[Author's Note: I should really space out these updates more so I have more time to plan my endgame, but I have no restraint. In the meantime, look up the clip of J.J. Abrams on Conan O'Brien to see footage of a Benedict Cumberbatch shower scene from the new Star Trek movie that didn't make it into the film. I would post a link, but...you know this site. It's in notes for this chapter on Archive of our Own if you can't find it. You're welcome.]
John opened the door to the flat, his heart in his throat, his pulse hammering. Cold water trickled down his neck from his hurried walk in the rain, umbrella left behind at the office.
Half-expecting to find the flat empty, he was almost as startled as Sherlock was.
"John!" Sherlock had been sitting at the desk but he jumped up, his pale eyes wide. "Why are you here? You shouldn't have come..."
The relief of seeing Sherlock faded instantly as John's eyes scanned both Sherlock and the flat, seeing the evidence as if it was emblazoned in neon. He hadn't yet. But he was going to.
John swallowed, turning around and closing the door carefully behind him. He stared at his hand on the doorknob for a moment, reluctant to turn around and face whatever would happen next.
"John?" Sherlock asked softly, but he didn't approach.
John turned around, leaning heavily back against the door. God, his leg ached. "Just...don't."
"I don't know what you...I just got out of the shower..."
John's bark of harsh laughter seemed to shock them both into silence. He looked away from Sherlock, struggling for control. "Do I really need to spell it out for you, the great detective?" John spat bitterly. "Not only are you dressed for the first time in days, and in clothes you would never wear unless you were trying to put on some sort of disguise, but your shoulders are wet — not down your back from wet hair, but evenly across your shoulders from rain. There's a wet shoeprint on the carpet. You just got back."
He could see the fine tremor shaking Sherlock's hands, and then Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, visibly gathering himself. The quicksilver eyes gazed at him defiantly. "Fine. I knew you wouldn't like it, but John..."
The blood pounded harder in John's temples, and dammit he could see Sherlock assess his response and fluidly change strategies, trying to placate now. "John, I knew you wouldn't approve, but I thought it would be beneficial at this juncture to check in with my homeless network."
And then Sherlock smiled. Not the shy quirk of his mouth, or the sudden genuine grin John was privileged to see on very rare occasions. This was the unnatural grimace, the flash of the teeth and dead eyes that Sherlock used on witnesses and patrol officers who got in his way. The one he thought was reassuring, because John had never had the heart to tell him that it simply put peoples' teeth on edge. It was his sociopath's smile and John hadn't seen it aimed at him since their first meeting, when Sherlock had warned him that potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, flashing that empty smile as if to emphasize the point.
In three quick strides John was in front of Sherlock, crowding him back against the desk. He could feel the rage building, howling to be set free. "Don't. Don't you dare put on that fucking mask and don't you dare lie to me again."
Sherlock's eyes skittered away guiltily. "John..."
"This. Body. Is. MINE!" John roared, not even realizing he had bodily shoved Sherlock up against the wall until he was crushed against him, his mouth smashing into Sherlock's with bruising force. The kiss was cruel, a punishment, John plundering Sherlock's gasping mouth with total possession, one hand tugging painfully at his hair while the other wrapped around the hollow of his spine, crushing him even closer.
Sherlock keened a high whine into John's mouth and John suddenly came back to himself as if cold water had been thrown over him. He tore himself free of Sherlock, tottering back a few steps. He licked his lips nervously and tasted the coppery tang of blood. It made his stomach churn.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," he breathed. He closed his eyes. He pushed the anger down, his whole body prickling with cold sweat.
He limped to the other side of the room, cursing the hitch in his step, just wanting to put as much distance between himself and Sherlock as possible. He leaned his forehead against the far wall, pressing his hands against the rough plaster, blinking back angry tears from his eyes. Sherlock remained silent.
"I've been a bloody fool," John finally said, his voice rough. "Here I thought Mycroft was playing matchmaker, and maybe he was, but that's not all there was to it, was there? There always has to be layer upon layer of ulterior motive with you two, doesn't there? Mycroft wanted you here instead of some secure location because he knew that I..."
"That you what, John?" Sherlock's voice was sharp and thin.
John steeled himself. He turned around, leaning against the wall, hoping his leg would hold out at least until this was through. "That I wouldn't tolerate an addict," he spat. Sherlock flinched and the word seemed to hang in the air between them, stark and brutal. It hurt too much to even look at Sherlock, his face angry and yet so vulnerable. John closed his eyes. "Not anymore," he said, half to himself. "Not after my father, not after Harry." He forced himself to look at Sherlock again. "I won't do it, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes met John's for just a moment before sliding away again. "It's a neural enhancer, John I'm getting nowhere, I need it, I need it to think..."
"It's a fucking Class A drug, Sherlock, and you brought it here, to my flat!" He felt the rage rising up again and took a deep breath, trying to tamp it down. "After all we've done to keep you hidden, you left the flat, for this, for drugs. Some ratty pusher knows where you are and what you look like, and if this..." John took a breath, shaking with rage. "If this is what kills us..."
"Don't say that!" Sherlock's voice was raspy, desperate. "That's what I'm trying to stop, I'm trying to save us, John!"
John shook his head. He felt the rest of the world drop away, his body suddenly deadly calm. The sudden flares of anger had settled into a cold, detached fury. "God, you don't even see it, do you? It's not just you anymore, d'you understand? It's you and me now, the both of us. And you are not allowed to do this to us."
Sherlock was pacing now, hands shoved deep into his pockets, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Finally he spun, pale eyes staring John down defiantly.
"Do you think this is the worst I had to do while we were apart?" he cried out. "This is the very least of it, John." His eyes were wild, his gestures sharp and frantic. "I killed, I maimed, I tortured, and was tortured in return. I pushed myself to the limits of my transport — past pain, past exhaustion, past starvation, to the border of madness. I rained veritable hellfire down on anyone with even the most tenuous connection to Moriarty's network. The people I killed — I see them in my dreams, John. Their blood and their vomit and their eyes..."
Sherlock suddenly seemed to realize what he was saying. He pulled in a shuddering breath, visibly trying to calm himself, his voice a low growl when he spoke again. "I did all of that, John, for you. To keep you alive, to get back to you. I have spent my whole life without anyone, without this, and I finally have it, and it will not be snatched from me at this final hour. No matter what it takes, I will not allow it. Moran will not take you away from me now."
"Jesus, Sherlock." John stumbled toward Sherlock, grabbing him by the shoulders. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's, as if he could will his thoughts into that brilliant, volatile mind. "Moran isn't the one doing this to us now. You are. If you put that needle in your vein you will end us, in a way that he never could."
"John..." Sherlock's voice was ragged. He ducked down, trying to capture John's lips, and John pushed himself away.
"No," he said harshly, to himself as much as to Sherlock. Because God knows he was weak where Sherlock was concerned, but this...this was something John just could not do.
John clenched his fists. "I won't do it, Sherlock. I won't be with you, wondering if this is the day I come home to find you high, or if this is the night I get a call that you've been found dead in an alley. I cannot stand by silently and watch you poison the thing I love." With icy calmness, John turned for the door.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock's eyes were wide, his voice high and frantic.
John grabbed a tall umbrella from the hook. It would do as a makeshift cane for now. "Back to the surgery."
"What? You're...leaving?"
John met Sherlock's eyes squarely. "I need to be able to trust you. Know that you'll stay clean not because I caught you, but because you know it's the right thing to do for us." He took a deep breath. "If you are still here when I get back, I will be..." His voice started to break, and he shook his head in frustration at his own weakness. "...beyond grateful. And we will figure this out, the both of us, I swear to you. We will find a way to get Moran." He steeled himself, forcing the next words out. "But if you're going to shoot up, call Mycroft. Because I don't want you here when I get back."
He turned the handle, pulling the door open.
"John!" John turned, hope surging in his chest.
"Your — your leg," Sherlock finally stuttered. "They'll know."
John felt a great weariness settle over him. "I'll fake a fall on the stairs." He took one last look at Sherlock, as if it were the last time. For all he knew it would be. The icy anger was giving way to grief now. He should have known better. A man like Sherlock Holmes would never be satisfied with the ordinary, would always have been chasing the next impossible high. John would never have been enough for him.
"Goodbye, love," he heard himself saying, and then he was in the hall, stumbling down the endless flights of steps. On the front steps, in full view of anyone who might happen to be watching, he let his heel catch, his leg buckling under him, knee hitting hard enough to justify the limp. He had to convince any watchers that he was broken, damaged. He was hardly acting at all.
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