Yes, into double-digit chapters! :)
Hope everyone enjoys! Reviews are highly motivating, just so as you know :P
Sherlock hears John come home at around eleven. He doesn't come into the main part of the flat, just heads straight up to his room...but the tread on the stairs does not indicate anger. It's steady, and Sherlock hears the slight pause outside the door, before the doctor decides to continue up to his own bedroom. So, frustrated but not defeated, which presumably meant he'd try a fresh assault on Sherlock's newly awakened habits tomorrow. The detective's brow creases into a frown, and he shoves his laptop off his knees, so that it lands with a soft thump on the sofa.
He waits for an hour, listening to John trying to get comfortable: drifting off and jerking back awake, until he finally manages to fall asleep on his right side, curled up slightly to the right of the centre of the bed. Only when Sherlock is certain of the deep breathing signifying his flatmate to be unconscious does he move. In socks, his tread is close to silent; padding across the carpet to the door, and clambering up the stairs with only the faintest whisper of the fabric on the structure betraying his presence.
John's door is more tricky: Sherlock is well aware that it creaks, he hears it every night as the other man retreats upstairs to bed. The noise, coupled with John's unpredictable nightmares – which have only got worse since this case started – and the fact that he only fell asleep very recently, causes Sherlock to be extremely wary as he pushes open the door. He winces as he hears metal scrape on metal, and makes a mental note to oil the hinges when he had a passing moment.
Or, possibly convince Anderson to do it by bribing him with Donovan...
Either way, he was very sure that John would not be impressed if he woke in the middle of the night to find Sherlock invading his room.
Holding the door open with one foot, Sherlock peers into the gloom. The little numbers on John's alarm clock are distracting: they shine through the blackness, making the whole room seem darker in comparison to their luminance. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock spots a large dark shape beside the clock, and smiles.
John didn't have a huge range of possessions, and those he did have were neatly stowed in draws and the small wardrobe. Therefore, this was not his…or it was at least something he planned on passing on at some point – conclusion: it was the file on drug imports he'd got from Mycroft. Dependable, even when angry. Sherlock smiles.
He manages to grab the file without relinquishing his foot as a door-stop, but as he does so, something occurs to him. If John had seen Mycroft…well, there was an excellent chance that his elder brother had attempted to persuade the doctor to redouble his efforts regarding 'helping' him. John's stubbornness with Mycroft's patronage was not a combination Sherlock wanted to endure. With the file clutched to his chest, Sherlock abandons his efforts to be quiet, and stomps down the stairs in disgust.
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When John stumbles downstairs that morning, his hair ruffled from sleep and sporting the usual black circles beneath his eyes, Sherlock doesn't move. He's not feeling brilliant: the first tell-tale withdrawal signs of a very sore head beginning to emerge in the sunlight. He's also a little unsure of how to proceed – he's well aware that he was less than civil the previous night, and in the absence of the possibility of asking John for advice on the matter, he simply watches his flatmate from across the room.
"D'you want some?" John asks, indicating the toaster that he was standing next to. Sherlock notes his voice is less expectant than usual.
"No."
The response, short and tetchy, is met with a slight shrugging of the shoulders, and a small sigh. Interesting. Sherlock continues to watch John, his eyes flicking from him to his laptop every few seconds.
"Are you sure?" he hears his flatmate ask. "You can't just live on caffeine."
John's voice trails off at the end of his sentence, apparently regretfully. Oh, so drugs were still a tender subject, were they?
"I've managed so far," Sherlock points out, tapping at the keyboard.
He hears John inhale, and waits for the response. Conversations this cagey were usually reserved for Mycroft.
"That's true," John agrees. He drums his knuckles on the counter, waiting for the toast.
"But maybe you're right," Sherlock suggests. He chuckles at the other man's startled expression.
"No," the doctor tells him firmly. "Caffeine's fine. Good, actually."
Sherlock surveys him, letting his lips curve into a slow smile. John is momentarily distracted by the emergence of the toast, and while he scrapes the butter across it, Sherlock gets up, swinging his legs off the sofa. He scrubs his hands through his hair once, and meanders over to his flatmate.
"Do you need anything?"
John starts, looking up at him through a mouthful of toast. He swallows.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said: 'do you need anything?' I'm going out and I thought you might like me to pick up the groceries."
John takes another bite of toast, chews, and deigns to answer.
"Really?"
"Really."
Sherlock watches his flatmate analyse him. It really was very amusing watching ordinary people try to work anything out: you could see their brains struggling, see every stage of their reasoning clearly in their faces. Gratitude, suspicion, confusion.
"Why?"
And then they'd just ask for an explanation anyway…
"I have to pick up some things I need," Sherlock explains patiently. "I thought it was considerate to offer to get anything else we needed."
"Teabags would be good," John admits, and Sherlock is fascinated by the sheepish quality to his voice. "And sugar, considering it's the only thing keeping you alive at the moment."
His eyes rake over Sherlock's skinny frame in that irritating, diagnostic fashion, and Sherlock scowls at him. He makes to leave, but a hand on his arm stops him.
"Do you want h – " John stumbles over the word, and Sherlock huffs impatiently. "Do you want a hand later? With the case."
Sherlock disappears briefly to fetch his coat, and he can feel the tension radiating off the doctor as he waits for his verdict. The detective shrugs his coat on, and fastens his scarf securely. That done, he flicks his eyes upwards to look at John.
"That would be tolerable," he concurs, sweeping from the flat.
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The first stop Sherlock makes is at one of his old haunts. It's a rather dingy alleyway around the back of a disused warehouse. The roof of the building is disintegrating, and the path itself is littered with shards of tile and brick, and sodden wood.
It's the kind of place that John would sarcastically refer to as 'a nice part of town', and although the location was hardly idyllic, Sherlock quite likes it. It's interesting: it's not the stark white, boring walls of the Yard, or John's clinic – it's got mayhem and wrongdoing engraved in it. There's graffiti and what might once have even been bloodstains: cracks and dents, and fist shaped holes in the fence. It's a nod back to his past, and although he's always the last man to succumb to nostalgia, he's sick of constantly being prodded away from it by Mycroft. It's like it's a dirty little secret, ashes swept under the rug.
Sherlock's sharp eyes quickly spot the figure disappearing around the end of the warehouse, the tail end of their jacket disappearing past the disintegrating brick of the building. He stands still for a moment, his grey eyes narrowing, and darting sideways, as he listens intently to the disappearing footsteps.
He moves very suddenly, stalking down the alley after the figure. There's a purpose to his step, not dissimilar to how he moves after disappearing from a crime scene to investigate a sudden realisation. Pale eyes stay narrowed, and the wind tugs at his hair. His face is thrown into focus: pale even for him, cheekbones even more prominent than usual through his neglect of food. He pulls on the lapels of his coat to draw the garment closer to him, and quickens his stride.
To any onlooker, he would appear to be walking in a straight line, possibly heading for the main road. The man he might have been following has certainly long vanished. However, he veers suddenly, disappearing through a doorway gouged into the crumbling wall of the warehouse.
The man has not vanished; he's standing inside.
As Sherlock approaches the figure, his lips twitch upwards once, dropping back quickly into their usual suspicious set. His eyelids relax around the grey irises, transforming them from wary slits to something more eager.
He feels his heart rate increase marginally. Looking around the room, watching the water run down the walls encrusted already with algae and moss and inhaling the dust dropping from the ceiling, he feels an enormous sense of relief.
The heroin, he reflects, has been incredibly effective. Taken first to relieve his anxiety and terror so he could concentrate on saving those children, it's now helping in a whole different capacity. Obtaining it has become the priority in his brain, the case taking second place. Now he's got something he wants more, and that can only be a good thing. Perspective and distance were essential to looking at a crime effectively. It was a shame John couldn't understand that.
The man about five feet away from him is a drug dealer – obviously – but he's not one related to the case. Sherlock's lost the reasons why he should go to those: the drugs were merely a detail, security, to ensure he got drawn into this case. He'd rather go to those he trusted, to a degree at least.
Within half an hour he's back home, and blissfully high. The teabags are long forgotten.
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John doesn't go to work when he leaves 221B. He heads instead for a nearby park, sits down on one of the benches, and thinks. He's incredibly unsure of how to deal with Sherlock. He was relatively well versed in the theory of dealing with drug addicts, but he knows that doesn't necessarily add up to being any good in practice, and this was Sherlock. John was prepared to bet he was significantly more stubborn than your common heroin addict.
Also, he was worried about Moriarty. Sherlock couldn't be at his best at the moment, and an encounter now would be very bad news, he was sure. Accordingly, John had taken to carrying his gun with him everywhere. He didn't fancy getting arrested for it, but Moriarty was not immune to bullets, and if John saw him first, then he was getting one buried in his skull. If Sherlock didn't like it…well, tough.
It was also very frustrating for him that he was of very little use in the actual process of solving the case, except in the capacity of being Sherlock's assistant. He was a good shot, and he could normally stop the detective from insulting people, but that was bloody it.
John watches the leaves pitching on the trees bordering the park, and grits his teeth. The city is nowhere close to its usual vibrancy: people tended to hurry between stores, always looking over their shoulders, and the amount of kids roaming the streets had dropped massively. Those out were always accompanied by nervous-looking parents, clutching their hands like a lifeline. People were scared, absolutely terrified. Nobody wanted their children taken from them, especially in this way. Even school playgrounds were deserted: allowing the children outside was too much of a risk for the schools.
He drums his hands on his legs, and tries to think like Sherlock. It comes to no avail, and he's unable to stop a growl of frustration escaping his lips.
He's got one idea. Sherlock's going to hate him, but if it saves children, if it saves him, John's willing to do it. It also feels a lot like giving up, but he supposes he can take the dent to his pride.
Sighing, John gets up, brushes the grime off the bench from his trousers, and heads for the road to find a cab.
It's rare he's been to Scotland Yard without the detective beside him, shouting out instructions and insults. He licks his lips apprehensively, and grimaces at the weight of the gun in his pocket. This was the worst idea he'd had in a while: walking into the headquarters of the Metropolitan police carrying a gun. He sincerely hopes the lump in his jacket is not too prominent.
Sally Donovan's eyes follow him all the way to the door of Lestrade's office. He can almost hear the questions formulating in her mind, the insults aimed at Sherlock and his absence. He's very glad she doesn't voice them, and sticks both hands in his pockets as he waits.
Restless, he listens to the tapping of keyboards, and drums one foot on the ground nervously.
"John." Lestrade's face appears around the door, rousing him from his thoughts. He sounds surprised, but he widens the door to admit the doctor. John takes the seat offered, and wonders where to start.
"This is about the case, I presume," the DI states, taking his own seat. "Coffee?"
"Kind of," John answers, shaking his head to the offer. "It's about Sherlock, actually."
Lestrade's eyebrows shift upwards good-naturedly.
"Fire away."
"You knew him when he was an addict. Quite well?"
"Well, yes," Lestrade admits, looking confused. "John, I don't see…"
"Let's imagine I know someone who's in a similar situation," he interrupts, his voice forceful and blunt. "Any advice?"
Lestrade's brow furrows. John's unsure if it's due to the unexpected request, or the directness of tone that's bordering on rudeness.
"I'm really not sure I'm the person to consult."
"Let's imagine it really is Sherlock."
"Well if it's not…"
The doctor thinks he does well to restrain himself from a Sherlock-like scoff.
"It is." John tells him, losing his temper a bit. "How direct do I need to be?"
He breathes in, re-evaluates his last words, and sighs.
"Sorry."
The DI watches him. He looks very tired; his eyes bloodshot, his face pale. The way his eyelids droop suggest sleepless nights. John feels bad for his momentary loss of temper.
"Please tell me you're joking," Lestrade says. There's definitely a sense of pleading in his tone.
"Trust me, I wish I was."
The two men contemplate each other over the desk. Lestrade sighs, but seems to understand what the doctor's asking of him.
"He won't forgive you."
John laughs then. It was true, he knew it as well as Lestrade, but somehow hearing it out loud confirmed it…and it was comical, it really was. Sherlock was genuinely the most ridiculous person he'd ever met.
"I know," he confirms, clenching his fists in his lap, so that the other man couldn't see.
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Lounging on the sofa, Sherlock lets his eyes drift lazily to Mycroft's file. Judging by the state of it, it contained information stretching at least 20 years back, and his brain briefly questions why it had never been converted into digital form…but no, that would be too easy for hackers to reveal what the government were hiding.
He supposes he should look at it, but his limbs are wonderfully heavy, and it seems like too much effort to move the few feet to fetch it. The children dying really were only a tiny proportion of the world's population of youngsters. More were born every second, more died every second: what was so important about saving the lives of this tiny group of London schoolchildren? What made them more worthy of his time than those dying in Africa and other Third World countries? Sherlock yawns, pushes his fringe from his forehead, and lets his eyes dart back and forth over the old cardboard.
With a faint noise in his throat, the detective pushes himself from the upholstery, and reaches to grasp the file. It's heavy, several inches thick, and drops dust on the black of his suit. He frowns, and returns to his seat.
Maybe it was only the possibility of Moriarty's influence that was holding his interest.
He begins to peruse the file, pulling out relevant pages, flicking through, careful not to tear or rearrange the yellowing paper at the back. He's just tapping a request into Google, when a noise outside catches his attention.
He can hear a car pulling up in the street outside. It's not unusual, but as the driver kills the engine, Sherlock's fairly sure the vehicle has stopped directly outside the flat. He moves to the window to look. Frowning, he watches as John clambers from the passenger seat, and although the angle means the driver is obscured, he has a pretty good guess. He was not a man prone to forgetting registration numbers.
Downstairs, the front door opens, followed swiftly by the unmistakable tread of his flatmate on the stairs. Sherlock waits by the window, looking out onto the street. He wonders if John knew how stupid he was being.
The door of the flat opens, and Sherlock acknowledges it with a tiny inclination of his head, not moving his eyes from the street outside. There's a woman walking an Alsatian, the dog forcing her into a much brisker walk than her expression suggested she wanted. Sherlock smiles, and listens to John joining him in the kitchen. He stops a few feet behind him.
"Good day?" he asks. Sherlock hears the apprehension in his voice. Quite right, too.
"Excellent," he replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His lips form a smile. "How was work?"
John stumbles over his next words.
"Oh – good. The usual."
"I'm sure."
There's silence. Sherlock can feel the doctor becoming more and more uncomfortable. He chooses to turn from the window, and surveys him, his pale eyes narrowing as they meet John's darker ones.
"Looks like we have visitors," Sherlock comments, indicating the car still sitting outside.
"Oh, that," John says. He seems unable to hold Sherlock's gaze for more than a few seconds. "He just offered me a lift."
"I'm surprised you bumped into each other."
Sherlock watches John close his eyes, swallow, and try and compose himself.
"It's a small world."
The hesitant smile hoisted onto his lips draws a derisive glare from the detective.
"Liar."