Addictions didn't just stop.
It wasn't just a switch you could turn on and off.
But for some reason Sherlock seemed determined to pretend that it was—just like he tried to control everything else in his life, the damn control-freak.
John fumbled with his key and stumped up the front stairs into the flat.
He'd tried everything he could possibly think of to help Sherlock, said every kind thing he could think to say, and it still hadn't made any fucking difference, because Sherlock hadn't let it.
And now the twat had the audacity to lie around on the sofa, sulking.
Sulking—as if he had any right to consider himself the victim.
He didn't even bloody want to get better. He didn't care what the hell John did for him, because he didn't care enough about anything at all to even try.
And you know—It was probably out of spite, too.
A great big 'fuck you,' spat right back in John's face.
That's what he got for trying.
Because, obviously, he didn't matter enough to be anything important to that cold, distant, indifferent bastard of a detective.
What did it matter that John had sacrificed his own sleep, and social and work appointments, just to be with him when he'd needed it? What did it matter that he'd nearly got himself sued trying to protect him?
Apparently it didn't, because Sherlock clearly didn't give two shits what he felt.
Maybe he'd been right before—maybe he didn't have a heart.
Or at least, not a considerate one.
Sherlock obviously didn't like him enough to let him in. He should have seen that earlier… He'd been given the cold shoulder and he hadn't even realized it.
Well he fucking realized it now.
He'd tried so hard, and it didn't even mean anything. Sherlock didn't want him to care. He probably thought it was all somehow annoying, and irritating, and…
The shallow git.
How self-centred do you have to be to disregard somebody's concern like that…?
He'd just taken all of John's caring and sliced it up and threw it right back at his feet. As if it didn't matter what John thought or felt. Like it was somehow funny.
Maybe that's what it was to Sherlock—some kind of big, twisted joke.
That would be just like him.
Wouldn't it.
John muttered something under his breath about 'selfish arse,' and crossed the living room to the stairs without saying a word to the detective curled on the sofa in the half-darkness. He paused for a moment, and then continued on up to his bathroom, where he went to turn on the shower and get cleaned up.
He'd have to say something, eventually.
They'd have to speak sooner or later.
He'd almost forgotten the things Mycroft had shared with him, days ago, down in the living room. He'd been planning on possibly using them to help Sherlock work through all this, but now it didn't really seem relevant anymore.
Then again…
'Bullied since his first day of primary school, and up to the very last year at uni.'
John paused under the stream of hot water, watching the steam condense on the shower wall and come sliding back down in big, heavy drips.
Sure, it was a sad story, and all, but…
That didn't change the fact that, now-days, adult Sherlock was being a massive pain in the arse.
A pain in the arse who clearly just wanted John to butt out.