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Was coming back the right choice, Sherlock wondered as he saw his love, his John, slip away in the hands of another. Standing there alongside the newly weds while making a heartfelt speech was horrendous, and it tore him apart from the inside out.
He didn’t hate Mary, she was a lovely lady, and he was thankful that she had kept his John happy while he was gone. He regretted not having come back earlier — why did he have to listen to Mycroft? He never did, and the one time he decided to follow his older brother’s plan, he lost everything.
It wasn’t like Sherlock expected that things would be just like he left them... but he certainly did not expect to be at a drug den, drugged out of his arse, barely being able to keep his eyes open.
He thought the cases would be enough to make his mind wander off thoughts of John, but they hadn’t. Even with Molly by his side, he always thought of John.
What would his reaction be to that? He would’ve laughed at this. He would’ve gotten it quicker. I need his advice.
Not surprisingly, his mind was occupied with everything John.
Those two years had been hard on himself as well, missing the occasional touch, his kind words that would bring him back to himself, and most importantly, the part of John that completed him, that brought his human side forward, that made him feel less of a monster. A machine.
Sherlock didn’t know how he had gotten in that situation. He wasn’t even sure what the ‘case’ that got him to go undercover as a junkie was anymore. He couldn’t care less either. Working nonstop wasn’t doing it for him whatsoever, so he had to try something else, something stronger.
He shot up again, borrowing a lighter from a teenager that was just by his side, Isaac his name was, a nice kid.
As soon as he felt the high come to him, he allowed his mind to relax, and just dwelled on the floating sensation on his limbs, and the tingling in his heart. He closed his eyes, ridding his mind of everything.
And for a moment, he pretended not to exist. Perhaps that would be better for everyone, he thought.
••
Sherlock didn’t know how much time had passed, but the high was fading and he was already feeling the sickness that came with it.
He felt the blaring sunlight in his eyes and turned to the wall, pulling his hoodie up to cover himself.
“Isaac? Isaac Whitney?” He heard a familiar voice in the back of his mind. He shrugged, deciding to ignore it. It must’ve been his mind playing tricks on him, surely.
But the voice came again, in a whisper, getting closer, and Sherlock felt the hairs on his nape stand up, a sudden cold engulfing him. It couldn’t be...
Until he heard the confirmation he needed, between hushed and comforting tones. “Doctor Watson? Where am I?” The teenager, Isaac, asked. He sounded scared and confused before he let out a laugh.
Sherlock stiffened. John. His mind was overflown with everything John again, and he couldn’t think straight. Without thinking, impulsive as ever, he turned slowly, watching the back of his friend’s head, his straight back and military haircut.
Wanting to sound as casual as ever, Sherlock spoke. “Oh, hello, John! Didn’t expect seeing you here,” he pushed his hoodie off his greasy hair, “Have you come for me too?” He asked with squinted eyes, trying to sound nonchalant when inside he just hoped that John would hold him up and say how worried he was.
Deep down, Sherlock just needed John to worry about him. Worrying was caring, and as long as he knew John still cared for him, he would be fine. Not happy, but fine at least. But being apart for a whole month without a single call or text from the doctor wasn’t reassuring at all.
Perhaps he just found someone better to care for... he has a wife now, Sherlock, and a pregnant one. He’s got no time for your substance abuse issues, or your death defying cases.
The stare that John gave him after seeing him in such state was deadly, much like the one he got when he just appeared back from the dead with no previous warning, but this time it was quite different. It held something else, not only worry but also disappointment... and pain.
Sherlock wished he had stayed quiet.
John cleared his throat and looked down for a second before tapping the teen on the back, “Isaac, go to the car, it’s parked just outside. Mary is waiting for you.” He said without taking his eyes off the detective. “Just tell her I’ll be out in a few.”
Isaac did as he was told and swayed his way out of the house.
Before John could have the chance to scream at him, Sherlock sat up, fighting off his dizziness. “I’m on a case-”
“Sherlock.” John interrupted, his voice coming through gritted teeth. “Don’t bullshit me.” He said slowly, his voice unwavering and full of anger.
“It is true. I’m undercover.” Sherlock quickly answered, earning another glare as John closed his fists.
“No, you’re not.” John simply stated before walking to the detective and holding him up.
Manhandling Sherlock out of the building was easy even as the detective complained and fought all the way to the door.
Successfully ridding himself of John’s grip, Sherlock growled. “I’m fine! I can walk on my own!” He huffed with pride and strutted off.
“How could you do this?” John asked, raising his voice for the first time to get Sherlock’s attention.
The detective looked at him with, surprised for a split second, before shoving the door and breaking it open. “For God’s sakes John, I’m on a case!”
“A month! That’s all it took! One!” The doctor shouted back, his nerves finally getting the best of him.
Yes, one month seeing you slip away with another person, one month living alone at 221B, one month having to get rid of all of the things that slightly reminded me of you — however, I cannot blow the whole apartment up.
“I’m working.” He muttered instead.
“Sherlock Holmes in a drug den, how’s that gonna look?”
Oh, now you’re worried about my image, but you couldn’t take one minute of your day to send a single text!
“I’m undercover.” He said instead.
“No you’re not.”
“Well, I’m not now!”
Mary appeared on the window of the car. “In. Both of you. Quickly.”
••
The ride happened too fast for Sherlock’s senses to process, and he barely listened to any of what John or Mary were saying. He was not in the mood for being lectured.
Peeing in a jar was already humiliating enough, and having Molly slap his face thrice was worse, but in all honesty, the worst of all was John’s disappointed look.
“How dare you betray the love of your friends?” Molly exclaimed, her eyes teary and her voice strained with emotion. He did not get it. He did feel bad, though, but what else did he have if not that temporary feeling that everything might just be fine.
He was glad that Molly didn’t reveal how much drug was in his system, however, for that would have only made things more awkward.
He made a smart comment about the end of her engagement as he rubbed his cheeks, the stinging pain bringing him back to reality quickly.
“If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again you could’ve called, you could’ve talked to me.” John reprimanded him, his voice now more urgent.
Still, Sherlock would never admit that he was indeed in pain, and in need of help, because he was Sherlock Holmes and he worked alone, he dealt with things alone. He overpowered feelings, so why couldn’t he right now?
“Please do relax, this is all for a case.” Sherlock felt his energy slipping away as he said those words. Lying was always the easiest and quickest way out.
“What kind of case would need you doing this?” John asked indignantly, his lips parting just a bit.
You, John. The lack of you would have me doing that. The pain from losing you, and what we had before. Whatever it was. Holding hands, running away from murderers, laughing after midnight because we found a clue that was so obvious and simple, you falling asleep at a cab and me having to carry you out, getting too thrilled after solving a case and going out for dinner, texting every hour, dancing waltz in the living room by the light of the fireplace because oh, you couldn’t dance for your life, holding each other just a bit too long for a normal hug.
All because of me and my stupidity. If I just had been quicker than Moriarty, perhaps I wouldn’t have had to fake my death and we wouldn’t be standing here.
He, obviously, did not say any of that, but changed the subject instead, bringing up John cycling to work to take the attention off himself — which thankfully worked because he received a text just in time.
••
He was in a taxi, alone with John, just like it used to be, and the memories did no good to his state at all. Yet, he smiled.
Getting to 221B to find the door knocker straightened was worse. Mycroft.
“What is my brother doing here?” He complained under his breath, groaning as he went inside, making sure to bend the knocker slightly to the right, the way John always left it. It was a sign that he wasn’t home... and he would never be anymore.
Once in the apartment, all that was needed to stop his older brother’s search — or nonsense, as Sherlock put it — was a name.
It worked pretty well, and in a minute everyone was out of his flat. Well, everyone but Mycroft. And John, of course, but he didn’t want John to leave.
Being able to shove Mycroft against the wall and threatening him was relieving. Sherlock had been wanting to do that to somebody since he woke up that morning, and even better, it had worked to make his brother leave.
He was finally alone. Alone with John. Just like it used to be. It stung, but he couldn’t help but dwell on the memories for a bit as he curled himself on his armchair again.
John closed the door and walked back to the center of the living room, looking at the empty space where his own armchair used to be. “Seriously, where’s my chair? You didn’t throw it away?” The doctor looked at him, baffled at all that had happened and how much the flat he knew so well had changed within a month.
John could see that all the condiments had been moved to another cabinet, and the plates as well. At least my mug is still in the same place, he thought.
Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, pulling his coat closer to his cold body, “‘Course not. It’s upstairs, in your- the spare bedroom.” He coughed, hoping that would disguise the pain in his voice when he corrected himself.
John swallowed, pouting as he nodded. “Why’d you get rid of it, might I ask?” He frowned.
“I’ve told you, it was blocking my view.”
“Your view to the kitchen?”
“Yes, to the kitchen. So what?” Sherlock snapped, sitting up in a jolt.
“Woah, easy there.” John raised his hands. “I was only asking, Sherlock.” He sighed, sitting on the table chair instead. “I’m worried about you.” He said in his soft voice, his eyes sad and his lips twitching in distress.
“Oh, are you?” The detective spat out, getting up, allowing his boiled up frustration to take over. “Because it didn’t seem so when you moved out and didn’t contact me in a month!”
John just looked bemused watching his friend pace around like a lunatic. Sherlock was clearly not okay, but the doctor had no idea how to help because he was just awful at that. Dealing with feelings and all, he had always had trouble with that. Nevertheless, it was Sherlock, his best friend, and he had to try, even if that meant spending the rest of the day being the target to his acid comments, or being dragged around to a gutter for a random new case. Whatever worked for Sherlock, he was in.
“Sherlock, in case you forgot, Mary is pregnant.” He stated, his voice even, almost emotionless. “I’ve been working like crazy, almost have no time for myself, even.” He muttered.
“But you did have time to rescue a random junkie from his bad habits and bring him back to his mom.” Sherlock’s tone was still defensive and aggressive.
John sighed. “Look, if you’re just going to be yelling at me then I’ll go.” He got up, ready to leave, but Sherlock halted every movement and looked at him.
The detective gulped. “Stay.” He took a hesitant step toward his doctor. “John, I’m sorry. Stay.” He reached his trembling fingers to touch John’s shoulder, but stopped halfway, going back to his armchair instead.
John took a deep breath and dragged the chair to Sherlock’s side before sitting down again. “Now, will you tell me what made you do it?” He sounded genuinely worried, even a little guilty, perhaps for not checking up on Sherlock earlier.
“Doesn’t matter.” Came the mumbled response.
“Yes, it does. It does matter, Sherlock. Look at yourself, goddamnit!” John didn’t raise his voice despite the choice of words, instead he just grabbed his friend’s hand with both of his own, holding it still and warming it at the same time.
Sherlock dwelled on the familiar feeling, memories of the many times they had held hands before flashing through his mind. In this very room, how many times have we held hands? And how many times more will we? I hope a lot, still. Even if it’s just platonic. Even if I have to be broken for it to happen.
“John-”
“Sherlock, don’t.” He sighed, his voice strained for some reason. “You could’ve... god, Sherlock, it could’ve been worse! What if I hadn’t found you there?” He asked, afraid of the answer, still squeezing Sherlock’s hand.
“I would’ve come back here. It’s what I always do. Come back here.”
“Why?” John’s voice broke through the brief silence, coming out small and unusual for the doctor.
“Well, it’s where I live, I couldn’t really go anywhere else, could I?”
“No, I meant why did you fall back?”
Time seemed to stop for minutes, the air between them stale and heavy, constricting their lungs like cement. The room was like a vacuum, no sound and no movement, just a longing gaze against a concerned one.
“These things happen all the time, John. you’re a doctor, you know how addiction works.” Sherlock chuckled, retrieving his hand from John’s grip as soon as it slackened. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to let go if he stayed there a second longer. He never knew with John.
“You look sad. You think I don’t notice it but I do.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. God, I could’ve stopped this if I just weren’t such a moron!” He groaned at himself, looking down at his lap. “I don’t know why these things are so... difficult to me. I’m sorry, Sherlock, I was an awful friend.”
“No.” Sherlock sat up quickly. “John, you’re the best man I’ve ever known and... none of this is your fault.” He swallowed the painful knot that was forming down his throat. “It’s all on me. I’ve been like this since before I met you, so please, don’t ever blame yourself for any of it.” He continued. “I am a grown man, and I make my own choices, you know that better than anyone.”
John just shook his head before looking up again, meeting Sherlock’s sad eyes. He seemed so fragile, so different from the witty and sarcastic detective he always was. He hated to see Sherlock like that.
“What can I do then? To make it better, I mean?” John leaned closer to Sherlock, resting one hand on his knee and the other on the armchair. “Anything, you name it, and I’ll be on it.” He insisted when Sherlock didn’t react.
You, John. That’s the only thing that could make it better. You. I want you to move back in with me, I want you to come with me in my cases, and to hear me when I babble about useless facts that no one cares about except for me, and you, sometimes, and I want you to kiss me, and hold me like you love me. I want this heartbreak to end, will it ever end, John?
Your touch... it burns so much, like a scorpion’s sting, and yet why can’t I just retreat from it?
Human error, I’ve always said, and it’s true. Love is a human error, a fatal one. It attracts people to obviously harmful situations and yet they just allow it. That’s the situation I am in. It hurts to have you so close, and yet I can’t push you away, because that’s all I can get from you, John. A caring touch, a kind word, your grateful smile, your cheerful laughter. That’s all I can get, and I want it. Even if it makes it all hurt even more later, I want every speck of it I can get. But I cannot tell you that, can I? I cannot tell you those three stupid little words that mean so, so much.
I can’t tell you because it would ruin everything, and I cannot lose you again. I would not survive if I did.
John, will you stay for as long as I need? Will you hold my hand like you were doing before? Will you... lie to me, and perhaps tell me I’ll be alright? That I’m not lost? John... John.
“Sherlock? I mean it. Anything at all, I can even go on cases with you again. I’ll make time for it.” John moved his head, trying to look into his detective’s eyes, but the blue orbs were focused on something else entirely. “I miss it, anyway. The adrenaline. The two of us against the rest of the world.” He smiled, nudging Sherlock lightly. “You said that to me, remember?”
Sherlock finally blinked, processing the information, and focused his eyes and furrowed brows onto John. “Yes, yes ‘course I remember.” He nodded. “Wait, do you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“That you’ll be my partner again?” His heart skipped a beat at John’s smile.
“Of course I do! You know me well enough, Sherlock. You know I’m dying for some action.” He smirked, squeezing the other’s knee lightly.
“I’ll move your chair back downstairs.” Sherlock mused aloud.
“I might as well move back in here all along.” John joked, chuckling out a breath, feeling the mood lighting up a bit.
Sherlock, however, gulped, cursing himself for actually hoping that was true for even a millisecond. He chuckled lightly, “that would be great.” He joked back, but his voice was too dull, and John finally realized that one of the things that caused his friend to relapse was his own absence.
The lack of the chair, Sherlock turning the knocker to the right, all the avoiding talking about it openly. It all came to a closure in the doctor’s head, and he creased his forehead in a deep frown.
“Sherlo-” he was ready to assure his best friend that although he did have a family now, that Sherlock was also a part of it, and they he would never be left behind. That he would never be forgotten, or excluded. John would always be there for him. But Sherlock himself interrupted him.
“Would you... would you sing for me, John?” Sherlock asked, a faint blush coming to his cheeks in embarrassment.
“Sing?” John was amused. “I’m not a good singer, you know-”
“You said anything.” Sherlock pointed out, avoiding eye contact. “And you do sing well... you certainly remember our karaoke night for that case. What did you name it again? The Vibrato Case?”
“Mhm, yeah.” John smiled. “I didn’t know you’d read that one.”
Sherlock smiled in reply, and continued. “Anything, so would you please, sing me a happy song?” He took a sharp intake of breath. “Any happy song... just... just sing, please?” He looked up, so lost and scared. John’s heart shattered.
“Of course, Sherlock. I’ll sing for you. Anytime.” He swallowed, silently searching through his mind for a good song that would cheer his detective up.
A minute later he was muttering the lyrics to With A Little Help From My Friends. He held Sherlock’s hand through the song, cringing at himself when he sang out of tune, but the detective didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to have calmed down.
If it was all it took, then John was happy to sing for him anytime.
“You’re not lost, Sherlock. I am always here.” He whispered after he was finished singing, and ran one hand through Sherlock’s dirty curls, sighing as his friend slipped into slumber.
Please, never leave, John. Even if just from afar, I need to be with you.