyse the sugar to detect the exact kind of poison, he gave the sleuth a truly minimal credit. Especially for a self-professed fan.
Since he can't react, not in the way he wants to, at least, the sleuth decides to leave. John had his chance to yell at him, and if necessary, they'll rehash the argument at home. Sherlock has a feeling that 'remember that time you dosed me with a drug that made me paranoid and I still had to ensure you didn't get eaten right after' is going to became a standing accusation for as long as they'll be together (hopefully for a long, long time, but frankly, his terrified teen self has serious doubts on the matter).
Anyway, he's got enough of being apparently nonchalant, but actually taking his tongue-lashing quietly, no matter how deserved. He has his own grievances to make, and he's determined to make them known before leaving. It's not something that a bad review on Yelp is going to settle.
Luckily, the English language is delightfully ambiguous, and loves its euphemisms, some of which are, honestly, bizarre from an objective point of view. With a long trip ahead of them, John will wave off his going to see a man about a dog. That Sherlock might be literally headed to discuss a dog won't come to his blogger's mind.
The inn owner is his usual, overly cheerful self and smiles dumbly at him, despite the detective's frown. "Something I can help you with, sir? Maybe a dessert to sweeten your other half up?" the man asks.
As if there hasn't been enough sugar in this damned case. That the idiot has the gall to discuss his relationship's status, and to point out it's not so good at the moment to boot, makes obvious why they needed a sales' boost. It's a wonder that anyone tolerates them. Sherlock snaps, "He's fed quite enough. I'm here to lodge a formal complaint about the matter of the dog."
"Uh…the inspector told us what happened. I apologise, I would have never thought that he'd actually attack people. He was such a sweet puppy, and then…" the owner mumbles. A hand is rubbing his nape, eyes fixed somewhere at his left.
The sleuth cuts in, "And then you left him wander in an area filled with a gas that made people paranoid, and while this could be understandable, because you weren't aware of it, you abandoned him when he became hard to control. Not brought him to a veterinary to see if his new behaviour was due to some kind of illness, not even kept him contained to make sure he didn't hurt anyone. Just barricaded your own door and left him to wander and starve and possibly hurt the very people you used him to attract, if John's aim wasn't so true. I'm pretty sure there is a violation of the law there. Maybe a couple. I don't really deal with pets often, so I can't give you the exact data, never needed to…but your behaviour was absolutely sickening. I'm disappointed you didn't murder any human, you know – at least there I'd know what you could expect." For someone supposed to be too affectionate towards their pet, they have an odd way to demonstrate it.
"Why…what…you can't be serious!" the owner blurts out, gaping in shock. "You're going to ruin us, and it's not like we drugged it, that's on…whoever! You said it, we didn't turn him paranoid! How were we to know just letting him wander was dangerous? Try to be rational here!"
"Rational?" Sherlock hisses, and at least the other has enough good sense to look as if he's seriously tempted to take cover under the counter. "I'm perfectly rational. I'm not accusing you for your dog sickness. I'm accusing you of doing sod all about it. As his owner, you had a duty to care!"
For some reason , inner Mycroft picks exactly that moment to pipe in, "Oh my, my. Being around that soulmate of yours made your language absolutely foul, didn't it? What would our parents think of you?"
Too busy having a row in real life, Sherlock shuts his absent brother up with a "Fuck you, too," which makes the mental projection raise his virtual eyebrow. At least, he does disappear.
Honestly, the consulting detective isn't even sure why he's so furious. Maybe it's that last line he uttered – John and he were both expected to care for each other, weren't they? They've more than let each other down. Especially in this case. Since he can't protest it, he'll protest about this. As vehemently as he pleases, thank you very much.
"I…well…it's dead anyway, now. If I could emend myself, I would do so happily, but – what can I do that would you, you know, not press charges? I mean, I'm still not entirely sure they would stick. As you said, animal law is not your field of expertise, but – we want our clients to be happy, of course," the owner says, in fits and starts, looking around to ensure no other clients are witnessing the sleuth's rant.
Sherlock wants to growl, "Nothing," text Lestrade immediately, and let him direct his charges to the proper people. Actually, Lestrade knows, too, so even if the detective agrees to be silenced there's a chance things would procede anyway…but he doesn't trust the DI to realise the (for him) obvious truth behind these people's excuses. But there might be a way to hurt them that doesn't depend on anyone else seeing things his way (he's all too used to assume people will be idiots anyway). "I will not contact the authorities…if you own up to your actions on your own website."
"But!" the other whimpers. The monster chasers would be furious because of their scam, and the vegetarians they specifically cater to downright outraged by the exploitation of a pet until it was ultimately killed.
"John is going to write about the case anyway. How much detail he'll have to go in depends from your actions, even if I decided you aren't worth pursuing," the detective warns, shrugging.
He ignores the man, who seems to have lost all words, but is giving him his best puppy look in a last attempt to make him change his mind. As if that would work on him! Sherlock rushes back out. If he dillydallies much longer, John is bound to wonder if he's sick, and the last thing he wants is to be caught having this discussion. Besides, it's not like he can talked out or bought. Might as well leave before the other man thinks to try. He's less wound up, and ready for a long trip of John possibly (probably) continuing to grouse without snapping himself.