Chapter Text
Sunlight stabs through the open window, and a clammy breeze sticks to beads of sweat on Sherlock’s forehead. A groggy snarl bubbles from his throat, but he’s not yet awake enough to put words to his discomfort. Moving on instinct, he rolls onto his side, away from the window, and wraps his arms around the pillow in front of him. It’s soft surface blots away his sticky perspiration and he feels instantly relieved.
Cracking open an eye, he blinks slowly and searches the room in front of him for some motivation to get out of bed. He has no doubt, of course, that he won’t find any. The heavy residue of heroin in his veins reminds him that yesterday was John’s wedding. The start of a new chapter. He scoffs with his thoughts and rolls back onto his back, not pleased with the direction his mind is taking him and hoping a physical change will pull him away from his inevitable depression.
“Good morning,” a soft voice chimes from nearby, her Irish accent curling the words gently. “I bet you don’t feel too good.” A playful laugh tickles her comment, and Sherlock can’t help being surprised how quickly that chuckle became familiar.
“Janine?” he confirms, glancing towards the source of the voice, and blinking against the light.
She’s sitting on the floor on a pile of blankets and pillows, smiling up at him. Her dark hair is a mess, but it seems only to be softer than before, and her smeared mascara is somehow endearing. “You don’t remember last night at all, do you?” she laughs again.
Pushing himself into a seated position, he notices the distinct throbbing in his head, a sure sign he made some poor decisions the night before. “Not much,” he admits, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I remember the wedding.”
“Oh, is that all?” She seems so cocky, like she’s the only one in on a private joke. Standing, she moves to the curtains and shuts them, providing instant relief to Sherlock. Her bare feet pad against the wooden floor as she returns to the bed and sits beside Sherlock. “So not the needles, the bottles, the broken tea set, or the kiss?”
“Kiss?” he asks, shocked.
That sweet laugh. She can’t seem to stop laughing, actually, and her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Alright, I made that part up. But the rest was true. You were a mess when I found you, Sherlock Holmes. Who knew the great detective was so prone to vice?”
Sherlock grimaces, and returns to the task of wishing his head would feel better. Nausea bubbles in his stomach and he wonders if Janine would stop laughing if he threw up on her. With a sigh, he finally pays her some heed. “What happened?”
Finally, she frowns, although Sherlock can’t help wishing her lovely smile would come back. He chastises himself for thinking this way, knowing it’s largely a result of whatever he overdosed on the night before. “I’m not sure precisely when you left the wedding,” she begins, earning another grimace from the man beside her. “But John looked pretty worried when we sent them off. He and Mary were looking all over for you, but they couldn’t miss their flight so we sent them off and then I started looking around for you.”
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, not liking the fact that he must’ve upset John, nor the fact that Janine wasted time looking for a man who was looking for a way out. “Why?”
She laughs again, and a smile threatens to pull up his mouth. “You’re so silly,” she chirps. “But anyway, so I couldn’t find you at the venue and headed up the road for a taxi. I figured you’d’ve gone home so I came here.”
“How’d you get in?”
“The door was open. You really don’t remember at all?” Her dark eyes search his face for a moment and seem to soften as they meet his. “You were a mess,” she whispers. “I came up the stairs and called your name but you didn’t say anything. I could hear you moving around in here though, so I knew you were home. When I came in, you were hardly conscious.”
Sherlock’s eyes close, wishing he could erase whatever memory she was replaying. Glancing down at his left arm, he can see clear proof of his own actions, and is sure the memory isn’t a pleasant one. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“What for? What you do with your body and your time is your business. I just hope I can make it a little better. Anyway, you had a needle in your arm and a couple of empty bottles were on the floor around you. You were sitting in the recliner in the living room.” She runs her fingers through her hair and doesn’t see his tense smile. Pulling her curls into a messy ponytail, she fixes him with more stern eyes. “I think it’s breakfast time, Mr. Holmes.”
He stares at her blankly. He wants to be snarky or sassy, but he’s confused. And he’s fixated on a small brown curl that’s loosed itself by one eye, tangling down the side of her soft brown cheek. “What?” he finally manages to stammer.
“I’m sure you’re hungry. You didn’t eat a thing at the wedding and with the cocktail you took last night, I’m sure your stomach’s a rolling mess! I’ll make some eggs.” She returns to her feet and he notices for the first time that she’s wearing one of his tee shirts and a pair of boxer shorts that look suspiciously like his own.
When she leaves the room, he moves quietly to his dresser, urging a drawer out of its place. In careful rows, his tee shirts are still in perfect order. The next drawer reveals that his boxers are, too. Each index, so carefully maintained, has not been disturbed. He pushes the drawers back in and smiles to himself. She does look rather soft in his clothing anyway. He doubts he would’ve been too upset. But still…the drawers are perfect.
“Sherlock!” her voice calls suddenly from the other room, a panicked yelp rising through her tone. “There’s body parts in the fridge. We’re going out.”