Disclaimer: Do not own.
Title: Waking Up
Chapter 3 - Hebetudinous
John woke up feeling the worst he'd ever felt before. His own drool was slick on the couch and he pulled off it in disgust. The movement hurt. He ended up moving over a few inches to avoid the small puddle, but his head quickly fell back. He groaned and swore to never drink again. 'Drink.' He heard the cup hit the table across from the couch. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. His head felt like it was going to explode. He focused on moving his arm, but it weakly flopped onto the table next to the cup. He heard a sigh and the cup moved. Sherlock's face moved in front of him. 'Here.' He felt the cup on his lips and did as told, it was awkward at that angle, but the cool water settled the burn in his throat and his head started to ache less. He kept his gaze on the clear liquid. He didn't want to see whatever disapproving expression was on the detective's face. 'Better?' he barely heard the whisper but nodded when the cup was pulled away. It had served his purpose and sat empty back on the table. He winced when he was shifted into a sitting position. His head throbbed and his stomach skipped somersaults and cartwheels and started doing a series of back handsprings ending in a full twisting layout. He lost it in the box of files next to the table.
After his spectacular regurgitation Sherlock set a trash bin in front of him and left to throw out the box. It had been empty so luckily none of the files for the case had been damaged. 'The victim was drugged.' His own voice sounded wrong in his ears. 'Three hours before she was killed.' Sherlock had returned. He settled on the couch and took the file John had been reading. 'There was nothing of interest at her home.' John looked at the girl, she was smiling happily in the picture. He knew she would have been radiant in life. The smile on her cold unseeing face was startling. He couldn't tear his gaze away. He hadn't bothered looking at the picture yesterday. The words were all that mattered, words to keep his focus on what he had to do. Today he didn't have that luxury. That face. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit. 'Molly said that her facial muscles had been pinned into a smile before she died.' He turned slowly to Sherlock. His stomach rolled with something that had nothing to do with the alcohol still reeking havoc on his system.
Sherlock looked up at him and there was a slight twitch of a smile. He blinked owlishly and turned back to the folder before him. His mind was sending flashes of his dream in cinemascope before his eyes. He felt Sherlock move on the couch and stood up. 'I'm going to take a shower.' He stumbled away. He didn't know where that had come from. He leaned against the door and took a few steadying breaths. The memory faded and he blinked a few times. He couldn't remember anything from the night before. He started from the morning and worked his way forward. That terrible conversation in the car, the hidden spring, Lestrade's office, Sherlock's face as the elevator closed on him. Then black. It was like a film reel playing and suddenly the light goes out, you know something's going on but it's not showing on the screen. He settled in the shower and let the water wash away the filth he felt, filth he had no idea how it got there. He knew it involved alcohol. He could smell it, could still taste it in his mouth. He swore as his head throbbed. He needed to take something.
He heard Sherlock's violin start up and sighed. This was not going to help his headache any, but he knew from the daunting case that he had probably been resisting the urge to release his frustration the entire night. The melody that streamed through the air was soft and tinted with melancholia. Something else was going on with him. Frustration always brought out a fast screeching mess of notes. He stared at the clothes in a gritty pile on the floor and decided he'd risk a toweled journey to his room. The sound increased when he opened the door, his head gave an angry throb. He ignored it and made his way to his room holding onto the towel.
He leaned against the chair and let the emotions he claimed not to have seep out. The distress had all started when he got a rather infuriating text the night before. -You really should be more careful with him. M- He hadn't replied. He'd looked across the room at the passed out John and had sighed. Now he kept replaying it, his mind supplementing Mycroft's frustrating voice. The disapproval was thick. He hadn't done anything. He scoffed. John wasn't some toy to be broken, or stolen. He dropped his bow and sighed. This wasn't helping. He heard John's door shut and he picked up the bow again. He forced himself to think of the case, and not the man dressing in the other room. Suddenly something hit him. He grabbed his phone. -You are the one that broke my parrot, and then hid it, aren't you? I found the broken wing that you missed. SH- He smirked as he continued playing a lighter song. There was a tiny wait. -I was 12. M- Immediately after another chirp sounded. -And no it was not me. M-
He dropped his phone and started on another tune. His mind drifted and he thought back to the day before. John hadn't brought it up. He was sure they would talk about it soon. The doctor wouldn't let it go that easily. He never let anything get swept under the rug. He sighed and his fingers moved frantically across the strings. He glanced up when he felt eyes on him and caught John watching him. He turned and walked into the kitchen without a word. 'John?' He stuck his head out of the kitchen. 'Yeah?' His phone rang before he could say any more. John disappeared back into the kitchen and he answered. 'There's been another.'
A/N: Um... Please Review. I am having trouble writing this. :/