Chapter Text
John was half awake when he heard Sherlock leave the flat. He was awake enough to take note, but not awake enough to wonder or worry about where Sherlock was going long after midnight. Looking back, John could’ve predicted this.
They just finished a case that morning, and by the time evening arrived, Sherlock was already anxious to find another, pacing around the flat with nervous energy. Having lived together for nearly two years, it didn’t bother John; it was like a familiar percussion in the background of his daily life. That night, he’d heard the violin playing a nervous, halting melody for hours until he went to bed himself, not sparing a second thought for whether Sherlock would be alright. He always was.
But the next morning, he was nowhere to be found. Strange, but not alarming. He met with Mariana to work through some emails and potential cases and helped her with the fan mail. By that afternoon, Sherlock had not returned, and when John attempted to call, it immediately went to voicemail.
“He’s probably found a case of his own,” Mariana had pointed out, “Try not to worry, he can handle himself.”
He could. Usually. John reckoned Sherlock would be back to eat soon enough. When dinner time came and went, John began checking his phone and the door like an anxious mother whose teenager had missed curfew.
He went to bed just before 1 am, with no sign of his flatmate. It was a restless first few hours before John found himself exhausted enough to fall into sleep, backed against the corner of his wall, with his phone in one hand in case Sherlock decided to reach out.
~~~
He woke in the same position, with a shadow cast over his bed as he blinked sleep from his vision. Sherlock’s form could be seen against the shadowed room, mere minutes before the sunrise.
“Sherl-Sherlock, hey,” He said, scrambling up to a seated position, “Where’ve you been, mate? You alright? What happened?”
“That’s…a lot of questions,” Sherlock said, his voice low and almost stretched out, as if someone had taken an audio bite and slowed it down just a few ticks.
“Where were you?” John asked, fearing he knew the answer.
“Out,” Sherlock answered noncommittally.
“Okay…where is out?” John asked, trying desperately to fit a situation into his head that didn’t involve anything illegal.
“Oh, you know…this way and that,” Sherlock answered, slowly turning to leave the room.
“What did you take, Sherlock?” John asked, pushing himself to his feet. And following Sherlock closely, hoping to catch a glimpse of his pupils. It was dark, so the pupils should be dilated, increasing their diameter to let in more light to the retina.
He expected Sherlock to move toward the door, to leave the flat as he said, bu he stayed in place, arms frozen at his sides. John reached a hand toward him, although he was too far to make contact, it still felt like the right thing.
“Watson,” Sherlock said, stopping over the threshold but keeping both his head and body fixed away from John, “I may need your medical advice…or assistance.”
“Shit, okay,” John said, half expecting Sherlock to crumple to the floor at any moment, but the detective remained upright, even as John fumbled to his side, arms ready in case Sherlock was weaker than he realized.
“You are aware that I frequently…partake in-”
“Yes, I know,” John said, a huff of frustration rustling the thin layer of hair on his chin, “I wish you didn’t.”
“Well, unless you allow me to use your license to procure–”
“No!” John said, “Absolutely not, are you out of your fucking mind? I’ve told you no for months, Sherlock, literal months that you are never, under any circumstances, to use my license. I don’t care, okay? No. That’s final.”
Sherlock mumbled something scornfully.
“What was that?” John demanded. Sherlock turned slowly, his constricted pupils confirming what John already knew.
“Bloody dealer was arrested last night.” Sherlock answered, “The bastard wasn’t careful and sold to an undercover officer. One I could’ve spotted miles away, mind you.”
“You lost your hook-up?” John asked, “Wait, I mean-”
“Yes, and I’ve taken the last of it over the past ten hours, and I quite need to lie down,” Sherlock answered, his voice breaking a bit in desperation at the last moment.
John paused for a moment and stepped back, letting his eyes adjust to the light as he gazed at his friend, who looked as if he’d had a horrible night. And was about to have several more.
“Sherlock, if I…help you,” John said, “Will you stay away from the drugs, for a while, at least?”
“John, I’m not…I’m not the man you think that I am.” He said, “You try to push aside these flaws, these dependencies, these…vices, like they’re little problems to be solved, but they’ve existed for over half of my life. It’s not as simple as giving them up and moving on. I’ve never existed without their support…not truly, and not well.”
John watched as Sherlock looked down, his face most certainly burning with shame. John stepped forward very slowly and pulled him into a hug. He didn’t want to release him, but after a few seconds he knew he must.
“Go and lie down,” John said softly, after a moment of studying the other’s face, “We’ll talk later.”
He expected Sherlock to go off to his own room, and was surprised to find him on the sofa moments later, eyes closed, and feet curled up against his abdomen.
“What are you doing?” John asked.
“Didn’t wish to be alone,” Sherlock answered, most of his face pressed into the cushion. John stood for a moment, watching as Sherlock fell into sleep. He should feel more anger, but all he felt in that moment was rising anxiety.
~~~
It was mid-afternoon when Sherlock awoke, shaking his hands restlessly as he pulled himself up. Withdrawal had begun, John realized as a ball of dread built in his stomach. He watched from the kitchen doorway as Sherlock stumbled to the bathroom, shutting the door forcefully.
He was in there for a while, but not as John first assumed, for a shower. He would have heard the creak of pipes by now, and as he stepped into the hallway, he recognized that no sounds of running water echoed against the walls.
For a moment, he wondered if he should check and make sure Sherlock hadn’t passed out on the floor, but to his relief, he heard a flush. He stepped back into the kitchen before Sherlock emerged, looking a bit clammy with his arms around his body.
“Alright, mate?” John asked.
“John, if I go insane, please just go ahead and shoot me,” Sherlock answered, dragging himself back to the sofa, sniffing. Had he been crying? His face was flushed, but it could have just as easily been from having his face pressed into the couch cushion.
Even the joking reference to suicide (And John had to assume it was a joke for his own sanity if nothing else) had John’s heart rate up. Depressive symptoms would be setting in, of course, alongside anxiety and severe agitation, but were those factors going to push Sherlock into a state from which he could not return?
He watched Sherlock wipe his face with a sleeve, looking away and clenching his jaw. After a few moments, he pulled the throw blanket over his body and turned his body away from John. John took in five inhales to regulate his own nervous response before proceeding to obtain the information he needed.
“Have you eaten?” He asked, referring to the past two days when Sherlock had been missing from the flat. Surely he must have at some point, but was it something substantial? Healthy? Remotely balanced? Likely not.
“You’ve been here all morning. What do you think?” Sherlock muttered, “And stop listening to me in the bloody toilet.”
“I mean, when was the last time you ate something?” John clarified, ignoring the last comment.
“Not sure. Yesterday sometime, maybe some crisps?” Sherlock answered.
“Is pasta okay?” John asked, going into the kitchen.
“Please don’t,” Sherlock said, his voice suddenly more panicked than peeved, “I’m going to be sick, and if I’m sick immediately after eating the one goddamn food I feel safe eating, I’m not going to feel safe eating it, now am I?”
John hadn’t really considered it from that angle, but he supposed the logic was solid enough. Still, even if Sherlock was going to be sick, he needed to try at least to get something down after barely eating for two days.
“Alright, Sherlock.” He said, “How does oatmeal sound? If you have it plain, it won’t–” He was about to say it wouldn’t taste like anything coming back up, but the detective already looked a bit pale. John couldn’t quite place what looked off about Sherlock. His eyes had returned to their normal state, and he certainly seemed a little shaky, but something else looked off.
It was his lips. His lips had lost some of their color over the last few minutes. How much had he taken? He wondered if Sherlock himself even knew the answer.
“John, I wish to-” Sherlock said, swallowing hard, “I wish to apologize in advance for the next few days.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” John said quickly, as that seemed the right thing to say. He’d likely wonder later if he meant it.
“No, it’s not. I will be…entirely unpleasant to be around, and I would not be offended if you prefer to spend your time with Mrs…Mariana downstairs.”
He hadn’t tripped over Mariana’s name in months. John tried not to let the anxiety compound as he considered what sort of mental state the detective would be in over these next several days. He already struggled with his own mind in daily life–a factor which certainly played into his drug habits–but John was certain of one thing. He should not be alone.
Even if his safety was not in question, he should not have to suffer through this without support. Sure, it wouldn’t be pretty, but he literally followed this man into the dens of murderers.
“Oh, Sherlock.” John said, lowering himself to the floor to be closer to eye level with his friend, “I’m not going anywhere.”