"Need anything?" John threw his coat over the back of his chair as he came up the steps into the living room, followed by a sullen-looking Sherlock, who curled up on the couch almost immediately.
"No."
"Right, well…" He cleared a space in one of the cabinets and set a few pill bottles in it. "I'm putting your painkillers and your… other meds in here, okay? Just know that I've counted them all and I'll know if you've taken more than a single dose, so don't do anything stupid."
Sherlock only gave an irritated groan in response.
He clearly still wasn't in love with the idea of taking anti-depressants, even if John, being a doctor, had been able to prescribe them for him without having to go through a clinic.
"Sherlock? There are still some things we have to clear up before we start this officially, okay?" John went over and settled into his chair, tapping his fingers against the arm. "You're going to have to take them once every day, and I'd suggest doing that at night because they might make you drowsy. But that might actually be a good thing, knowing you. It's going to take at least a week for them to start making any noticeable difference. And once you start taking them it isn't a good idea to just stop, because there could be withdrawal symptoms. But first of all… I'm glad that you've agreed to do this, but I do have to tell you that there could be side effects."
He paused for a minute to see if Sherlock was going to say anything, but it seemed the detective was content to just listen, for now.
At least, John hoped he was listening.
"Even if depression is what they're for… in some people it just makes it worse. Sometimes people even… have suicidal thoughts while they're on it. So if you start… you know… tell me. Seriously. Say something."
Sherlock rolled over and looked at him critically. "And you would willingly prescribe that?"
"Well... It doesn't always happen, and if it doesn't then the benefits should outweigh the risks. I'm just telling you so you'll be aware, and we can deal with it."
"Hmph. It sounds counter-productive to me." The detective scoffed and rolled back over on the couch, but he stopped with a little catch of breath.
"Your arm hurts, huh? Here... I'll get it for you, just this once. Don't expect room service or anything, though."
Sherlock grumbled as John pushed himself up and went to the cabinet to retrieve the painkillers.
"I don't want any."
"What?" John paused and turned to look at him. "But—"
"They interfere with my mind. I don't want distractions right now. I don't have any more time for them."
"Sherlock. You do have time for this. What you don't have time for is pain. I'm only going to give you the minimum dose, so you don't have to worry about a repeat of what happened the other day. Doctor's orders. Okay?"
...
Over the next few days the medication did seem to be having some sort of effect on him.
Sherlock was his usual irritating self, just as patronizing and arrogant as he always was.
One morning found John rising early for work, still groggy and half-asleep. He got himself ready and shuffled downstairs for breakfast, blinking in the sunlight coming in through the windows—but as soon as he reached the kitchen he stopped dead.
There was something pooled on the tabletop, dripping off the edge and onto the floor where it splashed onto the linoleum, bright red. Blood had spread out and seeped under the microscope, onto the newspaper, under the plate of uneaten toast, and tinted the shards of broken glass on the table with its vibrant scarlet hues.
A lot of blood.
But not a lot of Sherlock.
"Sherlock?" John could feel his heart-rate skipping, turning quickly to look under the table, out in the living room, in the detective's room, and even in the bathroom, but there was no sign of him anywhere.
The flat was effectively deserted-but where could he have gone?
And how far could he have gotten...?
Deciding there was no time to waste, John hurtled down the stairs and out the door, and nearly collided with a tall mass of dress shirt and jacket on the doorstep.
"John? Going somewhere? Surely you're not that late to work yet, you can slow down a little."
"Sh—" John finally caught a breath and stared up at the detective, unkempt and inquisitive but most certainly not bloody, and definitely not displaying symptoms of blood loss. "Sherlock! What the hell?!"
"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I—the kitchen—on the table, it was all—but you're not—I thought you had—"
Sherlock studied him for a moment, and then understanding dawned in his eyes. "Oh... that. Hmm. No, it's fine, I was simply conducting an experiment concerning the decomposition of blood, in light of our recent case, and the beaker happened to shatter. I didn't feel like cleaning it up, and for some reason the sight of all of it like that compelled me to come out here for a... breath of fresh air, as you might put it."
All the breath hissed out of John's lungs in one massive exhale, and he started to become aware of the surge of adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins, leaving him weak and feeling like his limbs were made of overcooked spaghetti. "Don't... don't scare me like that again. Sherlock? Don't do that."
"I'm not exactly sure what I could have done differently. You're the one who over-reacted."
"I'm not over-reacting! I come downstairs to find something like that and I—I just start imagining things, okay? Just don't do that to me."
...
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
John groaned and rolled over, trying to burrow under the pillow to drown out the noise coming from somewhere nearby. An overly bright light was glaring out from the bedside table, and no matter how hard he tried to block it out the buzzing kept on relentlessly until he was forced to sit up and reach for his mobile, blinking blearily.
He could barely make out the words on the screen.
5 new messages:
John. -SH
Are you awake? -SH
I need you -SH
Come to Tower Bridge, please. -SH
Immediately. -SH
It took a few moments for the meaning of what he'd just read to penetrate into his sleepy brain, but when it did a new rush of questions and worry came crashing down onto his head and he flung the duvet off and went bumping around in the dark trying to get dressed as quickly as he could.
What time was it...?
The blinding face of his mobile told him it was nearly six o'clock in the morning, but the light outside his window was barely there.
Down the stairs and out onto the street, the early morning chill caught him by surprise, but he ignored it in favor of worrying about other, more pressing things. He caught a cab and directed its driver to the bridge, all the while biting his tongue and typing out replies to Sherlock that ultimately went unanswered.
When he finally got out and stood at the foot of the bridge the sun must have begun to rise, but any light was cast in a dull gray tone by the heavy, clinging mist that cloaked everything around him. It hung cold over the bridge, obscuring all but a dim outline of the towers, like great hulking shadows high above him.
But where was Sherlock?
There were few people out and about at that hour, and his footsteps as he hurried out onto the bridge sounded too loud, though they were quickly lost in the mist. He dared to call out a few times, but again, he didn't get an answer.
Why was Sherlock out on a bridge at six am? And why the hell did he need John so badly?
There—another shadow materialized in the distance, and he picked up the pace.
"Sherlock?"
The figure turned, and as he neared him he could just make out the familiar long coat, blue scarf, and messy curls. He was standing by the railing, hands in his pockets, the slight breeze toying with his hair and coat. "Ah, John. Took you long enough."
John tried not to pant too loudly, and took a step toward him. "What are you doing out here?"
"What does it look like?" He had just opened his mouth to tell him exactly what it all looked like when Sherlock waved a hand. "No, never mind, don't answer that. Have you got your mobile on you? Of course you do, you take it everywhere. Hand it over." He held out a hand expectantly.
John just stood there. His mouth may or may not have fallen open.
"Well?" Sherlock twitched his fingers impatiently. "I'm waiting. My mobile was about to run out of battery, but I didn't want to come back to the flat quite so soon, so I might as well borrow yours. I hope you won't mind."
The swirl of adrenaline and worry in John's veins had begun to boil into a fiery blend of magma and acidic poison.
"You. You fucking woke me up at six o'clock in the damn morning, scaring me half to death, just so I could BRING YOU MY BLOODY MOBILE? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?"
Sherlock looked mildly surprised. "Well, I did need a mobile... what if I'd needed to call someone? Mine was dead."
"WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING OUT HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE?!"
"I'm taking a walk, what does it look like?! I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't stand being cooped up inside the flat for another morning, so I went out!"
"YOU'RE KIDDING ME. YOU'RE BLOODY KIDDING ME. I DID NOT JUST RACE ALL THE WAY OUT HERE FOR THIS. YOU WANKER! YOU FUCKING DICKHEAD! YOU—"
...
"You know I did warn you."
"Hmm?" The detective glanced up at him from the couch, with a perfect look of innocence. "Warn me?"
"Yes. I told you I'd counted the exact number of pills that were in this bottle, and I'd know if you took too many."
He sat up, his eyes narrowing. "Is that so?"
"Sherlock. I know what you did. It's no use playing innocent. There are three pills less than there should be in here, and I know for a fact that I didn't take them. So that leaves you."
He grumbled and curled up on the cushions. "I've done no such thing. Don't be ridiculous, John. I've been doing exactly as the 'doctor ordered.'"
"I told you I didn't want you to lie to me anymore, too, didn't I? I'm trying to help you, but if you keep doing things like this—"
"I TOLD YOU I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING!" The rise in the detective's voice was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, and he cleared his throat and straightened his dressing gown.
"Oh? Well then what happened to the three pills, oh great genius?" John snapped, his nerves beginning to wear thin.
"You."
"What?"
"You happened to them. Specifically, you lost them under the couch. Two nights ago. You were exhausted, you dropped the bottle, the pills spilled, you thought you'd picked them all up, but-well." He let one of his arms loll off the side of the couch and tapped the floor with his fingertips. "I'm sure you'll find them under there somewhere. However, with the amount of dust and who knows what else clinging to them I'm not sure how much I'd like to swallow them, now."
John was silent for a moment.
He'd been absolutely sure he'd picked up every single one... So sure...
"Fine. You check." He crossed his arms and glared at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow.
"Me? You're the one who spilled them."
"You're closer."
"Hmm, let me think... no." Sherlock rolled over with a huff and turned his back on the room.
Fine...
John grumbled and deliberately bumped into the detective's shoulder as he bent to look under the couch, and... There.
One, two, three pills.
Just like Sherlock had said there would be.
He probably owed him an apology.
But that would have to come later, when he'd cooled down a bit. And besides, he'd had every right in the world to be worried.
Sherlock wasn't making that any easier for him, either.
...
John stumped up the front steps and into the living room, slinging his bag off his shoulder and tossing it onto the table, just glad to finally be home from work.
He hardly noticed the heavy silence that hung over the flat, and didn't pay all that much attention to the detective hunched in the armchair, very still and focussed. If Sherlock looked up as he came in, he missed it.
He sighed as he crossed over to the kitchen to start a pot of tea. The day had been long and tiring, and it felt hours later than it really was. The early sunset wasn't doing much for that.
The shrill whistle of the kettle, growing slowly in strength, seemed to shake the detective from whatever spell he was under.
"John."
"What is it now?" John didn't bother turning around, too busy pouring his tea and stirring in the milk. He didn't exactly mean to be cross, but he was too tired to filter his words, or his tone.
Sherlock only repeated his name, as if determined to get his full attention.
"I said what?" He finally turned back to him, blowing over the steaming surface of his tea to cool it.
Sherlock was holding something out to him: a pistol, with the butt of the gun toward him carefully.
"...That's yours, isn't it?" John lowered his cup slightly, looking down at it. "What do you want me to take it for?"
"Just—"
"Oh, I see. You want me to shoot somebody for you, don't you?" The little burst of derisive laughter came out of its own accord, and he almost rolled his eyes. "You want me to risk my job, and my life, again, for some case, hmm? Who is it this time? Moriarty? Because I think you could do that just as well as I could. Probably better, since I suppose you could figure out where the hell he's hiding, couldn't you?"
Sherlock leaned forward and pushed the gun toward him. "Take it. I don't like asking you but—"
"You know what? Maybe I'm too tired. Maybe for once I don't want to go off and shoot somebody. Did you ever think of that? Yeah, sorry, Sherlock, but you're going to have to find somebody else for this one."
"John. Stop." The look in Sherlock's eyes momentarily caught him off guard, so intense and unwavering as he stared steadily into John's face. "Shut up and take the damn gun. I'm... having thoughts."