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On this particular morning, Joan chooses tea over coffee, stirs the spoon around thrice to dissolve the sugar, dips a biscuit in before chewing. She turns the TV on and checks the latest headlines. The news turns into a day time soap opera which she does not have the energy to change, though she does turn the volume down until it's nothing more than a hum. The world is static.
Eventually, she walks over to Sherlock's desk and begins to rummage through the papers which remain piled on top of it, most likely organised in some arrangement that Joan doesn't understand. Eventually, she finds it.
She places the photograph on the cork board, the same position Sherlock had it in a few weeks ago, or a few months ago, or however long it's really been. She moves a chair forward and sits in front of it and stares at it for as long as her eyes will allow her, trying to deduce any sort of information from its sad blurriness.
You did not know him, she remembers Sherlock saying, and Joan cannot help but catalogue the analogies she has collected over the years. The photo embodies most of them: the facelessness of addiction, the universality of despair, the repetitive nature of recovery. She has never made exceptions for Sherlock Holmes and she will not begin now.
But she is human too. And she hopes.
.
Oscar does not go to a hospital. Oscar wakes up by nightfall with a black eye and a pounding headache and a sensation which he assumes is internal bleeding, and he smiles. He does not notice the phone, but he does lament the absence of the tin. Stumbling, he makes his way back to the den and surveys his battle wounds with pride, shoots up with a mumble of his victory against Sherlock Holmes.
Joan does not know all of this. What she does know is that, three days after Alfredo is admitted to the hospital, a tin is left on the doorstep of the brownstone accompanied by a note signed Best Wishes. She gives the tin to Bell with the suggestion of searching it for fingerprints and the intention of getting it as far away from Sherlock as possible, then proceeds to shred the note and burn it. For the rest of the night, the house is hazy with smoke and the windows remain firmly shut lest Sherlock were to smell it.
.
On the fourth day, Joan goes to the roof top with a tray of toast, one half buttered and the other side plain, a sugar cube and a cup of tea. Sherlock's skin is clammy, his hair unwashed and his fingertips purple with the cold. He is sleep deprived, hungry, dehydrated, and she thinks that if she wasn't angry she would feel pity. Instantly, she is grateful for the anger, no matter how irrational it may or may not be.
His fatigue makes him malleable: she holds the cup up to his lips as he drinks the tea with small, harsh swallows (liquid - should improve pallor and minimise dizziness). She cannot force him to chew the toast but it leaves his fingers stained with melted butter which he unconsciously licks and she convinces herself that it's enough (nutrition - increases energy and focus). He lets her place the sugar cube on his tongue, his jaw clenching slightly as he presses it to the roof of his mouth (increase in blood sugar - improves clarity and overall mood).
Sherlock does not look at her the entire time. He barely reacts, sits dull eyed and lazy as he stares out over the city. For a moment, she wants to dip his fingers in the hot tea, see if he would react to pain; if he'd yelp or smile or hit her or cry. There are a number of possibilities, all of varying likelihoods, and she sits their going through each of them with varying tenseness.
He starts to notice her out of the corner of his eye, looking at the rigidity of her wrists and her clenched jaw. There's almost of an element of hopefulness, she thinks. Another person to confirm the anger he feels at himself. Instantly, she is annoyed at his need to be right all the time, blames him for the irony that manifests itself into shared blame and -
Joan has not felt like this since Liam. Joan has not felt like this since she was alone in a surgery room, a broken mirror and a cold table. These feelings are acute and unbearable to the point where she feels as if she is about to explode. She looks at Sherlock sharply and he turns away, sheepish.
"You can stay up here for another hour, but then I'm bringing you down. You need to have a shower. Let me know if you have any symptoms of hypothermia." With that, she picks up the tray of food and walks downstairs. She does not relax until she takes a sleeping pill later that night.
.
The NYPD have, in fact, worked cases without Sherlock Holmes. They always have and they always will. That does not mean that the precinct doesn't feel strangely empty without Holmes and his companion. It is quieter, less confusing, and the rest of the force is more relaxed in light of his absence, the resentment replaced with an air of humour and amusement.
For Captain Gregson, the atmosphere feels heavier, his mouth dry and his shoulders slumped. There is a guilt there in the bottom of his stomach that feels more paternal than he would have liked, and immediately he goes back to trying to value Sherlock in precinct's success rate, rather than as the human being he has come to know and care for.
"Uh, Captain, there's been a homicide," Detective Bell announces, leaning against the office door. Gregson nods, grabs his coat. "Should I, ugh, call Sh - "
"No, I think it would be best to leave it, don't you?" Gregson replies, sighing. "Give them a couple more days, at least."
"Did you call Sherlock's father?" Bell asks, to which Gregson nods.
"Well, his assistant assured me that she'd pass on the news," he says. "Anyway, you said there'd been a murder?"
.
After days of being motionless, Sherlock is suddenly agitated, going between the punching bag and a Rubik's cube within the space of ten minutes. After his shower, she had managed to convince him to sleep, but he had been short and fretful, his bed regularly squeaking and thumping with his movements. In some ways, she is grateful for the noise - the house sounds less lonely now.
That said, she cannot help but be irritated when he begins a game of throw and catch with the wall at one in the morning. She goes downstairs, ready to berate him, when she sees the force of his throws, realising that the sound had increased in volume the moment her footsteps had touched the stairs.
It is an activity that yells of distraction and frustration, a temporary remedy for an offensive that they both know is coming all too soon. Again, she finds herself reluctant to deal with it. The ball finds its rhythm once again.
"I'm having trouble sleeping," Joan says after a while. "I'm going to make a hot chocolate. Do you want one?" Sherlock does not respond, and she goes upstairs with her mug without a word.
The next day, he does not come out from his room once, his room eerily silent and the plate she slips under his door untouched.
.
She does not know what she was expecting Sherlock's father to be like (she thinks anything with a face might have been too surprising, the way Sherlock had described him), but she wasn't expecting this. Mr Holmes is a tall man with drooped shoulders who loves his son. That is, when he remembers he has one.
He also does not know his son.
Joan has known Sherlock long enough to know that two of the things that bother him the most are people that do not understand him and people who are consistently, stubbornly wrong. Mostly, he has grown accustomed to the former, to the point where he considers himself either a unique, tortured genius or as nothing but an absurd outcast, depending on his mood; however, she has also noticed a particular strand of frustration that sets itself in his jaw whenever he has encountered someone who believes they understand him, yet fail to grasp him. It seems this type of frustration is reserved for his family.
She does not give their visitor an introduction, knowing that Sherlock would have fled straight to his room the minute he heard the name - if he could muster the energy quickly enough, that is. Rather, Mr Holmes steps in front of the television to see his son, is met with dull eyes and hallowed cheeks, and is immediately filled with fear. Sherlock's mouth twitches and if he wasn't so tired, Joan thinks, the emotion may have somewhat pleased him. Instead, his back straightens, halfway through the process of flinching, and his eyes widen, childlike in the face of rejection. Joan looks away.
When he came in, Mr Holmes was a man of preparation, his mind filled with a rehearsed speech and his arms already tensed to be folded in exasperation. However, the sight of his son effectively robbed him of all such planning, and all he can say is, "What are we going to do with you?" Sherlock sinks further in his chair and Joan resists the urge to roll her eyes.
Rule #1: do make the addiction about you. Do not make it about your problems.
"I'll go make us some tea," she says. Mr Holmes does not react but Sherlock looks at her for the first time in days, a pleading expression that makes her chest constrict. She turns away anyway and focuses on the task at hand: three cups, three tea bags, waiting for the kettle to boil. Sugar, milk. Stir.
By the time she returns, Mr Holmes as collapsed into an arm chair, watching the TV mindlessly. He accepts his tea gratefully. Sherlock, meanwhile, stares at the wall, his breathing deliberately measured. Immediately, she remembers her thought from the other day, only this time she pictures Sherlock pouring the boiling tea on himself. Her grip tightens on his cup and she sets it down away from him, closer to her own. He does not look at her again but there is a destruction within him that has been absent for the past few days.
Mr Holmes is on his third sip of tea when he finally says, "I was wondering if you wanted to come back to London with me." He has not taken his eyes off the TV. Standard communication, then.
Sherlock's glance begins to shift, his eyes resting on Joan but moving away the second she looks back at him. He itches to turn to look at his father but is restricted by an unspoken code, before he eventually stills and resumes looking straight ahead. Joan takes that as her cue.
"Actually, we - Sherlock and I- think it would be better if he stayed here," she says. "He has a support network here, and any change may disrupt the…process."
"It was simply an offer," Mr Holmes replies, stiffly. He runs a finger around the rim of his cup, taps lightly on the china. "I plan on giving you one, maybe two more payments. They will be larger than normal. Should be enough to get you through while," he pauses, corrects himself, "if you recover." Sherlock does not react.
"I did warn you what would happen if you used again."
"Sir, with all due respect," Joan says. "But most addicts relapse. Recovery is a lifelong process. This is not a failure. It is a step back, yes, but it one that can be overcome." Mr Holmes looks at her, patronising and pitying and tired all at once. Joan feels her jaw tighten.
"Perhaps," Mr Holmes says eventually. "But how many step backs will we go through? I have much more faith in Sherlock's impulsiveness than his self-discipline." Joan sips her tea to stop herself from replying.
"It is late, Mr Holmes," she says after a while. "I think it is time for you to leave. Feel free to come back tomorrow, after Sherlock has rested." Mr Holmes stares at her for a moment, surveying her in a way that she is so used to, so sick of by now, before letting his gaze drop. Sighing, he stiffly pulls himself out of the chair, and heads towards the door. Hurrying, she catches up to him and opens the door, for which he grants her an amused expression.
"Goodnight, Miss Watson," he says at last. "Thank you for putting up with him." She shakes her head.
"This is not putting up with him," she says. I put up with his using my things without asking me, with his early mornings and late nights, with his rudeness, she thinks. "I am exactly where I should be."
"And that place is never the most pleasant, is it? Not compared to where you want to be," Mr Holmes answers, his voice hardening. "Good night, Miss Watson."
.
Sherlock returns to the roof the following morning where he completes a routine of push ups and sit ups and plans, his face flushed and his skin cracked from the cold and the exertion. It is 7am when she finds him.
"You're going to make yourself ill," Joan snaps. "You haven't eaten properly in days, let alone drunk anything. Your body is not going to be able to cope with it and I will steal an IV drip before I let that happen." Sherlock switches to one armed push ups.
Storming downstairs, Joan grabs a bottle of water from the kitchen and practically runs back up to the roof, slamming it down in front of him. He stills, his body shaking from something she expects is a combination of faintness and anticipation.
"You have one hour to drink all of it," she says, her voice uneven. "I will be back up with some toast later."
There is a disconnection between her mind and her body as she walks back to the kitchen, the sensation of the cool counter and the image of her hand touching it displaced. For a moment, the world is only confined to the space immediately in front of her: the tap, the sink, a mug.
It is then that she lets out a shuddering breath, tears streaming down her already damp face. She finally swallows around the roughness in her throat, immediately has to cover her mouth with her hand to silence her sobs. It is messy and uncontrollable and she hates herself all the more because of it. It is endless and she cannot breathe and her mouth is filled with salt and her body is weak and shaking and her world is nothing but a sink, a tap and a mug which blur in front of her.
It is two hours later when she brings Sherlock his food, the bottle empty but ripped apart, his fingers bloody. She does not have to tell him to eat all of his toast, but he leaves the crusts. Just like always.
.
Joan visits Alfredo the day after he has been released from hospital, bringing flowers and a supply of ready-to-microwave dinners. She hopes that the ones she sent while he was in hospital have already been used, suspecting that her silent apologies and condolences for the unspeakable actions she cannot help but feel some guilt for have started to pile up and begin to lose their meaning.
Even while shaken, Alfredo remains kind and conscientious, asking about Sherlock the second he sees her, which she momentarily puts aside. Joan simply smiles at him and gives him the cookies she knows he likes, gives the flowers to his mother and places her hand over his in what she hopes is a comforting gesture.
"I'm sorry for not being able to visit you sooner," Joan says. "I've just been busy."
"With Sherlock?" Alfredo asks, as astute as ever. "I knew he wouldn't take it well. Please, tell him that I know it's not his fault and I'm sure he did all he could to get me out of there. I don't blame him. In fact, I'd like to see him, if he think it would be all right."
For a moment, she remembers her confidentiality agreement. Clause #27, sign here, if you please, Miss Watson. She thinks of all the secrets she has held within her and how few of them have ever been divulged. She knows that Joan Watson has changed over and over again, in careers and personality and goals, but she has always considered herself to be a loyal and honest person.
"I'm sorry, Alfredo, he can't," Joan says eventually. "Sherlock has rel -" The words catch. "He relapsed." Alfredo's face falls, his eyes softening. After that, neither of them have the energy to talk much more, but she promises to visit him either tomorrow or the day after. Hopefully, he will not dread her arrival.
.
On the way out, she hands a list of therapists to Alfredo's mother whom all specialise in trauma and come recommended from personal experience. They are accepted with a slightly teary smile and a gentle hand on Joan's arm.
"He'll be all right," Alfredo's mother says. "Let me know if there's anything we can do."
"Alfredo is such an amazing man," Joan says suddenly, unsure of where the words come from. "He's been so supportive, not to mention brave. Sherlock and I really do appreciate that he is in our lives." The woman in front of her seems slightly taken aback, but continues to smile anyway, nodding, and Joan can't help but think that only a week ago there would have been a, "I feel the same way about Sherlock."
.
Sherlock is in front of the TV when Joan gets home, a bowl of cereal in his hand and multiple scratches running along the length of his arm. Her body is filled with fatigue the moment she sees it, the motion of reaching out for his hand and inspecting the marks devoid of any true thought. Distantly, she notices that he is tense, that he is more scared than angry, and that the red lines are intersected with small half-moons from his nails. Deductions are not necessary for such obvious answers.
She does not know what to do. Over the past three years she can barely think of a single time they touched. Their entire relationship has been built on words, on truthfulness and honesty, and he has not spoken to her for a week. For a moment she wants to kiss him, not out of any love or passion, but simply because she thinks that maybe it would close some distance between them - that she would feel his desperation and he would feel her frustration and maybe they would come to an understanding. No, more than that. That they would somehow know what to do, because she knows he understand her and she him. There had always been an academic understanding, one of addiction and addict and sober companion that was taught to them at meetings and through books that has always left a basic communication between them.
She wants to rest her head in the crook of his neck, pull him to her chest, grip his wrists - something, she does not know what. And she knows that he wants her to slap him, shake him, yell at him, and maybe if they weren't both so proud and alone, they would both just share the other's tears and take comfort in each other's body heat.
Sherlock still does not let go of his breath when she lets his hand go, nor does he look at her when she walks away. When she's in bed, she hears footsteps pause just outside her room, a small silence, before they walk away. Despite how tired she is, she does not sleep well that night.
.
Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen counter, waiting for her, when she walks down the next morning. She is surprised to see that his health has considerably improved, and at a much faster rate than she expected it to. She promptly begins to prepare a much heartier breakfast for the both of them.
"Over the past few days, I have mentally written quite an extensive list of all the things I should say to you," Sherlock says, making her whip around in surprise. His gaze does not quite meet hers. "I assume that you will not be surprised when I say that, at this very moment, none of them seem appropriate, nor sufficient." She turns back to the cupboard and begins to pull out two mugs, two bowls and a couple of plates.
"For once, I did not actually want this to be one of my monologue," Sherlock continues after a pause. "I am aware that I am quite proficient in them. Then again, I cannot say that I do not deserve this." He clears his throat. "I am doing this because I believe that, after years of friendship, you deserve better than my deserting you to leave for London with my father. Or at least, if I were to leave to London, or perhaps somewhere else, that I may do so with a goodbye worthy of your companionship, unlike last time. I would also like to say that, should I leave, you have every right to stay here. This has, and always will be, your home, even if more figurative than physical. I would also like to apologise. I understand that such words are little more than useless without corresponding redemptive action, but I feel as if they are owed to you."
"Thank you," Joan replies. "But, if you don't mind me asking, what do we do now? I haven't heard a single mention of rehab or recovery. Does that mean you're giving up?" Sherlock begins to fidget, tapping his fingers against the counter .
"I can't say I have decided yet," he says. "The idea certainly crossed my mind while I was…in the moment, if you will, though I was too unhinged to register whether or not the tin's contents were enough for a truly final dabble. However, my current position renders such thinking rather pointless. No, I am simply suggesting, or more accurately encouraging, you to "give up" on me, to use your phrase."
"As much as I appreciate your attempt to minimise your own guilt, I think I will have to decline," says Joan, slamming the jar of coffee on the counter.
"While I do not decline the truthfulness of your accusation, I do reject your assumption that is my only reason for such a suggestion," Sherlock says. "I am quite aware of the repressive nature of our relationship. My shortcomings repeatedly put you into the role of sober companion far more than that of a friend. It is my hope that the end of our partnership would finally relieve you of some of the frustration I know you experience."
"So, I repeat. You are willing to give up on three years of a relationship for a temporary moment of self-pity."
"On the contrary, Watson," he says. "I will never give up on you. It is my hope that your giving up on me would enable us to both move forward, unless you would find regular 3am phone calls about sobriety comforting."
"Well, I'm not giving up on you and I will not facilitate any isolation you bring upon yourself as self-punishment," replies Joan. "And I'm doing this as your friend, not as your former sober companion." Sherlock quickly tightens his hands into fists before abruptly standing, the chair almost tipping backwards with the force of it.
"Well, thank you, Watson, for this opportunity to relieve myself of my concerns. Your skills as an excellent listener are, as always, appreciated. Now, if you would excuse me, I will be returning to my room. Good day." With that, he brushes past Joan before she can stop him, leaving her with a half-made meal and the beginning of a headache.
.
(Sherlock does not throw the tin away. Instead, he attempts to break it with his bare hands, getting flakes of rust embedded in underneath his fingernails in the process, his wrists aching with the stress of it all. Eventually, he gives up and tosses it to the floor, runs his hands through his hair and digs his nails into his scalp, trying to draw blood.
When he closes his eyes, he sees Olivia, blue and frozen. It's a more peaceful death than many, in fact, most of the others he has seen over the years. There was no blood, no rope, no bullets, no lacerations, bruises on only her arms and not her neck. But there is a feeling. He just doesn't know whether it's guilt or sadness.)
.
Joan is awoken by the sound of furious hits against a punching bag. She is not surprised. Mostly, she is grateful that it is only eleven o'clock at night, rather than Sherlock's favoured time of the early morning.
However, she is surprised when she sees the fury with which he's punching it. He is wearing neither gloves nor wraps, and she has to manoeuvre herself between his fists and the bag before he stops. He is vibrating with the energy of it, his hands still clenched tightly into fists even as his knuckles begin to crack, the skin rubbed raw in most other places and his fingers most likely bruised. His voice is rough when he remarks,
"I was fooled, Watson. Fooled by a drug addled maniac." He levels a hard punch to the bag, pushing her out of the way before it can knock her over. "What use am I, exactly, without my brain? It was one of the few good things people have been able to say about me over the years. Even at school, the teachers were always able to say, At least he had good grades. He may be alone and disruptive, but when he puts his mind to it - " He punches the bag again, the sound loud enough to make Joan jump.
"Sherlock - "
"I shouldn't be surprised. I've always considered heroin to be the greatest equaliser; it can make addicts geniuses and geniuses addicts. Hell, I consider you to be one of the few hopes in regards to the future of our species, but who knows what you would be like if you were to latch onto yet another of my bad habits. God forbid," he continues, flexing his hand. "And yet, then I start to think, what if I allowed myself to be fooled? What if I was simply looking for an excuse? What would you think of me then? All these years of effort, which I throw away in just a second." He punctuates each of his words with another hit.
"Sherlock, please stop. You are going to hurt yourself," Joan asks, voice barely above a whisper.
"Good," he grunts, continuing to punch. Finally, she walks over and pushes him away from the bag with all the force she can, leaving him more startled than anything while allowing her to again step between him and the bag. He attempts to glare at her, clenching his jaw and swallowing hard, and then his eyes have taken on a wild, panicked look, glassy and manic all at once.
"Look, I know you're in pain, both physically hurting yourself isn't going to help anything," Joan says quietly.
"It is a non-detrimental way of minimising my feelings of frustration and anger," Sherlock replies, equally as calm despite his wild expression. "Or at least, more beneficial than my hurting others, or incurring property damage. That said, I apologise for the distress it seems to have caused you."
"You're not going to get rid of those feelings by punching them out, or by bleeding," she says. "Well, not all of them, anyway. But you may get them out by talking. We could go to a meeting." He stares intently at the floor, his shoulders rigid and his breathing slow but shallow. Slowly, she moves forward and softly touches his hand with hers. It is more than he can bear and he instantly recoils from her, walking towards the window. Suddenly, he seems to collapse, falling to his knees as the palm of his hands go to his eyes, push.
"I cannot bear it, Watson," he grits out when she reaches him, back turned to her. "I cannot bear the idea that everything can be undone so quickly. That years of non-use become obsolete within a millisecond. I cannot bear another year, two, three, of struggling when relapse is always just a few blocks away." She waits to his breathing to even before she replies.
"It's already been a week, Sherlock. It has been 168 hours and you have not gone to a heroin den, you have not called Oscar. And you will keep doing this until you relapse again, or until you no longer need to count the time in hours. You will get through it, and I will be with you for as long as you need me."
She thinks that if they were different people she would wrap herself around him, kiss his forehead and he would clutch at her. But they are Sherlock and Joan and all can she do is count his breaths, the space between them. Eventually, she gathers the courage to reach out and touch his shoulder. He does not relax into her, but he does not shrug her off either. And for now, that is enough.