Sorry for the time it took for this chapter! As a friendly peace offering, this chapter and the next are two of the longest I've ever written. Chapter beta'd by gbheart ~
Chapter 7 - Siblings and Comfort
Lestrade was important, in his own way. That mostly stemmed from the fact that he was the only senior officer who allowed Sherlock onto crime scenes: a combination of sheer desperation and his selfless want to help Sherlock. He didn't doubt that Lestrade considered himself good at heart, though many of his colleagues considered the man mad for allowing Sherlock anywhere near a crime he supposedly created, but there were often moments where he wondered why he put up with the man.
Lestrade might be useful, but he still had the annoying tendency of texting Sherlock far more than strictly necessary. Sherlock didn't care about the semantics of the case he was being given; he would see the details with his own eyes very soon. He had no particular mind for feigning interest over something like this, even if that was what most people would do.
(4:47) (Sherlock Holmes) –
Shut up. -SH
Lestrade was too practised in communication with him to reply with indignation, which certainly made the man more acceptable to interact with, but he would feel bitter at the text. He expected Lestrade would be here within the hour. So far, all he knew of the case was that a woman had been asphyxiated to death. No fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, some minor evidence of her having fought back, and no known enemies or tense relations to have inspired the murder. Lestrade had referred to it as 'murder without motive'; Sherlock had already decided it was Scotland Yard being incompetent. He hoped the murder wouldn't be too interesting; that would just blatantly rub it in his face that he was stuck here.
At least 221B did not have Mycroft's cologne wafting through the air. He hadn't appreciated his brother being an insufferable constant, even when Mycroft's diet had broken quite cleanly in two because of him.
Though withdrawal was not pleasant in any way, he did feel more comfortable experiencing it in an area he was more agreeable with. His treatment was better than he had hoped for too; John was far better than the insipid group he'd been forced to partake in. None of them understood why he took cocaine, seeing as they did not require the rush like he did. The staff had thought him stubborn, a boy just refusing the much needed help being offered. What came next was what Mycroft had referred to as 'A brutal slaughter of their closely held ideals – I do wish you'd stop making them cry.'
Sherlock did not pretend to understand the point of the group sessions. He had not walked into cocaine with a blindfold – had not dosed himself up without knowing the consequences. He had the information and still went on with the habit. It was an informed decision. Information would not necessarily stop someone from beginning something. The fear of punishment and pain halted people; information was just needed to refrain from utter stupidity.
Was that not understandable? His logic was sound. He did not misunderstand or miscalculate often, but an intelligent and informed opinion about why he was wrong could be appreciated and considered. The group leader had done no such thing. They'd brought in a colleague and flushed in embarrassment, when he did not back down.
It had all been a pointless waste of time.
Currently, he was preoccupied by the false complexity of one of his older tomes. It had released a fine sprinkle of dust into the air, when he'd opened it. Much of the information was wrong, but that just made it a little more fun. Mentally correcting the drivel before him gave him a certain quality of contained pleasure.
John was pacing around the kitchen again. He appeared to be frustrated that Sherlock hadn't left the room for hours, having knocked on the door and offered him tea a few times. He wasn't entirely sure why a painted piece of wood between them was so unsettling, but John wasn't offering answers. He wasn't ignoring John, not really, just applying himself to another mindless task.
Tucking his feet beneath the covers to keep them warm was an added bonus. The body may just be transport, but it demanded its own fair share persistently.
The sound of the doorbell was one of the most welcome things he'd heard in quite some time. A nice murder to distract him. How dreadfully pleasant.
He bounded out of his room with a bounce in his stride. John seemed a little surprised at his sudden presence in the room but proceeded to open the door for him. As soon as the Detective Inspector was across the threshold of the doorway, Sherlock was next to him, plucking the file out of Lestrade's hands and flicking through it with mild feverish excitement. There was a small protesting of 'hey!' from Lestrade, but otherwise the man remained silent, shaking hands with John, as Sherlock paced away, eyes plastered to the image of a dead woman.
The woman was in her late twenties, average height and average build. She was very average, except for the terribly obvious collection of bruises scattered over her neck and mouth. Someone of considerable strength must have done this: she had squirmed against her attacker as they strangled her and cut off her cries. Trust… Someone close, not a stranger – she was killed in her bedroom. This wouldn't have been a one night stand either, because her clothes were unattractive and crumpled from laying around the house. The ghost of a ring on her left hand meant she'd married once. He flipped through the pages rapidly, fingers slipping over words, until it was confirmed that the woman's husband had died naturally a few months previous.
Jewellery, he needed close-ups of her jewellery.
The meticulous photography of the woman's body proved extremely useful – far from the dreadful quality of Anderson's work. All the jewellery that she had purchased was cheap silver, though fitted perfectly. It was all consistent, except for her right hand's ring finger. There was the exception: a loose gold ring. Not her own purchase – she had an unshakeable affinity for silver – but another's. This would not have been bought by her dead husband; he would have known about her preference, or would have at least asked for the right size, if not known it already. Someone else gave this to her; someone other than her husband.
As stunningly simple as this was, he wanted to see this crime scene first hand.
John was casually seated in the armchair Sherlock considered to be his own, observing the interactions between him and Lestrade. Lestrade stood next to him protectively, tracking all the movements Sherlock made to better understand his deductions.
"How're you then?" He asked gently, his face a mask of careful concern.
Sherlock huffed in irritation. "Busy, actually." He was scanning the photos of the woman's room: the room she had slept in with her late husband. It was a loving relationship, the imprint of her ring not looking like it had been fading over the months of his death. She wore the ring still, but where was it? It must be somewhere in the house. The killer had thought through this murder; they would not make the mistake of taking the ring. If his theory was correct, and it would be, then the ring would be in some obscure area.
"Your brother said this one will be easy."
What was also easy was imagining fratricide. Did Mycroft find it physically impossible to not weave himself into Sherlock's day? Mycroft was either playing with politics or toying with Sherlock, occasionally both at once, if he was being particularly annoying. Mycroft knew who the killer was before him. How infuriating.
He fought the urge to scowl. "A ring. Did you find a silver ring anywhere in the room?"
Lestrade nodded, the question of how Sherlock knew about the ring already on his lips. Sherlock cut him off with a practised wave of his hand. Think… It was an easy case, the answer clearly written into the photos, but he had to explain it coherently. Explaining was the hard part. People didn't always follow his logic – couldn't keep up with him, even when he slowed down for them. Withdrawal made it that little bit more difficult too; the right words and strings of logic became elusive, at times like these.
"Speak to her close friends; one of them will know the identity of the killer." With that statement in the air, he was the centre of attention, both John and Lestrade watching with even more interest.
"How?"
"Easy," he said with satisfaction curling his lips. John had called him arrogant – what an apt conclusion to come to. The moment when his evidence coalesced was always seductively perfect. "The tan line from her marriage's ring has not faded in the least. If anything, I'd say it was the same strength. She has not stopped wearing the ring since her husband's death. All her jewellery is consistently silver, and it all fits perfectly. The only exception to this is the gold ring on her right hand. It's placed on her ring finger, the traditional sign of commitment. Her index finger is a little larger; surely she would have moved the ring there to counteract the fact that it's too big, unless it was a sign of commitment too."
"She moved onto a different partner while still mourning her husband?" John asked, disbelief clear on his face.
He nodded. Both Lestrade and John were wearing identical expressions. Clearly this was another one of those situations he'd never quite bothered to take in. If she'd just been sleeping with the killer, not forming any attachments, would the two of them have the same response? Was there some sort of a time limit between switching partners after they died? Her husband had been dead three and a half months: would it have been frowned upon if she created new friends during this time too? There had to be some sort of social rule about this, one that could explain the situation even to him.
He only allowed himself another moment to ponder this. Did they think she was having an affair with the killer during her marriage? Perhaps, though the level of commitment shown to her husband suggested otherwise. This was probably something to do with the cycle of grief most people appeared to go through – another thing he'd never bothered to observe in depth. There was only so much hysterical crying he could take.
"Her partner bought the ring early in the relationship, likely a need to claim her affections from her late husband. She hasn't removed the first ring since. The killer would have spawned a sense of jealousy that eventually led to this. Simple. As I said, ask one of her close associates to find the killer. All other evidence will be hidden on their body, most likely in the form of bruises from her attempts at self-defence."
There was an old, unfamiliar look on Lestrade's face, the one that meant he was failing to understand something or not entirely convinced with his conclusion. Perhaps his explanation lacked the calculated detail it usually held? That hardly mattered – the case was solved – and he wasn't going to expand on a point he'd already explained.
"Right," Lestrade muttered, before clearing his throat and speaking up, "are you absolutely sure about this?" There was genuine doubt woven into the question.
Sherlock was unexpectedly angry at that. It was a question that he had been asked before, just never for something as clear as this. It was the same level of faith he'd had placed on him when he first became a consultant. That is, hardly any at all. Lestrade had refused to hand over cases to Sherlock, when he was actively taking drugs, something about morals and the motivation to get clean, but never questioned his deductions about them during withdrawal. True, he'd only been given cold cases and would write his evidence out before handing it over to be passed onto the DI, but he had never been under the impression that he was doubted.
It was more than he could take. For Lestrade to feel his deductions inadequate was bruising and offensive. "I assure you, Inspector, I am absolutely positive." He ground the words out, couldn't stop the twist of anger that imbued itself with Lestrade's title, and felt morbidly pleased at the look of surprise on the man's face.
John was watching on in obvious discomfort, unsure of what had just occurred. He was apprehensive about the speed Lestrade left, even more so when Sherlock rounded on him, lips thin and body language dauntingly angry. There was no denying the fact that Sherlock stalked towards him, easily towering over John, a moment later, and trapping him with one hand splayed above each shoulder. The movements were all forceful and confident, suffused with some sort of purpose John still couldn't make out. It'd be intensely sexual, if not for the minute downturn at Sherlock's lips.
Lestrade had offended Sherlock.
It explained Sherlock's offensive attack on Lestrade and why the man had fled with awkward sheepishness. Sherlock was obviously proud of his intellect; what Lestrade said was a hit to that pride. However, it didn't explain why Sherlock had him trapped against the armchair – why that anger was now aimed solely at John. It was surprising how well Sherlock's mad expression made him switch from concerned to feeling overheated. He hadn't been in proximity with Sherlock's face like this before. He could see the individual colours in Sherlock's eyes, the distinct dryness of his lips, and the otherwise invisible wrinkles. He had no idea what Sherlock wanted him to do here. His head was tilted upwards to see Sherlock, and he could feel the man's breath spilling onto his face.
"Sherlock -" he began, but was cut off almost immediately.
"Do you think I'm a freak, John?" The tone wasn't insecure at all. It was taunting and disconcerting, a side he didn't think he'd seen yet. Sherlock's eyes were darting all over his face, trying to read his response before he gave it. He did the same, but without any success.
John wasn't sure what to say to it. It was the same sort of shock he felt when Sherlock pronounced himself a Sociopath. He wasn't sure how Lestrade prompted this line of inquiry either. Was he meant to give an answer or was this some sort of a test Sherlock had decided to spring on him? If the answer wasn't to Sherlock's liking, what would happen? He didn't consider Sherlock a freak, just someone who expressed themselves very differently – someone whose intelligence was a key and a barrier. Sherlock was unique.
"Context?" He asked, licking his lip nervously. Sherlock tilted his head at the action.
"Am I disconcerting to be around? Mycroft has already told you I have self-destructive tendencies, or at least implied it. One of Lestrade's colleagues regularly says that I'm a Psychopath, a killer too." Sherlock's voice purposefully turned tender at the word killer, caressing it and breathing it as a prayer. "Am I inhumane? I don't care that that woman died. There's no reason for me to care. Does that make me a freak, John?"
Jesus Christ. What the fuck do I say? Why is he saying this? He didn't have the slightest idea how to respond. Sherlock wasn't seeking reassurance, he was just listing various qualities about himself. Why was it that even Sherlock was trying to scare him away now? Lack of empathetic response was something many people did. John hadn't felt empathetic towards one of the bastards he'd punched while still at school. It's not that which concerned him, but the self-destructive tendencies and the killer part.
He could certainly see the self-destructive tendencies – it was the reason why he was here and listening to this rant right now – but the killer part seemed too harsh. He ignored the way Sherlock purred over the word, and the way it set off warning lights in his head, and focused on why someone might say that. Sherlock was brilliant, and the way he'd deconstructed that entire crime scene motive based on a single ring was stunning, but it made him appear far too in-the-know about the killing. The leaps in logic were sound in Sherlock's mind, though perhaps troubling to someone else. Someone else might take that as a clear sign that, just maybe, Sherlock knew too much.
He was just about to speak, to ask Sherlock why he was saying this, when the man broke through again.
"I take drugs because I get bored. I enjoy manipulating something, or someone, to suit my own wants and needs." Sherlock had quickly dropped his marginally wounded expression and replaced it with a mask of ice, giving his words more sickening power. "I've never had sex with affection. I'm selfish, arrogant, and cruel. What do you think, John? I'm a Sociopath, does that make it right for them to hate me? You look a little peaky, John."
It was the way Sherlock said his name, mocking and condescending, that made him snap, made him push Sherlock away. That was too much.
He stood and moved away. Sherlock looked a little surprised to find himself suddenly standing, to have so much space separating the two of them.
"Are you actually trying to make me agree?" John demanded, head spinning from what had just been said.
Sherlock made a noncommittal move. "Flatmates are meant to know the worst about each other."
Sherlock made it seem as though he was doing John a favour by admitting those things. He felt disgusted by it. This wasn't the warning Mycroft gave him, but more a brief review of everything Sherlock knew would disturb him. He made his way for his keys, snatching them up before grabbing his coat. There was absolutely no way he was going through this now, not with all Sherlock's words picking away at the good image the detective had built for himself.
He was two streets away, when his phone buzzed. He expected it to be from Sherlock, some sort of explanation as to what the fuck had just happened.
(5:30pm) (Private number) -
Am I going to have to invest in a new doctor? MH
He typed his response angrily, briefly wondering how Mycroft knew about this already, and hoped the man would follow his instructions.
(5:30pm) (John Watson) -
Invest in a visit to your bloody brother.
Sherlock wasn't surprised in the least to find Mycroft strolling into the living room, half an hour after John's abrupt departure. As always, there was something about the way that Mycroft walked in that implied that the man rightfully owned the place. His mood turned even sourer, an accomplishment, seeing how unexpectedly foul he was feeling.
"Are we really going to have to do this again, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, voice humble except for the slight hint of disappointed scorn.
He strode out of the room and put the kettle on. Not for Mycroft, no, but rather for some coffee. He would need some sort of stimulant to make it through his brother's inquisition and the muddle of his mind. Avoiding the conversation would be pointless; Mycroft was as stubborn as he was, in situations like these. Avoiding his mind was impossible.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." At least he could drive an irritating thorn into his brother's side.
Mycroft sat down on the armchair, a delicately placed sigh of ennui at his words permeating the air. "Ignorance never suited you, even as an act. This entire process of communication will be much more pleasant, if you accept the fact that it is necessary."
Sherlock scoffed, as he pulled out a mug and spooned the sugar and coffee in. Conversation with Mycroft hadn't been pleasant, since he was a child; it most certainly wasn't necessary, either. They could have had this talk, just as easily, via text.
Neither of them sought to converse any further. Mycroft wouldn't speak, until Sherlock was seated opposite him: a mixture of pride and the need to enforce his words.
He poured the water, slowly mixing it, before taking his seat.
"Would you be less inexorable, if I told you the flat wasn't bugged?"
That meant the flat had never been bugged in the first place – a small victory, on his part. Between the times Mycroft had received his text message, brusquely demanding to take any surveillance equipment down, and now, no one could have come in and removed the equipment, seeing as he'd been awake the entire time. Either Mycroft was lying about the state of the flat, or the cameras never had been put in place. He suspected the latter. Mycroft wasn't above lying, but he did prefer to not create more reason for Sherlock to actively avoid him. How manipulation and constant surveillance was classified as more acceptable than lying, he wasn't sure, though the saying was 'it's the thought that counts'.
"Possibly," Sherlock said, blowing at the rim of his mug. "Though, evidently, that doesn't apply to the street cameras. Are you just going to linger, or is there a purpose to this impromptu visit?" It was about John, he knew that, but this was how they spoke now. Mycroft would begin, usually calling him out on some sort of vice, and Sherlock wouldn't comply for as long as possible.
Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor twice, the only sign that Sherlock had actually managed to frustrate him. He smirked smugly under the guise of taking a sip.
"Is there any reason your doctor has decided against sleeping here tonight?"
Sherlock bristled at the question. Had John been disgusted to the point that he couldn't bear to be in the same flat as Sherlock? That was… strange, actually. Worse than Lestrade's mistrust in his deductions. He'd known John for only days, and, somehow, he'd taken a higher position than Lestrade? It was a niggling sensation in the back of his mind that refused to relent. "He's hardly my own doctor." He took a scalding sip of his coffee to cover the very new feeling, grimacing slightly at the taste and heat. Coffee was legal and stimulating, though not particularly enjoyable, in his opinion.
Mycroft's brows lifted, the same way they always did when he'd discovered something. He didn't appreciate the look; it meant he'd given something away, something that captured Mycroft's attention to the point that he had to make the expression. His brother may have been good at reading body language, but surely he hadn't given that much away. Mycroft picked up his umbrella and stood, walking over to the door as he spoke.
"Not necessarily. I may pay him, but the matters that he attends with you are yours only." He gave Sherlock one last meaningful look, something unspoken passing between them. "Good day."
Oh. Mycroft thought he knew that John wasn't relaying his information back to him, rather keeping everything that happened between them private. This was out of character for Mycroft. Mycroft preferred it when he was watched and restrained from anything deemed inappropriate. This meant that John's allegiance was entirely towards him. The declared friendship was true and without motive, as most of John's actions would be. It painted their interactions in an entirely different light.
The entire mistrustful view he'd had on John's persona was false. His act of testing John's boundaries, when it came to his darker side, was void now – pointless and another barrier he'd have to overcome later on. The immense rage he felt towards his lack of knowledge about Lestrade's hesitancy towards him had dissipated, the air clearing once John had been removed from the general vicinity. John had been enraptured beneath him, their breath mingling sensually between the two of them, as he whispered all the right words: the ones that would bring out disbelief and horror. He hadn't meant for all that to come out, but it did. He'd meant to collect himself and inquire about the possibility of dinner, not begin quoting Donovan as though she was right.
He hadn't minced his words. He'd spoken with the conviction of someone who was telling the truth. He hadn't thought to factor in the fact that sometimes, with the right trigger pushed during this state of oppressive withdrawal, he was bound to lash out. He'd done so to the group of addicts he'd had to work with, and he'd done so at Mycroft, at one point, too. Sherlock didn't think that he'd do it to John. John had a steady composure that sufficiently grounded him during his low points. His intention was to bat playfully at John, not violently force his hand.
This was… not good. No, not good at all. John's praise had been heady, and his wish to legitimately help and comfort was confusing, though painfully nice. He did not want another doctor to attempt to integrate with him. He wanted John because of his mindless simplicity and captivating actions.
Perhaps he should text John, though what he would write was a complete mystery. This wasn't the type of mystery he normally partook in. He did not indulge in emotions or explanations, for there was no rationality in them – no express set of rules or common precedent for him to follow. If only crime had so many avenues subject to change, ones for him to predict and explore, so then maybe he wouldn't be in this situation. Emotion was interesting to a point, then it just became tedious and highly unpredictable. Some people cried out of happiness, some turned sadness into a motive for revenge, and some would choose the relationship between them and their partner over everything else. It boggled him. Why on Earth would anyone sacrifice so much for a singular human being?
He took his place on the sofa, gingerly placing his head on the pillow and closing his eyes. For now, this was a puzzle – something to keep him from focusing on how his mind was turning to hell.
The distraction of his endless questions on the humanity of people kept him occupied for quite some time. It was a good distraction, until he unravelled under the pressure of his mind and fought the urge to scream.
Harry didn't do visits from John. It was just a rule that existed between them. They used to be okay, as okay as two siblings who were entirely different could be, but that changed with time. Mostly, it was the alcohol. Harry wasn't stupid – she was smart and had all the possibilities laid out before her – but she needed the escape like no other. John couldn't stop thinking of how Sherlock needed the escape of drugs. Was it really an escape? Cocaine was a stimulant, and everything would have been more focused for that brief period of time he was high. Sherlock's mind proved time and time again to work too fast. It wasn't escape, if Sherlock was channelling his mind, was it?
"You look as bad as I do." Harry said bleakly, as she placed a cup of tea before him, sitting down a second later.
He grunted, and they fell into silence. He closed his hands around the cup, felt the heat sting his hands, but didn't let go. He wasn't going back to the flat. He didn't know what to say or think.
"How're you?" He asked, and she snorted.
"Fuck, John, you come here looking like you did when Gladstone died, and you ask me how I am?" She made another amused noise, making her way over to the fridge, pulling out two bottles of beer and handing him one, completely ignoring the fact that she'd just made tea. He took his own without comment but couldn't stop himself from glancing at hers.
She caught his look with an annoyed expression. "One of us is going to get pissed tonight, and I know it's not going to be you."
John sighed then nodded. He drunk enough to take the edge off; Harry drunk enough to obliterate that edge and everything that came with it. That was what would forever irk him: his sister's willingness to just let it all go, rather than working at it. He never said it, but she knew it well enough.
Harry cracked open her beer, took a long swig, and then spoke. "So? You're here for a reason. I might as well be useful and listen."
"It's complicated," he said sullenly, and she made another uncouth noise.
It was complicated. He and Harry didn't do talking as much as they didn't do visits. Even if they did, what would he say? Oh, sorry about crashing here tonight – my flatmate decided to allude to the fact that everyone thinks he's mad and is a brutal murderer, sleep well! He's not going to be able to explain it in any way that will give Sherlock even the slimmest chance of appearing innocent. John didn't believe Sherlock to be a Sociopath – there was too much going on beneath the façade of practised equanimity for it to be true – but he did believe that Sherlock wanted to be. There was something about the way that Sherlock responded to his fear – anger, calculating, and disappointment – that was just off. Sherlock responded to his fear as though he needed to immediately cloak it somehow, like his body has brutally betrayed him to be showing such a response.
He thought back to the analogy he used about Sherlock and a computer virus. Sherlock deleted, and Sherlock miscalculated. It sounded so mechanical, as though Sherlock preferred to operate under a robotic costume. The deleting was actually pretty okay, and you couldn't coin it another name, but the miscalculating wasn't. Mistakes were mistakes.
John took a long drink. Again, he was looking far too deeply into this, trying to read hidden meanings in all of Sherlock's previous words to stop himself from thinking about being pressed against the armchair.
Harry prodded him with her elbow, still waiting for something to sate her curiosity.
He settled for, "I just need some time to think."
Harry accepted his excuse, retrieved another two beers from the fridge, handed him one, and then left him to his thoughts. It's the one thing they're actually good at, leaving each other alone.
He set his phone's alarm for 6 a.m. and lay down on the sofa, pulling the blanket onto himself, before trying to decode the meaning behind Sherlock's words.
Even after just having crashed at Harry's place for the night, he slipped back into his old pattern. He left some painkillers on her bedside table, a glass of cold water, and tucked her in sadly. She wasn't at her worst, but she did go back to the fridge a few times.
By the time he was outside, lamely looking for a taxi at this time in this area, he only had to wait a couple of minutes before there was a car pulling up next to him. There was no Mycroft present, but there was Anthea. She looked perfectly at home in the car, as though she hadn't been pulled out at some ungodly hour and told to come and get him.
"Looks like I don't need to bother with the tube or cabs anymore."
She offered him a vague smile, one that was about as sincere as the pleasantries he and Harry exchanged yesterday, and he shut up automatically. The expression was utterly blank, not just false but disturbing.
221B came up far too quickly for his liking. It was foreboding, and he felt unwelcome and highly uncomfortable. The loud steps up to the flat's door were booming and ominous. He could hear Sherlock's low voice, an angry rise and fall in the tone that set John on edge, making him wonder if Mycroft had indeed graced the flat with his presence. He slowed his steps, reaching the doorway and hovering between the curiosity to hear more of what the two brothers were saying, or possibly entering the conversation himself.
It took him a moment to realise that Mycroft wasn't interjecting at all, staying uncharacteristically silent as Sherlock spoke, voice unexpectedly changing in volume. It sounded like Sherlock was ranting at his brother, though whatever it was about was lost on John. He unlocked the door, breaching the line of No-Sherlock and Sherlock cleanly.
The flat was fundamentally the same, though there were things scattered messily on the floor. Careless patterns of paper held their place on the carpet, some of the sheets crinkling or fluttering as Sherlock went past them. The violin was neatly rested against the armchair, the bow on the desk.
Sherlock was agitatedly pacing the living room. Everything about him looked skewed: his clothes were rumpled, his hair messy, and his expression raging. He looked like a man possessed, taking a deep breath and calming temporarily. John took the moment to survey the scene, belatedly noting that Sherlock had been speaking to himself, rather than his brother, and cleared his throat. Sherlock hadn't even registered his arrival.
The detective rounded in on him, hands clenched and thick rage clinging to him. Sherlock didn't let him speak, launching into his previous monologue instead.
"It's absolutely pointless, don't you understand?" Sherlock hissed brokenly at him, eyes wide as though he were imploring John to understand, or to help Sherlock understand it himself. "There's no need for all of these conventions to keep society all neat and organised. It will forever be broken, as the law is. None of it would be necessary, if all you idiots would just open your eyes and see. How can none of you understand what is clearly before you? You people infuriate me. All your petty ideals that need to be followed through with day in, day out, as though nothing else will carry you through life -"
Sherlock paused and ground his hands into his eyes, a groan spilling out of his split lips, as he moved towards John, close enough to weakly fall against him.
John touched Sherlock's shoulder and felt the tension – felt how Sherlock flinched away from him too.
Sherlock's hands fell away from his face, eyes dull and despairing. "You stumble into the same wall of stupidity constantly without fail. So freakishly dull, so keen to ignore the obvious. It's hateful."
He didn't think Sherlock was speaking plainly anymore; there was a look of frustrated hopelessness about Sherlock that said more than his words did. The visceral emotion robbed Sherlock of his adulthood, reducing him to, in John's eyes, a teenager. Sherlock just didn't know what to do. His hands fisted his hair, his teeth ground together, and another sound ripped itself out of him. It was raw and horrible to behold.
Sherlock suddenly sat on the floor, grabbing the nearest sheet of paper and scanning it. John could see the notes, could almost imagine Sherlock hearing the sheet music's melody, but the man threw the paper away, hissing as he did so. "It would be so quiet," whispered Sherlock, and John felt a horrible swooping sensation in his stomach, one that pushed him to the floor next to Sherlock.
"What would be quiet?" He grabbed Sherlock's hands, just holding them for the time being. "Sherlock."
"Cocaine," Sherlock responded grandly, and John felt some of his fear deflate. He'd seen a depressed teenager once refer to suicide as 'the promise of quiet'. To hear something similar from Sherlock, from someone so headstrong and alive and bright, was a sobering thought.
Sherlock's hands had taken up their fine tremor again, the physical proof that Sherlock was far from okay, and John felt the urge to just hug Sherlock, to reinstate the fact that he was here. It was like layers of Sherlock's resolve were being stripped away, slowly taking John to the core of madness that Sherlock appeared to keep hidden. It would be hateful to be smarter than everyone else but still cast out due to that and other eccentricities. John felt frustrated towards patients, when he had to repetitively explain antibiotic resistance; he could hardly imagine applying that to most of the people he met, if not all of them.
Why did cocaine make it quiet? It was a stimulant, not a depressant. He had no way to assure Sherlock that it would get better – no proof that it would. He could sympathise with Sherlock's insomnia, and could understand why it was such a big part of Sherlock, but he had no experience with withdrawal. The only thing he ever craved was caffeine after not enough sleep, which was a far cry from what Sherlock was going through. Right now, he heavily doubted his expertise in the area. He wasn't smart enough to keep up with Sherlock and didn't know what the man was going through. He felt spectacularly useless, like this.
Sherlock was watching him with big eyes, curiosity and dejectedness mixed into one. Sherlock looked small, his humanity surprising. The look didn't sit right on Sherlock's face – it made him appear so much more prone to episodes like this and made the threat of relapsing that much more severe. He pulled Sherlock towards him, letting go of the man's hands and resting his own on Sherlock's back. It was awkward, especially because of the distance otherwise between them, but Sherlock only stiffened for a moment, before melting into the contact, tucking his face into John's neck.
Sherlock had looked tired, and not just in a way that suggested he hadn't slept, but weary and desperately unhappy that he'd fallen into that need again. He couldn't imagine Sherlock having lived through withdrawal twice before; it was too brutal. He must have needed the drugs more than John had thought. Sherlock had tried to get out of it – tried incredibly hard to distract himself – but he'd been pushed into it again.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, voice a mere rumble below his ear. "Most people aren't keen to continue association with a Psychopath."
"You're not a Psychopath." The words spilled easily off his tongue, his conviction clear.
"I am a Sociopath, though."
John didn't see it – didn't see the emotionless picture that came with being a Sociopath. Maybe Sherlock couldn't see it, probably because he wanted to believe it for some reason, but he was so much more than just a Sociopath.
"I don't believe you," he said, and wrapped his arms a little tighter around Sherlock.
He gingerly leaned his head against Sherlock's, waiting for a retort or signal that this was too much. He knew Sherlock didn't really do touching, and knew that affection and kind words weren't often given to him, so forced himself to not tighten his arms around Sherlock again. Sherlock was so starved of simple affection, and so unsure of himself, when it came to it.
"You did brilliantly on that case today." John whispered, thumb ghosting over the top of Sherlock's spine.
Sherlock rearranged himself a little closer to John, loosely resting his hands on John's hips. He almost didn't hear the quiet 'thank you' Sherlock breathed onto his neck, but he did feel how bittersweet the moment was.
AN: Thank you for all the support I'm getting for this story, it really is greatly appreciated :'D I'm considering making a tumblr for my writing, mostly just so that I can reblog the various pics I use as inspiration for different parts of each chapter.