Sherlock100 47/100 #51 Water
Title: Wrong 2/2
Characters: Sherlock & John
Word Count (if fiction): ~1400
Rating: PG15
Summary: Sherlock comes home to find John packing
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Angst
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
This is for red_chapel who won my auction in red_chapel
Part 1
It was the fourth time he fainted that he realised something was badly wrong. He looked up at the pink and blue ceiling (Wrong.) and gripped the sides of his head. Everything in his head seemed to ache, especially his nose. Should have taken it in solution. This is ridiculous. He wheezed and drummed his toes inside his shoes. The venue he had chosen was now unfamiliar. His heart was racing and it felt as if he wasn’t going to get enough air. Side effect, he told himself. Self is fine. Was he hallucinating? Was this detox? Had someone brought him to a detox clinic? No. He would have noticed that. Right? Sherlock’s fingers began manipulating his phone. He stared at them in detachment, wondering what they thought they were doing.
Help. Please.
SH.
That bad?
Mycroft Holmes.
Obviously.
SH.
Someone will find you. Then I will pay you a visit.
Mycroft Holmes.
Okay.
SH.
Thank you.
SH.
…
Mycroft’s employee tracked Sherlock to the basement of a crack house. His eyes were red-rimmed; he was rank and thin and uncooperative. He swatted angrily at the man he’d seen on several occasions, the man his brother had sent under Sherlock’s request. But Sherlock had used again since that time and had become agitated. The dark-suited man called for assistance and two other men joined and helped him drag Sherlock up the stairs and out to a waiting car.
…
Five days passed for Sherlock in a rehabilitation centre. The most hated structure in the world. Once he had been “detoxed sufficiently,” Mycroft came for a visit. He walked into Sherlock’s room (that Sherlock had refused to leave for any other of the centre’s so-called amenities) and paused in the doorway. A frown tugged at Mycroft’s lips, but otherwise he was perfectly tailored, coiffed, and manicured. He eventually sat in the cushioned chair which was placed at the side of the bed. Sherlock was fully dressed and packed, waiting for Mycroft to sign him out of the treatment centre.
Mycroft broke the silence. “Well, little brother, what was it about this time?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.
“Tut, tut, Sherlock, you have to talk to me. No matter what your doctors say about your impressive recovery, I haven’t been fooled and I won’t sign you out. Talk to me, please.”
Arrogant, fat sod… “I had a lapse in judgment. I’m fine.” He was terrified, actually terrified, that his trembling fingers would give him away.
If Mycroft noticed, and of course he did, he didn’t draw any attention to the trembling. “You had a month’s-long lapse in judgment, in fact. What set it off?”
Sherlock knew that Mycroft wasn’t an idiot (well, not about some things). He couldn’t think of any reason other than perverse entertainment for his brother to make him say what had gone wrong. That John had left, hadn’t answered his phone, hadn’t responded to texts, hadn’t even opened a single email. The wound was still raw and terrible and Sherlock didn’t know if he had the energy required to talk to Mycroft about it.
Thankfully, Mycroft stepped in. “You’ve gone through friends before, Sherlock. It’s not like you to take it so hard.” There was a pause wherein Sherlock was dangerously close to breaking down. Then Mycroft extracted a different response. “It isn’t possible that ordinary old John Watson was that important.”
A pitcher of water hit the wall and shattered. Mycroft left with a thin grimace on his lips.
…
Another week went by and Sherlock managed to sign himself out with good behaviour. He went immediately back to his flat at Baker Street, getting a big welcome from Mrs. Hudson, hugs included. Trudging up the stairs gave him an unexpected shudder. Entering the flat nearly broke him.
After wandering the rooms aimlessly for a few hours, stopping to sit in windowsills and to lie down in the bathtub, Sherlock finally went to his sofa to stare at the ceiling. A stack of case files sat untouched on the coffee table, gifts from Lestrade. Sherlock’s own correspondence with new clients lay on the kitchen table. Daughters missing, priceless heirlooms stolen. He didn’t have the energy.
He didn’t know how long he laid there, but that wasn’t interesting at all. What he would always wonder about was what made John wander up the staircase and into the flat a few days (a couple of days?) later.
They stared, he and John. Sherlock saw him, saw the evidence of what John had been up to since leaving 221 B Baker Street. Put on weight, obviously been eating takeout regularly. Much more regularly than he did when he was here. Doesn’t like the idea of cooking just for one person. Clean, neat fingernails. Working a lot, probably at a new job. Has to keep his hands in good shape. Lab coat, name stitched above the pocket; high profile job. Deeper lines under his eyes, a lot of late nights. Working somewhere outside of his specialty, has to keep up on recent articles. Walks to work now. Shoes are new, but caked in mud and scuffed. New flat is probably on Harley Street, from which he can walk to the oncology clinic. Paraffin stain at the bottom of his coat, meaning he’s been doing morphology stains and being careless about it. Why careless?
“Hi,” John said.
“Your pillowcases and your photograph album are sitting on the kitchen table,” Sherlock said, staring a hole into the wall. But I’m keeping the jumper you left behind. You will never, ever drag it away from me.
John gestured to the chair. “Can I sit?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I suppose.”
John set his medical kit on the floor beside the chair as he sat down. He swallowed so loudly Sherlock heard it. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls.” Texts or emails. “I should have. I was…” A git, an arse, an idiot… “Afraid.”
Sherlock scoffed and finally looked at John. “Afraid of what?”
John scratched his upper arm and looked down at his feet in contemplation. When he looked up, his expression was a mix of repentance and shame. “I was afraid that as soon as I heard your voice, I would beg you to forgive me and let me come back. And I knew that it wouldn’t be genuine and that I would probably hurt you all over again.”
Sherlock’s face was thoroughly unreadable. “Then why are you here?”
John’s expression softened. “Because I realised that my life is not that great and that I really need a friend.” He laughed. “Joking…no, what I realised is that I like being around you. Being apart was so hard because I kept thinking things like ‘Where did this shoe come from? Sherlock would know.’ Or, ‘Wow, Sherlock would really think that was funny.’ Even though you’d probably think it was stupid. And, I would really like to come back, as your friend, and to help pay the rent. Like old times.”
“What about your physical attraction to me, John? Doesn’t that leave us in the same strait as before?” Sherlock countered.
“Well, I met someone at my new job, actually,” John said, before launching into a huge spiel about his new career in oncology. Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was too focused on his hatred for whatever man or woman John had met at the surgery.
“…so,” John said finally, gaining back Sherlock’s attention, “will it be all right if I move back in?”
Sherlock looked at his empty flat and touched his still-sensitive nose. He thought of the nights he’d spent in miserable conditions out in the elements, and the even worse nights he’d spent alone in the flat, not even willing to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water.
He faced John fully, sitting up on the sofa. “You may move back in, John.” He thought John’s smile was going to rip his face apart. “But I am not helping you bring all of your things back upstairs.”
John deflated a little. “Come on, Sherlock, I have about thirty boxes and they’re all heavy!”
Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine,” he snapped.
John smiled proudly and started down the stairs to get things from the hired lorry, Sherlock skipping across the room after him.
Characters: Sherlock & John
Word Count (if fiction): ~1400
Rating: PG15
Summary: Sherlock comes home to find John packing
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Angst
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or John
My table: http://marill-chan.livejournal.com/4488.html
This is for red_chapel who won my auction in red_chapel
Part 1
It was the fourth time he fainted that he realised something was badly wrong. He looked up at the pink and blue ceiling (Wrong.) and gripped the sides of his head. Everything in his head seemed to ache, especially his nose. Should have taken it in solution. This is ridiculous. He wheezed and drummed his toes inside his shoes. The venue he had chosen was now unfamiliar. His heart was racing and it felt as if he wasn’t going to get enough air. Side effect, he told himself. Self is fine. Was he hallucinating? Was this detox? Had someone brought him to a detox clinic? No. He would have noticed that. Right? Sherlock’s fingers began manipulating his phone. He stared at them in detachment, wondering what they thought they were doing.
Help. Please.
SH.
That bad?
Mycroft Holmes.
Obviously.
SH.
Someone will find you. Then I will pay you a visit.
Mycroft Holmes.
Okay.
SH.
Thank you.
SH.
…
Mycroft’s employee tracked Sherlock to the basement of a crack house. His eyes were red-rimmed; he was rank and thin and uncooperative. He swatted angrily at the man he’d seen on several occasions, the man his brother had sent under Sherlock’s request. But Sherlock had used again since that time and had become agitated. The dark-suited man called for assistance and two other men joined and helped him drag Sherlock up the stairs and out to a waiting car.
…
Five days passed for Sherlock in a rehabilitation centre. The most hated structure in the world. Once he had been “detoxed sufficiently,” Mycroft came for a visit. He walked into Sherlock’s room (that Sherlock had refused to leave for any other of the centre’s so-called amenities) and paused in the doorway. A frown tugged at Mycroft’s lips, but otherwise he was perfectly tailored, coiffed, and manicured. He eventually sat in the cushioned chair which was placed at the side of the bed. Sherlock was fully dressed and packed, waiting for Mycroft to sign him out of the treatment centre.
Mycroft broke the silence. “Well, little brother, what was it about this time?”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.
“Tut, tut, Sherlock, you have to talk to me. No matter what your doctors say about your impressive recovery, I haven’t been fooled and I won’t sign you out. Talk to me, please.”
Arrogant, fat sod… “I had a lapse in judgment. I’m fine.” He was terrified, actually terrified, that his trembling fingers would give him away.
If Mycroft noticed, and of course he did, he didn’t draw any attention to the trembling. “You had a month’s-long lapse in judgment, in fact. What set it off?”
Sherlock knew that Mycroft wasn’t an idiot (well, not about some things). He couldn’t think of any reason other than perverse entertainment for his brother to make him say what had gone wrong. That John had left, hadn’t answered his phone, hadn’t responded to texts, hadn’t even opened a single email. The wound was still raw and terrible and Sherlock didn’t know if he had the energy required to talk to Mycroft about it.
Thankfully, Mycroft stepped in. “You’ve gone through friends before, Sherlock. It’s not like you to take it so hard.” There was a pause wherein Sherlock was dangerously close to breaking down. Then Mycroft extracted a different response. “It isn’t possible that ordinary old John Watson was that important.”
A pitcher of water hit the wall and shattered. Mycroft left with a thin grimace on his lips.
…
Another week went by and Sherlock managed to sign himself out with good behaviour. He went immediately back to his flat at Baker Street, getting a big welcome from Mrs. Hudson, hugs included. Trudging up the stairs gave him an unexpected shudder. Entering the flat nearly broke him.
After wandering the rooms aimlessly for a few hours, stopping to sit in windowsills and to lie down in the bathtub, Sherlock finally went to his sofa to stare at the ceiling. A stack of case files sat untouched on the coffee table, gifts from Lestrade. Sherlock’s own correspondence with new clients lay on the kitchen table. Daughters missing, priceless heirlooms stolen. He didn’t have the energy.
He didn’t know how long he laid there, but that wasn’t interesting at all. What he would always wonder about was what made John wander up the staircase and into the flat a few days (a couple of days?) later.
They stared, he and John. Sherlock saw him, saw the evidence of what John had been up to since leaving 221 B Baker Street. Put on weight, obviously been eating takeout regularly. Much more regularly than he did when he was here. Doesn’t like the idea of cooking just for one person. Clean, neat fingernails. Working a lot, probably at a new job. Has to keep his hands in good shape. Lab coat, name stitched above the pocket; high profile job. Deeper lines under his eyes, a lot of late nights. Working somewhere outside of his specialty, has to keep up on recent articles. Walks to work now. Shoes are new, but caked in mud and scuffed. New flat is probably on Harley Street, from which he can walk to the oncology clinic. Paraffin stain at the bottom of his coat, meaning he’s been doing morphology stains and being careless about it. Why careless?
“Hi,” John said.
“Your pillowcases and your photograph album are sitting on the kitchen table,” Sherlock said, staring a hole into the wall. But I’m keeping the jumper you left behind. You will never, ever drag it away from me.
John gestured to the chair. “Can I sit?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I suppose.”
John set his medical kit on the floor beside the chair as he sat down. He swallowed so loudly Sherlock heard it. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls.” Texts or emails. “I should have. I was…” A git, an arse, an idiot… “Afraid.”
Sherlock scoffed and finally looked at John. “Afraid of what?”
John scratched his upper arm and looked down at his feet in contemplation. When he looked up, his expression was a mix of repentance and shame. “I was afraid that as soon as I heard your voice, I would beg you to forgive me and let me come back. And I knew that it wouldn’t be genuine and that I would probably hurt you all over again.”
Sherlock’s face was thoroughly unreadable. “Then why are you here?”
John’s expression softened. “Because I realised that my life is not that great and that I really need a friend.” He laughed. “Joking…no, what I realised is that I like being around you. Being apart was so hard because I kept thinking things like ‘Where did this shoe come from? Sherlock would know.’ Or, ‘Wow, Sherlock would really think that was funny.’ Even though you’d probably think it was stupid. And, I would really like to come back, as your friend, and to help pay the rent. Like old times.”
“What about your physical attraction to me, John? Doesn’t that leave us in the same strait as before?” Sherlock countered.
“Well, I met someone at my new job, actually,” John said, before launching into a huge spiel about his new career in oncology. Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was too focused on his hatred for whatever man or woman John had met at the surgery.
“…so,” John said finally, gaining back Sherlock’s attention, “will it be all right if I move back in?”
Sherlock looked at his empty flat and touched his still-sensitive nose. He thought of the nights he’d spent in miserable conditions out in the elements, and the even worse nights he’d spent alone in the flat, not even willing to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water.
He faced John fully, sitting up on the sofa. “You may move back in, John.” He thought John’s smile was going to rip his face apart. “But I am not helping you bring all of your things back upstairs.”
John deflated a little. “Come on, Sherlock, I have about thirty boxes and they’re all heavy!”
Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine,” he snapped.
John smiled proudly and started down the stairs to get things from the hired lorry, Sherlock skipping across the room after him.