John had only just finished his second set before the mad genius was rushing out of the flat, his mobile phone clenched in his hand.
Another case, probably. There wasn't much else that could make Sherlock run like that. John pushed his weight back into his right shoulder, wondering at himself. They were doing this again. Cavorting about town, solving mysteries. He'd saved a life today, if Bainbridge lived.
You'd never miss this. There'd been such a look of wonder in Sherlock's eyes. True respect, unhidden. There were so many things that expression healed. John ran his hands down his dark slacks, still damp with shower water and blood.
He had to bathe while he had the flat to himself. Sherlock would no doubt see the wet bucket and rag and understand but at least he wouldn't have to see how badly his back had healed, wouldn't have to watch. There was nothing attractive in a fear of water. John pushed his weight into his other shoulder, frustrated with himself. He could already feel the anxiety crawling up his spine. He was alone in this flat. That wasn't wise. He could bathe any other time. He could wait.
John pushed his shoulder again, letting it buck in pain. He could say that all day, not bathe because he was alone, not bathe because Sherlock would see him and he had his pride.
Damn it.
John let his arm drop from the wall, exhausted, his shoulder still throbbing steadily. He'd start by getting the bucket into the bathroom. He crunched over the now pulverized mug shards, hoping Janine didn't move the bucket from beneath the sink in her not-so-subtle push for territory. It was there, and like a man walking to his gallows, John trudged into Sherlock's tiny bathroom and closed the door.
It was too empty. Too white. He pushed the door open immediately, struggling with his panic. Then there was an open doorway behind him and John sank down the wall to sit across from the sink, trying to get a grip on his breathing.
Damn it all but nothing had changed. John pushed his head between his knees and inhaled as steadily as he could. He'd done this before. At least once a week he'd managed this. John threw the bucket into the tub.
Fuck it. He was doing this again. Even if he did have to strip with the door wide open.
The flat was too quiet, too empty. He wanted his gun. He wanted to keep his back to the cold tile, where no one could approach him. John cleared his throat, feeling sick to his stomach, and tried not to think about puking in the toilet, his face down towards the water. He failed and his stomach rolled. Damn it, he should do this later. John pushed himself across the floor and pulled the handle out to start the water flowing.
The water rushed into the tub in a cacophony that drowned out the quiet of the home. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He couldn't hear if anyone was coming, wouldn't see them if he faced the tub. He turned around and smacked the door closed. He struck too hard and it slammed, making the small bathroom seem quiet again.
John turned around to see where the hot water was flowing down the drain, no where near the bucket.
Fuck.
Bucket first, next time. John sank back down against the bathroom wall. He was too smart to try and rearrange the bucket now, so far down in the tub. He'd wait for the whole damn tub to fill.
He waited and his stomach slowly settled. The room was filled with the splashing sound of filling water, blocked off from the rest of the flat. Bright and enclosed and nowhere anyone could enter. That felt better now.
But the tub filled and threatened to overflow. John watched it, hating Mike and the ridiculous PTSD nine days had given him. Fucking unbelievable. How long was this going to last then? All his adrenaline up and his breathing tachycardic, waiting for a bloody tub to fill.
The water spilled over the edge and slowly dripped down to pool on the floor. John sighed, watching another small spill work its way down the tub wall.
Bloody scared of water. Anger was helpful. John pushed himself across the tile and slammed the faucet closed. He jerked himself away to sit with his back to the tub, staring at the closed door. He didn't know how much time had passed or when Sherlock was planning to come home. But he still hadn't even gotten his hands wet.
John ran his fingers through his greasy hair. He wanted to get out of here. So he pulled the hand-towel off its hook by the sink and tossed it into the tub behind him. It was easier if he wasn't looking at it. He fished the rag out of the water with one arm, staring resolutely at the door and hoping his molars didn't crack between his clenched jaws. He wet himself down, sitting on the hair-covered tile, and soaped up his hair, ignoring how it was barely damp at all. He rinsed himself with the ringed rag until there was a small puddle around his naked legs and started scrubbing the rest of himself until the small puddle turned brown and he needed to rinse himself off again.
He left the tub full and the bucket bobbing in it. Mrs. Hudson would drain it eventually, or Sherlock would. There wasn't much to hide from them. John poked his head out of the bathroom, the towel wrapped around himself, listening for Sherlock. The flat was silent but that didn't mean much. Again, little to hide, John told himself, and started up the stairs to his old room.
His room was a shock. Swept, dusted, and packed up in boxed labeled in Mrs. Hudson's tight script. John sat down on his bare mattress, sadness washing through him. Why was this what made him regret leaving? He didn't understand it but for a moment John wished he'd never stepped foot in that bedsit - wished he'd stayed here and waited while he'd mourned for Sherlock Holmes to return. What would it have been like, if he'd never left, if he'd never been captured, when Sherlock returned?
He wasn't ever planning to come back, John remembered, cutting into his fantasy of an undamaged friendship picking up where it'd been. And Sherlock would still have jumped. No, better to fantasize that Sherlock had never jumped at all. But that fantasy had lost its splendor after a year's use. John pushed himself from the bed to tear open the box labeled 'Pants and Socks'. He got dressed slowly, disliking the idea of facing the empty flat with nothing to occupy him. He could hear the cawing of crows on the roof, reminding him that he was above ground. He could smell the heat working in the radiators.
Better than the bedsit. But still he could feel his ears straining to hear anyone beside him and for a moment the toasted metal smell of the radiator shifted to the burnt gas of a propane torch.
Fuck.
John rushed down the stairs, making as much noise with his feet as he could. He'd make some tea.
He was just opening the door to the kitchen when he heard the outside door creak open downstairs. John froze, clenching the turned doorknob in his hand to keep it from clicking. The outside door shut heavily.
"It's raining, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted, sounding like he expected her to fix it. John relaxed his grip and let himself exhale. Sherlock pounded up the stairs, making even more noise than usual. Being careful not to startle. John was grateful despite his pride. That would keep them both safer. He walked into the flat through the kitchen and moved to sit in Sherlock's chair. He wanted to know all about Sherlock's new case.
Sherlock walked in carrying a pizza box and an entire case of beer.
"So, what happened then?" John asked when Sherlock set the items between them. He'd lived with Sherlock for too long to dare assume there was anything edible in the bar. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, looking uncomfortable.
"Pizza? Beer?" he said, as if asking if that's what he'd brought. John pointed at the steaming box.
"That's fresh? You haven't done anything to it?" he asked. Sherlock grimaced.
"Donovan," he said, as if that was an answer, and sat down on the couch. Then, to John's shock, he flipped open the box and grabbed a slice with his hands. Sherlock almost never touched his food and when he did, it was inevitably with a washcloth nearby. He was finicky about that. But Sherlock bit off the tip of his slice without any apparent concern, only to swallow rapidly and glare at John.
"Not hungry?" he accused, obviously knowing he was famished.
"Just… surprised," John answered honestly and went to get a plate and silverware. "So where were you?" he asked, walking back with his cutlery. He didn't mention that his bath had taken almost an hour. He was sure Sherlock already knew.
"First place wouldn't sell to me. A problem with blood, apparently," Sherlock explained, holding up his clean hands. It took a moment for John to process.
"You… you left with Bainbridge's blood all over you, didn't you?" John realized aloud, rubbing at his forehead. Sherlock shrugged and John laughed.
"Now. Poker," Sherlock declared proudly, slapping a brand new deck of cards beside the pizza box. John shook his head immediately, not needing to consider it.
"Sherlock, you know I'm not going to play that with you," he swore. Sherlock scowled.
"Why not?" he demanded and John scoffed.
"You'll bloody well read my mind, that's why. It's a game of math and observation; do you really expect me to compete?"
Sherlock glanced down at his phone, looking lost. John watched him, only more confused.
"Sherlock, what?" he asked, gesturing to the pizza and playing cards and beer, only to understand. A night in. Pizza and beer and stupid games. Healing. John smiled, grabbing the cards and using his teeth to break their plastic cover. "Poker for spoons it is," he agreed and Sherlock's expression cleared.
John started shuffling and Sherlock went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle opener and their tray of silverware. He cracked open a couple of beers and handed one over.
"To being off drugs," John saluted. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, obviously thinking, and clinked his beer. That was enough of a promise for John. They drank and John dealt for them. He'd decided the best way to enjoy the evening was to drink like a fish, and he quickly discovered that Sherlock had decided to keep up with him. Sherlock read every hand like he knew the whole game in advance and only became more merciless as the hands progressed and he inevitably counted cards. Still, John enjoyed watching Sherlock match him drink for drink, comfortably acknowledging the irony in celebrating sobriety by drinking themselves into a stupor.
Finally, when Sherlock had collected every bit of silverware they owned on his side of the table and they were both quite a bit too drunk to wield any of it masterfully, John decided to broach the subject that'd been nagging at his mind all month.
"So, why'd you start drinking? A year ago, in Prague?" John asked, trying to sit up in his seat. Sherlock glanced at him over their last hand, his eyes badly focused.
"Crack helps me think more. I'd left .. London. Needed the opposite," he explained simply, waving a hand generally in John's direction. "Why did you?"
John blinked, surprised. He hadn't thought about A.A meetings in months.
"You knew about that?" he asked and Sherlock shrugged.
"Mycroft gave me updates," he explained. John swallowed. A favor from Mycroft. John wondered how much that had cost. Sherlock had cared. John cleared his throat. Sherlock waved his beer at him. "So, drinking. Slowing your mind - what's the point?"
John huffed out a laugh at the insult and shook his head.
"I didn't," he replied. Sherlock frowned.
"Didn't?" he mumbled before his beer-glazed eyes hardened. "Idiot," he hissed, rubbing at his face. "Sebastian Moran."
John nodded and Sherlock glared at his empty beer bottle. John leaned forward to solve that by handing him another.
"You kill people. I like that," Sherlock slurred. John blinked, wondering if he shouldn't have handed him the extra beer. "Well, not too many people. It's got a good moderation to it really," Sherlock added helpfully. John nodded and cracked open another beer of his own.
"Well, you own the household utensils,' John declared, folding his last hand. Sherlock smirked and threw his cards face up. Bluffing. Of course. Nothing to lose. John gulped down another mouthful of alcohol. He'd never seen Sherlock drunk before. He had to admit he was curious how the night would go.
"You're pants at poker," Sherlock said.
"Yeah, well, I kill people. It's a different skill set," John joked and Sherlock smirked again. John watched him openly, thinking for once he'd actually gotten Sherlock too far gone to notice. Even hammered Sherlock managed to look graceful. Those long limbs managed to drape everywhere. Attractive. John didn't know what to do with that, other than steadily ignore it. That seemed to work well enough. As long as they didn't get this drunk too often. Although it had its benefits; John was fairly sure he couldn't get an erection if Sherlock leapt across the table and gave him a naked lap dance. He laughed at that thought and Sherlock looked up from sorting out all the spoons and forks to put away. John gestured at the cards, covering for himself.
"Well, at least I'm not any poorer," he complained. It had the opposite effect than he was hoping for; Sherlock's gaze shot up and sharpened.
"You're not poor," he accused, slurring less now. John wondered if he was putting it on before.
"Tell that to my creditors," John replied, taking another gulp of beer. He didn't want to talk finances.
"I died. You got the whole estate," Sherlock stated. John blinked, his beer bottle still halfway to his mouth.
"Uh, beg to differ," he joked finally, taking another sip. "On both counts."
Sherlock's expression darkened.
"Mycroft" he spat and John didn't argue. He had a more important point to contend with.
"Wait you.. You left me something?" He asked. He'd never noticed that no lawyer had come; he'd never expected anything, though perhaps he should have. Sherlock just didn't seem like a practical enough man to make a will at all. That was probably Mycroft's doing, John thought.
He could just imagine Mycroft sneering at his little brother, saying that if Sherlock could not show the least inkling of sense about his own wellbeing the least he could do was make it easier for everyone else to clean up after him. Apparently Sherlock had answered 'give it all to John'. John could see that too. Just as he could see Mycroft agreeing to do so, and holding out when he suspected Sherlock hadn't truly died. Whenever it was that he'd suspected that. Sherlock scoffed at him, like John should have guessed all that on his own.
John shrugged, deciding not to worry about. He hadn't thought of it while Sherlock was 'dead'; it seemed vastly inappropriate to worry about it now.
"Why did you think I was living at the bedsit?" John asked, happy to move the conversation along.
"It was familiar to you," Sherlock ventured and John snorted.
"So was the parking garage," he answered. He expected Sherlock to grimace, the joke too dark, but to his pleasure Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgment of the point. John relaxed a bit further into his seat and sipped at his beer.
"Yeah, but it's a bitch to get to," Sherlock replied, his eyes twinkling in humour. John choked on his drink and sprayed beer into his lap. He looked up to see Sherlock grinning and chuckled at the thought.
"Not worth the commute, no," John agreed and Sherlock gathered up the poker cards to put them away. This felt good, John thought, lazily wiping the beer off his pants. Like old times.