Chapter 16: Lost Without His Blogger

Shouting: There is lots of shouting and the constant repeating of the phrase "Jesus Christ, Sherlock."

Apologizing: It's back and forth between "John, I'm sorry" and "I know its not enough, but please just listen to me"

Questions that have been waiting to be asked for three years are finally getting the answers they've longed for: "How could you?" "Why?" "Did you really think this would be okay?"

Then there is the guilt along with the one singular phrase that keeps being said: "I didn't want to leave."

We've left the restaurant, or rather took our little gathering outside after John stormed out of the dinning room. He didn't utter a single word as he walked out. He just stared up at Sherlock for a few quiet moments, stood up, turned on his heel then left. Sherlock had waited a beat then followed after him; I could see the genuine hurt in his gaze and I knew exactly what he was thinking.

His John hates him.

After exchanging quick looks of confusion, Mary and I exit as well. Hamish complains about leaving so soon as I'm putting his coat on him and asks me if John has liked his surprise. "I don't know, sweetie," I told him, "I really don't know." The three of us head outside and immediately see Sherlock and John at the corner; John is red faced and shouting as he fails his arms about, while Sherlock is just standing there taking in every word. Worried, Mary starts to head toward them but I hold her back. "Don't." I warn, "Let them be."

"How the bloody hell did you expect me to react, Sherlock?" we hear John snap, "I watched you die!"

"Don't you think I realize that?" Sherlock snaps back, "Look, I'm not asking for forgiveness…"

"You better bloody not even go that far!"

"I didn't want to leave John."
"So you keep saying, but why do I get the feeling you don't mean it?"

"Of course I do."

"Then why did you leave in the first place? No, no I don't even care anymore!"

"John…"

"Shut up, Sherlock! This…this can't be happening! Tonight of all nights; Jesus Christ, Sherlock."

So here we now are: Mary, Hamish and I sitting on a bench in silence and watching/listening the two former best friends. They've been at it for at least half an hour now and, to be honest, I'm surprised no one has called the cops. I've never heard John yell like this before; he's upset, he's angry, he's basically letting out all the emotions he's had pent up all these years. I can't help but feel like he's taken a huge step backward in his emotional recovery. Life has been great for him: he has a stable job, finished therapy last week, has found love with Mary. Now, I fear, things have fallen apart again.

"So that's…that's Sherlock Holmes." Mary finally speaks, breaking the awkward silence, "The infamous consulting detective. Your husband and John's best mate; that's him?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" I say, adjusting the now sleeping toddler on my lap, "He's not what you'd think of when you hear the stories."

"Not really," Mary says, "I mean, sure, I remember seeing his face in the papers, particularly the picture with that funny deerstalker. But now, seeing him in person, he seems…I don't know, really. I guess I just can't wrap my head around it." She then bites her lower lip and gives me a genuine look of worry: "I shouldn't say that; it's you who should be having trouble understanding this. I mean, I can only imagine the emotional roller coaster you've been on these past three years-burying your husband, pregnancy, raising a baby on your own-and now he's back. Are you okay? Seriously?"

"In all honesty, yes." I reply with a small chuckle, "I mean, I know that I should be a complete wreck right now, but I'm not. I…I can't really describe how I feel about it Mary; I'm happy he's home but at the same time I'm worried about him."

"Worried?"

"Yes, of course. He told me where he's been these past three years and what he's been doing." I stop for a moment and think: I don't want to tell Mary all that Sherlock told. Not yet, at least. "If you saw the internal pain in his eyes, then you'd know why I'm worried." I settle with, "He's not the Sherlock John and I use to know, but he's in there. He's just lost his way a bit."

Mary nods and we both turn our attention back to her fiancé, who is now staring down at the ground with his hands on his hips and listening to Sherlock, attempting to explain things to him:

"They were going to kill you, John. Don't you see that I did it for you? I did for those who were closest to me. I had to protect you all. You all had to believe that I was gone in order for me to keep you all safe."
"So you thought 'I'll just heave myself off a building and lie to everyone'. That's great Sherlock, really. That makes it all so much better."

"John, please try to understand…"

"No! You try to understand! I had to watch you hit the ground! I had to tell your pregnant wife that you weren't going to be coming home ever again! I had to not only try to move on myself, but I had to help your wife and child as well. Me, Sherlock! Me who followed you on every case! Me who put up with all your bloody antics and ridiculous mannerisms! Me who you once claimed to be your only friend!"

"You are my friend."

"Was, Sherlock; I was."

My heart breaks when I hear John say that. I can see the pain in Sherlock's face and I deeply wish to just run over and comfort him, but I can't. This is between him and John.

John takes in a heavy sigh and continues: "I've…I've moved on. Believe it or not, I have a completely new life now. Do you see that woman over there?" He points toward Mary and I and we both perk up, "That woman sitting beside your wife is the love of my life. I'm going to marry her, Sherlock and…and for the first time, I didn't have to juggle my personal life with babysitting you! She loves me for me and she's helped me move past all this emotional shit you put me through! I'm not going back to my old life, Sherlock, and I don't care how bloody sorry you are; you can't apologize for what you've done."

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John starts to walk away from him. He grabs John's elbow in an attempt to bring him back, but instead it triggers John to spin around and punch Sherlock in the face. Sherlock stumbles and covers his nose with his hand, placing the other one out in defense as John goes in for another swing. Immediately, Mary and I spring up from the bench and run to their sides before a full on fistfight can ensue. Mary grabs both of John's arms and I, balancing a slowly waking up Hamish on my hip, set a strong hand on Sherlock's chest.

"John," Mary breathes out, taking her fiancé by the hand.

"We're going home." John spits out, pulling away from her, "I'm going to get the car." He then turns to me: "Elfie, I'll…I'll text you." He says, his voice a tad softer, "Just…just deal with him. Goodnight." I give him a saddened look, but John just quickly walks back toward the restaurant. My heart wrenches and I immediately feel a knot growing in my stomach. I should have known that John wouldn't take Sherlock's return lightly; I should have talked Sherlock out of meeting him tonight. But he was so anxious, so excited to see his best friend again.

Now, John can even bare the sight of him.

"Fee, let me take Hamish." Mary says already taking the toddler out of my hold, "You help Sherlock."

I nod to her then turning my attention to my husband, who has his back to us and is pinching his nose, whispering obstinacies. I step in front of him and gently cup his face in my hands. Blood is running out of his nostrils and he's trying to block it with his hands. I quickly pull out the handkerchief I keep in my coat pocket (usually to clean Hamish's face) and place it over his nose. Sherlock takes a hold of it, then his eyes lock with mine. The knot in my stomach tightens; he looks heartbroken, but at the same time understanding.

"I…I had that coming didn't I?" he says, attempting to sound like himself and not show any hurt in his voice. I can only just give him an understanding nod and gently tilt his head back so that the blood flow can slow down.

"He'll…He'll be okay." Mary says and we both turn our heads to face her, "I know it may not seem like it now, but John has missed you." I smile at her: Mary does have the biggest heart, which is another reason she's so good for John. She smiles back at me and takes a step toward us. I gladly take Hamish back and cradle him softly.

Mary then turns back to Sherlock: "I've heard the stories about you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes: The real stories." She goes on, adjusting Hamish on her hip, "John's told me and he does hold you in the highest of regards. All I can say now is that it is truly a pleasure to finally meet the man who changed John's life: the man who in all possible ways saved him. For that, I thank you."

She then holds her free hand out to Sherlock. He looks at it in confusion and then looks at her with that deducing gaze: "I'm no hero, ma'am," He finally says, lowering the handkerchief a bit, "I see no reason to glorify me as such."

"Never the less," Mary persists with a smirk, "it's still a pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock ponders for a moment then shakes Mary's hand. His expression has lightened up a bit; perhaps he's deduced that she really is a good person and the perfect woman for John. There is still hurt in his eyes, though. His best friend has left him. John; his John. I don't even know what's going on his mind right now. It already was in such a fragile state; who knows what this could have triggered.

"Mary!" The three of us turn to see john down the street, motioning for Mary to join him. His eyes land on Sherlock and he stares at him blankly, as if it has finally sunken in that he is in fact alive.

"You see." Mary says, "He has missed you. Just give him time." Sherlock doesn't acknowledge her words. He just keeps staring back at John. Mary then turns to me we exchange a quick side hug: "I'll call you tomorrow and let you know if he's cooled down," she says, "You know he's not mad at you."

"I know." I reply, "Take care of him tonight, Mary. Your man needs you."

"Same goes for you." She whispers, nudging her head to Sherlock. I nod then Mary quickly goes to join John. My husband and I stand side by side as we watch them disappear into the night.

"What have I done?" Sherlock says.

"You did what you had to, love." I reply, taking his hand into my own, "I'm just sorry it didn't turn out the way you wanted it too."

"I should have known, Fee," he goes on, "I should have known that he'd…hate me."

"Sherlock," I begin to speak, but am distracted by Hamish's soft moaning. Very slowly, the toddler finally emerges from his sleep and rubs his little eyes.

"Mummy?" he mumbles, "Where Dah?"

"He's right here, sweetheart," I reply, gently rubbing his back. Hamish whines slightly and holds his pudgy arms out to Sherlock. Whipping the last streams of blood from his face, Sherlock takes the toddler into his arms.

"Dah," Hamish coos, burying his face in his father's shoulder, "Go home now?"

"Yes, young man," Sherlock whispers, "We're going home now." He then takes my hand into his free one and gives it a gentle squeeze. I flag down a taxi then head home to Baker Street. We reach home and silently head inside. For the remainder of the night, all is silent. Neither of us wants to discuss what's just happened nor do we even want to think about it. When we finally climb into bed, I wrap my arms around Sherlock's waist and press my body against his back so that we fit together perfectly. He entangles his hands with my own and lets out a shaky sigh. As he closes his eyes, a single tear rolls down his cheek.

"This is why I've never had friends, Elfie." Sherlock whispers, "I always end up hurting those around me and they…they leave."

"Hey," I whisper back, kissing his damp cheek, "don't talk like that. Not everyone leaves you; I'm still here." Sherlock sighs again and gently squeezes my hands. I then understand what he's really saying: "But I'm not John, am I?"

Sherlock shakes and squeezes my hands even tighter. Very quietly, he begins to cry. I adjust my hold on my husband then turn his body so that he can hide his face on my shoulder. He wraps his arms around me and weeps. We remain like this for the remainder of the night.

For the very first time, I witness Sherlock Holmes cry himself to sleep.

He's lost his best friend.

He's lost his John.

0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"Mum!"

"Yes, Hamish?"
"Dah come play with me?"
"Not right now, honey. Dad's…not feeling well."

"Oh. Sick?"

"Yes, sweetheart, he's sick. That's why he's still in bed. Tell you what though; let me take care of Dad right now then I'll make you something to eat and we can play, okay?"

"Help?"

"No thank you, Hamish. Daddy's very sick and he…He doesn't want you to get sick either."

"Oh. Oh-tay. Tell Dah get better soon."

"I will. Now, go finish your puzzle while I check on Dad."

"Oh-tay, Mummy."

Hamish scurries off into the living room and occupies himself with his various block puzzles. He's still in his pajamas, as am I. I didn't even think about getting dressed, let alone dressing Hamish, after I got up this morning. When I awoke, I found that the space beside me in bed was empty. I only assumed that Sherlock had risen early and was in the living room, so I didn't take much notice to it. After I had given Hamish breakfast and still my husband was nowhere to be seen, I became worried. Moments later, I found Sherlock curled up on the bathroom floor, hacking violently into the toilet bowl. His whole body was shaking and his skin was covered in goose bumps.

It's started: the withdrawal.

I had managed to get him back into bed and that's where he's stayed all morning. I told Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock wasn't well and that I'd let her know if I needed her help with anything, but so far I've been able to handle it. But this is only the beginning. I'm not a doctor, but I know that in most cases of withdrawal, it gets worse before it gets better. Considering what Sherlock was on and for how long, I am almost positive that things will definitely go down hill very soon.

As quietly as I can be, I open the bedroom door and tip toe inside to check on him. Sherlock is curled up on himself, under the sheets that are pulled up to his cheeks and lying with his back to the door. My heart aches as I take a seat beside him. Brushing my fingers through his sweat drenched curls, I lean in close to his ear and whisper: "I brought you some water and toast, if you think you can manage to take a few bites."

"Mmm," he groans, slowly kicking off the sheets and turning to face me. He doesn't open his eyes, but he is semi-awake. I'm not completely sure if he's coherent or not though.

"Sherlock?" I ask, stroking his cheek, "Love? Can you hear me?" His skin is clammy to the touch and it has turned a sort of sickly grey color. I call his name again and this time he blinks his eyes open.

He groans again, and then stretches his body out slowly as if it were the most painful thing in the world for him to do. I notice his fingers twitching uncontrollably as they scratch at crook of his left arm. He's craving the drugs; anyone could see that. God, this is harder to watch then I thought.

"Fee?" Sherlock slurs, looking up at me with fever glazed eyes, "This…this is horrible."

"I wish there was more I could do," I attempt to comfort, taking his hand into my own, "Do you want some water?" Sherlock wearily nods and I bring the glass to his parched lips. He props himself up on a shaky elbow then takes a small sip. When he's done, I set the glass back down on the bedside table and allow my husband to rest his body against me. I lean back against the headboard and wrap my arms around Sherlock's shaking body.

"Hamish wanted to see you," I whisper in his ear.

"What did you tell him?" Sherlock asks, already closing his eyes again as he rest his head back on my shoulder.

"I told him that you were sick and that you didn't want him to get sick as well. He wanted me to tell you to get better soon."

Sherlock lets out a soft chuckle: "Tell him, I'll…I'll be better tomorrow."

"Will you?" I ask, hopeful that that statement may be true. Sherlock just groans and rolls his head to the side. I can feel the fever radiating off of him and I begin to wonder how much I can really do for him. I'm not a doctor so I don't know what he medically needs. All I can give him is love and support but that only goes so far. He needs a doctor's care, but I can't take him to just any doctor. He's still dead to the rest of the world.

I know what I have to do, but I don't know if I can bring myself to do it.

"Elfie," Sherlock moans, slipping back into a deep sleep, "I…I can't do this."

"Do what, love?" I ask, kissing his warm forehead

"It's too…much. Too horrible." He mumbles, "You should…let me go."

"Hey, hey, hey, don't talk like that." I say, getting stern, "I promised you that we were going to get through this and that's what we're going to do."

"There's no point."

"Yes there is. This is the illness talking, not you. You've got to stay with me, Sherlock. We're going to pass through this, I promise."

"You deserve…better than me. Let. Me. Go."

"Sherlock, stop it. Please your scaring me."

Sherlock lets out a deep groan and curls back in on himself. I carefully make my way out of bed and rest his head down on the pillows. As I pull the covers back up over him, I kiss Sherlock on the lips: "You have a family who loves you." I whisper, "Remember that. Do this for us."

Sherlock is already deeply asleep. I have to make the call now, there's no choice. The sickness I can handle, but the on coming depression is too much. My heart can't take it. I exit the bedroom; head back to the kitchen and pick up my cell phone from the counter. My fingers hover over the number for a moment, then I immediatly shoot off a text:

Need you at Baker Street. Please. Emergency –EH

Luckily, the reply comes back almost instantly:

Are you and Hamish ok? What's wrong? –JW

We're fine. It's Sherlock. Please John, I don't know what to do –EH

There is a longer wait then the first time, which is understandable. He's probably contemplating why or if he should come over. Five minutes pass and I start to think that John's not going to come. It was a long shot anyway, but now what am I going to do? Suddenly, there is a ding from my phone:

Be there in 15-JW

My heart skips a beat and I cant help but tear up. I don't know why John's agreed to come, but right now I don't care. I know that he's the only one who can take care of Sherlock and maybe seeing John here will be a sort of pick me up for Sherlock. God, I hope so.

I tell Hamish that he can take his toys upstairs for a bit, then I take a seat on the couch.15 minute's pass and I hear John's footsteps as he climbs up the stairs. I jump up when he reaches the archway and I run to his arms. Immediately, I burst into tears:

"John, I-I I'm just so sorry," I cry, "I know I shouldn't have texted you but-Oh God, John, there's no one else. He's…I don't know, he's just so sick and I can't take the depression. John you have got to help us."

"Shh, hey, hey, take it easy." John soothes, rubbing my back, "I'm here now. Just tell me what's wrong; tell me everything."

Once I've managed to stop my hysterics, I explain the whole situation to John. To my surprise, I don't see a single trace of the anger I saw in him last night. It almost seems like he's no longer furious with Sherlock, which can't be the case. John couldn't have forgiven him just like that, could he? Then again this is John and Sherlock; they do have the most unique bond known to man. Could it be that even after last night, John realizes that Sherlock still needs him. I know that Sherlock calls him and I us, but I think that title is more fitting to him and John.

One simply cannot be without the other.

"When did the withdrawal start?" John asks when I'm finished.

"This morning." I reply, "I found him in the bathroom. He's been in bed all morning and I've tried to keep him hydrated. I just don't know what else to do. Look, John, I understand that I have no right asking you to help, but…there's no one else. I know you're mad at him and by all reasons you should be. But I'm asking you this as a woman who wants to help her husband, John. If you could put aside the personal aspects for just a short while, I will forever be in your debt. But please help him, John, please." John sighs heavily then rises off the couch: "Where are you going?" I ask

"Too see my patient," he replies, picking up his med bag that he left in the archway. He then looks back at me and smiles wearily: "I…I may have over reacted a bit last night," he says, "said a few things I maybe shouldn't have. But let's not focus on that right now. Right now…let's just see what I can do for Sherlock."

I smile back at him and follow the good doctor down the hall to the bedroom. I open the door and go inside first: "Sherlock," I whisper, shaking his arm, "wake up. There's…someone here to take a look at you."

Sherlock groans and blinks his eyes open. He looks at me for a moment then turns his gaze to John, who is standing behind me. His face becomes very stern but I can see a small spark of excitement in his eyes. The two just lock eyes and stare at one another: John, taking in the sight of how ill Sherlock really is and Sherlock registering the thought that John is really here. Cautiously, I step back so that I won't be in the way of the two of them.

"You didn't have to come." Sherlock manages to say in the strongest voice he can muster.

"I know and believe me I thought about not coming." John replies, taking a step closer to the bed, "Elfie told me everything."

"Then you know why I'm…like this?" Sherlock asks, struggling but succeeding to sit upright.

"Yes, but I don't care." John states, sitting on the edge of the mattress, "I'll lecture you about when you're better, how's that sound?"

"Can't wait." Sherlock groans, pulling his boney knees in close to his chest. John opens his med kit and starts to ask Sherlock the routine questions. The two just look at each other like they use to and suddenly the world seems right again. I can even already see a bit of light return to Sherlock's eyes. He needed John; that was the key. I may be the man's wife, but like always, I could never be his John Watson.

"John," Sherlock mutters while John jots down a few notes on his notepad, "I shouldn't have lied to you."

"You shouldn't have lied to any of us, your wife included." John replies, "But that doesn't change the fact that you did." He then sets the notepad down and looks Sherlock directly in the eye: "Answer me this, though, Sherlock." he goes on, "You said last night that you were at the funeral yes?"
Sherlock nods.

"And you watched as we lowered you-the casket in the ground."

"Yes."

"Did you stay after everyone left? Were you there when…Elfie and I said our good-byes?"

"I was, yes."

"Then you know what I asked of you." John states, his voice cracking a bit, "You really could hear what I ask for?"

A small smile, one that I know he only use to give to John, gross across Sherlock's face: "You asked for one more miracle." He replies, "You ask me to stop being dead."

John lets out a shaky breathe then looks down at his lap: "Yeah, yeah that's exactly it." He says, quietly. John clears his throat then looks back at Sherlock; "Well, I guess what I'm trying to say now is…Not that it matters anymore, but...Thanks for listening to me for once, you git."

Sherlock chuckles and they both give each other an understanding nod. "Elfie," my husband says to me without looking my way, "please; don't cry."

"Sorry," I sniffle, drying my eyes on my sleeves, "I'm just…I can't help it."

John chuckles and turns his attention to me: "Would you mind given us a moment, Elfie?" he asks and I quickly nod.

"I'm going to give you some medication now for the pain," I hear John explain to Sherlock as I head out of the room, "If you're feeling up to it tomorrow, I can get you some other medication from the clinic."

"At home prescriptions; is that entirely legal, Doctor?" Sherlock quips, "Did you obtain some form of a rambunctious side with that moustache?"

"I waiting for you to say something about the moustache."

"It's hideous."

"I really don't care what you think about it."

"I know you don't."

I let out a sigh of relief as I hear them chatting like they use to; my boys are back together, just as it should be.

Yay! I updated sooner than expected!

Hope you guys enjoyed that. I wanted to get it up ASAP because, frankly, you guys are awesome and deserve an early update. There are a few chapters left and as I stated before I am already working on another one. Not so sure yet as to when that will be posted because I am starting classes again soon. Ugh.

Anyway, thanks as always for the comments and favorites and follows.

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.