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John Watson has had a long day.
Well to be fair he’s had a long week.
The last case they had been on was so…odd. Not because the case had been difficult, Sherlock had solved it within the day. Rather his partner’s reaction to the case had been curious. John remembered how pale Sherlock had turned when it all fell into place inside the detective’s brain. Usually it was a sight to behold, seeing such utter confidence and joy upon solving the puzzle (even if not always appropriate to be so joyous around gruesome crimes).
But that day it had been pure devastation that was mirrored on his friend’s face.
Death was never easy, and suicide was not an exeption. The family had believed that the girl had been pushed, as she used to work as a data administrator at the MI5. There had been multiple indicators that indeed it had been murder, which is why Sherlock had taken the case in the first place.
But when the realisation dawned that she had committed suicide it had caused Sherlock to utterly shut down.
John had never seen him like that.
The closest he could compare it to was the night Sherlock came to him with the realisation about Mr. Trevor and the consequently existential crisis he helped his friend through.
John was worried when they had come home and Sherlock just went into his room without another word. John had at first been busy being greeted by Archie with vigour only a dog can muster. But when the door shut with a bang even Archie looked at his dad’s friend with a bit of confusion, before again being overtaken by the joy of seeing his dad.
John, after the grim pictures of the past couple days, had been so relieved to just enjoy his dog’s happiness. It warmed his heart, reminding him of the beauty and joy this world held, despite it all.
Sometimes simple things like that could take away a hurricane of thoughts that would otherwise consume him.
This time however, some clouds remained in front of the Archie shaped sun behind his eyes.
Sherlock had been too silent, too rigid almost. Before he could dwell any longer on it, he heard multiple non-identifiable noises come from Sherlock’s room. He got up to try and investigate, but his flatmate had ripped open the door to his room and marched into the kitchen before John was even fully up.
“Little post-case snack?” John tried to banter with an insecure smile on his face. Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge John as he walked past and entered the kitchen. He went straight for the cutlery drawer, grabbed something, shut it, and stormed past John again.
To say John was confused would be an understatement.
But he was also tired.
So, so, tired.
“Ehm I’m making tea?” He spoke loud enough to indicate that it was a question directed at Sherlock. The other man just shut his door again.
“Okay I’m making tea for myself then.” He mumbled.
Looking back, John chalked his passiveness all up to being exhausted, tired, and ultimately: human.
He had gone to lay on the couch, tea in hand, Archie in his lap. If it hadn’t been for the horrible fate they had just uncovered, it would have been a lovely evening.
John didn’t remember falling asleep. He wasn’t surprised that he had, exhaustion had been gnawing at him for days now. So when he woke up in the middle of the night still located on the couch he resigned to his fate of sore limbs.
He stretched said limbs, noticing that his pinky had also fallen asleep. “Ugh I hate that feeling.” He spoke into the almost silence of 221B. Archie had vacated his lap sometime between him falling asleep and waking, now snoring in his little dog bed next to the couch.
As he got up to follow the pressing call of nature, he noticed that Sherlock’s door was ajar. That was odd, even if the detective hadn’t been so peculiar earlier in the evening.
John made a mental note to hurry on the toilet, and then check in on him. After all, it was 3am and Sherlock was awfully quiet.
Hands washed and some nice lotion massaged into them, he gently knocked against Sherlock’s door, only causing it to open further.
“Hey mate are you-“ John’s word died on his tongue as he caught a glimpse of his friend in the sparse light of the street lights shining in through the window.
Sherlock was laying on his bed, face on the side and his right arm hanging off the bedside facing John. Which is why, even in the dim light John could make out the blood and bruises on the skin of Sherlock’s inner elbow.
Alarm bells rang in John’s ears and for a second he was transported back to the early days of his medical training, trying to help addicts in the streets .
He took a deep steadying breath and moved into action. Sherlock was breathing, even and deep, which gave him the first reassurance that his friend was alive. John’s fingers found his friend’s pulse and while it was a bit faster than expected for a sleeping man, he had expected it. Not knowing what his friend had injected himself with was the unnerving next mystery. Should John be worried, or rather more worried than he already was?
Luckily he didn’t have to look around much, seeing lighter, syringe, his SH ear protectors and….and a spoon. So that’s what he had been rummaging for earlier.
John sighed. “Oh Sherlock…”
Given Sherlock’s affinity with oxymorphone he should have seen heroin abuse coming to be entirely honest with himself. And yet it was a rather unwelcome surprise. God damn it Sherlock has had it in the house. He just needed a fucking spoon and a syringe to get it all ready.
Okay no, no, now was not the time to be upset with his friend. He took another measure of Sherlock’s pulse, before going to the bathroom. He wasn’t particularly silent anymore, for one he was sure that Sherlock was knocked out for good, and if the other man awoke after all John could confront him. Even though his anger had so quickly morphed into worry.
Anger is a secondary emotion Watson, if you are saddened or hurt or scared, anger is what comes to the surface. To protect us.
Sherlock’s words rang in his ears and he gulped as he rummaged through the bathroom cabinets for bandages and sanitiser. He found plasters, some cotton wool for absorption, and saline solution for cleaning off the blood. It wasn’t much of a wound, but John would feel better if he got the half-dried blood streams that had left the injection sites off his best friend’s arm.
When he returned to the room Sherlock hadn’t moved, his eyes still closed facing in his general direction. He looked both peaceful and distressed at once. John sighed and got to work. They’d have a serious talk the next morning. He would think about what to say throughout the night. The thought of sleep was a pipe dream anyways and he knew he couldn’t entertain it until he was sure Sherlock didn’t suddenly stop breathing in his sleep.
After applying the solution to the wool he gently rubbed off some of the more dried up streams that had run off from one of the three injection sites.
Why did that git even inject multiple times doesn’t he know- well he probably does he just doesn’t care.
John did quick work – see his medical degree was not useless after all. When he was done and happy with his handy work John went to the living room to grab a blanket and cushion for himself. The floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to be, but he would be damned if he left Sherlock alone.
Was it normal to camp out next to your best friend throughout the night to make sure he didn’t spontaneously stop breathing? No.
No, and John knew that, but he also knew that he should have given up on normal the moment Stammo had walked him into that room with a bleeding maniac on a treadmill.
Despite it all, John wouldn’t have it any other way.
The sun was just starting to rise, some early beams sneaking over the houses across the street, when Sherlock stirred awake.
Slowly, very slowly.
John, half dosing but still conscious, snapped wide awake when he heard his friend groan.
Okay John we practised this, calm and collected .
John took another steadying breath.
“Morning sunshine.” He knew his voice was tight, tighter than he had meant for it to be or than he had wanted. Sherlock blinked his eyes open, disorientation evident in his expression. John was still seated close enough to see his pupils trying to accommodate the light change, despite still being unnaturally dilated.
“J’hn?” Sherlock mumbled. His voice was so soft and vulnerable that John’s heart broke for his friend.
“Hey mate. You did quite a number on yourself huh?” Sherlock didn’t respond, trying to arrange his body, but before long he gave up on trying to rise and just let himself fall back onto the bed. John couldn’t help but reach out to swipe away the curls that stuck to his sweaty forehead.
“Oh Sherlock.” He sighed, his heart hurting from the sight in front of him. His friend looked so young, so vulnerable. More so now that his eyes were open and full of questions.
“Wh- why are you in my room?” Sherlock’s voice was raw and John just wanted to hug him so badly.
“Because the door was open. And you were bleeding. I fixed it.” Sherlock’s eyes focused on his outstretched arm. Realisation dawning in those big eyes.
“Ah. Thank you. Why did you stay here tho? It seems you didn’t sleep.” Sherlock’s words did not reflect the poor state that presented itself before John.
“Was worried you would stop breathing. You know. Because you injected heroin. Three times.” Sherlock sighed and tried to turn away. His limbs must have been rather floppy as he did not succeed, still facing John.
“Astute observation Watson. Thank you. But it was wholly unnecessary unfortunately. I had it all under control.” He groaned as the sun continued rising, now brighter than he apparently was comfortable with.
John wanted to be angry, because it would be easier than the worry that still was so overwhelmingly present.
“I don’t think so mate. If only for my terrible selfish need to make sure you don’t die.” Sherlock only grunted, closing his eyes again. “Can you delay the lecture until after I have slept…all this off.”
John hummed, he could only imagine how coming down must feel. “Sure. I’ll stay here tho.” “I’m not gonna stop breathing Watson.” While Sherlock must have aimed for an annoyed tone it ended up sounding rather sad.
“I know mate. Just making sure.”
It wasn’t until much later that day that Sherlock rose. It was almost 7pm at night. At some point John had gotten up, walked Archie, had breakfast, and went about his day while continuously checking in on his friend.
He even went on to order naloxone - for emergencies. Because, while Sherlock had not displayed any symptoms for an overdose it’s just better to be safe than sorry okay?
John had sat down on the couch with a cup of tea when Sherlock joined him.
The detective let himself fall down right next to John, an uncommon choice is seating for his friend. Usually he’d prefer to sit on his chair across from John.
For a moment nothing happened, John holding onto his cup while Sherlock leaned forward and steepled his fingers in front of his lips.
“Ehm. You feeling better there mate?” John asked cautiously.
Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry you had to witness this, Watson. I forgot to properly close the door.” For a second John was at loss for words.
“You’re apologising…because you didn’t close the door?” He asked just to make sure he had heard that correctly. Sherlock nodded.
“Yes I didn’t mean to impose a sense of duty onto you.”
John stayed silent, as no words within the English language could describe how he felt upon hearing that.
“It seems I have made you further uncomfortable. I am sorry Watson.” Sherlock’s genuine apologetic tone was what pulled John out of his stupor.
“I- Sherlock it’s not- eh I mean it was a lot, but Sherlock you didn't impose on me, or or made me feel like I had to do the things I did.” Sherlock angled his head like a confused puppy. John sighed, trying to gather his thoughts and words.
“I don’t know if you noticed this Sherlock but you are my best friend too. And…and when your best friend starts taking heroin, not only taking but actually injecting it, then…then you worry.”
Sherlock inhaled. “I see.”
John couldn’t help but snort, despite the heavy atmosphere surrounding them.
“No you don't.”
Sherlock nodded, a shy smile tugging on his lips. “No I don’t.”
“The oxymorphone is already…a lot. I trust you to know how to eh deal with it. I am not a fan – as you know – but if it’s what you gotta do it is not really my business.” John inhaled.
“Heroin however, mate heroin is really bad.” Sherlock hummed. “It is…more effective with getting me out of my mind in a rather accelerated manner.”
John nodded upon hearing this. “Yeah this eh that’s actually the next thing I was wondering about. Why…why yesterday?”
Sherlock moved his head to face the other direction, staying silent. As if ignoring John sitting right next to him was going to get him out of this.
“Was it…was it the case?” Sherlock hummed without facing John.
The latter gulped, having had an inkling that this might have been related to the case, but he hadn’t wanted to rush to any conclusions.
“So you…you use heroin when it is really bad?” Again Sherlock hummed, remaining rigid in his position and adamant about not facing his friend. John didn’t really want to ask the next question, but he needed to understand his friend if he was to help him.
“Is it because she committed suicide?” Abruptly Sherlock jumped up, as if to leave, but John was quicker, his hand gently and quickly taking Sherlock’s.
“It’s okay. Just…please talk to me Sherlock. You know it is going to help.”
“For how long?”
John frowned.
“For how long do you think it’ll help? Until I tell you and you move out? Or until I tell you and you become upset with me? How long will it help?”
John got up as well then, still holding Sherlock’s hand.
“I am not going anywhere and I won’t be upset. I am under no illusion that you have your reasons and that those reasons are eh upsetting. But again: you are my best friend.” Finally Sherlock’s face turned into this direction, the raw emotion in them almost overwhelmed John.
“John, what I am about to share with you is…I have never talked about it. Or at least not honestly.” Sherlock sat down, his hand never attempting to leave John’s.
“I am here, Sherlock. Whatever happens or happened.”
John knew this was important.
So important that he held back the bad jokes he would usually tell to lighten the mood. Sherlock gulped and closed his eyes, as if trying to visualise what he is about to say.
“When I was…younger, I always had, what my parents dubbed melodramatic phases. Which definitely were major depressive episodes, but that is partially irrelevant. When I was 11 I attempted suicide for the first time.”
John couldn’t help but gasp, but Sherlock continued to speak. “I had everyone convinced that I was just sitting on the boarding school’s castle bridge to dangle my legs. Even my mother and the teachers. But I knew.” Images of Sherlock in place of their last case victim flashed in front of John’s inner eye and he started to feel sick. Sherlock drew another deep breath. “Many years later, long after I had been expelled, I attempted again. This time I had not been so lucky as to rearrange the truth to avoid repercussions. My sibling had walked in on me mere minutes after I had hung myself. My cervical spine had not been injured by the noose so it would have been death by asphyxiation if they had not cut me down. I was already unconscious at that point. Waking up at the hospital with only my sibling present I lashed out. It has been a point of contempt between me and them.”
John was, again, at a loss for words. This time however, his body took over the communication as tears were streaming down his face and he couldn’t help but pull Sherlock in a tight hug.
“Don’t. Ever. Try. That. Again.” He tried to say with determination, but it must have come out more desperate. Sherlock smiled slightly, a little touched by the emotional reaction of his friend. “Don’t worry Watson, I have found what makes me happy, what keeps me going. At those times I felt like life was over anyways. And I was alone.”
He tentatively looked at John. “Which I am not anymore?”
John hugged him again and returned his smile. “Damn right you're not. You’re never getting rid of me.” Usually Sherlock would have returned a slightly sarcastic remark, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.
“Regarding yesterday…seeing the victim’s sister, her friends. That could have been me. It could have been my family or you and Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock closed his eyes again. “I know how depression works, and I know how suicide is the end stage of an illness. But I have been so isolated from the world, that the realisation how it affects those I care for has been vastly out of my reach.”
Sherlock finally looked into John’s eyes.
“I think…I might put more effort into preserving my life.” As touched as John was, as much as he just wanted to hug this silly man stupid, he still was unclear on one thing.
“So you had that realisation and then went on to inject heroin?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No, I had that realisation while I was injecting it. My brain, it was…it hadn’t caught up with the reality of the case. Usually I can compartmentalise and rationalise emotions away. But seeing someone who had died the same way I had tried to die…seeing the waves of reaction it caused to those around her – I couldn’t compute it.”
John hummed.
“So…heroin.”
Sherlock hummed. “I do not like it. It is vastly inefficient in the long run and I rarely seek a high as brutal. But yesterday…”
“It’s okay Sherlock, well actually is not okay, but you don’t need to explain more.” Sherlock hummed.
“Is there any left?” Sherlock nodded. “I have an emergency stash.” John didn’t like it. “You know I’ll search all of Baker Street if necessary and throw it out yeah?”
Sherlock chuckled. “You won’t need to. I’ll…I’ll put it away.”
“Good good that is…good.” A moment of silence emerged, them just holding each other, making sure that they were still there.
“I am proud of you Sherlock.”
He didn't need to look at the detective to feel the heat rise to his face.