After four days, Sherlock could no longer stand it.
He'd barely been able to eat, doing so only when John was watching and then only in small quantities. He knew he'd lost weight but John had said nothing and no one else had seen Sherlock to comment on it. He hadn't left the house and had ignored all phone calls from anyone who wasn't John – and John hadn't called him while at work. This wasn't entirely unheard of, but he would usually send a text on his way home regarding take away or enquiring as to where Sherlock was. Now it was just silence, both in the flat and electronically. John hadn't posted anything on his blog either, which may not strike anyone else as odd. He did often went days between entries, especially if they were working a case.
And because Sherlock had been steadily ignoring all calls, there were no cases. Lestrade had called him several times and Sam had tried to call him too, probably on the DI's behalf. He didn't care.
It was enough effort to drag himself out of his empty bed in the mornings, fix John breakfast like he usually did, shower and shave and change, ensuring he wasn't always wearing the same clothes or staying in his pyjamas all day. When John was at work, Sherlock would sit in his chair and simply stare blankly at the wall or the dark telly screen, the hours slipping by.
He didn't know what to do.
It was maddening and terrifying. When he was uncertain about how to approach some problem that involved the tricky and sometimes tiresome puzzle that was human interaction, he asked John for advice. On those rare instances when he needed to know something about John he couldn't deduce on his own, he asked Tricia.
He couldn't talk to either of them about this. How to ask John to help him resolve the problem he'd created with John? He was sure that would only make things worse. He had no desire to speak to Tricia, who would be angry with him and disinclined to help.
Once he may have asked his mother for advice.
Now he couldn't and the fact that he could no longer speak to her lay at the crux of this entire problem. He hurt because he missed both her and John, the two most important people in his life.
He supposed he could talk to Mrs. Hudson but he didn't want her knowing what he'd done, how bad things were. Let her assume he was consumed with work, too busy to be seen. That fiction was better than the reality that had him curled up in his chair, arms folded across his stomach, legs drawn up to his chest.
Sometimes he'd fall asleep in this position, only to jerk himself awake when the front door opened and John came home.
It was almost worse when John was there. Almost. When Sherlock was alone, the silence was his. When John was there, the silence was unnatural because it was theirs. They still spoke about small, regular things, like bills in the post and what would be for dinner, but that tended to be the extent of their conversations.
John seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to do something. Sherlock had put his considerable mental power to trying to figure out what, but had been unable to do so. It was maddening and made him feel ill. This was John. His husband. His best friend. He should know.
After four days, the loneliness that seemed worse when John was there felt oppressive and made him slightly nauseous. He was wearing nicotine patches too much now, even when he slept, which was in fragments at night and sometimes during the day. It was impossible to sleep properly without John in the bed beside him, without that familiar presence that had become as necessary as breathing.
John was still sleeping upstairs.
Four days after John had caught him smoking, the tread on those stairs made Sherlock break.
"Don't," he said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them, before he'd properly thought them. "John, don't go upstairs. I can't stand sleeping without you."
He held his breath suddenly, turning his head ever so slightly to see John stopped on the stairs, right foot on the second one, left foot on the first, a hand on the banister. The doctor was still for a moment and Sherlock was certain his heart was going to stop beating if John continued up the stairs. He knew he wouldn't be able to take that explicit rejection.
But John turned, his expression unreadable, and nodded.
"All right," he said. His voice was flat, as closed as his expression, and Sherlock wanted to rail against that – how could he, Sherlock Holmes, not be able to judge someone's body language and tone? How could it be so hard? How could John be keeping so much from him?
John came back down the stairs and Sherlock exhaled in a rush, relief so strong washing through him that he felt light-headed and faint. He closed his eyes, feeling the muscles around his eyes and lips tighten, pulling slightly.
John was silent a moment, then said simply:
"I'm going to bed."
Sherlock managed a nod. He listened as John went into their bedroom and shut the door behind him and wondered if he could move now for the relief. He stayed where he was for several long minutes, just focusing on his breathing, trying to get the adrenaline rush to abate.
He got slowly to his feet, stiff from days of inactivity, lethargic from the lack of food and the constant tension. Sherlock fairly crept into their bedroom to find John already in bed, on his right side, back to Sherlock's spot. This wasn't unusual and they often slept with Sherlock pinning John, John's back to his chest, but he had the distinct impression this was a barrier now, rather than an invitation.
He put on a pair of his own silk pyjamas and slipped into the bed, relieved at John's presence, terrified of doing the wrong thing. The night was warm enough that John had kicked off the light duvet and was only using the sheet, and the window to the fire escape was open, admitting the gentle breeze. Sherlock had fixed the screen back into its place that first horrible day, wanting to seal it shut but knowing it had to be easily removed in case of an actual fire. He'd tried to devise some visual means of letting John know it hadn't been taken down again, but had been unable to do so.
He remembered standing in front of it for half an hour, his normally energetic mind blank and silent, offering no ideas.
So he'd left it in the end and John hadn't asked about it.
Sherlock lay on his right side, facing John, aching to reach out and touch him but not daring. He listened to his husband's breathing, that clearly indicated he was still awake. He was waiting for something.
But what?
"I quit," Sherlock blurted out.
"Did you?" John asked, his voice curiously flat.
Sherlock nodded, the fabric of the pillowcase rubbing against his hair and cheek.
"Yes. That day, John."
John was still and silent for a moment.
"How much of the rest of the pack did you smoke?" he asked after a long minute.
Sherlock caught his lower lip between his teeth – he'd desperately hoped that John wouldn't ask that, but hadn't really believed he'd avoid it.
"The whole thing," Sherlock replied quietly.
He saw John tense a bit then force himself to relax.
"Why?"
Sherlock closed his eyes. He did not want to answer that. He didn't want to talk about it. It was obvious anyway. John knew why Sherlock had started again; he'd said so. He could figure out the why for this, too. He was a smart man – of course he was, Sherlock would never consent to being with anyone who wasn't.
There was a change in John's breathing, a sigh that carried disappointment. Sherlock's heart twisted; he'd made another mistake. Before he could answer, John rolled onto his back, then shifted carefully onto his left side, adjusting his pillows to take some of the weight from his left shoulder.
"I'm sorry–" Sherlock started.
"Yes, you're sorry," John interrupted, not harshly but in that same flat tone he'd adopted, the one that was worse than any anger. "Of course you're sorry. You're sorry you got caught because it makes everything complicated. Sherlock, do you understand that I'm not angry at for you doing it? I'm hurt that you didn't tell me."
Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded; yes, he knew that. John was silent for a long moment.
"Why did you smoke the rest?"
"John–"
John cut him off again with a sigh, such a soft one, and Sherlock's eyes flew open.
"Why don't you trust me?"
The question made Sherlock's breath catch in his chest and he curled forward slightly, feeling as though he'd been punched squarely in the stomach.
It was John who should have lost the trust here. Not the other way around. It wasn't the other way around.
"I do trust you, of course I trust you." You're the only person I trust.
"No," John said. "You don't." Sherlock could hear pain slip into that curious flat tone, just for an insant.
"Yes," Sherlock hissed. "Yes, John, I trust you."
John was watching him with a level gaze but it was not cool or uncaring – Sherlock could see the hurt in his eyes, too, even in the near darkness of their bedroom.
"But you couldn't tell me you were smoking and now you can't tell me why you finished the pack on Monday." John's lips twitched minutely, but not in any sort of smile. "I don't mean you don't trust me with your debit card or your chemistry set equipment or on cases. I mean you don't trust me. When you were hurt, you lied to me. Why?"
Sherlock stared at John, lips parted, eyes wide. He managed to shake his head once – that wasn't it. Didn't John understand?
John gazed at him a moment, then sighed and closed his eyes, starting to roll onto his back.
"No!" Sherlock exclaimed forcefully, grabbing John's right shoulder, keeping him there. "John, I didn't tell you because you are the only good thing I have in my life, how can you not understand that?"
John stared at him and Sherlock saw a flash of shock override the hurt for a moment.
"No, Sherlock, I'm not. You have your work, you have friends–"
"Because of you, because I know you," Sherlock interjected, shaking his head. "John, stop. When I'm with you I don't want to be upset or dwell on my mother's death. I don't want you to have to be careful, to have to take care of me. I want things to be– normal."
John's lips twitched again and for a moment, Sherlock saw the ghost of a smile there at the word "normal". Then it was gone, and John was searching his eyes.
"It's not all good times, Sherlock," he said softly. "I never expected it to be – that's not how life works. That's not how relationships work. But if you don't let me see the bad things, then you're only giving me part of yourself. Would you want that from me?"
"Of course not," Sherlock replied hotly.
"Then why do it to me?" John asked. "What does it get you?"
A smoking habit, Sherlock thought dully.
"For better or for worse," John said softly. "You got me through things like this, Sherlock. Harry's death. Nightmares. My shoulder. The worst news from Afghanistan. But you won't let me do it for you."
"I don't want it to always be bad," Sherlock hissed.
"Do you think it has been?" John asked.
Sherlock parted his lips to answer but found his voice caught, and shook his head. No, of course it hadn't been. But it had felt that way since Sibyl had died.
"I just want – things to get better," he managed.
"They will."
Sherlock shook his head again, curling in on himself a bit more.
"It hasn't yet," he said, his own voice taking on that curiously dull tone. He felt suddenly numb inside, as if none of this mattered any longer. He hadn't wanted the atmosphere in their flat to be permeated by Sibyl's death. He wanted things to be normal again, to be the way they had been before. He didn't want John watching him carefully, evaluating his words and actions and expressions.
"But it will. It takes time."
"I don't want time," Sherlock snapped. "I want–"
"You want things to be like they used to be."
"Yes," Sherlock hissed.
"And you couldn't say that to me. You couldn't say 'John, treat me normally'. You couldn't do that. Instead, you started smoking and you didn't tell me. You lied, Sherlock. Because it was easier for you."
Unable to meet John's eyes, Sherlock nodded.
"Yes," he whispered. He was silent for a long moment and John was too.
"I want things to be normal now, John," he finally said. "I hate this." It's killing me.
"So do I, Sherlock," John said and Sherlock raised his head quickly, hope flaring in him. "But it won't be normal, not for a while."
He felt his faint hope dashed and his heart twist again, felt cold and small and useless all over again.
"I quit smoking, John," he said quietly but with a definite urgency in his voice.
"It wasn't the smoking, Sherlock. You need to trust me."
Sherlock closed his eyes, biting down on the retort that he did, knowing John was right.
"And until you can, how can I trust you?"
Sherlock squeezed his eyes all the way shut, his left hand bunching into the sheet that covered the mattress as he tried not to gasp at that.
"I'm so sorry," he moaned.
"I know. It's a good place to start, Sherlock. But we have to go through this. We can't avoid it."
"I don't want to go through it," Sherlock said before he could stop himself.
"Neither do I," John said with a sigh. "But that's how it works. If we really want to fix things."
If you really want to fix things, Sherlock heard in the unspoken subtext.
He forced himself to nod.
"It'll take time," John said.
Time. Time for John meant something so different than for Sherlock. It had already been four days. Wasn't that time enough? How could it not be? It felt like an eternity.
"All right," Sherlock forced himself to say.
John sighed and was silent for a moment.
"Good night, Sherlock," he said, and rolled onto his right side again, facing away from his husband. Sherlock managed to nod, not trusting his voice, knowing John could hear the faint sound of his skin and hair against the pillow. John shifted around before settling down, then Sherlock very hesitantly reached out, putting his left hand on John's waist. It was barely any contact, and so much less than he wanted. He ached to wrap himself around John as he normally did, feel that warm and compact body encompassed by his, but he knew that was too much. He wasn't even sure he'd get this.
But John didn't brush his hand away. He didn't do anything to encourage the touch, but he didn't push it off, either. Sherlock let out a silent sigh of relief and lay awake, listening as John very slowly fell asleep.