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As soon as Sherlock stepped out of the lecture hall, he gave John Watson the sort of venomous look usually reserved for the criminals of their cases. “You should be very happy that I chose to compliment you, John.” Sherlock did not look at him, and only marched out onto the quad.
“Wait, Sherlock, what-”
Marianna stepped in front of him. “You seriously heard your speech and are asking him for clarification?”
“No. I mean, I understand why it may-”
“John, I am frankly surprised that Sherlock is not more upset with you. Really, I cannot say this in any nicer way. You fucked up. There is no other way to put it. You saw him, and we both know that if there wasn’t a case involved, he would not have been able to give any kind of speech.”
John frowned, looking at the floor. “You’re right.”
“Oh my god. It is going to take a lot more than that. You,” she pointed a finger at him “need to stop drinking.”
“Okay, wait now-”
“I don’t want to hear it, okay? You consume alcohol all the time. I have been concerned, and frankly, this kind of behavior tells me everything I need to know. Now excuse me, I am going to find your best friend.”
-
Two weeks later, a period where eleven drinks were consumed, John opened the door to the flat, looked up, and immediately thought that someone must have died.
“What’s going on?” He took stock of the room. Carol was on an armchair and Mike had taken a chair from the kitchen table to sit on, an indication that something had to be horribly wrong. Come to think of it, John didn’t think they had ever met each other. However, they both seemed fine. Sherlock and Marianna sat on the far sides of the sofa from each other, and Archie laid sleeping on the floor. Taking stock, they all looked calm and healthy, although deathly serious.
“Are you sober right now?” His mother asked.
“More than tipsy, but mildly inebriated.” Sherlock turned to her, as though John were not there.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” So that was what this was about. “Guys, if this is about what I think it is, and one of you isn’t about to announce you’re dying or something-”
Mike tried to smile meagerly. “Sit down, mate. You know what this is.”
John scoffed, but sat on a second armchair across from the couch.
So, John.” Marianna began, “after the incident at Oxford, me and Sherlock had a talk about how you’ve been acting lately-”
“Marianna, it was one bloody night.”
Sherlock glanced his eyes up and down John’s form, a habit of his when he was intensely focused. “You have reeked lately.”
“Well mate, I don’t do hard drugs.”
“I think the fact that Sherlock is less attached to them than you are with alcohol is saying something.” Marianna, try as she might, was not managing well to keep calm.
“Yeah, well, I’m just saying that we have more issues than a beer every once in a while.”
“Every once in a while?” She stood.
“John dear,” and now Carol was attempting to reason the conversation back into smooth waters, “this is not about Sherlock.”
“Fine, so all of you are okay with literal illegal drugs in this flat.”
“Watson, I think I should tell you-”
John shook his head at Sherlock, “you, shut up.”
That prompted Marianna to actually yell. “What did you just say to him?”
“Okay,” Mike fidgeted in his seat. “I think we’re getting a bit off track here. Let’s all just take a minute-”
“Well you don’t live in a house with bloody heroin in it.”
“Watson?” Sherlock straightened himself, and opened his mouth to say more.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Will everyone here just shut up about me and address the special ed disordered shitter that I have to deal with every day.”
And everything stopped. The room fell silent. There was a moment of stillness, then everyone looked at Sherlock, who looked just as surprised, but surprisingly calm.
Mike broke the trance. “Jesus fucking Christ John.”
Marianna marched to the door, and opened it. “Get out.”
“Okay…” John was gasping. “Oh my god.”
“Get out!”
He left without a word, leaving everyone standing in the living room, trying and failing to process everything that had and would happen.
“Um…” Sherlock realized that he was now the center of attention, something which he only enjoyed when deduction was involved. “Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes, Sherlock, are you alright?” She sat down on the couch next to him.
“Yes, I’m fine. My, that certainly wasn’t productive.”
Mike huffed, glancing at the scene of shaken people around him “What do we do now?”
Without looking at anyone, Sherlock walked to the door and slipped on his long, dark brown wool coat. “I will speak to him, and me and Mrs. Hudson will address what happened tonight when he’s sober.
“What, after he said that?”
“Unless Carol is willing to take him, then he’ll freeze out there.”
“I mean, I will if I have to, but I would not say I’m exactly thrilled about it at the moment.”
Sherlock went out, and they let him go.
-
“Watson?” Sherlock ran down the street, thinking that it was an interesting role reversal after all the times Watson had shouted at him to slow down or go back. “Watson!”
Once he had caught up to him, Watson turned around slowly, eyes glassy. “What do you want?”
“I’m taking you back to 221.”
He gasped. “There is no way you’re not angry at me mate.”
“Watson, I am absolutely furious at you.”
John did not speak.
“I cannot deal with this much longer. Watson, if this continues, I will hate you, really, irreversibly, hate you.”
“I know. I know that, and I’m sorry.”
“Apology not accepted.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“Not yet. I am sleeping in 221 A tonight, if Mrs. Hudson will let me.”
-
“I-” Sherlock took a breath and took off his headphones, Paganini faintly audible through the speakers. “I hate this.” He had just finished a long shutdown, rocking back and forth on the floor in front of Marianna’s couch. She walked by and placed a glass of water on the coffee table for him.
“I think I would be shocked if you didn’t.”
“I thought things were going well for a long time.”
“They were.” Her voice portrayed anger, but it was more subdued now. “I just. I don’t know why he’s been taking it out on you.”
“Mrs. Hudson, at the end of the day, it was only twice.”
“Oh, Sherlock, don’t you start too. The point is that we need to figure something out.”
“I don’t want to lose him this way.” He leaned his head against the wall. If it were anyone else, Marianna would have thought they were holding back tears, but it was hard to tell with Sherlock.
“I don’t either.” She trailed off, then cleared her throat. “You are doing really well, getting off the drugs, I mean, so I’m trying to think that he can do it too.”
“Thank you.”
“Well. Get some sleep then. Like you said, we’ll regroup when we’re all awake in the morning.” She squeezed his shoulder, and went into her bedroom. Although the bed had been offered to him, Sherlock explained that he did not like to sleep in a bed that was regularly used by another person. He laid on the couch a few minutes later, and immediately realized that he had fallen into one of his ‘black moods’ and would not be leaving for a long time, only being able to express emotion through a soulless haze of body language that only those closest to him recognized.
Upstairs, John thought in his head over and over again, “I didn’t mean it,” regularly interrupted by, “what if you actually did?”
Sherlock and Marianna didn’t know if the comment had been genuine.