Filming for Sherlock series 2 finished yesterday :D I am officially excited! Anyway, here's the new chapter.
Reviews very much appreciated: positive or negative, I'll take them! :)
Also, I feel the need to apologise for the language later on, even though the rating really does account for that :) Enjoy.
John twirls his pen absently between his fingers, waiting for his next patient. She was due in five minutes, but the short lull in the storm was sending his nerves jangling. Sherlock hadn't looked one hundred per cent when he'd left Baker Street that morning: he'd been in a rather heightened state of enthusiasm, and after the vomiting the day before, John was a little worried. He'd never seen Sherlock ill, and recently his mood had been all over the place: swinging dangerously from almost-jubilation, to the kind of black mood where every movement irritated him, and a scowl was the best reaction you could hope for to anything. John worried that the case was affecting him more than previous ones had, and that Sherlock was finding the shift in perspective hard to cope with. Although, that still wouldn't explain the throwing up, and he'd looked absolutely dreadful the previous night.
Trying not to remember Sherlock's sweaty, white pallor, John checks his phone and waits quietly, steering his thoughts away from Sherlock Holmes and tiny burnt corpses. He focusses on his own breathing, and tries to be interested in the fact that it was a little more irregular than normal, and not speculate about the reason.
He's distracted as his patient enters the room, and for the minutes that she stays Sherlock and the case are forgotten. John is well practised at switching off his personal problems in the presence of a patient, so much so that they drift into unimportance next to the job of helping a person to recover. It's a welcome respite, but the fear crawls back as the woman leaves. She thanks him, and he gets up to hold the door for her, but as soon as it slams shut he's left with only his own thoughts for company.
There's something nagging at the back of his mind, the notion that there's something that he's missed, something related to Sherlock, something important.
The door creaks open again, and this time it's not a patient, it's Sarah. He's grateful for the company, and nods his head towards an empty chair wordlessly.
"Hey," he says softly, not sure she's entirely forgiven him for the walking out episode yet. She doesn't say anything, just bites her lip hesitantly. John finds his eyes following the movement. It's nice, he ponders, that he's actually able to sit in a room with a nice girl he likes a lot, and not be fixated on murder and sociopathic flatmates. The breath of normality is a relief, and his lips curve into a smile.
"I don't suppose you want to go for a drink after work?" he asks sheepishly, his hand automatically rising to rub the back of his neck, as he did when apprehensive. "As…a kind of apology. For things."
She flashes him a real smile then, and gets up from her seat.
"I look forward to it," she tells him, eyes sparkling as they flick over his face.
She leaves, and John exhales, letting a small smile crinkle the corners of his eyes.
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The pub is a particularly nice one. It's not crowded enough to be rowdy, but there's a good scattering of people, providing a pleasant background noise of chatter and laughter: echoing off the polished wood. John and Sarah walk in hand in hand, and make their way slowly to the bar. It's nice not to be in a rush for once, to not have to run on pure adrenaline, to not feel the weight of real human lives in their hands.
The bartender, a middle-aged man with only a sprinkling of sandy hair left on his head, gets them their drinks, and the pair find a nice table in the very corner of the pub. The conversation is nice: ranging from exasperating patients to shared interests in movies…and it is certainly very nice to be able to have a mundane conversation without having your intellect challenged.
John's watches Sarah laughing; the carefree noise a welcome oasis in the horror that's surrounded him for months. He's just about to offer her another drink, when a sharp 'ping' catches his attention.
His eyes flick to the pocket of his coat on instinct, and Sarah, catching the reflex, just nods with a smile.
"Excuse me," he says, drawing the phone from his pocket and clearing his throat uncomfortably, wishing he'd ignored the noise.
Come home immediately. Help needed urgently. Can't wait. SH.
John stares at the screen, weighing up the likelihood of whatever Sherlock wanted actually being urgent. He's undecided: the man's track record was against him, but then again …this case was particularly nasty. They both had significantly more invested in this one.
"I've got to go," he hears himself say; and watches himself, almost detached, get up from the table, hears his chair scrape on the floor. Even as his feet carry him towards the exit, he's still unaware of consciously making a decision. He hears hurried footsteps behind him, and turns to see Sarah. Feet from the door, the air from outside blows back her hair as two more people enter.
"John?"
She looks any number of emotions: confused, hurt…and while it's a refreshing change from Sherlock's guarded surliness, it's not enough. There's still that compelling force to help.
"I've got to," he repeats, a little ashamed of the pleading quality to his voice, imploring her to understand.
"Oh, well…if it's that important." Her voice is growing colder, there's irony in her words. "I suppose I can't help."
"Sarah…I'm sorry – " he takes a few more steps towards the door. "Look, I – it's…"
He can't quite find the right words.
"It's fine," she tells him, folding her arms. "Go on."
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Walking through the door of the flat, John doesn't immediately see the supposed sense of urgency that Sherlock mentioned. The detective himself is lying in his usual manner on the sofa: eyes shut, fingers pressed regally together beneath his chin. The peaceful scene evokes a stab of irritation in the doctor.
"You had better have a bloody good reason for calling me here," he says into the silence, glaring at the frozen detective. "I swear to God, if all you want is your phone passed, then I'm going to – "
"Relax, John," Sherlock interjects – and is it John's imagination that his annunciation is off? - "Judging by past observation, she'll forgive you. Again."
John's takes a steadying breath. He's calm, but the blasé attitude causes a jab of annoyance: it's that assuming arrogance, the way Sherlock knew that he could make him come running with no good reason. John's got half a mind to walk straight out, and attempt to patch things up with Sarah. She was a bloody saint, which was more than could be said for the statue currently taking up residence on the couch.
"Right," he says, gnawing his lip hesitantly. "I'm here. What do you want help with?"
The speed at which Sherlock sits up is frightening. His eyes fly open, glinting with something that might have been manic enthusiasm. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and his hair is sticking up in all directions, presumably from being violated during the thinking process. Actually, peering irritably at the detective's features, there's something in Sherlock's face that is off.
"I need you to run an errand for me," Sherlock says, his voice bored. "If you don't mind."
He flashes a grin. John watches him dubiously, and doesn't respond.
"Obviously, a good start in finding Moriarty would be to discover where the drugs in 'Jay's Gardening Store' are sourced. It's not a concrete aid, per se, but it might give us some kind of geographical clue as to where to start looking. As such, I need details on significant illegal drug imports, and I need you to speak to Mycroft."
John stares. Sherlock looks at him likewise, but his gaze isn't as steady as usual.
"The government know about importers of illegal drugs?" John asks, incredulous. "Why don't they stop them?"
"The majority are 'discovered', John, but think about the impact complete stemming of the trade would have on the addicts. There are people who would literally do anything to get their hands on them." Sherlock pauses, and gives a breathless, excited grin. "Bribery in a struggling economy goes a long way too."
The explanation doesn't quite placate the doctor, but he keeps quiet. Mycroft was probably more the man to have this debate with anyway.
Instead, he watches Sherlock send a text, scratching the back of his head thoughtfully.
"You want me to go now?"
"Please," Sherlock replies, not looking up from the screen.
John stands, feeling foolish for a few seconds. Then, in the absence of further elaboration on the part of the detective, he scans an eye over the flat, considering what he'd need. His eye is caught by the stack of photos teetering on the edge of the kitchen table. Flipping through them, he finds the rather ill-lit picture of the bags in the back of the store and pockets it.
That done, he turns to leave, but not before catching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. He sees the lopsided smile, and the limbs draped limply over the sofa, and something clicks.
The realisation hits him with considerable force: the realisation of ignoring all the signs, of turning his back on them and God he was so, so stupid. He'd ignored that look in Sherlock's eyes, the frightening mood swings: from delirious to downtrodden in minutes, he'd ignored the stumbles, the throwing up, hell – he'd even ignored the falling down the stairs.
His mind is screaming, and the fact that Sherlock hasn't noticed should tell him something too, because it was so obvious, all along. He can see, now, that he ignored it all because he simply wasn't looking for it: despite the man's past, he'd never believed it of him. He'd attributed the odd behaviour to being thrown off by the disturbing case, and somehow his mind had twisted the events to fit.
John looks over at his flatmate, and there's a pain in his chest that twinges horribly.
"Sherlock," he breathes, not sure whether he's concerned or sad, or angry, even. He feels as though the floor's been snatched from beneath him, and he collapses into the armchair.
Sherlock looks up at that, and John's well aware that he knows.
"Yes John?" the detective says. His innocent performance is impeccable, but John can see through the front now.
"I…"
"Mycroft is that way," Sherlock informs him, pointing a long pale finger towards the door, and huffing. It takes a moment, but John rises from the chair. He can feel himself shaking a little. Instead of going towards the door, he moves towards his flatmate. He can feel the detective's eyes on him, but doesn't look at him until they're less than a foot apart, not until he's knelt on the floor, so that their faces are level.
Slowly and deliberately, John extends his hand. When it's centimetres from the other man's wrist, he moves his eyes upwards to look at him. Sherlock blinks.
He switches his attention back to their arms, reaching the final few centimetres to grasp Sherlock's wrist. The detective doesn't struggle, but John can feel the tension running up and down his arm.
His eyes move up the limb towards the rolled shirt sleeve, a process that is painfully and deliberately slow.
It's like he wants Sherlock to snatch it away, deny it, and he can just believe him like always.
No, he really wants that.
Sherlock doesn't, and John has no choice. He moves his eyes the last few inches to the crook of Sherlock's arm, and looks. Just visible, as he expected, are a few tiny pin-pricks in the pale skin. Unsure of how to proceed, John swallows, presses his lips together, and avoids Sherlock's gaze, still grasping the man's wrist tightly in his fingers.
"Problem?" Sherlock asks quietly. John becomes aware of his grip on the man's arm, and lets go hastily, straightening himself up.
"No," he lies, shaking his head. He moistens his lower lip with his tongue and swallows again. "Actually, yes."
He still can't bring himself to look at Sherlock. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock says nothing.
"Why?" John asks eventually.
"I think you're overreacting again, John."
"I am not overreacting, Sherlock!" he retorts. "It is not overreacting to be mildly concerned that my flatmate is taking illegal drugs!"
Sherlock stares at him. The expression is deliberately provocative, and the irritation from earlier flares back up, except worse.
"It is not overreacting, actually, to be extremely concerned about it! And you haven't answered my question, either."
Sherlock watches him, tight lipped, from his stance on the sofa.
"It helps me think," he says. His tone is unapologetic.
"That's an excuse for the nicotine patches, Sherlock, not for heroin."
They stare at each other, eyes hostile, for a good minute. John is well aware that they are both too stubborn to give in, but on this occasion he is right, and Sherlock is unequivocally, entirely and completely, utterly wrong. On every single level.
The detective makes to get up, and John's eyes narrow, instantly suspicious. They narrow still further as the taller man walks into the kitchen. His eyes flick between him and that margarine tub.
Which is when Sherlock loses it. It's so unlike him that John stares.
"What precisely are you expecting me to do?" he snaps, dishes crashing into the sink as he pulls a mug roughly from the centre of a pile on the drainer. One plate slips to the floor and smashes at his feet, but Sherlock doesn't so much as flinch.
"I wonder," John snarls back, tired of Sherlock's constant assumption that he and he alone was right.
Sherlock slams the mug onto the counter so hard John sees a crack run up the side of it.
"Lay off."
"I will not!" John retorts, losing his own temper. He's surprised he retained it for so long. "I will not stand back and pretend everything is okay while you slowly kill yourself. I will not let another person I love destroy themselves. I won't, Sherlock. I can't."
Sherlock sniffs. His eyebrows disappear into his hair in scepticism.
"Oh, so this is about Harry," he sneers. "You think if you'd done something sooner, she wouldn't have become an alcoholic."
John gapes at the sheer stupidity of the man, and fights the urge to punch him.
"This has nothing to with Harry!" he shouts. The colour builds in his face as he gets more and more worked up. "This is to do with you being a bloody idiot and taking god damn fucking heroin, Sherlock Holmes, and don't you dare try and twist that."
John can hear his heart pounding in his ears, and clenches both his fists by his sides, fighting to stay calm. Angry, he was no use to Sherlock. Sherlock steps towards him, so their noses are inches apart.
"Really?" he asks softly, his glare cold. "Are you sure this isn't just an attempt to redeem yourself, after what you didn't do for your sister?"
"Positive," he manages, through gritted teeth. He has to stop then; he can feel himself shaking with anger. He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his tone is quite different.
"For God's sake, let me help you."
He's ashamed to hear the pleading in his own voice.
"I don't want you to," Sherlock replies, and John realises that their disagreement has evolved from shouting to voices that are low and dangerous and vindictive. He doesn't like it. "I don't want your help."
"You bloody need it."
Sherlock takes a step back. His head is drawn up, his chin out: this is Sherlock when he's defiant and angry, and John's not sure he wants to be on the receiving end of that.
"I never asked for or wanted it," Sherlock states. His voice is hard and unfeeling, the words designed to cut right through the doctor before him. The fresh stab in John's chest is testimony to that, but he grits his teeth and stands his ground.
"Well that's odd," he comments. "Considering that you have never refused my help, even when you didn't need it."
"I will not be the subject of your attempt to redeem yourself for past mistakes."
"Do you even know how wrong you are?"
"I'm not wrong."
"Sherlock! I cannot let you do this to yourself. Do you bloody understand?"
They're nose to nose again, both having stepped forward in anger, glaring fiercely.
"At least I understand the shortfalls in emotional investment in others. Next time you meet someone who openly admits to being sociopathic, John, don't bother."
"So taking illegal drugs to drown out the fact that you care is better, is it?"
Sherlock stares at him, and John can tell that he's struck a nerve, and ploughs on.
"Caring about tortured and murdered children isn't a flaw, Sherlock Holmes."
"If it hinders my ability to save them, then I would beg to disagree."
"Grow up."
He turns to leave, completely through with Sherlock. Halfway to the door he remembers something, and turns back to snatch the margarine tub from the counter, daring Sherlock with his eyes to try and stop him. Sherlock merely snarls at him, one of his hands clenched on the wood of the table.
"Don't fool yourself into thinking I need you, or your so-called 'guidance'."
The door slams with a shattering finality.
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John goes to Sarah's out of habit, although it's little surprise when she turns him away. He's left standing in the glow of her front light, and wondering how he managed to lose two friends in one night, when all he did was try and help. The thought leaves him down heartened, and as he walks away from Sarah's, his hands are buried deep in his pockets, his head bowed.
He's beginning to see the benefit in simply not caring about anything.
John fully intends to mooch around London that night, let his legs carry him wherever, just try and clear his head, and to rid himself of the horrible, echoing remnants of Sherlock's last stab at him: 'don't fool yourself into thinking I need you.'
He's so buried inside his own head, that he doesn't notice the sleek, black car that draws up beside him until it stops entirely, and he realises that the throb of the engines he'd subconsciously registered has fallen away.
It doesn't even take thought to decide to clamber inside. Even were this someone other than the elder of the Holmes', he was just glad of something to draw him from the mantra of negativity in his mind. He'd love to have a crack at Moriarty, to vent some of his anger at Sherlock.
Anthea's presence seems to confirm Mycroft's hand. He doesn't bother trying to engage her in conversation, just sits stiffly in his seat, staring straight ahead.
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"I suppose you know already," John comments, watching Mycroft across his desk. He hasn't the energy for politeness. "Why the bloody hell didn't you do something?"
Mycroft's stare turns reproving at his language and manner, but the argument with Sherlock has left him disinclined to care. He doesn't bother with an apology. Mycroft seems less intimidating when things seemed already hopeless.
"Sherlock has always been resilient to my assistance," the man states, one hand stroking the handle of the umbrella stashed beside his chair. "I was rather hoping he'd prove more responsive to you."
"Why would he?" John asks. "I barely know him. Known him for less than a year."
Mycroft Holmes surveys him with his steely gaze, apparently analysing the shortness of John's responses.
"You've rather lost your spirit," he states, with the air of one commenting on the weather.
"It's been a bad day."
"Elaborate."
John looks up at the man in disbelief.
"You already know about the argument," John tells him. "That's why I'm here."
"I've read the transcript, certainly. You're here because I don't want Moriarty catching you and using you against my brother again. It would be tediously repetitive, but unfortunately still effective."
He heaves a sigh. His despair at unoriginal criminals reminds John of Sherlock, and now that his anger and hurt has begun to subside, he's able to see the resemblance with something that's almost a smile.
"I have a question for you," he says. Mycroft smiles, the very edges of his mouth tilting upwards. It was a far cry from the excited smiles of his brother, and John notes how he's begun to compare them again, with every comparison in Sherlock's favour.
"I thought you might."
John almost laughs then. It's nice to know he's still got the capacity for that.
"Can you give the information, then?" the doctor asks.
"Dr Watson, I have better things to do with my day than document my brother's every word."
John shifts in his seat and clears his throat.
"Sherlock would like details of importers of class A drugs." John pauses, the question on the tip of his tongue. "Why don't you do anything to stop them?"
Mycroft doesn't answer immediately; he's rummaging busily in his desk draws. He takes out a thick, battered file. It's bound in peeling cardboard, and held together with string, and Mycroft Holmes lifts the thing from the draw and places it delicately on the table. His expression resembles that of a person required to plunge their hands into a particularly nasty substance.
"I had this sent to the office about half an hour ago," he says, blatantly ignoring John's question.
"And what do I do about Sherlock?" John asks, feeling a note of desperation creeping into his voice. He meets Mycroft's eyes warily, very aware of the man's gaze.
Mycroft stands up. He towers over John now, and looks down on him. His expression is not hostile, but it is severe.
"Sherlock particularly enjoys disobeying me," Mycroft states, his gaze shifting to a spot above John's head. He begins to walk around the desk, finishing beside the doctor, his head skewed to the side to survey him. "Yet I was able to help dissuade him from addiction the first time. I should imagine a person he holds in regard would be able to help him far more readily."
He sweeps from the room, leaving John to gingerly pick up the mass of papers from his desk, and reflect how he became responsible for fulfilling the wishes of two Holmes' with contrasting viewpoints.
But for once, he was doing this Mycroft's way.