I've been trying to get the rest of this story up as fast as I can but I'm just so busy! I've recently started a second job AND a third side-job in my spare time. I've been preoccupied with getting enough sleep so that I don't go insane. I'm working on touching up Chapter 5 to be ready to be posted and am working on the last chapter and epilogue. It should all be done fairly soon!
Let me know what you think so far in the comments, I'd love some reviews!
Trigger warnings: Self-harm and drug addiction
Sherlock doesn't speak to John again until well after it gets dark out. He stays in bed to deal with the oncoming waves of nausea and pain. He doesn't complain, just rides it out.
When night falls, John forces him to eat some more food. He barely swallows down a few bites. As John gets up to wash his plate Sherlock stops him.
"John, wait. I need... something."
"What is it?"
Sherlock's eyes dart around the room. He's panicking, his hands automatically move up to his head to pull at his hair. John reaches over and pulls them away, he puts a hand under his chin and forces Sherlock look him in the eye.
"Tell me, what do you need?"
"Drugs. Please, just let me inject the smallest amount. I promise it'll be barely anything. Just enough to satisfy the craving. Or let me use a blade, anything.Please." he begs.
John closes his eyes for a moment. He's thankful that Sherlock came to him before he did anything stupid.
"Just a moment, I'll be right back."
Sherlock looks at him in disbelief, was John really going to let him use? Or cut?
John comes back and opens the window, hands Sherlock a cigarette and a lighter. He'd requested a few packs in his text to Mycroft knowing they might come in handy.
"Here, I know it isn't what you want, but it's something. Just don't think I'm going to let you keep smoking forever. And don't tell Mrs. Hudson."
The genius fumbles with the lighter, trying to light it as fast as he can. When he finally gets it lit he takes a long drag, holding it, and then blowing out towards the window.
He seems to relax and John mentally pats himself on the back for having found the the smelly distraction. Sherlock leans over to grab an empty teacup to use as a make-shift ashtray and settles back into the pillows. John watches him smoke for a few minutes.
"You have to tell me where you've hidden the rest of your drugs. And everything you use to self-harm."
Sherlock closes his eyes, takes another drag off the cigarette.
"I don't know if I can do that."
"You must, if you use again we're just going to have to start this process all over again."
Sherlock flicks some ash into the teacup and tries to come up with an excuse. He obviously can't find one.
"Alright, but how will you know if I'm lying? I could have loads of heroin and morphine hidden throughout this place."
"Because I trust you, and you'll respect that trust by giving me every last bit of it all."
The other man doesn't disagree, he just looks up and stares out the window. He pulls his knees up to his chest and sets his chin on his arms.
"Sherlock... I know it upsets you but you also have to let me see all your injuries. You probably aren't taking care of them properly, knowing you. An infection isn't going to help things."
Sherlock doesn't answer for a moment. He closes his eyes again and whispers so that John can barely hear him.
"Okay."
Sherlock finishes his cigarette and puts it out in the cup, setting it back on the table. He glances at John, obviously nervous and uncomfortable. He shrugs off his robe, reaches for the hem of his shirt. He hesitates, and then pulls it up and over his head.
John sucks in a breath through his nose, he has to bite his tongue to focus on the task at hand and not the half-undressed detective sitting across from him.
John reaches for Sherlock's arms, he's trying in vain to cover the bottom half or his torso with them. He lets John take them to examine.
John is again shocked to see his mutilated skin. He glances at his stomach and ribs where he sees more scaring and healing cuts. They're everywhere, from below his pectoral muscles to the top of his pajama bottoms. They wrap around his sides and stop where he must not have been able to reach.
"Oh, Sherlock."
He can't help himself, he drops Sherlock's arms to run his fingers along the mans abdomen.
Sherlock's holding his breath, looking off to the side. Tears are threatening to spill out of his eyes at any moment.
John's hands wander over his stomach. They wrap around his waist and pull Sherlock into an embrace and he rests his head on John's shoulder. Neither wants to let go.
"Do you have them anywhere else?"
John would have normally felt awkward asking, but he doesn't care anymore. Feeling embarrassed is the least of his worries now. All he wants is to take care of Sherlock as efficiently as he can.
"Yes, but there are no recent ones, I promise."
John believes him. And he wants to show Sherlock that he trusts him, so he doesn't press him any further.
His hands have wandered up Sherlock's back, and he can feel lines of raised scar tissue under his fingers.
There's no way he could have reached them. Someone else did this to him.
"What are these from?" he whispers.
Sherlock squirms a bit, obviously uncomfortable.
"I'll tell you later, it's nothing."
"Okay." John closes his eyes, still stroking his back.
"John?"
"Hm?"
He tenses up, he thinks Sherlock and is about to say something about the fact that they're hugging in bed again, this time one of them shirtless.
"Can I have another cigarette?"
He relaxes. They'll talk about this another time, it can wait.
"Sure."
He finishes checking to make sure none of Sherlock's cuts need medical attention and gets up to grab the pack of cigarettes.
Sorry Mrs. Hudson.
"Why did you start doing these things to yourself again? Or has it always been happening and I just didn't know?"
They're laying in bed again, John holding Sherlock from behind like the night before. After he had finished his third cigarette John had taken away the ashtray, turned off the lights, and pulled the covers oven them both.
"I hadn't used since before I met you. The other stuff... comes and goes. That I haven't quit fully for more than a year.
I started using morphine again after I faked my death. I couldn't help myself. I had quite a few wounds from my time abroad and I was in so much pain. When I got back to London I was in hiding for a bit, trying to heal before I found you. Morphine helped tremendously."
John is amazed that Sherlock is telling him any of this, but he can't help wondering what would have happened with him and Mary if Sherlock had showed up sooner.
Would we still have gotten married? Gotten pregnant? Would I have realized I had these feelings much sooner?
John tries not to think about it and continues to listen.
"When I moved back to Baker Street, and after-" he stops abruptly.
"After what?" John pulls him closer, breathing in his long neck. Sherlock tries not to react, and fails, arching his neck into John's mouth. John resists the urge to swipe his tongue along the curve of his neck while Sherlock composes himself.
"Nothing... A couple months ago I started smoking again. Chain smoking turned into heroin, and then I started self-harming again when those weren't enough... or when it was too much. I made the mistake of doing too much too quickly, it's why I'm in this mess now."
John just listens as Sherlock finally lets his guard down, watches the walls he's so carefully built crumble to the ground.
I'm so damn proud of him. Why couldn't he open up to me before? I mean, I'm currently snuggled up in bed with him. That must be part of it.
"I'm sorry John."
John holds him a bit tighter, breathing into his neck again. Sherlock can't resist turning his head and pressing his jaw against John's lips as he whispers his response.
"It's alright. I'm here, I'll take care of you now."
John knows Sherlock would just have to turn his head a bit more and their lips would be touching. He wants it so bad, he's never wanted anyone more in his life.
They stay like that for a moment until John nuzzles his face into the back of his neck. Sherlock turns back and he's asleep after a few minutes.
A few more days pass and with help Sherlock starts to feel better. John slept in his bed every night, stopping him from relapsing.
Sherlock surprises him with a box of drug paraphernalia and sharp objects. When John realizes that it must be the last of it all he grabs Sherlock and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.
John gets him to venture out of his bedroom by promising him cigarettes. They spend hours on the sofa, John reading to him and with much arguing Sherlock lets him turn on the tv.
One afternoon John puts on a program about the solar system, getting a kick out of trying to teach Sherlock about galaxies. They end up turning down the volume almost to mute and watch the screen, naming colors that swirl through the animations of space.
"Chartreuse."
"Indigo. Salmon."
"Mustard."
"Plum."
"Coral."
"Aquamarine."
John giggles at the simplicity of their entertainment. "Violet."
"Mm." Sherlock closes his eyes, his fingers steepled under his chin.
"What?"
"Nothing, I just like the word Violet. It would make a great name."
John saves this information for later and continues their game.
"Amethyst."
They're sitting on the sofa, only one of them watching the tv. John's drinking a cup of tea and Sherlock is lying down with his head in John's lap. He's running his fingers through dark curls with one hand and Sherlock is just about purring.
John looks down and smiles.
He's always been so cat-like. The way he sleeps and the way moves around a room. I've always thought it was so adorable, so sexy. God, why did I deny these feeling for so long?
John's hand travels down the back of his neck to the top of his robe. With the way Sherlock is curled into a ball his t-shirt and robe have bunched around his neck and John can see the beginning of a scar peeking out. He moves his hand down further and runs his fingers along it.
He's about to ask about the scars again when Sherlock starts speaking.
"I was captured in Serbia, interrogated."
John sets down his tea.
"You said before that you were wounded... that's what you were talking about."
He says it as a statement and not a question but Sherlock nods anyways.
"Is that all they did to you? Slice up your back?"
"No. They starved me and deprived me of sleep. You'd think that'd be easy for me, but it wasn't. They tied me up and beat me with various tools and objects. Near the end of it Mycroft came to get me. Although, he did take his time and watched them beat me for a couple hours until he stepped in. He wasn't much help, I got myself out of the situation before hecame to my rescue."
He says the last few words with great sarcasm.
John isn't amused, he feels sick to his stomach thinking about Sherlock being tortured. He's furious, he wants to hurt whoever did this to him. And Mycroft for letting it happen.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"It's not important."
John's heart breaks, his anger rises. Sherlock sits up to look at him.
"You can't say things like that Sherlock! What happened to you was fucking terrible. What happens to you is important,you'reimportant. What if they had killed you?"
"Well, they didn't. Everyone thought I was dead then anyways."
John shakes his head, tries to calm himself down. He looks at Sherlock and sees confusion in his eyes. He reaches up and cups his jaw in his hand, stroking his stubble with his thumb. Sherlock is practically sitting in his lap he's so close.
"Don't you understand? I care about you Sherlock. If you're not safe, or happy, it causes me pain. When I found you in the bathroom the other day it hurt me worse than anything ever has. Besides watching you fall from that rooftop..."
Tears fall from his eyes at the memory of that day.
Sherlock's eyes are wide, it's obvious he's touched and doesn't know what to say.
"No ones ever said anything like that to me before. You're absolutely fascinating, John Watson."
John acts on impulse, mustering up the courage to close the small distance between them. He pulls Sherlock's face closer to his gently with the hand he still has on his cheek. They pause for a moment, John's eyes dart down to his lips and back up.
Sherlock's eyes flutter closed.
John feels such a longing, need, desire for the man as he leans in and kisses him. When their lips first meet he feels as if his mind, or something in the universe is imploding. He's ecstatic that Sherlock is reciprocating, just as enthusiastic as him.
They've waited so long to do this, it's been years since John first dreamed about it. He wishes he knew what Sherlock was thinking.
John's hands wrap around his head and neck, Sherlock grabs onto his waist. They kiss for a moment longer until their lips part and John pulls back slightly. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Sherlock's.
"Please don't leave me John." Sherlock whispers.
John sighs.
"I don't want to leave you Sherlock, but I have a wife, and a baby soon too... I haven't worked out how I'm going to make it happen, but I want to move back in, if that's something you want..." he looks away, his ears turning red.
Sherlock grips onto his waist tighter and pulls him in for another kiss. He uses his height as leverage, reaching one hand up to cup John's neck he pulls him into the most euphoric, passionate kiss he's ever experienced.
John groans into his mouth and pulls him closer, pushing their chests together. He knew kissing Sherlock would be special, but he didn't know he'd feel so intoxicated and overwhelmed with pure bliss.
He feels complete, whole. So many things he'd never felt with Mary.
When they finally break apart he feels dazed.
"I'm going to take that as a yes." he says breathlessly.
Sherlock smiles and moves to give him some space, reluctantly.
"I've been waiting to do that for ages."
"How long?" John says.
"Since the first day I met you."
"Me too."
Their gazes are locked on each other, both grinning. John's heart is still beating fast, his chest almost hurts from the intensity of emotion he's experiencing.
"Lestrade was right, we've been acting like idiots. Why the hell did it take us 5 years to realize what we wanted?"
"Oh, I've always known what we wanted. I was just waiting for you to catch up." Sherlock says cheekily.
John shoves him playfully, and then turns serious after he realizes something.
"The other day you said that you started harming yourself after you got back to London. That it got worse after something happened... Were you talking about my wedding?"
Sherlock's expression turns serious as well.
"Yes."
The gears are turning in John's head, everything is falling into place.
"I caused this? I caused you enough pain that you'd want to kill yourself?" he says quietly.
"It's not that simple John. I've dealt with addiction and... other things for many years. It wasn't the first time I've tried. But yes, you know I hate to admit it but I have been hurt. I usually delete emotional pain, or keep it in a far back room in my mind palace. But it hurt the most when it seemed like you didn't want me anymore and were moving on."
Sherlock's eyes have changed to the empty expression that John loathes. He hates himself for having been the reason for Sherlock's pain. He pulls Sherlock back into an embrace.
"I'm so sorry Sherlock. I'll never forgive myself for making you feel that way, I'll never do it again. I promise."
They let go and move back to look into each other's eyes. Sherlock still looks sad, he sighs and presses his forehead to John's. John reaches up to touch his jaw.
"I'm going back to the house tomorrow. I'll sort things out with Mary and I'll be back as soon as I can. Please keep your head up while I'm gone, I can't lose you. Promise me you'll be okay."
"Okay."