Disclaimer: Not mine, Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC and Sir ACD. Total Wipeout belongs to the BBC and I believe Who Wants to be a Millionaire? belongs to ITV.
A/N: Sorry about slow updates again, this chapter has been rewritten about eight times now but I felt so bad about how slow my updates have been that this chapter is a longer one to make up for it (hopefully I haven't sacrificed quality for quantity!). The other excuse was that I was away in Cornwall in a caravan so I had no internet for a fortnight – it was a bit not good. Anyway next chapter is virtually finished but I just need to tie it into the end of this chapter first.
Thanks for all the fab reviews, I hope I replied to everybody but like I say I had no internet so I apologise if I missed people. Just one thing, I had an Anonymous review (which is fine) that used the acronym 'ANSI' obviously I couldn't reply to it but could someone please tell me what those letters mean? I thought I was pretty well-versed in internet abbreviations but apparently not… :/
Oh and if you're reading this Anonymous, thank you for the review it was lovely and I'm glad you're enjoying it!
Warning for one use of the word 'b*stard' and 't*sser' (I know the second one isn't really swearing but just thought I'd be safe!) Oh and obviously, there are references to drug and alcohol abuse - it suddenly occurred to me that I should have warned about that from the start but I just sort of assumed all of you intelligent people would realise that...
DI Lestrade watched, eyebrows raised, as his companion paid for the drinks and proceeded to down half of his in one go.
"God, I needed that." John sighed, making a satisfied noise in the back of his throat.
Nodding slightly, Lestrade gestured to a table in the window overlooking the Thames. "He can't be that bad, it's only been 48 hours," he protested, sipping his pint and considering. "Actually, forget that. So, what's he done?"
John paused, taking another mouthful. "Not much really – I've barely seen him. He got absolutely plastered last night though, thinks no matter what he does I'll just keep going back because I'm his 'faithful dog' apparently," even Lestrade looked shocked at what Sherlock had said, "oh, I almost forgot! D'you know he actually reckons it's hypocritical of me to have a go at him about taking smack if I'm taking anti-anxiety pi – " John stopped short, glancing warily at Lestrade.
Misunderstanding his hesitation, Lestrade was quick to reassure him. "John, there's no shame in needing help every now and then," he advised kindly, "I can't tell you how many times the shrink at The Yard has suggested pills to me, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, sleeping pills – the lot."
Feigning an intense interest in observing their fellow pub-goers, John inquired nonchalantly, "Did you take them?"
"Well…not really. Got a few bottles of sleeping ones knocking about somewhere, I take them every now and then. None of the others though," at John's pointed look he added hastily "but that doesn't mean I wouldn't if I really needed to!"
"You think I 'really need to' then, do you?" John asked irritably.
Realising he had put John's back up, Lestrade sighed. Smiling placatingly, he said, "Look, nine times out of ten, the cases that I have to go and see the bloody woman about are cases I've worked with Sherlock on. God knows what I'd be taking if I lived with him!"
"I'm not taking them because I live with Sherlock." John protested sharply, finding himself clinging to his foul mood just a little longer.
"Yeah, all right, I know," Lestrade said wearily, shaking his head, "Look, can we not talk about Sherlock bloody Holmes now? If all you're gonna talk about is him, you might as well've brought him with you!" With that, he leant back in his chair and started sipping his beer in stony silence.
John raised his eyebrows and muttered something like "You brought him up!" under his breath. After a few minutes of watching Lestrade out of the corner of his eye, he finally deflated – it had been ages since he'd been out without Sherlock showing up uninvited and Lestrade was missing a perfectly good pub quiz night with his team from the Yard to come for a pint with him. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Sorry, it's just he's…Never mind, let's talk about something else."
There was an awkward silence between them until Lestrade abruptly broke it.
"Did you catch Total Wipeout last night?" He asked cheerfully, as if they hadn't both been sulking for the better part of ten minutes.
"Was that on last night? I thought it was tonight!" John cried, sounding genuinely distressed, "Oh well, I might catch it on the repeat I suppose…anything good happen?"
Lestrade sipped thoughtfully for a minute. "Some obese Welsh woman almost drowned trying to pull herself onto the first pontoon."
John laughed. "What? Is that even an obstacle?"
"Probably not. My round, is it?"
Pulling up outside 221, Lestrade turned the headlights off and turned to John. "Right, well, let me know if you-know-who does anything particularly awful – there must be a few fines or something outstanding that I can get him for, if you like."
Grinning at the semi-serious offer, John glanced at the darkened windows of the flat. "D'you need to come up for a coffee or something?"
"Trying to seduce me, Doctor Watson?" Lestrade smirked.
"Hardly," John scoffed. He sobered, "Seriously though, are you all right to drive?"
"I've made it this far," Lestrade shrugged nonchalantly, "besides, I remember what we found last time I went through your kitchen cupboards."
"Fair point," John conceded, "actually, that reminds me. What's going on with Anderson? I just sort of assumed it was sorted."
"Oh that, yeah it's sorted – he's being pretty decent about it actually, well, as decent as Anderson is about anything. I think Mycroft must've put the frighteners on him. Anyway, he hasn't mentioned it and I'm certainly not going to so…" he shrugged again.
"I never got a chance to tell you earlier, I was in Sherlock's room earlier and – what are you doing?" Lestrade had suddenly shifted to rest folded arms on the top of the wheel and laid his head on them, looking at John blearily.
"Sorry, I've gone tired." He explained sleepily, "ooh, Sherlock's about." He pointed out, watching the flat behind John's head.
"So he is." John agreed, turning to see the silhouette in the darkened living room. "Anyway, I found another stash in Sherlock's room."
"WHAT?" Lestrade sat up so fast his arm accidentally honked his car horn, causing a few lights to switch on in flats nearby.
"He hadn't taken anything as far as I could see. I just thought you should know."
"What the hell is he thinking? That idiot! God, maybe we should just let him go to prison, at least then…" He trailed off, apparently too furious for words. He buried his face in his hands and gave a muffled shout into them, sitting up and running his hands through his greying hair. "D'you know what? I wash my hands! I really do, he's a grown man for crying out loud! I'm finished with him, John. No more cases! If he wants to go off and ruin his life – again – then let him, but he's not doing it while he's my Consulting Detective! And what the bloody hell is that anyway? A 'Consulting Detective'?"
"Erm, he invented it I think," John blinked, somewhat stunned by Lestrade's not-unimpressive outburst. John did not believe a word of it but he was sure it felt good to say.
"'Course he did." Lestrade muttered.
"Anyway, I'd better get in, if you leave your engine running at this time of night much longer people are going to come out and complain and I'd rather they didn't think you were anything to do with me – I still have to live on this street even if you don't," Lestrade obediently turned the ignition off. "And as for giving up on Sherlock, I think I'll stick it out a bit longer – you've had to put up with him nearly six years longer than me and you're still here," he smirked "unless you really are going to wash your hands?"
Lestrade seemed to really consider this question. Finally, he rolled his eyes and matched John's smile. "But no telling him, yeah? As far as he's concerned, I'm still thinking I might shop him, right?"
"How long do you reckon it'll take him to work that one out?"
"Depends how long I can avoid seeing him really," he sobered suddenly, "Seriously though John, I know he's been a complete tosser, but someone needs to talk to him."
"Yeah, I know," John sighed. "I just don't see why it has to be me. You sure you don't want that coffee?"
Lestrade nodded, "Yeah, I've woken up now. Night, John."
John watched him for a minute before deciding he would probably get back in one piece assuming he didn't speed or anything daft. "If you're sure," he shrugged "night, Greg."
John winced as he accidentally bumped into the bannister in the darkened hallway of 221B. Even in his semi-inebriated state, he had realised it would not be possible to enter the flat and make it to his room without Sherlock's knowing it; he had hoped however, to make it there without drawing attention to himself. Apparently, this was a feat far beyond his abilities.
To John's mingled surprise, relief, and disgruntlement, his flatmate remained in the living room, not even acknowledging his presence. John decided that although in this state he felt far more confident about his ability to talk things through with Sherlock, it would probably not have advanced his argument if John himself was half drunk while he attempted to discourage Sherlock from using alcohol and other substances. Resolving to have their discussion first thing in the morning (or as close to morning as his inevitable hangover would allow) no matter how much abuse, sulking or being ignored Sherlock threw his way, John headed upstairs to bed.
As it turned out, John did not get to have his talk with Sherlock the next morning. Or the next. Or the one after that. In fact, after almost a week of not hearing or seeing Sherlock (or his experiments) once despite multiple invasions of his bedroom, which never seemed to look any different, John was beginning to wonder if the younger man might have simply moved out. His anger at Sherlock's words the week before having long since abated (Sherlock had after all been very drunk, not to mention very angry about the raid), John had become genuinely upset about this possibility. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were both reassuring, stating categorically that Sherlock would not have moved out without taking his possessions with him; Mycroft however, was not as useful. Having not so subtly berated him for 'misplacing' Sherlock in the first place, Mycroft had then refused to disclose any and all information regarding his brother's current whereabouts.
Proof of Sherlock's continued presence at 221B came in a most unexpected way. Having used up the last of the milk on his cereal that morning, John had hurriedly scribbled 'Buy milk!' on a piece of paper and stuck it on the fridge before dashing off to work at the surgery. Upon his return that evening, he was astounded to find the milk supply replenished with not only a bottle of semi-skimmed but also skimmed and full fat milk. Puzzled, he wandered out into the stairwell.
"Sherlock," he called surprised, "Did you buy milk?" He shook his head in amused exasperation as the shadow that had appeared upstairs when he called Sherlock's name returned to its room without a word.
Reassured that he still had a flatmate, John wondered whether he ought to now be concerned that Sherlock didn't seem to have eaten or drunk anything from the kitchen all week but quickly dismissed these worries. Sherlock was, after all, a man in his thirties and could hopefully therefore be trusted to eat something eventually if only to stop the hunger from distracting him from the more important aspects of his life.
At about nine o'clock, John awoke from a quite unintentional nap in front of the TV. He was momentarily annoyed at the loud, staccato violin notes sounding from upstairs, assuming it to have been this that awakened him before realising it had more likely been the surprisingly loud buzzing from his mobile phone, which was lying on the coffee table in front of him. Cautiously checking the caller ID, he grimaced.
"Hello, Clara?" He half-asked.
"Hi, yeah it's me," she said wearily. He could tell from her voice that she had been crying. This time three years, six trial separations and one divorce ago, he would have been concerned but now, if he were honest, his interest was largely feigned.
"What's up?" He asked, sitting up straighter and clearing his throat, "What's happened now?"
"Harry's… God, I – John, Harry wants to try again."
"Right," John said vaguely, flicking onto a rerun of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?.
"Well, what do you think? It could work this time, she said she'd been dry for nearly a month now and the rehab is going really well and – "
John scoffed. "What rehab?"
"She said she…oh. Right, okay." clearly struggling no to cry again, Clara took several deep breaths. "Right, thanks John. I'll um…talk to you soon I suppose."
"Clara, I'm not saying she hasn't done it, she just hasn't mentioned anything about it to me." John hurriedly backpedalled, knowing full well that there had been no rehab. "But…I did speak to her last week." He added reluctantly. There was an awkward pause. "Sorry." John told her, as always genuinely regretting having to be the one to set his ex-sister-in-law straight.
"No, it's fine," Clara half-sobbed "s'not your fault your sister's a deceitful little…" she broke off.
"Clara – "
"I've got to go, John. Take care."
Suddenly left with a dial tone, John sat back. Idiot that Sherlock was being now, he had been clean for nearly five years (as far as anyone could tell). At least when somebody had asked him to try, Sherlock had come off drugs – had actually tried to get better instead of hitting rock bottom and just being content to stay there. And, he reasoned, Sherlock had had at least two separate stashes in the flat and not used either of them despite how much he must have wanted to in order to buy them in the first place – not to mention how money he must have spent on them.
John could just imagine what would have happened if Harry had been in a house stocked with alcohol. Suddenly, the fact that Sherlock was in possession of narcotics did not seem nearly as important as the fact that he had not used them. His drunken insults had been hurtful, yes, but Harry had said far worse to him (sober and drunk) – in fact, John had probably said far worse to Harry while he was sober. Almost on cue, his phone buzzed again, this time with a text. Opening it, he raised his eyebrows as he read it. It was from Harry, who was writing to inform him of her opinion of him following his conversation with Clara. It was not complimentary. A wonderful example of Harry being worse than Sherlock, it attacked not only his opinions on Harry's marriage but also John's personality in general, choice of flatmate, choice of girlfriends, decision to join the army, service record whilst over there and career since coming home and finally his height. It also described which orifice she would like him to insert any further opinions in to…vividly.
Turning the phone off, John found himself actually feeling something akin to affection seeping back into his feelings for the detective once more – utter bastard that he had been, at least he had seemed apologetic afterwards (sort of), John would be lucky if Harry even recalled this message, let alone apologised for it.
No longer in the mood for television, John switched it off and retired to his room. "'Night, Sherlock!" He shouted as he passed Sherlock's door.
The violin music paused before resuming in a slower, more melodious piece.
Thoughts?