June 2015

London, England

It was past midnight when John came home. He was lecturing at Barts now, and last night's evening lecture had gone extraordinarily well. His students had invited him for a drink and they had gone to a nearby pub. They had also asked Molly to join them; after all he had promised her a drink. So they had chatted the night away and John had felt at ease and at home for the first time in a long while.

When he realized how late it was, he groaned and cursed his age, but chuckled it off with a shake of head. He left the lights on in the hall and wriggled out of his jumper. Still in good spirits because of one of the stories his best student had told, he unbuttoned his shirt and was about to take it off when he noticed the sleeping figure on his bed. Frowning, he stopped mid-movement and took a step towards the shape.

In the semi-darkness, he could make out a very spindly body of a man (sharp hip bones, prominent shoulders, Sherlock), slightly curled in on himself. A pair of shoes was neatly placed in front of the bed (feels at home, doesn't he? Sherlock!), and at its foot rested a folded item that made John's heart leap. It looked very much like a dark coat (Sherlock-coat, trademark coat, just like that blue scarf of his). This was not possible, John thought (Sherlock?), and said in a low voice, "Hello?" No answer.

The doctor opened the door further to allow more light in and stepped closer to the sleeping man. He bore a striking resemblance with the proclaimed dead. The pale face with its high cheekbones rested on a thin forearm, dark curls (much shorter than they used to be, and a lot curlier) framing the angelic features. Sherlock. Impossible.

"Sher-," John inched closer. He had to verify. After all, this might be a trick. An illusion. The protuding bones spoke of weight loss, malnutrition, so nobody had reminded Sherlock to eat proper meals, the former flat-mate smiled to himself. The curly hair was damp (greasy, probably had not showered or washed his hair in a while). His face wasn't as peaceful at second sight. There were rings around the eyes, speaking of sleep deprivation and lines that read worry (He's been having a hard time.), the lips were dry and the soft skin broken (dead give-away of dehydration) and there was a feverish glow to the pale skin that raised the doctor's concern. Sherlock wasn't well. He sighed and could not help taking the detective's pulse. He gently placed two fingers on the hot neck and frowned at the sleeping man's heart frequency (racing, much too elevated for a sleeping man). When he pulled away he noticed the scars. Sherlock's forearms were covered in them. Lots of them, some merely thin white lines, some dark and nasty, some fresh and crusted (Cutting addiction, his mind screamed out.) – Sherlock wasn't well at all.

"John," his name was a faint whisper, so he did not realize that the other one had spoken until he mumbled his name again, rolling over to face the wall.

"Sherlock?" John ventured, but the other man seemed fast asleep, "Oh, what the hell!"

John shook his head in disbelief. What now? He should probably wake Sherlock. Shake him and hit him (only he looked so fragile, so weak). Shout then. Be angry. He felt furious. And he knew he should have questions (but they did not matter right now). He should tell him how lost he had been. How much he suffered (but Sherlock seemed to have suffered, too). He felt like crying (boys don't cry). And he wanted to hug him. Hold him. Keep him. Forever. Yet, he had to understand.

His mobile phone made the funny sound he had chosen for text alerts, and he opened the message: "Have a look outside, will you". Sherlock would have told his brother to sign his texts. John walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. There was a dark limousine in front of the house, and next to it stood a very erect Mycroft Holmes lifting his mobile. John picked up before it could make a sound, "Mycroft".

"John. Pleasure to see you're still up."

"What do you want?"

"Is he with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you seen him?"

"Seen who?"

John watched the man below impatiently stab the pavement with his umbrella, "My brother."

John hesitated for what he hoped would be taken for a surprised pause, "He's dead."

Another pause, "No. He's not. He returned to London a while ago. Very ill. Alarmingly ill."

John thought of the deathly pallor of Sherlock's skin.

"Where is he?" John managed to keep his voice cold.

"He was at my house," Mycroft answered, "but he seems to have - eloped. I thought you might help."

"Why? I mean, why would you think that?"

"Because you're his friend. His only friend."

"Right. Which is why he buggered off making everyone believe he's dead. Great friend."

"John," Mycroft sounded sad, "he'll explain in due course. Are you sure he's not with you?"

"Quite sure."

"Alright. Well, goodnight then, John. Apologies for keeping you."

This was mad. Barking mad! John switched his phone off and walked back to the bed. Still shaking his head about the Holmes boys, the doctor picked up a thick blanket unfolded it. He covered the thin shivering man. Then he got into bed beside Sherlock, lying back to back with the other man. Now people would definitely talk, he thought with a smile and fell asleep.

-o-

When he woke, Sherlock was watching him from bloodshot eyes (drugs, lack of sleep, or maybe he had been crying). John blinked and realized that his left arm was wrapped around Sherlock's body (so he had held him). The younger man did not seem to mind though. In any case, he had moved into the embrace.

"Sorry," John coughed and retracted his arm. Sherlock nodded.

"What happened?" John's frown returned, "What's wrong with you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me," came the well-known reply.

John sighed and sat up, "And what about this?" The doctor grabbed Sherlock's right arm and twisted it making the sick man wince in pain.

"John, you're hurting me."

"I'm hurting you?" He squeezed the sore arm a little harder and moved to straddle Sherlock at the same time, "Me! Hurting you? You're doing this to yourself, Sherlock. It's an addiction."

"There's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock whimpered, too weak to push John away.

"A cutting addiction! You're an addict. For all I know you might be shooting up again as well!"

"I'm not," there were tears now welling up in the detective's eyes, "honestly."

"You are sick. I get it now. You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"No," sobbing now, "I – I'm ill. Please let go."

Shocked at the breakdown, John obeyed and noticed that one cut had opened under the pressure on the thin arms, "Tell me what happened."

"I missed you. You were right," Sherlock gulped, adding, "You said friends protect people, and that's what I did."