Sherlock lay awake, curled on his side, staring at the alarm clock in the darkness. It seemed like such a stupid thing to do. It also seemed that all of the stupidity that he had tried to avoid throughout his entire life had been distilled into a twenty-four hour period.
He'd been smoking, John had caught him smoking, John had left, and then Sherlock had kept smoking.
Finishing the whole pack had made him feel ill for two hours, compounded by the fact that he felt he could barely move for the lack of John's presence. Now he had no way of proving to John that he was quitting again. No package full of broken cigarettes of leave on the table, and he certainly wasn't leaving the empty package for John to find. That would only make things worse.
He'd missed John with every single breath that afternoon and evening and night. Sherlock hadn't known that missing someone could be such a devastatingly physical sensation – not until Sibyl had died. Now that emptiness was doubled with John's absence. It was too much. Somehow numbing and excruciating. He could hardly stand it. He couldn't stand it.
He'd managed to force himself to shower to get rid of the smell, and to change. He'd binned the jeans and the blanket he'd used on the roof and run John's t-shirt through the laundry twice, sitting in the downstairs hallway in front of the dryer while the shirt had been in the wash, switching places once the shirt was drying. Mrs. Hudson had thankfully not come out during this entire time – or she wasn't at home. Sherlock had no idea and did not even care that he didn't know.
He'd folded the shirt very carefully but hadn't put it back in John's drawer. He doubted John would want it anymore, but didn't want to bin it, just in case.
Then he'd crawled into bed and curled up, hoping for sleep. He rarely used sleep as a release, even after his mother had died, because it was just as likely as not that he'd dream of her. This time, he wanted to forget everything and considered getting drunk but realized that would only make things worse if John came home.
When, when, when, he reminded himself. John had said that he would.
Sherlock had resisted calling and texting him. Each time he reached for his phone out of habit, he dragged his hand back, closing his eyes, focusing on his breathing. It was so difficult. He hadn't rung Tricia either, but it was easier to make himself avoid that – he had no desire to talk to her, because he could all too easily imagine what kind of reaction he was going to get.
He was not going to avoid that confrontation, he knew. But he could at least delay it.
Sleep had eluded him; whenever he closed his eyes, he saw John's face with that deep hurt and disappointment, and it made him bite his lip as if that could keep everything inside or erase it. He could feel that he'd worried his lower lip enough that it was raw and cracked, but didn't care.
What did it matter, if John was gone?
He told himself over and over that John was coming back because he'd promised he would, but he couldn't control the twisting fear that John would realize that it was just easier not to return home.
John had left once after a row to go to Sarah's and had turned up in a Semtex vest at the pool at midnight.
Sherlock knew that wasn't going to happen, but couldn't stop the anxiety. He'd hurt John and John had left. His traitor brain seemed happy to supply him with ways in which this could be made so much worse. He tried desperately to stop himself, but his mind subverted him, running liberally through dozens of scenarios from the mundane – John in a vehicle accident, struck in a crosswalk by a cab or a bus – to the ridiculous – John being abducted for some madman's plans again.
The reality, that he was at Tricia's just talking to her about this, was even worse.
Sherlock watched the minutes change on the clock in agonizing slowness, and July gave way to August. With every minute, every second, every heartbeat, he waited to hear the familiar tread on the stairs, the sound of the door opening, John's footsteps and movements in the flat.
But the minutes crept into hours and Sherlock kept staring at the clock, feeling a dull ache in his stomach.
He couldn't fix this.
Not without John.
At two twenty-eight the door opened, the sound of the locks as echoing as loudly as they had been when John left, and Sherlock stilled suddenly, holding his breath, listening. Of course it was John, and he heard the locks being shut again, then the faint shuffling of fabric as shoes were removed.
Sherlock bit his lower lip again, ignoring the mild pain. There was a moment in which John was divesting himself of shoes and keys and then footsteps again – on the stairs going up to the spare room.
Sherlock froze.
The empty space in the bed beside him suddenly seemed a yawning chasm. He felt the air in the bedroom pressing down on him as he tried to deny the sound of the bedroom door upstairs opening and shutting gently.
There were faint forgotten creaks on the floorboards as John moved in the unused room and settled onto the spare bed.
Sherlock stared blankly into the darkness.
John had kept his promise and had come home, but he may as well not have.
Without intending to, Sherlock curled further in on himself, the clock forgotten. He squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms across his chest so that he was holding his shoulders and drew his knees up to his chin. He felt small for the first time since he'd had his growth spurt as a teenager.
Small and insignificant and useless.
He lay that way for a long time then raised his head again to check the clock. Opening his eyes made him feel raw and dry and moving made him ache.
It was four in the morning.
He unfolded his long limbs carefully and got up, moving silently through the flat to stand at the base of the stairs, staring up into the tunnel of darkness.
Six years and nine months ago, minus five days, he had stood in this same spot, making the same decision to go up. Then, he had been certain of what he wanted but not at all certain how it would play out, because it was John, and John was an endless puzzle. He had argued with himself, tried to talk himself out of it, had failed but had wanted to fail. He had gone up and woken John and changed their lives.
Had he changed their lives again now, only for the worse?
Sherlock hesitated before putting a hand on the banister, taking the steps slowly and quietly, avoiding all of the creaks from memory. John knew how to do this, too, but rarely bothered. Sherlock rarely bothered either. No reason to.
He pushed the door open and slipped inside. Part of him had intended to crawl in next to John – not to touch, not until John wanted it and said it was all right, but he desperately missed the presence of his husband sleeping beside him and it had been only a single night.
But John wasn't sleeping on one side of the bed as he had been all of those years ago; he was curled up in the middle. Not enough space for Sherlock to lie down without touching or disturbing him.
The detective stood in silence, feeling his heart break a little bit more, knowing he'd deserved it. He watched John sleep for several long minutes, listening to the regular and familiar pattern of breathing. Everything in him wanted to reach out, to climb in and curl up next to John as he did almost every night when he slept.
Silently, Sherlock crossed the room and leaned down enough so he could feel John's breath on his face, smell it. It smelled of nothing in particular – no alcohol.
Sherlock would have felt better if John had come home drunk on that ghastly gin he and Tricia drank even now because it was what they'd drunk in Afghanistan. But he hadn't been drinking. That made the situation somewhat worse. He'd been sober and talking to Tricia. Sober and disappointed.
Sherlock closed his eyes and drew away. He knew it was better that John wasn't turning to alcohol when he was upset, because of Harry's addiction, but part of him wanted John to do something stupid like Sherlock had. The same part that had wanted John to yell and curse and rant. The part that wanted anger and bad decisions instead of just quiet disappointment.
He went back downstairs and curled back into bed, closing his eyes.
When he woke up with a start, it was shortly after seven-thirty in the morning and the flat was silent. Not in the way it had been when John had been sleeping. He was gone now because he had work.
Sherlock lay still for a few minutes, then dragged himself up. He felt stiff and raw – dehydrated. Not good. The package of cigarettes combined with having not eaten or drunk anything most of the previous day made his mouth taste like ash: bitter and dry. He made himself go into the kitchen and fetch a glass of water.
There was an empty mug and an empty bowl beside the sink, a spoon lying forlorn in the basin, stainless steel against stainless steel. Sherlock stared at it in dismay; he almost always made breakfast for John, but had overslept and John hadn't woken him.
There was another mug of tea sitting on the counter, still full. When Sherlock picked it up, he could tell it had gone cold.
But John had left it for him.
Five and a half years ago, after the crash, Sherlock had taken to doing this to let John know he was home and sleeping. He'd leave his phone and a mug of tea on the coffee table for the doctor and John had drunk the tea even if it had gone cold. Sherlock had never asked why, but he thought now he understood as he sipped the room temperature beverage. Pouring it down the sink would be unthinkable. John had made his for him. It was a small gesture. Sherlock had done it for the same reasons five and a half years ago. To indicate that he was still there.
There was a note on the counter beside the mug.
I'm at work. I'll be home around five. John.
Not "love, John". But he'd left a note, even though Sherlock knew that John had to work and what his schedule was. He thought of the tubes and delays and if they needed groceries or if they'd order in and then felt too tired to care. All he wanted was for John to come home so they could put this right.
So he could put this right.
But he had no idea how.
He'd stop smoking again, obviously. Sherlock ignored the craving for a cigarette that the thought of smoking immediately awakened; he couldn't quit if he kept it up. Plus, he had no more cigarettes and didn't want to go anywhere to buy any. He didn't want anyone to see him. He didn't want to talk to anyone who wasn't John.
He remembered John bringing him cigarettes the night Sibyl had died and smoking only three of those. Should he be angry at John for helping him get started again? But no. He hadn't intended to start smoking again back then. He remembered Sam in their flat smoking one of those French cigarettes that Veronique smoked, trying to get Sherlock to associate the smell with someone who had attacked him. He'd offered to do the smoking for Sam, who had never been a smoker and clearly hated it, but Sam and John hadn't let him and it had been easier to resist anyway.
If he went out, he'd buy a package and smoke it. And he'd keep doing it.
Sherlock picked up the note and took the mug into the living room. He set the mug on the coffee table but kept the note with him as he went into the bathroom and fished out a package of nicotine patches. He didn't want to use them because it seemed somehow like cheating, like he was trying to prove to John he was quitting again. But he was going to need them.
He went back into the living room and applied two to each arm, hoping it would help. He settled into his chair, drawing his legs up, and sipped the cold tea. Sherlock kept the note on the arm of his chair and read it repeatedly, hanging onto the little bit of contact John had made. He sat, watching the hours slip past on the little digital clock on the DVD player, and waited for John to come home.