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It had been two weeks.
Two weeks since Sherlock's bad judgment call had caused everything to go to hell. He had been so certain that his way of approaching the case had been the right way, but it had taken too long.
The gunman may have pulled the trigger, but Sherlock knew his own arrogance had killed the victims. Over the past fourteen days, that knowledge had torn at him, little by little, until he was desperate for relief. He had tried self-medicating. He had tried distracting himself with other cases. Nothing worked. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t think. On the fourteenth day, as his mind refused to quiet and the guilt threatened to suffocate him, he began to pace the living room, his fingers knotted tightly in his hair, frustrated sobs escaping from his throat.
That's when he spotted Butterscotch.
An old, threadbare teddy bear, discovered by John’s sister when she had been going through their parents' things. John had scoffed at it, tempted to throw it away. But then he had picked up the creature, his eyes misty with childhood memories, and placed it gently on the fireplace mantle, between Sherlock’s skull and a stack of unpaid bills.
Now, Sherlock picked up the teddy bear, feeling the tears burning his eyes. He tucked the worn creature beneath his chin and caught the scent of John on the animal's worn fur. He burrowed his nose in the bear, breathing deeply.
Sherlock turned on his heel, his dressing gown whirling around him, and retreated to his bedroom, sitting down hard on the edge of his bed. He felt like a little boy. Lost, alone, irrationally longing for someone to comfort him and tell him that everything would be all right. But no one was going to do that, and that knowledge broke him. He bowed over the soft little bear, clutching it to his chest, crying silently.
He didn’t know how long he sat like that, trying to stop the tears that insisted on coming, but he startled when he heard the voice from his doorway.
"Sherlock? You okay?"
Sherlock jerked upright, stuffing the bear beneath his pillow and wiping roughly at his teary eyes. "Hello, John," he croaked. “I wasn’t expecting you home so soon.”
“Well, my last appointment canceled, and I’ve been worried about you, so…” John’s face was masked in confusion. "Is... is that my bear?"
"No." Sherlock's voice came out garbled, strangled by the deep need to sob, to do whatever it took to ease that terrible ache in the middle of his chest.
"Yes, it is." John walked past him, reaching under the pillow and pulling out the bear. "Do you mind explaining this? Do you... like my bear?"
Sherlock raised his red-rimmed eyes to meet John's gaze, wanting to pull the stuffed creature out of John’s hands and hold it close again, to inhale and smell John, to soothe himself.
John smiled down at the little bear. “Butterscotch saw me through a few bad times when I was a kid,” he said. “He’s a good listener, you know?”
When Sherlock didn’t respond, John offered the stuffed toy. “Here, take it.”
His voice was so gentle, and that was all it took. Sherlock choked and turned away, clamping his trembling hand over his eyes to shield the tears from John’s view. Still, he felt the mattress dip as John sat down beside him.
“Sherlock. Here.”
Sherlock shook his head, sobbing now despite his best efforts. And then he felt Butterscotch’s fur against his cheek.
"Take him, Sherlock," John said gently. "Come on." He gently lowered Sherlock's hand and wrapped the detective’s long, thin fingers around the little bear.
"Come on," John repeated. "Just take him."
Sherlock shook his head. John's hand began stroking gently against his mussed curls.
"It's all right, Sherlock," John soothed. "Just until you feel better, yeah?"
With a croak, Sherlock surrendered, tucked the bear close, pressing his forehead against the matted fur. He bent around the creature, as if protecting it. He choked against the teddy bear’s soft tummy.
“That's it," John soothed. "There you are, love." He kept murmuring endearments, and Sherlock felt his heart and his mind let go of everything that had been building like a dormant volcano inside him. It poured forth in waves of hot tears and wails and sobs, by the time it was over he had dropped the bear on the carpeting and was gripping John’s jumper instead.
John held him close, rocking him back and forth and soothing the overwhelmed detective until Sherlock was exhausted, too exhausted to even hold on to John. His fingers lost their grip and his hands fell away limply to his own lap. He could hear the chuckle rumbling in John’s chest.
"Sherlock, lie down now. You need a nap."
"I’m not a child," Sherlock murmured.
"Of course not," John assured. "You're just a very, very tired man who has had a very, very difficult few weeks."
Sherlock felt the urge to cry, but he was too tired to summon the energy to do so. He just nodded wearily and allowed John to pull back the duvet and help him slip beneath it.
To Sherlock’s great relief, John toed off his shoes and socks, and then climbed into bed beside him. He held his arms open, and Sherlock sank against him, his fevered cheek hot against John’s collarbone. His eyes fluttered closed.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” John wiggled free for a moment, reaching toward the floor and snagging the teddy bear in his fingers. He tucked Butterscotch between them and gathered Sherlock close.
“It’ll be all right,” John murmured, kissing his forehead gently. “Go to sleep.”
Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the slightly damp bear, but he no longer needed it; he had all he needed in John's embrace. He drifted, finally, toward slumber.