Too Close to Holmes 12/?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12 -Two Talks
John walked slowly down the stairs towards the front door, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Guilt and fear was gnawing at his gut, but, despite this, he knew that he had to talk to somebody who knew what was going on and understood how Sherlock worked.
"Good evening, Mycroft." He said in greeting, holding the door open for the other man to step through. "Come on up. How are you?"
"Quite well, thank you, John." Mycroft said politely, following John up the stairs into 221b and sitting down on the sofa. "And yourself?"
John hesitated, staring into the elder Holmes' face. "Not so good, actually."
"I see." Mycroft said simply. "Why don't you have a seat and explain?"
John dropped heavily into his armchair and thought for a moment, before deciding to simply let it all out.
"It's Sherlock." He blurted, burying his face in his hands. "I don't know what to do."
"I take it his behaviour has worsened?" Mycroft probed.
"That's an understatement." John responded. "He disappears every morning and comes back in the middle of the night high as a kite. He won't talk at all, he barely eats. I just don't know how to cope with him anymore."
"I see." Mycroft said thoughtfully. "Has he given you a chance to talk to him?"
"God, no." John replied with a humourless laugh. "The last time he really spoke to me was more than a week ago. He just shouted; basically told me I had no right to interfere when I hadn't even been able to stop Trevor raping him. He told me not to talk to him unless I suddenly became useful."
Mycroft stared, taking this in, apparently shocked by his brother's behaviour. "I understand that anger is a natural reaction to such an event," he said slowly, "but I never even imagined that he would blame you of all people. He always trusted you completely."
"I know." John said roughly. "I'm just starting to wonder whether maybe my being here isn't such a good idea any more."
"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked, clearly concerned. "Are you thinking of leaving?"
"I don't know!" John snapped. "It's just... He seems to be avoiding me, running off and getting high so that he doesn't even have to see me. It's like my being here is making it worse and..." John hesitated again, swallowing around a lump in his throat. "And he's breaking my heart."
Mycroft stared. "John." He said calmly, looking the doctor in the eye. "I'm not going to tell you whether you should stay or not, and I certainly wouldn't place any blame or hard feelings on you if you were to leave my brother. But you need to talk to Sherlock. If he won't talk to you face to face, wait until he has gone to bed, and then write him a letter, so that he will be sober when he reads it. Either way, you need to let him know what he is doing to you. I have never known Sherlock to really care about anybody, other than our mother, but I really believe that he loves you. You need to make him realise how much he is hurting you."
John swallowed and nodded slowly. "I'll try."
*
John sat down on the sofa, staring blankly at the skull on the mantlepiece opposite. It was nearly half past one in the morning, and Sherlock still hadn't come back.
A lump was once again building in John's throat as he thought over his current situation and Sherlock's actions since the rape. He knew that Sherlock needed help and support, but he couldn't help thinking that he just wasn't able to take any more.
A tear streaked down John's face, and once this one had escaped, he was suddenly unable to stop more breaking free. Giving in to the inevitable, John buried his face in his hands, and started to sob.
John was still sobbing half an hour later, when the door to the flat opened and Sherlock stepped through.
The detective froze on the threshold, his mouth falling open and his wide, bloodshot eyes clearly showing his blown pupils as he stared, shocked, at John.
"John..." he whispered, anguished, as he watched the other man wiping furiously at his face in a futile attempt to hide the evidence of his tears. "Oh God, John."
"Don't." John said, pulling himself to his feet.
Sherlock stepped forwards, reaching for the doctor. "John, I'm sorry." He said. "I didn't..."
"I said don't." John snapped, stepping out of Sherlock's reach. "We'll talk tomorrow."
"John." Sherlock said again, once again reaching forward.
"Sherlock!" John shouted. "I seriously considered leaving you today, so I suggest you do as I say. If you still want to talk tomorrow, when you haven't got God knows how much cocaine flooding through you, then we'll talk. I will not have this conversation when you're high as a bloody commercial jet!"
Sherlock nodded, stepping aside to let John past, his pale, sad eyes following the other man all the way up the stairs.
*
When John came down the next morning, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock sitting at a clean kitchen table, two cups of steaming tea in front of him.
"This isn't something you can just fix by just cleaning up a bit and making tea." John said, sitting down and taking the cup Sherlock pushed towards him.
"I know." Sherlock said, taking a small sip from his own cup.
"You've been killing me." John said bluntly. "Every single day you've blamed me and refused to speak to me and gone out to get out of your mind on drugs you've been chipping away at me."
"I know." Sherlock said again. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realise. I didn't even think about how it was affecting you."
"You're right, you didn't think." John told him. "Sherlock, this has to stop."
"I know." Sherlock replied. "I just don't know..." he hesitated, gulping down great heaving lungfuls of air. "All I can think about is what he did to me. I keep reliving it over and over again in my head, and I don't know how to make it go away. It’s like it’s happening again and again, all day, every day. The cocaine’s the only thing I’ve ever known that works. It makes everything else so much clearer, so much more real. It makes the world so much more real, and I’m not drowning in my own head anymore.” He stopped, tears starting to stream down his cheeks.
“Sherlock, you need to talk to somebody about this.” John said simply. “If you talk to somebody, you’ll be pulling it all out of your head and sharing it with someone else. It won’t all be bottled up in your head.”
“I can’t talk to some therapist.” Sherlock protested, swiping angrily at the tears on his face.
“Then talk to me.” John told him. “Or Mycroft, or Mrs Hudson. Anyone. Don’t just shut us all out. You need to tell us how you’re feeling, so that we can help.”
Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes again as more tears fell.
“I'll get clean again, John, I promise.” He said determinedly. “Just please don't leave. Please. I can't do this on my own this time."
John leapt from his seat and crouched down next to Sherlock, pulling his friend into his arms and his body shook with desperate sobs.
"Sherlock, you will never be alone." He promised, kissing his hair. "I'm not going anywhere. There are so many people who would do anything to help you through this - me, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, hell, even Donovan. We all love you so much, and we just want to see you better, and happy, and healthy."
"I don't think Donovan could ever claim to love me." Sherlock mumbled with a muffled, teary laugh.
"Oh, she wouldn't admit it." John admitted with a smile. "But she does. Even Anderson does. They may call you a freak, but you're their freak, and nobody's allowed to hurt their freak."
"Really?" Sherlock asked, peering at John with rare vulnerability and total lack of self-confidence in his face.
"Really." John said. "I’ve never seen Anderson so furious; not even that first night at Lauriston Gardens when you outed him as an adulterer to everyone within hearing distance. Hell, Sally had to be pulled out of the interview when he was brought in. She was going to murder the bastard."
"It won't be easy." Sherlock said, suddenly serious. "Me getting clean. Last time, I just made Lestrade lock me in a police cell. I was very violent. Completely destroyed everything in there. I even threw my dinner at Donovan on one particularly bad occasion. You may be better off just letting me do the same again."
"Not going to happen, you daft twit." John said, hugging Sherlock tightly again. "You'll be here, as comfortable as possible. And we'll all help."
Sherlock looked at John and, after a moment, gave a tiny nod. "Okay." He said with a deep breath. "Just not Mrs Hudson. She's got a hip."
John laughed and gently kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "No Mrs Hudson." He agreed with a smile. "Or her hip."
***
A/N: wow that was a difficult chapter to write. I really struggle to write someone talking even a little bit about what happened to them. It's something I was never able to put into words, so writing someone else doing it is just as hard. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Next chapter ASAP.
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