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Home. Sherlock came home. And not in a coffin either. Even after a week, he forgot sometimes. John did too. They both were scared of losing the other again. Or at least, Sherlock thought John probably was. He had become much harder to read. There was something wrong, but he couldn't figure out what. John wouldn't tell him.
“Watson?” Sherlock asked one evening. Calling him ‘John’ again didn't feel right yet. “Would you like to go to quiz night?”
“I- yeah, sure,” he responded. Sherlock noted the brief hesitation in his voice as a clue to the thing.
They walked down to the Volunteer and grabbed two seats at the bar. Once they signed up for trivia, under the team name ‘Sherlock & Co’ of course, Sherlock got the bartender’s attention.
“Two pints of Guinness, please!” he ordered. John was staring off into space, so Sherlock guessed he should just get what he was 93% sure John would order.
“No, actually. I don't, I don't want one,” John interrupted.
“Are you sure? I can pay, if that's the worry. I owe you two months of rent, after all.” Sherlock offered. He did his best to seem light hearted, but his mental calculations kept coming up with bad numbers. John turning down alcohol, especially free alcohol, was a change.
“No, I'm good. Thanks though,” he responded.
“Alright then. One pint of Guinness, please.”
“And I'll have a Pepsi.”
“Got it,” the bartender said, moving off to grab the drinks.
After a few moments, Sherlock asked, “Pepsi?”
“Sorry, what’d you say?” said John. He had been staring off into space again. Wait, no, not space. The shelf of whiskey.
“I wanted to know why Pepsi,” he restated.
“I, um, I quit drinking. No, no more alcohol for me. Yeah,” John answered, not looking quite at Sherlock.
Clues: No more alcohol. Intentionally quit. Wants it. Probably craving. Same desperation as me. Which means higher than average intake to full addiction in the span of two and a half months. No, less than that. If he were freshly clean he probably wouldn't risk this. Maximum two months. Dangerous. That was most of the thing. Maybe all of it, but inconclusive.
“Ah,” was all Sherlock said.
A minute or so later, their drinks arrived. John didn't touch his. He stared at Sherlock’s drink like a starving animal.
“Mm, I don't think this is a good idea,” Sherlock decided.
“What? Oh, no. It's, it's fine. Don't worry about me. I'm a-ok. Best, best I've ever been,” John replied. He was not a good liar. Sherlock, on the other hand, was.
“Not you. Me. I'm already overstimulated,” he lied, “Too many people. Too…unpredictable.”
“Oh, gosh, alright then. Do you want to head out or just go to the bathroom or…”
“Leave. Leaving would be best.”
“Ok, just give me a sec,” John accepted, fishing enough money out of his wallet and leaving it under his drink. “Let's go.” John led him out the building to the street. “Cab or walk?”
John preferred walking and it would be easy to convince him that he needed the air if necessary, so Sherlock answered, “Walk.”
The fifteen minute walk was quiet, though less tense than the bar. John likely guessed that he wouldn't want to talk. It would be accurate had he not been acting. Instead, they walked side by side, with John occasionally pulling in front to cut through groups.
Even if it was built on false presentation, it felt good to have John looking out for him again. It was just a bit closer to however they were before the fall and without the thing.
They spent the evening watching bad action movies with entirely predictable plots, though John kept insisting that wasn't the point.
***
Later that night, Sherlock couldn't sleep. He had already checked the windows four times and the door seven. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was someone watching. Logically, he knew it was a symptom of the constant awareness he'd been in for weeks which was no longer necessary. And yet, he still couldn't sleep.
Arm myself. Then I can deal with any problems. Sherlock decided. He got up, then went to the living room to check the box where they normally kept their gun.
Empty. Not concerning, he wouldn't be surprised if John had moved the gun. He checked the drawers, then all the cupboards, then behind and below anything in the flat. Nothing. Which left one spot, John's room.
Sherlock opened John’s door slowly, assuming he was asleep. Instead he found him sitting at his desk with his headphones on and editing software open.
“Watson?” Sherlock asked. John didn't hear him. “Watson?” he said again, moving closer to him.
John nearly jumped out of his chair. “Christ, Sherlock,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands over his face. He pulled his headphones off and turned to face him properly. “What do you need?”
“Where's our gun?” Sherlock asked.
“Oh, uh, Mariana probably still, still has it. Why?”
“I cannot sleep, unfortunately. Side effect from going into hiding. The constant vigilance has not allowed me to rest without ensuring my safety, hence why I want the gun,” he explained.
“Yeah, that makes sense. Sorry I can't, can't help you out,” John replied, sighing.
“It's quite alright. I'll need to adjust to the fear anyway,” the detective said, rocking back and forth on his feet. Unsafe. They're going to find me. Can't risk it. Need to leave. Find safety.
“Do you, would a hug help?” John offered. Sherlock nodded. John stood up and wrapped his arms tightly around him. Sherlock stopped fidgeting. He let himself breathe. No, he didn't need to leave. He had dealt with everything. Moriarty’s men were gone. He was in 221B, which was safe, and with his doctor, which was even safer.
After a while, they pulled apart. Sherlock sat down on the edge of John’s bed, not quite ready to leave. John sat down next to him.
“How long has Mariana had our gun for?” Sherlock inquired.
“Four, um, four weeks. Probably won't, uh, give it, give it back for, um, for a while.”
Took the gun then, not just borrowing. And will not return it. She's not on a case, so most likely not for protection. Then to keep it from John. In combination with his alcoholism, having the gun meant he presented a danger. He wasn't arrested so he wasn't a threat to someone else. Which meant-
Oh.
That was the thing.
“I am aware that I am not, er, the best at judging scenarios, so tell me if this is inappropriate to ask,” Sherlock began, choosing his words very carefully and controlling his tone, “While I was ‘dead,’ did you make an attempt on your life?”
“How did you…” John muttered, his eyes darting across Sherlock’s face. After a moment, he exhaled, then said, “Yeah, I, uh, I did.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
John shifted, looking up at the ceiling. “When you, um, when you ‘died,’ everything got, everything got worse. My drinking got worse. At first it was just, just longer and longer nights at, at pubs. I said it was fine because um, I wasn't, y'know, alone. But I didn't, didn't go with friends. So I wasn't really with, uh, with people. I figured out that it was, um, making me feel more, more lonely. More aware that you weren't there. But instead of, uh, of stopping, I started drinking at, at home. Said it was fine, I, I only did it when I was sad. But I, I was, I was always sad.
“I didn't necessarily plan to, to try. I just…the day of I had a lot. Like more than, more than normal. It was the, the anniversary of our um, our first case. And I was so sad. I just didn't stop drinking.
“A few minutes after shot nine, I, uh, I decided to do it. I decided I had had enough of, of everything. Of the world without, without you in it. So I grabbed the gun. I was gonna, gonna blow my brains out, but I couldn't, I couldn't load the stupid thing. I was too drunk.
“Instead I chugged the, the rest of the whiskey I was drinking, then I collapsed, um, collapsed on the floor. I texted, texted Mariana. Just ‘I’m gonna see Sherlock,’” John’s voice cracked when he said the detective’s name. “I rolled onto my, um, my back. So that if I vomited it would, it would go in my lungs. And I started laughing. Fucking laughing. I finally wasn't gonna, gonna be alone anymore.
“Then the, then the laughs turned, turned into vomit. I started choking immediately. There was no, no way I would have lived, but Mariana, she, she saw my text and got worried enough to, to check on me. She found me, called an, an ambulance, and kept me, kept me breathing for long enough. I wouldn't have, she, I…fuck.” John stopped talking, covering his watering eyes.
Neither of them spoke. The silence was only broken by a quiet sob.
“John, I…” Sherlock began, though he did not know how to continue. There was so much to say. I could relate. Had enough attempts myself. And substance abuse. Or tell him about how it would have destroyed me. Though that would be hypocritical. Maybe I should apologize.
John got there first. “‘m sorry,” he muttered.
“You do not need to be.” I should be sorry. I almost destroyed you. From experience, saying the second part out loud would not help, at least not right now. “Would you like a hug?”
John nodded, not looking up from the floor. Sherlock rotated to face John, then wrapped his arms around him, pulling him to his chest.
“It was so scary when I, when I woke up b-because I remembered almost, almost nothing. Just woke up in a hospital with Mariana. She told me her, her s-side. It wasn't enough for the hospital to s-section me, so they sent me home. And then we f-found the mic. I sometimes started recording just to, um, to pretend. Not to make anything. And I did that n-night. So I have a recording of, of it.
“And hearing it is awful because I, I know t-that part of me is still, still somewhere. Quieter since you got, got back, but there. It gets louder every, every time you leave. It always thinks you're dead a-again so I shouldn't bother living,” John lamented, leaning against Sherlock.
The doctor buried his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and held him tightly, choking out, “God, I m-missed you so, so much.”
“I missed you too,” Sherlock responded. His hands trembled as he clutched at John. “There were many times when the only thing keeping me going wasn't preservation of my own life or the desire for justice, but wanting to come back to you.”
“Thank you for, for coming back. For not leaving me alone forever,” John said. The sobs racking his body lessened.
“Of course, my dear John. I couldn't stand the world without you. I was so lost,” he replied vehemently.
John pulled back a little, then cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Y-you better not disappear again, alright?”
“I promise,” he swore. He lifted his right hand from where it was on John’s shoulder and offered his pinkie.
“You're shaking,” said John, eyebrows furrowing as he wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Ah, yes. I'm frankly worried. This seems to be my body’s reaction to that. Sorry,” he explained, inspecting both of his hands.
“It’s ok,” the doctor soothed, taking Sherlock’s hands in his own, “I’m not, I’m not gonna try again. I'm doing a lot better now.”
“I’m glad. However, if there's anything you want or need, I am always here to help,” Sherlock assured, trembling lessening slightly.
“Thank you, Sherls,” John replied, smiling. He pulled Sherlock into another hug. It was calmer this time, less like they were clutching at a life line. Sherlock let out a quiet hum of satisfaction.
After a moment, John spoke up. “Actually, there is something you could do to help me right now.”
“Yes?”
“Sleep in here tonight, with me. If you're ok with it, of course.”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
After a bit of rearranging, the two were lying under John's covers, wrapped in each other's arms. Both finally rested, together.