Sherlock didn't remember.
He must not have remembered any of it.
In the days that followed there was nothing spoken about what happened, no acknowledgement of the breakdown, or the conversation, or even the fact that Sherlock had shot up out of the blue.
Did he even remember doing that?
He must.
Right?
Regardless, no new lines appeared during the now routine inspections of the detective's arms.
It occurred to John that arms weren't the only places a person could cut, but given Sherlock's disposition he wasn't sure if it would work out so well if he asked to check anywhere else.
Not to mention awkward.
Because even if it were the most standard thing ever, Sherlock could make it awkward.
So he made sure his arms were clean, and took him at his word from there.
He still maintained that he wasn't bored anymore and had quit—but by now John just let it roll off his back, nodding and responding, but not really listening.
Even if drugs were probably the second worst thing Sherlock could have gone back to, John was at least a little indebted to them.
Or at least, to their effects on his best friend.
They allowed him to get a clearer look into what was actually going on inside that brilliant mind, to understand a little bit more of what drove him to…
Do things.
He would never have told him if he were sober.
Someone bumped into him and he looked around, snapped out of his thoughts, but it was just a fellow shopper trying to get past in the crowded grocery isle. He apologized without thinking and moved on, checking his list again.
Milk was next…
His mobile buzzed with a text alert, but at the moment his hands were full and he ignored it. When it buzzed a second, and then a third time, he groaned and shifted his things around in his hands so he could get at his pocket.
Fine…
His brow furrowed as he unlocked it.
3 new messages:
John, please come home. –SH
Now. –SH
Please. –SH
John hoped Sherlock didn't know just how much ice that simple 'please' sent through his veins, or just how fast he put everything down and dashed out to the street to hail a cab.
He fumbled a little with the keypad and managed to type out a hasty response.
Are you okay? –JW
Sherlock? –JW
Why aren't you responding? –JW
Come on! Reply already! –JW
Say something! –JW
The cab had barely stopped in front of 221B before John was out the door and tearing up the stairs. He flung the door open—and stopped where he was.
Sherlock turned his head lazily and glanced at him from where he was lounging in the armchair, cleaning his violin bow.
"Ah, there you are. Took you long enough."
John let out a huge breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His knees were suddenly jelly, and his heart still refused to stop doing backflips.
"SHERLOCK, YOU—DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I—" He gasped and leaned a hand against the doorframe for support. "WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU TEXT BACK?!"
The detective raised an eyebrow languidly at his tone and went back to cleaning the bow. "Mobile dropped under the chair. Couldn't be bothered."
"YOU 'COULDN'T BE BOTHERED'—GOD, THAT'S—WHY AM I EVEN SURPRISED? WHY THE HELL AM I EVEN—"
He didn't even look up. "When you're finished overreacting, you can get me that copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica from the shelf. Third volume."
John stood there, mouth agape, staring at Sherlock's bent head in disbelief. After several long moments Sherlock looked up at him enquiringly.
"Let me get this straight." John spoke firmly and slowly, trying to control the way his blood had begun to boil.
Sherlock nodded, still watching him.
"You… called me here…"
"Mm hmm."
"…From all the way down at the shops…"
"Mm hmm."
"…So I could fetch you the bloody Encyclopaedia."
"Well, that is basically exactly what I just said, yes."
"IT'S HARDLY THREE METERS AWAY FROM YOU! I THOUGHT YOU WERE IN TROUBLE! YOU ARE SO—"
Sherlock just sat there, rolling his eyes and waiting out the storm.
"YOU FUCKING PRAT! I'M NOT YOUR DOG, YOU ARSE! I WAS RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF GETTING THE GROCERIES! I DON'T HAVE TO DO THAT, YOU KNOW! OR I WOULDN'T, IF YOU WOULD GET UP AND DO AT LEAST SOME THINGS BY YOURSELF, YOU IDLE TWAT!"
Hurricane Watson raged on for several more minutes before running out of steam, and all the while Sherlock tapped his bow against his temple, barely stifling a yawn.
When John seemed to have finished spewing abuse Sherlock set his feet up on the coffee table casually and leaned back. "Volume three."
John stumped heavily over to the bookshelf, still cursing under his breath. He stretched up and pulled the large book down from the shelf, pausing from his muttering as something small and shiny came along with it and clattered onto the floor.
He frowned, bending to retrieve the thing, the ice in his blood starting to return.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm? Ah, yes. That." He hadn't even looked up. "You can keep it."
"I can… Sherlock, where did you get this? How long has it been under here?"
"That's hardly important."
"No, it is! I want to know."
Sherlock sighed, still polishing the bow, though it hardly needed it anymore. "Morgue. Been there a week."
A week…
"I haven't used it. I know what you're thinking."
It wouldn't have taken a super genius to figure that one out.
"But you…" John looked from the Encyclopaedia in one hand to the thin blade in the other. "You called me here for…"
"Forget the stupid book, John."
"But…"
Sherlock groaned with impatience and finally set the bow aside, heaving himself up from the chair. "Don't look so confused."
"Well I wouldn't if you could just explain—"
Sherlock sidestepped piles of papers and a cardboard box on the floor and took the Encyclopaedia from John's hands, turning to slip it back into its place on the shelf. "It's not so hard to understand, really." He turned back around. "You said I should come to you."