Hello again, everyone! :) I'm so glad you all enjoyed the last chapter. We're switching things up a bit with this one, going to Dr. John Watson's point of view. I hope you enjoy!
John Watson was a busy man, especially now that there was a baby in the house.
Mary had gone into labor exactly twelve days before her due date. They were in no way, shape, or form prepared for the sixteen hours of pain and agony that would follow, only to end in an emergency C-section. But Mary was alright and more importantly their beautiful daughter was healthy as could be.
Ella Scott Watson.
Ella for Mary's mother that she'd never see again.
Scott for Sherlock.
John felt anger boil up in him as he walked through the convenience store. John had searched every back alley for that man the moment he'd disappeared. He'd gone to every single one of his bolt holes, including that horrible empty house that held so many bad memories for him, and Sherlock hadn't been at a single one. He tracked down people in Sherlock's homeless network, starting with Bill Wiggins, but no one had seen or heard from him.
John went to the drug house he'd found Sherlock in the first time every weekend to see if he would turn up there.
There was no sign of him.
He'd had to slow down on his search for Sherlock when Ella had been born, but that didn't mean he wasn't still looking.
John stopped as he reached the display of mobile phones. He'd had the misfortune of dropping his into a bath tub… In his defense, he had been awake all night with a screaming infant. He'd already gone three days without it and seeing he was going back to work soon; he knew it would become a necessity for him to have one again. Although he eyed up one of the fancier models, he settled for one that was more within his budget.
John pocketed the phone, not bothering to connect it with his old number just yet. He wasn't in a rush to talk to people yet. In fact, he'd been overwhelmed with how many people had tried talking to him since Mary had had the baby. He'd written up a blog post about it and hadn't stopped getting emails since.
It was as John was about to exit the store that he saw it.
A copy of The Sun with Sherlock's face plastered across it.
John's heart skipped a beat at first. The man looked half dead. John didn't remember walking over and picking up the newspaper, it was as if the floor stretched and then shrank in order to bring him closer to the newsstand.
The full-color picture was of a version of Sherlock John had never seen before. One was from the front and the other from the side. A mugshot. Sherlock's skin looked paper thin as though his cheekbones would simply poke through with the slightest movement. His hair was long and matted together, the usual curls starting to look more like dread locks. A thick scruff covered his chin, upper lip, and part of his cheeks.
But what bothered John most were his eyes.
His eyes looked haunted. The eyes that usually held mischief and curiosity were red rimmed and bloodshot. The shades of purple in the bags beneath them were almost black. He looked as though he hadn't slept in months.
The headline read, "SHERLOCK HOLMES ARRESTED DURING DRUGS BUST."
John's sympathy was then gone, the red hot rage boiling up in him again. All that time, John had hoped and prayed, even, that Sherlock was off trying to solve the case of Moriarty's mysterious return. John probably would have punched him, told him he was an idiot for trying to solve this on his own, but John would have easily forgiven him. John had even feared for a time that Sherlock had been abducted and was off in some dark basement somewhere getting tortured or something. But no. Sherlock had been on a cocaine and morphine and god-knows-what-else binge this whole time. The list from the airplane flashed into his mind. If Sherlock had managed to take all those drugs at once, he couldn't imagine how much drugs he could have pushed through his system in four month's time. John's grip tightened on the newspaper, crumpling it in his hand.
He had to go see Mycroft.
John was so caught up in his thoughts that he left the store with the tabloid in his hand, forgetting to pay for it on his way out.
John managed to wave down a taxi as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began to fiddle with it. Once he slipped into the back seat and instructed the cabbie to take him to the hospital Mycroft was in, he pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and completed the instructions so that his new mobile would connect with the number belonging to his now waterlogged and useless one.
As soon as his phone connected to his network countless notifications poured in from Lestrade.
Five (5) missed calls from DI Greg Lestrade.
Donovan found Sherlock in a drugs bust. Some drug den in Chelsea. –GL
One (1) missed call from DI Greg Lestrade.
Donovan's gonna bring him in for booking. Did you want to see him? –GL
He's going to have to stay here until his bail's been posted. Don't know who's going to do that, but I know it's definitely not going to be me. –GL
John, you there? –GL
Three (3) missed calls from DI Greg Lestrade.
One (1) voicemail from DI Greg Lestrade.
Call me when you get this, mate. I know you're busy with the baby and all. –GL
John cussed quietly to himself as he scrolled through all the notifications. Of course on one of the three days he didn't have his phone would be the one day where Sherlock was found. It just caused his anger to rise even higher. He typed out a text to Lestrade: Sorry, Greg, my mobile was out of commission. I'm on my way to see Mycroft to discuss Sherlock. JW
He then also sent a lengthier text to Mary, explaining to her that Sherlock had been found and he was swinging by the hospital to chat with Mycroft.
The cab pulled up to the hospital and John quickly paid the cabbie before hopping out, shoving his mobile deep into his pocket. He squared his shoulders and straightened his coat as he stood in front of the hospital, mentally preparing what he was going to say to Mycroft. They couldn't bail Sherlock out. They just couldn't. Sherlock needed to spend some time in jail to learn that consequences came with his actions. Then they'd send him to a nice rehab center where he could dry out. Something nice and professional. John nodded to himself as he pressed the correct floor on the lift. The door closed and it began to make its journey up four floors.
That's what they had to do. It was the only way Sherlock was going to learn. Yes, it might be a bit cold to let him rot in jail for a bit and yes, rehab might not be the best option, but it was all about sending a message to Sherlock. If one acts like a child, you must treat them like a child. Yes, that was a good line. He'd have to say it sternly.
John gave a small wave to the nurses at the desk on Mycroft's floor. John reached Mycroft's door and took a deep breath in before pushing it open, ready to deliver the speech that he'd mentally prepared, the copy of The Sun still clutched in his hand.
But he stopped dead in his tracks as he saw Mycroft was not alone in his room.
Mycroft hurriedly put a finger to his lips.
John opened his mouth to speak, … closed it.
Sherlock was curled into the chair at Mycroft's side, a pillow supporting his head and draped in a large blanket. He was obviously deep asleep, soft snores leaving his slightly parted lips.
John swallowed and looked back at Mycroft, all anger immediately gone at the sight of his broken looking friend. "How long has he been here?" he asked in a low voice.
"Since yesterday." Mycroft replied in an equally quiet voice. "He's been asleep since about six in the evening, yesterday."
John glanced at his watch. It was nearly noon. He carefully walked to Sherlock's side, tossing the forgotten newspaper onto the foot of Mycroft's bed. John carefully gauged Sherlock's temperature by placing his wrist to the detective's forehead. He then took Sherlock's limp hand and took his pulse. "He's burning up." John informed Mycroft. "Heart beat is rapid as well."
Mycroft didn't get a chance to speak before Sherlock did.
"Молимо вас." He whispered. "Mолимо вас, mолимо вас, mолимо вас."John's brow furrowed together in confusion. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but they were moving quickly beneath his lids. He was dreaming. "What's he saying?" John asked, looking over his shoulder at Mycroft.
Mycroft only managed to hide some of his concern. "It's Serbian for 'please.'"
John took several steps back from his friend, putting his hands in his pockets. His eyes turned to the floor before he spoke. "I came here to tell you to put him in a rehab center after he got out of jail." Sherlock continued to whisper in Serbian as John and Mycroft had their conversation.
"I didn't bail him out." Mycroft said, repositioning himself on his bed. His gown slipped slightly and John saw the beginning of the incision where the doctor's had cracked open his chest. "My assistant did. She also brought him here. He hasn't been much trouble… but he is going through withdrawal, as you so keenly noticed already."
"They're going to get worse." John observed.
Mycroft nodded. "Mm yes, they are. I've helped him through them before but… I don't think I can this time." A look crossed Mycroft's face, but John couldn't interpret it.
The words left John's mouth before he had time to process them fully. "I'll look after him. I'll take him to my place. He can dry out on my sofa. Not here in a cramped chair."
Mycroft smiled knowingly. "I was hoping you'd say that, Doctor Watson."
"But I'll need medical equipment." John hurriedly added. "He'll need an IV, possibly some pain medication, but nothing too strong that will add or continue to his addiction."
"Make a list." Mycroft said, motioning towards a notepad on the table beside his bed. "It'll be at your house by tonight."
John stepped forward and took the notepad, quickly scribbling down everything that came to mind. As he scribbled he glanced up at Mycroft's own monitor. His vitals hadn't exactly improved much either. "Have your doctors said when you'll get released?" he asked quietly, continuing to write.
Mycroft examined John for a moment before answering, "Two days from now as long as nothing else happens."
John nodded. "I'm sure they're doing everything they can." Mycroft simply hummed in response. John gave Mycroft the notepad. "Right, well… I guess I'll take him home with me then."
"Good luck."
John turned to face Sherlock and gave a heavy sigh. He cursed his damn heart for being too big.
Disclaimer: I don't know Serbian, but that's what Google Translate said 'please' was. :)
