Chapter Text
He’d been dragged to a cold warehouse yet again. John fumed as he glared at the tall ginger man in front of him. “I find you incredibly ungrateful Doctor Watson,” Mycroft began without preamble, and his voice was cold.
John was taken aback. How was he ungrateful? He was the one who had lost everything thanks to Sherlock Holmes! Thanks to his best friend John had lost two full years to grief, had lost his wife, had lost his child...he had nothing left! Was he supposed to be grateful for that? “I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel that sentiment is justified,” he said hotly.
“I know full well that you don’t and it is appalling. I am providing clarification for my only sibling’s sake, not yours, so listen carefully doctor. My brother has just spent two entire years sacrificing himself to save you! He allowed his hard-earned career go up in flames. He allowed people to mock him openly, to judge him in the court of public opinion and all for you, John Watson! He freed you from the depraved clutches of an assassin who shot him through the heart while pregnant with a child that was not yours. How have you responded to these many acts? You won’t speak to him. You won’t look at him. You won’t be his friend but you also won’t leave. You are destroying him more completely than he was ruined after he flung himself off the top of that building to keep you from dying.”
Remotely John knew those were the facts but no one had as yet presented them to him in quite that way. Mentally, he began reviewing his own behaviour, and he grew pale. He had snapped at Sherlock the last time he’d bothered to actually say anything to the detective. Sherlock had grown withdrawn, spending most of his time in his room. John had been angry for so long that it was like he didn’t know how to feel any other way. He had been angry with himself when Sherlock died because he wasn’t convinced that he hadn’t missed a clue that might have saved his best friend’s life. Then he had been angry with Sherlock when he found out that the detective was actually alive. John was angry with Mary when he found out that not only had she shot Sherlock, which nearly killed John as well, but that he had married a woman who didn’t even exist, and she had been blithely planning on raising some stranger’s baby with him. John had so much anger in him he didn’t know how to breathe, it seemed every minute of the day had been made up of frustration, grief, and misery. Now he was struck at how he had been to the only person who had put him before everything else, Sherlock, “I am such a prick!” he groaned, self-loathing welling up. He was trash!
“Not the superlative I would have used but adequate,” sniffed Mycroft, still looking at John as if he were excrement. “Despite my grave misgivings regarding your continued association, I must assure you that should you choose to leave 221 B Baker Street you will most certainly be ending Sherlock Holmes completely. He cares for you Doctor Watson, though why you should deserve his devotion is beyond me. You have treated his feelings cavalierly for years now; you have kept him at arm’s length and tormented him with your endless dalliances because of your impenetrable obtuseness. No one in the world has the attention of Sherlock Holmes the way you do and yet you do not see.”
John was going to be ill, he really was going to be ill. He recalled all of his dates, how Sherlock always looked so sad, how he looked lonely enough that John had sometimes wondered if Sherlock wanted to come along but what a travesty of an offer that would have been! Oh hey, Sherlock, I see you’re pining for me, why not come on my date so you can watch me go to bed with someone else right in front of you? John stumbled back and Mycroft sneered again, “You will be pleased to know that I’ve had to relieve Sherlock of a variety of street drugs on no less than seventeen occasions since you returned. His life with you must be absolute heaven.”
Drugs? Sherlock was buying drugs again? John was reeling. Sherlock had been clean for so long, even when he’d been undercover all that time he hadn’t slipped but now…John clutched his head. What had he done? “I have to see him.” Sherlock was in danger and John had put him there. What kind of person was he? He was a heartless monster!
“Why, Doctor Watson? Is it to tell him how he ruined your life? Is it to tell him how inhuman he is and how he doesn’t have a heart? Perhaps you will like to communicate one more time about his inability to feel anything and how he has no idea what real suffering is.” Mycroft’s voice became icier, harder. “You’ve seen the scars, Doctor Watson. He didn’t get those in a bicycling accident. His captors were torturing him when I found him and it wasn’t the first time he had been so questioned. That lovely greeting you gave him when he showed up at The Landmark, do you know you tore his stitches that evening and that when you left him on the street he collapsed only two blocks away? If I hadn’t been watching he would have bled out on the pavements for real, not that you would have cared, because even after Mary shot him through the heart and nearly ended him you still chose her over him, and even now after everything has been exposed you are angry with him and not her. You are contemptible. Even after James Moriarty reappeared and took Mary back you were angry with Sherlock, and not the individual who created this entire debacle to begin with. People call Sherlock a freak but of the two of you who is more defective as a human being?”
“Where is he,” demanded John. He was beginning to experience real panic now. He needed to see Sherlock. He had to fix this, he had to begin fixing it this instant. There was no time to waste. Anxiety began to grow as John’s mind relentlessly recounted the far too frequent instances that now needed reparation.
“If we’re lucky he’s still laying on the sofa at Baker Street with a needle hanging out of his arm. He’s devious when he’s motivated.” John felt his gorge rise but he fought the impulse to be ill. He needed to get back to Sherlock. “Moriarty wasted his time trying to kill Sherlock; he should have merely left you two alone. Sherlock would have ended himself before this.” Mycroft’s words stung and burned but John said not a syllable in his own defence. Mycroft couldn’t flay him hard enough. John deserved every lash.
Anthea was waiting to bring him back to Baker Street and the look she gave John, that blank, featureless glance that said he was so worthless that his entire existence was being erased from her mental hard drive on a second-by-second basis, well John deserved that too. She said nothing the entire long trip and John grew more and more anxious with each passing minute.
When he got to Baker Street he was frantic. Would Sherlock actually have a needle hanging from his arm or had Mycroft merely said that to frighten John? It was working. The soldier was terrified because he was the one who had broken his friend’s great will and had given him nowhere to turn. John burst through the door and stared at Sherlock who was splayed bonelessly over the sofa and staring at the fireplace. The air was thick with smoke. It was sweet and fragrant but what John really noticed was how Sherlock looked. The man was rail thin, his robe barely concealing a body that was bonier than it had ever been, his pale face bruised with dark circles of exhaustion and misery under his eyes, and a mouth that had not smiled in weeks. “Sherlock.”
“Mrs Hudson gave it to me so you don’t have to complain that I’ve taken her herbal soothers. You were supposed to be gone all day; I would have had the flat aired out before this. I’ll go to my room to finish.” Sherlock’s words were clipped and emotionless as he sat up gracefully. He had everything on a small tray in front of him, a pile of green herbs, a packet of thin papers, lighters, and even an ashtray. Without pause he stood and stalked away, shutting the door to his room almost silently behind him. John stood in the doorway and didn’t know what to do.
“John?” Mrs Hudson was calling from downstairs, “A word.”
“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” said John blankly. He closed their door and went down to her flat where she was standing in her kitchen with her shawl tightly and her lips pressed together angrily, “It’s all my fault.” he confessed without prompting.
“Yes, it is Doctor Watson.” John was in such trouble. Mrs Hudson hadn’t called him Doctor Watson since he first moved in! “I caught him sneaking off again and I knew very well why. Don’t you dare scold him again, don’t you dare! It’s not my place to comment Doctor Watson but…”
“It is all my fault Mrs Hudson,” repeated John vehemently, “I’ve been absolutely awful and I know it. I came back to try and fix this mess somehow, this is all on me. Please, let me go before he does something, I need to talk to him.” John was pleading and Mrs Hudson looked very serious.
“Doctor Watson, Sherlock is a very good person, a very sensitive person. He’s been very brave but a body can live with only so much pain. I had thought you two…well you are his best friend Doctor Watson and I thought he was yours. I just don’t know what to think now.” John was ready to cry because Mrs Hudson looked so disappointed in him and he deserved all of it.
“I have to go see him. I have to go now,” he said miserably, “Please.”
“He will always have a home here,” she said sharply and John didn’t need her to say more than that. While he waited she assembled a tray of snacks for Sherlock and silently he accepted it. John understood that if he mishandled this situation then he would lose more than his best friend, he’d lose everything and the doctor would deserve that too, and so much more.
John went to the kitchen and made tea. When everything was ready John went and tapped at Sherlock’s door. The air was thick again but John had expected it to be so, “May I come in?”
There was a long pause but eventually, the door clicked open enough for John to be able to toe it open the rest of the way. Sherlock had sat on the floor beneath his window which was propped open a few inches. He’d taken the pillows from his bed and made cushions of them, leaning against the wall as the smoke from joint between his lips wafted up and out lazily, “What do you want John?” he said listlessly, “I’m not done yet.”
“You plan on smoking that whole pile.” John eyed the plate. It was a substantial amount.
“That was the plan. Why, are you taking it away from me?” Sherlock took a long drag and held it easily, exhaling out the window half-heartedly. Most of it stayed inside.
“No. I brought you some tea and some snacks.” Sherlock’s eyes were cautious and his face was still blank. John set the tray down in front of him and nodded to the other pillow beside Sherlock, “Do you mind?”
Sherlock shrugged elegantly and offered John his joint. A flicker of astonishment crossed his face when John took it and inhaled easily. Marijuana wasn’t new to John, he’d been in the army a long time and sometimes there were very few ways to escape, “You’re always a surprise.” murmured the tall man sadly.
“You mean in between the times I’ve dedicated myself to being an oversized arse?” said John, “I’m here to apologize to you Sherlock. I’ve been absolutely horrible to the one person I should be thanking every minute of the day and I want to make it up to you. Sherlock, I’m so sorry I’ve taken my anger out on you. You did not deserve that. You are my best friend in the whole wide world, and the most important person in my life. I’m so, so, so sorry for reacting in the worst possible way so many times. I don’t have anything to say in my defense. I’m wrong, I’m a jerk, I don’t deserve your forgiveness or your friendship but I am hoping desperately that you will forgive me just enough so I can begin earning back the rest of your forgiveness properly.”
“You really are an idiot.” said Sherlock, his expression unchanged.
“I really am, that’s what I’m saying.” said John as Sherlock handed him the smoke again. The tall pale man took another drag, “All this time I’ve been thinking all the wrong things for all sorts of ridiculous reasons and I really am an idiot. I don’t know how you’ve tolerated me this long.” Sherlock took the joint back and took a drag deep enough to burn it down to his fingers. He put it out carefully and just rolled another one, “You really are planning on smoking that entire pile.” said John. His apology was pathetic but he was in such a state he couldn’t make the words come out the way he intended. John was absolute rubbish.
“Yup.” said Sherlock, popping the very last consonant clearly, “I made a plan. This is it. I have no desire to fail again.”
John felt dismal and he was really starting to feel stoned. He hadn’t smoked pot for years and he hadn’t been much of a smoker to begin with, just the odd hit here and there on leave when the world was too much to deal with and taking the edge of somehow was mandatory. Sherlock looked completely unaffected and rolled a thick replacement which he lit with careless ease. He didn’t offer John at first but eventually he waved it at the doctor who took one more hit before shaking his head, “That’s enough for me.” Sherlock shrugged and stared off into the distance, “I made tea.” offered John. He really was making a botch of this entire apology, was there anything he could do properly?
“I’m having a cigarette.” said Sherlock in response and he pulled a half-full pack out of his robe pocket, “Want one?”
Smoking marijuana was one thing but cigarettes? John almost shook his head to refuse but when he saw the mocking look on Sherlock’s face he changed his mind, “Just this once.” he said and drew one out. Sherlock was surprised all over again but lit them both, dropping the lighter back on the plate. John drew in the hot dry smoke and almost coughed. It tasted fragrant and his tongue tingled for a moment.
“Amateur.” said Sherlock who took a long easy drag and slumped back before releasing it, “I’ll take my tea now.”
John handed it over and watched as Sherlock sipped it slowly. When his cigarette was complete John felt light-headed and a bit dizzy. He took a drink and ate a piece of orange. He watched as Sherlock reached a hand out and picked up some of everything and began to eat quietly. When their tea was gone John managed to get himself up. He had to hang onto the kitchen counter while the kettle boiled but he managed to make two cups, putting slightly more sugar than normal into Sherlock’s. He really was an amateur at smoking but whatever it took to make those first steps to making things right with his hopefully still best friend was what he would do.
When he carried them back Sherlock was just returning from the loo. John saw that Sherlock had also thrown down his duvet so it looked like they had a small slumber party going on under his window. The room was still hazy so before he sat down John went out front and fetched back all their emergency candles and some saucers. Sherlock helped him melt them onto the plates before they set them around the floor. Sherlock shut his bedroom light off and sat himself back down.
John watched as Sherlock expertly rolled another joint but this time the detective offered it to John first. John took it and lit it, taking a long drag before handing it back to Sherlock who leaned back to enjoy the rest of it undisturbed except for the occasional sip of tea. At any other point of their relationship John would have objected loudly and strenuously about Sherlock utilizing an escapist tactic like drugs but marijuana was the least harmful choice Sherlock could have made, and John had a difficult time reconciling it as a drug to begin with. From what he’d observed most users tended to be perfectly functional, even overly eager to keep busy if the amount of baking Mrs. Hudson did was any indication. Sherlock however merely slumped in one spot, hardly moving and not doing anything except smoking ceaselessly.
“I know you’re mad at me.”
“Do you?”
“Well you ought to be. I’ve been a complete shit to you for months now.”
“Ah.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
Sherlock sat quietly for a long time and reached for another cigarette. He smoked half of it before he answered, “I expect you to leave at some point John. I’ve done everything I can to be a good friend to you and all I’ve gained for my efforts is a great deal of discomfort. I appreciate that you feel remorse at the moment but it doesn’t change the fact that for the last several weeks I have borne your rancour at full value and I’m afraid I can’t deal with that kind of stress any longer. After you leave I will find some way of bypassing both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and I will take care of the rest. I shan’t trouble anyone any longer.”
Sherlock was perfectly calm as he informed John about his plans to kill himself. “You can’t mean that. We can fix this! I’m apologizing and admitting how awful I was. I don’t want to be like that anymore! I want to be a proper friend to you, someone you can rely on and respect.”
“I did want that John and now I don’t. It’s very painful to admit this so I’m going to pause for a moment,” Sherlock rolled another joint and lit it without hesitation, “Mycroft interfered. I know he did. You would not be here now saying these things if he had not stepped in. No thank you John. Apology not accepted. My brother made you feel guilty. All I’m hearing is manufactured penitence because someone else was required to open your eyes to the fact that I am sick, and I am tired, and I am heart-sore, and I am fed up, and I am simply done John. I have tried everything. I’m exhausted from trying. I give up. Go live your life, go be with people who will betray you without apology, go choose absolutely anyone at all to share your special moments with, just forget that you ever knew someone named Sherlock Holmes, and please, just go.”
Sherlock took another deep drag and looked blankly straight ahead, his face as expressionless as it had been when John first walked into the room. Mycroft had told John right to his face that this was Sherlock’s plan. If John left Sherlock would die by his own hand and no one could stop him. “I don’t want you to die.”
“That doesn’t matter to me any longer.” said Sherlock, his voice empty and hollow, “It did once but for no purpose it turns out. You can stop feeling any responsibility John, just stop. I don’t want to hear what you have to say, not like this. Anything you might say to me has no weight; your words are as false as our friendship.”
John’s heart stopped beating. He sat there and stared at Sherlock in total horror, “It’s not false.”
“It is.”
“No. It’s the most important friendship of my life.”
“I thought the same but it turns out that it’s not so. You are not my friend John Watson. A friend might thank someone for stopping a sniper from putting a bullet through their brain but you didn’t. A friend might have told the woman he didn’t love that he wasn’t actually going to marry her instead of forcing someone to plan his wedding with her. A friend might have felt his best friend’s second near death experience noteworthy enough to leave said woman but it turns out that six months convalescence doesn’t add up to the value of a nice shag with a female, even if it’s one who has lied to your face the entire time you were acquainted. A friend might have appreciated the fact that someone was there to give you a home when the same woman abandoned you, and that a friend was there to clean you up night after night when you’d come back here reeking of alcohol and whatever other random woman you managed to find, all of whom were of more significance to you than I was. A friend might have said happy birthday but instead the only greeting I got was from my brother who has the day programmed into his calendar because he wouldn’t remember on his own. A friend might have…” Sherlock stopped and took another drag, “We are not friends John Watson.”
John had never hated himself so much. Sherlock’s birthday! He’d forgotten. Mrs. Hudson tried to ask him about a cake, he remembered that much because she had to go help her sister who’d broken her hip and Mrs. Hudson made him promise to remember but he hadn’t. Of course Sherlock had lost hope, John had not given him the slightest sliver of consideration. “I’m begging you Sherlock, please, let me make this up to you. I don’t want you to die. I admit freely that I’ve been horrible. Please Sherlock, give us a chance to fix this. You are everything to me! I can’t lose you again! Please! Don’t you see how watching you die destroyed me?”
John didn’t realize silent tears were running down his face until Sherlock turned to look at him curiously, “John?”
“What, no one told you? No one told you I was a drunken wreck for months? What about this?” John pulled up his sleeve and Sherlock gasped audibly, “All this time and you haven’t noticed? You’re slipping Sherlock.” There was a long angry scar that ran from John’s wrist almost to his elbow, “How do you think I met Mary? She was the ER nurse or so I thought. I always wondered who found me, no one’s ever admitted to it.” John tugged his sleeve back down and stared at it, “I missed you. I stopped living. I didn’t want to any more, not when I’d watched my best friend, the absolute center of my universe throw himself off the very same building where we first met. I watched you die right in front of me Sherlock. Two years I had that image in my head. Two nightmare filled years of screaming myself awake. Two years of dreaming of feeling your wrist under my fingers, how sick I felt because no matter how I searched I couldn’t find a pulse. I can’t even eat Chinese food anymore because it reminds me of you and I’m so angry that I felt like that for so long and it was for nothing. I spent two years drowning in grief for a person who showed up in the middle of a restaurant dressed as a waiter and made me look like the most gullible fool in the world right in front of the woman I thought I loved. Now she’s not even that it she? She’s not anything to me but another sign that I John Hamish Watson am the least worthy person on the planet and I am sorry Sherlock. I am really sorry.”
John got up and walked up to his room. This was too intense. He couldn’t manage the pressure of it a moment longer without disgracing himself. With clenched jaw and even tighter fists John pushed his way into his room and locked the door shut behind him. When he was safe he fell to the floor on his hands and knees and clutched at the thick carpet that was haphazardly strewn between the door and his bed. John struggled to breath. His vision was blurring and he hoped the strange sensation in his throat wasn’t him screaming. He heard a deep pounding and his heart was going to explode out of his chest. He dropped his head down and fisted his hair, making himself as small as possible as he lost control of his senses and he was gone.
So much pain.
John hurt all over.
His shoulder!
Oh god no!
Sherlock’s blood on his hands, it never washed away. For months John had scrubbed and scrubbed and for months the stain remained.
Something was torn inside him and it hurt.
He wanted to cry out but his throat was closed, he couldn’t breathe!
“Yes you can John, you can. Slow. We’ll take it slow.”
A soft deep voice was in his ear as the world moved and John felt something warm wrap around him, something solid, something firm and safe, something that protected and sheltered John as he wept in the blackness, gasping in one ragged breath after another. A gentle finger swept tears away from John’s tight shut eyes, and more scratched at his head until his body wasn’t one big hurt. Sherlock was lying on the bed with him, spooned up tight behind John, holding onto him and comforting him. John twisted around and held his best friend as tightly as he could as he released years of misery.
“I hurt you John and I am sorry.” Sherlock sounded as regretful as John felt.
“I hurt you worse and I am so very sorry Sherlock, please, I know I don’t deserve it but I’m begging you to let me try to…try to…” John was still dazed and he couldn’t articulate what he wanted to say. Sherlock just settled himself closer and kept stroking John’s hair, “Sherlock.”
“I know John. I understand. I’m tired and I want to sleep.” John held on to him, reluctant to give up his anchor, it was too soon! Sherlock just reached down and tugged up the coverlet at the end of the bed and smoothed it over both of them, “You don’t have to leave John. I don’t want to go. My heart hurts right now and I’m afraid for you. I don’t want to let you go when you’re still so sad.” The bluntness of his words made John even more aware of how far gone Sherlock still was, this wasn’t helping anything. Fear filled him and desperately the soldier tried to pull himself together.
“Sherlock I can’t live without you.” John felt tears still coursing down but his face, “Don’t kill yourself, don’t do it please don’t do it.” John would beg forever if he needed to, this was all his fault, if the world lost Sherlock Holmes this time they would only have John Watson to blame. If Sherlock could not pull himself out of the despair that John had left him in then he promised himself to follow. They wouldn’t be parted again, not even for that.
Sherlock seemed to sense John’s intent and he curled his body closer still, “I’m sorry I said that John, I’m not going to do that. I won’t do that, I swear John.” Sherlock rubbed John’s back soothingly and brushed his lips over John’s forehead. “We need to rest and to calm down. You stay and I will too.”
“It’s a promise and a deal.” said John. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind that he had pushed his face tight against the tall man’s neck or that his arm was so tightly squeezed against his ribs that John could feel every wasted muscle and prominent bone. The detective was so very thin, John felt wretched. He had so many things to make up for, how could Sherlock ever forgive him for all the time John had hurt him? He still felt anxious and John doubted the feeling would go away until he’d ensured that Sherlock had fully recovered from all that he had endured due to him.
John listened to Sherlock breathing. He could smell the rich scent of marijuana and cigarettes on both of them, but underneath was the calming smell of the detective, that weird combination of spice, musk, and chemicals that was uniquely identifiable, at least to John. It was one of the things that had struck him most intently when Sherlock had returned that day. As realization had sunk in at who had been standing in front of him John realized that he’d recognized his friend even before he’d laid eyes on him, and certainly well before his voice had registered properly, foolish accent be damned. It was the smell that John had missed, the smell that he had mourned over all those wretched months of endless grief. “I’m so sorry.” he said again miserably, knowing words weren’t nearly enough.
“I just want to sleep for a hundred hours John, please. I can’t talk about this right now.” John didn’t doubt it. Sherlock had smoked an excessive amount, he was probably suffering from the effects of insomnia as well as malnutrition. John wanted to cry again but instead he rubbed Sherlock’s back tenderly, his fingers tracing over the knobs of Sherlock’s spine ruefully, willing his friend to fall asleep and get the rest his body was in critical lack of. A long time later a small buzzing snore announced Sherlock’s final fall into slumber, his body limp and unresponsive. John hugged him for several minutes longer before he eased his way out of the bed, tucking Sherlock in tightly and leaving a large note by the bed, “Gone downstairs.”
John set to work. He inspected the kitchen. Their fridge had a carton of milk that was half full as well as expired. John hadn’t spent any time in the flat, keeping away for as many hours of the day as he could manage, dining out for all meals and not caring because he had been working full time at various clinics in order to keep avoiding Sherlock. No wonder the man was wasted away, he likely hadn’t eaten anything Mrs. Hudson hadn’t fed him directly because no one else cared to see that he remembered to get a meal in. If that wasn’t terrible enough and it was so awful John could barely comprehend the amount of guilt he felt over it all but equally appalling was the complete lack of experiments. Nothing. Sherlock had done nothing inside the flat except die slowly in a state of continual rejection and torment. With shaking hands John scrubbed the unit down completely, trying to begin erasing the damage he had done.
Like a ghost John crept out of the flat, bringing his shoes down to the foyer instead of risking a loud step that might wake his friend. Mrs. Hudson was scowling at him from her door, “I need to fill the pantry.” said John bluntly, “If he wakes up I am just at the shops and I am coming right back. He’s napping now.”
Mrs. Hudson’s expression barely changed but she nodded sharply and with hard eyes watched John leave the building. He nearly ran to the store, grabbing a shopping cart and filling it to the brim with absolutely everything he could think of that might be of interest to Sherlock. John also stocked up on various supplies that he knew they’d be lacking because he hadn’t bothered with a full shop in weeks. Shame and chagrin filled him again, food alone wasn’t going to do it but it was a meagre start at least.
He needed a cab to get back to Baker Street and it took him three trips to get everything inside. Mrs. Hudson had noted his return and then had returned to her flat without a word, simply closing her door to him without offering any help. John didn’t blame her, he was a cad. As quietly as he could he ferried everything into the kitchen. Once the bags were in John crept upstairs to check on Sherlock. He hadn’t moved an inch and his snore had died away into the nearly motionless breaths of someone deeply asleep. John changed the note by the bed to read “In the kitchen” and slipped silently away once more.
Once the groceries were stowed away John cleaned the kitchen meticulously after taking a leave of absence from all his jobs. Sherlock was as good as an invalid in John’s view, he needed caring for so with that in mind John put together a rich assortment of vegetables accompanied by pieces of chicken, all of which he covered in a deep layer of water once the seasonings were to his liking. He set it in the oven to bake slowly and set to work on his next goal.
John went to Sherlock’s room and stripped his bedding down. The sheets were cold and damp, if Sherlock had been sleeping it hadn’t been here. Likely he’d caught cat-naps on the sofa and that was it. John used to change their bedding once a week like clockwork because it was easier to wash the sheets all at once and Sherlock was hopeless when it came to working the machines though he’d offered plenty of times. Now it was clear to John that Sherlock had refused even Mrs. Hudson’s endless nurturing, not allowing anyone to offer him even the slightest bit of comfort. John opened the window to let some fresh air in, carefully picking up Sherlock’s tray of marijuana and setting it on the bare surface of his dresser. He let the whole room freshen up while he checked on Sherlock once more time before going to the basement flat to do some washing up. Once it was going he went to check their dinner before he got back to work.
Sherlock had lovely decadent sheets that his mother had sent him and that he never used because he very often brought questionable things to bed if he was still inspecting something but wanted a bit of a lie down as well. He’d offered the sheets to John several times early on but John’s bed was too small, much to his regret. Now the doctor spread them out, making sure every detail was perfect as he located Sherlock’s spare duvet which wasn’t incredibly beautiful but it was certainly cleaner than his expensive one which would need to be sent out.
Bed made and pillows aired out and fluffed to their maximum capability John gathered up Sherlock’s filthy laundry, bagged up his soiled suits as well as the duvet. The doctor then called a specialty cleaning service he knew about due to one of their cases and despite a wince at the cost arranged to have someone pick it all up. Carting it all downstairs John paused at Mrs. Hudson’s to explain who would be coming by and received a silent nod of understanding.
Something John would never admit to a living soul was how much he enjoyed cooking. Now he was grateful for all the time he’d spent watching online cooking shows, and even browsing through the odd cookbook in the stores. He wasn’t fantastic but he at least knew enough to follow basic instructions and his mother had taught him how to make this scone recipe when he had been quite young. He hadn’t forgotten and now he was grateful. Carefully he shaped the bread so it looked as nice as possible and popped it into the oven.
While it was in John took a few minutes to check on Sherlock again before going to the front room to root out all the questionable remains in the sofa and in their chairs, giving everything a good shaking out. Pausing to take the baking out John returned and spent a good hour doing nothing but going around the flat cleaning and tidying as much as he could. The sheets were in the dryer and the next load was going before the service picked up the cleaning, assuring John that all would be returned by the same time the next day. Good enough for now.
Nervously John finished all the chores he could get away with quietly, the hoovering would have to wait for another time but John had taken a broom to the worst of it so at least it looked alright but he wasn’t willing to make a racket. Sherlock needed all the rest he could get. John fretted over how frail his friend was and could not stop himself from checking yet again. Since everything was done, the food waiting to be reheated when they were ready to dine, John sat himself on the edge of the bed and watched Sherlock sleep. The detective looked thin, not just skinny which he definitely was but reduced. Sherlock Holmes used to be a vibrant and charismatic man but John could see ample evidence of how his own behavior had removed so much of that old flair and confidence and his heart wanted to burst with the regret he felt.
After a brief shower he couldn’t stop himself. Crawling carefully John inveigled himself back into Sherlock’s embrace, easing under the coverlet until they were snugged back together. He was a tiny bit heartened when Sherlock accepted him back without protest, his wiry arms winding painfully tight around John’s shoulders, and bony legs trapping John’s securely. Ever so gently John secured his own arm around Sherlock’s torso and closed his eyes. He managed to doze lightly while he waited for Sherlock to sleep himself out and was rewarded with a two hour rest before his friend finally began to stir, “John?”
The doctor woke up instantly. Sherlock looked a bit disconcerted as if unsure why he was in John’s arms, “I made dinner if you’re hungry.” Sherlock blinked for a moment before nodding cautiously, “You can grab a shower first if you’d like.” another silent nod was followed by the tall man uncurling himself and leaving the bed. John changed his clothes while Sherlock washed up and got himself back into the kitchen to reheat everything.
The tea was just ready when Sherlock appeared, still a bit damp looking but wearing clean pyjamas that once fit snugly but now hung a bit, even with the robe wrapped tightly. John’s determination grew stronger so he ladled out a large bowl of the rich stew he’d made and put some of the fresh baked scone on a plate, setting everything down where Sherlock normally sat. The detective still didn’t seem to be entirely comfortable but he still took his place and began his meal. John sighed internally with relief. His first offering had been accepted and he was grateful. The food was gentle enough not to disturb Sherlock’s tummy which would be sensitive after being deprived for so long but his body was starved for nutrients. The doctor watched surreptitiously as the dark haired man slowly spooned up all of the broth and without needing to be asked John simply got the pot and ladled in some more. Sherlock didn’t say anything again but he did consume every drop and had half of the bread as well so John was more than happy. The uneaten vegetables and meat were taken away and once provided with a fresh cup of tea Sherlock went to the front room while John cleaned up.
When John came back out he brought a plate of assorted biscuits to set on the coffee table. Sherlock wouldn’t likely eat one but he might be interested later on. The detective was on the sofa, their shock blanket over his knees, and he was re-reading one of his favorite books on anatomy that had been printed at the end of the 1800s, the entirety of which Sherlock found amusing as well as informative. It was filled with bookmarks and post-it notes from being read so many times. John had found it under a stack of old case files, obviously untouched for an incredibly long time. He’d dusted it off and put it back on the shelf where he recalled Sherlock preferred to keep it. John had searched but he could find nothing recent regarding Sherlock’s work, had anyone hired him at all since he’d returned home? Now the man looked entirely engaged but occasionally he would sip his tea and glance over toward John who was reading a cookbook quietly and trying to determine if he was brave enough to attempt one of the trickier recipes. “Telly?”
This was the first word Sherlock had spoken and John wasn’t going to say no to anything, “Sure.” Sherlock clicked it on and searched around until he found a documentary on race cars. The doctor was a little surprised at his choice before he realized that the technical aspects were quite challenging and he could practically see Sherlock’s mind calculating differentials and vectors as they learned about the various factors that went into winning a race. It was a mental exercise, a distraction from their situation which was far from fixed. John was grateful again, Sherlock could have just walked out of the flat to do whatever he wanted to do, weak or not. This was better, much better than that.
Despite sleeping the day away it wasn’t long before Sherlock was beginning to nod off on the sofa, his knees tucked up tight as he squeezed himself into the smallest ball he could, his head twisted at an impossible angle to watch the programme stubbornly, refusing to admit that his eyes were drooping and that he could easily just go to bed. It both broke John’s heart and made him feel better to see him relaxed enough to sleep in front of him. Sherlock had been running on empty for a very long time and one good meal and an extended nap were barely going to register. He still needed a lot of rest and care. John felt horrible all over again, he had made Sherlock like this! This was all on him. “Do you need help getting to bed?”
Sherlock didn’t say anything at first but then he shook his head slowly, “I’m going.”
“You’ll rest better being stretched out.” replied John, trying not to smother his friend but at the same time feeling the uncontrollable urge to pander to absolutely every need Sherlock might have. John was willing to do anything at all if it made Sherlock feel better in any conceivable way. If Sherlock let him John would be turning down the coverlet for him and tucking him in once again but he held himself back and watched as Sherlock silently shut himself away for the night.
John sighed and straightened up the room, quickly washing the few remaining dishes before he got ready for bed. There was nothing but silence from Sherlock’s room and John had the urge to press his ear to the door to see if he could hear Sherlock breathing before deciding that was going a little too far. He made himself go to bed instead, treading as lightly as he could so as not to disturb the hopefully sleeping detective.
John’s bed smelled like Sherlock. His pillow was rich with the scent of the taller man and there were several ebony hairs coiled up here and there on the sheets. For another tempting moment John almost talked himself into sneaking back downstairs just to double check that Sherlock wanted for nothing, and to make sure his rest was as comfortable as possible. Once again he held himself back and kept his impulses in hand. Instead he chose to be thankful that Sherlock was still with him, that the man had gotten a bit of dinner in, and was safe. He could not ask for more.
It had been a long and emotionally exhausting day so John had no trouble dropping right off into sleep and directly into a nightmare. He was walking the pavements in front of St. Bart’s with Sherlock, only the man had a great wound on his head that dripped blood endlessly. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice it and wouldn’t let John tend it, brushing him off more and more until he walked off too quickly for John to follow, disappearing around the corner of the building, leaving a trail of scarlet droplets in his wake. That he’d had this dream in a thousand different ways didn’t stop John’s teeth from clenching tight in the real world, agonized whimpers automatically stifled with his hand even as his sorrow scarred mind tormented him with the worst day of John’s life, the day Sherlock died.
After the detective was discovered to be alive the nightmares had ebbed briefly but John’s brain was clearly accustomed to producing them so soon after they resumed, and then, they got worse. John never got further in his dream than the point where he was clutching Sherlock’s wrist, shouting and trying to explain the he was Sherlock’s friend, and that he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Not Sherlock. Old familiar grief flooded him, washing the nightmare away with tears that John did not know he shed, or how he sobbed Sherlock’s name pitifully into his pillow, the word inaudible to all except the tall frail man standing in the darkness. “He’s my friend!” cried out John as hopelessly as he had that awful day and John knew Sherlock’s blood was on his hands once more. He didn’t wake up when long bony fingers carded through his short hair but the nightmare faded away and his tears dried. John continued to sleep restlessly after he was once again alone in his room and it was well before dawn before choked off cries startled him out of his shallow sleep. Sherlock!
John stumbled out of bed and down the stairs, tapping lightly John debated for only a moment before pushing the door to Sherlock’s room open. Sherlock was curled up in the center of the bed, his long fingers laced into his hair, tearing at it a bit. He was breathing hard, anxiously, as if he couldn’t take in enough air and John realized that this flatmate was having a panic attack of his own!
The soldier didn’t hesitate. Without pause John got onto the bed with Sherlock, unwound him from the tight coil he was in and like before managed to get himself back into the tall man’s arms. Those same arms squeezed John hard and Sherlock’s legs trapped John’s as well. John’s face was crushed to Sherlock’s shoulder a bit painfully but he made not one move to complain, his friend could do whatever he needed to do. Slowly John rubbed his hand up and down, gently applying pressure to relax his friend’s tense muscles and hopefully sooth him.
John’s eyes were shut firmly as he took in the feel of gnarled flesh, the jagged lines of badly healed wounds that marred the once alabaster perfection of Sherlock’s skin. All of this suffering, and all for John. Despair filled him, how would he ever be able to apologize to Sherlock enough for his cavalier attitudes? How blind he had been, Mycroft was right. No one in the entire world had ever been in Sherlock’s life the way John had and even before everything went sour the doctor had known that but it still had not registered properly. What was wrong with him? The man clinging to him right now literally paid in blood the price it cost to keep John safe and John had treated him in the worst possible way as a thank you.
Remorse was going to be a feeling that John would likely never be rid of. He couldn’t fix this for his sake, he needed to do it for Sherlock, all for Sherlock. John had already been selfish enough for ten men, he didn’t deserve even a scrap of consideration, not from anyone. No matter how long it took John was going to do whatever he needed to do to heal Sherlock’s damaged spirit. Carefully he continued petting Sherlock’s back until his friend was sleeping properly once more, his body limp and unmoving. John tried to ease himself away but Sherlock wasn’t having any of it. Like a vice his arms and legs cinched more firmly around the soldier until John stopped moving and then they loosened. When John tried to ease away as second time it happened again. Well, Sherlock’s bed was very comfortable and they’d already slept together once, and if this is what his friend wanted then alright. Oddly when John attempted to roll into a better position for his bad arm Sherlock was instantly accommodating, shifting himself with the doctor until they were spooned together, long limbs snaking out to recapture the soldier and lock him into place. Sleep came easily.