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There was nothing. Then there was a brief warm fuzzy reprieve. Then consciousness. a beating, overbearing, intense consciousness. his brain, kicking into gear and suddenly - frantically - running off down a million tracks. He stirs, mind still slightly fuzzy from the night before - he'd smoked sneakily out of the window, much like when he was a boarder at college, to spare John from knowing that he was using again. There are few things he dislikes quite as much as the look on John's face when he gets high. It's a unique blend of disappointment, concern, and a hint of pity. Sherlock has tried to impart to Watson the benefits of the oxy. How it helps to still the mind, especially when everything gets to be so loud, so constant, so exhausting.
Sherlock can hear John's footsteps in the flat - he must be up already, and, by the sounds of it, there's something he's excited about… not quite a case. He listens, he can hear John and Mariana conversing… There's a day trip planned. It follows quite logically, Sherlock has been in one of his black moods for some time now, and has hardly left his room; John's usual modus operandi is to take him somewhere to lift his spirits. Surely not another escape room, perhaps the indoor amusement park? Or [oh god please be wrong] considering the heatwave …. [fuckshitbollocks] day trip to that waterpark John's been so excited about.
fuck.
Sherlock's mind goes from racing to outright panic. His skin itches partly because he knows the obvious solution is a chemical refreshment, and partly because of his late-night antics.
He casts his eyes downward to the slices on his arms.
A moment of weakness, a small and decidedly stupid relapse. After months of being clean, something in him finally snapped last night, and he just wanted to take himself out of it - away from the rushing in his head. Generally, the drugs help him refocus and achieve a similar effect with fewer observable consequences. Last night, they just tipped the scales of apathy towards his own well-being and well….
One thought rings out louder than the rest of the cacophony in his mind; John and Mariana can never know.
His reverie is interrupted by a sharp knock at his bedroom door.
"Sherlock, mate, are you up?"
He briefly considers keeping quiet, lying. But the thought of lying to John any more than he has sickens him.
"Sherlock? It's bloody hot out again today. Uh, Mariana and I have come up with a nice little plan… if you're interested."
He gets up, pulling down the sleeves of his favourite sleep-shirt, smelling vaguely of sweat. He hasn't been able to bring himself to change despite the heat - few other items of clothing have the same level of comfort, and he can use all the comfort he can get right now.
Opening the door, he stands face to face with John, dressed in his trusty boardshorts and Jaws t-shirt. It would seem that his deductions would prove to be correct.
"Good morning, Doctor. Let's hear this plan then?"
"Afternoon, more like mate, heh, that's what dear old Carol Watson would say. We uh, have thought it could be lovely to take a little day trip to Coral Reef, go down some waterslides, beat the heat, as they say." John stops to look at Sherlock [what does he see? Does he know? He couldn't], "Say mate, you must be sweating buckets with that top on anyway."
"A tempting offer, Watson, but I fear I must decline."
"Oh, and do what? Mope about in your room for the third week in a row?"
[week? weak. pathet—]
"Look mate", John continued, "if you don't want to come to the waterpark that's … fine.. You know, that's up to you. But at the very least, come give Archie a walk with me? Yknow, just get out of the flat a little and get your body moving?"
This was a tough offer to decline; at the very least, he would be able to avoid the sensory nightmare of the chlorine smell and noise, and the awkward explanations as to why he wouldn't want to expose any of his skin. On the other hand, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to continue wasting away in his room with the curtains drawn.
"Come on! It's one or the other, mate, I'm not taking no for an answer! At least come talk a walk!"
John grabs Sherlock by the wrist, gently, drawing him out of his room. Sherlock can't help but flinch at the touch. His stomach drops again when he sees the concerned look on John's face after this.
"Sorry mate, no touch day it is."
They head to the park, Sherlock with his ear defenders and sunglasses on. Cool as a cucumber [on the surface. He was feeling progressively worse. you deserve it, weak weak overwhelmed weak- just cool it and act normal for John. Jesus, Sherlock, get it together. Get John off the scent—]
"Good thing we opted to leave Archie, huh mate, poor fella wouldn't make it in this heat," John chatted, mostly to himself, "In fact! I can hardly believe you've got a long-sleeved top on! I'd take my skin off if I could! It's hot as hell today!"
"I find the fabric comforting."
"We can always pop to the shops and get you some cotton tees? Maybe that's a good idea! Bit of a shopping trip, like a Pretty Woman type moment! And I bet they'd have air conditioning!"
Sherlock frowns, a wave of nausea hitting him, and doing his best to humour his friend, "Pretty Woman? I am a cisgender male, Watson."
"Pretty Woman! with Julia Roberts? 'Big mistake'," John chuckled, delivering the last line in a terrible American accent.
Sherlock can only half chortle in response, the nausea growing louder all of a sudden.
"Mate, are you okay? You've gone really pale - my accent wasn't that bad, surely?"
They stop, and John's eyes are full of concern, looking at him - [fuck fuck fuck]
"Sherlock, have you had any water today? Here, I have a bottle - you gotta stay hydrated," passing the water bottle to Sherlock. Sherlock's hands are shaky as he takes the bottle from Watson.
"Accentwasterrible" he mumbles in response, and then… out of his control, his vision grows black.
"Sherlock? Sherlock?!"
He perceives the next few moments in flashes:
there's the sensation of falling
a smack as his head hits the pathway
John calling his name
John checking his pulse
John pulling up his sleeves…. [no no no fuck] Him trying to pull his arms away
"Sherls? Sherlock, what's this?"
He wakes up on the couch in 221b.
John is on the settee across from him, furrowed brow, looking out of the open window.
Sherlock feels a breeze on him; there's a cool compress on the back of his neck. The breeze is on his arms. He groggily looks down at himself - he can smell new cotton, he's wearing an oversized t-shirt, clearly freshly procured from a nearby store. His arms have been bandaged, realisation begins to dawn on him, and his stomach sinks.
"Hey, you're awake." John hands him a beverage.
"It's an electrolyte supplement. You're severely dehydrated, and the heat wave certainly didn't help."
John reads him better than Sherlock gave him credit for, and seeing the look of horror on his face, adds, "The shirt is from the same retailer as your long sleeve. We didn't get to have our Pretty Woman moment, but I thought it would be good for you to have something more appropriate for the heat, so I asked Mariana and she—"
A sudden, strange, white hot hate rage [rage? or guilt and embarrassment masquerading as anger?] grips him.
"You have no right to change my clothes, Watson!"
"Sherlock-"
"No right, whatsoever!"
"You fainted in a park, you're clearly suffering from heatstroke and dehydration!"
"That doesn't change anything! I can't believe you would… You would," Sherlock stops to catch his shallow breath, face flushed with emotion and heat, or a combination of the two. His body suddenly feels ice cold, and he draws his arms to his body.
"Mate, look if it's about.. About the erm," John falters, "we don't have to talk about it now."
The look on John's face is just too much for him. This is it, his friend's perception forever changed. He wants to snap back, tell him that he's bloody right they won't talk about it, it's none of John's business. [It's not his fault that Sherlock is such a weak piece of shit], but his voice catches in his throat. There's a lump. And then he becomes aware of hot, angry, shameful tears running down his cheeks.
"Hey, hey, Sherlock, it's okay," John comes closer to hug him, before stopping himself, "would you like a hug?"
Sherlock wants to say no, tell him to fuck off, but the gesture from his friend [who almost certainly hates him now, now that he sees him for what he is] breaks something in him. Sherlock can't stop the big, heaving sobs that wrack his body. He collapses forward, off the couch, onto the floor, and into John's arms.
"Sherlock, it's okay, it's okay."
"No — no its not J-J-John, you're going to - to"
"Shh, shh, Sherlock, it's fine, just focus on your breathing for now, okay mate? Come on, breathe with me now. Deep breath in, and hold, and out."
They breathe together on the floor, John guiding him through it until his chest once again feels like it's under some sort of mental control.
John pulls away from the hug [see.. told you. The voices start, but they too are exhausted], and hands him the electrolyte drink from earlier [He sees John's face. The voices go silent].
"Come on now, you hardly have the hydration to spare, you don't have to stop crying, but you do need to replenish first," John gives a kind chuckle. Sherlock - for this first time in a while - laughs along with his best friend. He takes a sip of the drink.
"These things taste like Satan's tears, but they work a treat to get you back into shape, or for a hangover!"
They sit together for a beat, and then Sherlock pipes up,
"I'm sorry, John."
"For what, mate?"
Sherlock gestures vaguely at himself, at his arms in their neat bandages. He looks away and blinks back the tears.
"This… all of this.. for being so… weak. Now you see me for what I am. A stupid coward."
"Hey!" John interrupted sternly, "That's no way to talk about my best friend."
"Seriously, Watson, you don't have to pretend just to appease me just because I'm in a fragile state. I would have preferred it if you didn't find out like this… or at all, honestly. But I understand that your perception of me has been radically altered."
"Hey mate, Sherlock, Sherls. Listen to me, you are one of - no, not 'one of' - you are the most incredible human being I have ever met. Nothing, and I mean it, nothing you can ever say or ever do, that would shake that opinion."
Sherlock can feel the lump back in his throat [the voice that usually cries liar is quiet. Perhaps something about the earnestness in John's eyes when he says this.]
"I mean it, Sherlock."
"There's so much, John," Sherlock says tearfully, "so much that you have no idea about and I-I-. I worry that it's too much for you."
"Sherlock - I mean it. There is nothing you can ever do or say that'll be too much, okay? Nothing. Not ever," John picks himself up, guiding him and Sherlock to the couch.
"And I want to know what you've got going on. The .. the.. cutting," Sherlock detects a slight wince in his face as John says this," or the oxy, or whatever else. And if I can help you cope in more, uh, constructive ways, then I want to do that. And if I can't, well, I don't want you to keep it as a secret from me, I don't want to run the risk of losing you to an overdose, or heatstroke, or infection, or whatever, okay?"
"You know about the oxy?"
"Just because you do it out a window, doesn't mean I can't still smell it. It's a potent smell, mate."
"Ah, yes, I suppose that was an oversight on my behalf."
"Found the thought of you smoking out the window like a schoolboy was kinda funny, though."
"So you left me to it?"
"Yep. Although I do sometimes worry that you'll fall out… hm. We should talk about that," John gives a shy glance to Sherlock's bandages, "we should talk about a couple of things."
"Indeed."
"First, I think, we should get something in our stomach. Penne pasta?"