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A Bit Not Good	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2924 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: We do not own or make any profit on BBC's Sherlock or any of their characters. It's all for fun.

Chapter List
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Once in the flat John tried to busy himself by putting the groceries away. There was only so much he could do for Sherlock, other than be here for him. At least they were back in the flat where he didn't have to worry quite as much about the man's well being, just his sanity.

Chancing a glance in Sherlocks direction John forced himself to keep his voice light. "You alright then?"

The brunette had followed John up the stairs, and placed the groceries on the island. Now he stood with his back to the counter, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yes yes...." He hesitated for a moment and splayed his fingers across his eyes and nose. "It's just very... Hard..." He hated himself for having to admit it, by he knew it needed to be done. He couldn't bear to look at John, see the condescension in his eyes. His drug habit was becoming hard to ignore, and he felt like a time bomb ticking away drawing ever nearer to the explosion he knew was inevitable. John knew it too, he could tell.

Pausing at Sherlocks words, John set down the fruit he was sifting through to move around the counter so he was standing in front of the other. The torment Sherlock was going through was written painfully across his features, the sight of it dug at John's very being.

Sherlock had come to him, he wanted help, the addiction was eating at him, and in turn, eating at John as well. Gingerly John wrapped his own fingers around the pale, bony wrists of the detective, urging his hand down away from his face so he could see the crystalline eyes staring at him.

John fixed him with a solid gaze. There wasn't pity, Sherlock had done this to himself, but there was support and a sort of adoration in the way he studied his reactions. Most of all there was concern. Sherlock had to overcome this, John needed him to overcome this.

After a long pensive moment John spoke softly. "I'm here Sherlock. I'm here with you. You've gone through withdrawal before right? Tell me what you need, we'll get through this." It was no secret that this wasn't Sherlocks first run in with addictions, maybe to this extent, but he'd recovered before, he could do it again. John had to believe he could do it again.

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and slid down the counter to sit on the floor. He propped his elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples as the tremors began to shake him a little harder. He reared up a fist and slammed it back against one of the cabinet doors.

“I don’t know what I need dammit...” he said finally looking up, his eyes red and pupils dilated, “I know what I want.... I... I just...” he was having trouble breathing now, and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. His skin felt clammy and all he knew was that he wanted John.

“Please, can you help me to the bed... I just need to curl up... my stomach...” he had moved one arm to grip tight around his abdomen, bent to try and cure the angry pains pulsing in his body. “Lay with me? Or Sit with me... I don’t care... just don’t leave me.” It came out sounding like more than a beg than Sherlock really wanted it to, but at the moment, he let it pass.

There was no mistaking the symptoms, not for Doctor Watson. Sherlock was suffering from withdrawal, from what all John couldn’t be sure, but the Opium withdrawal seemed to be the main culprit at this point as the man on the floor gripped at his stomach. There was, of course, ways John could ease Sherlock’s pain using low doses of specific opium’s, to ease him down.

There was two things preventing him from doing this. One was the fact that he’d need to get Sherlock to agree to going and staying at the surgery or hospital, and that wasn’t likely to happen. The other problem was that Sherlock was coming down from so many different drugs there was no way for John to combat them all, and he couldn’t be sure that by treating one addiction he’d hamper another.

Stooping to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s shaking form John heaved the crumbling man to his feet. Guiding them toward Sherlock’s bedroom, thankful that it wasn’t upstairs like his own, John murmured, “Of course Sherlock, I’m not going to leave you.”

Within a few minutes he had Sherlock out of his coat, and was tucking him into the bed, wrapping the heavy duvet cover around the shaking pale form. “Just relax, it’ll be alright. I’ll be right back Sherlock,” John spoke clearly with one hand resting on Sherlock’s clothed shoulder, hoping he was listening so he didn’t become upset when John left the room.

Sherlock couldn’t do much more than lean on John as the man halfway carried him into his room. The trembles started to get worse and he felt like he had just taken an ice bath. As he lay down, his stomach cramped again, and he let out a small noise of pain, unable to hold it in due to all the other things happening to him. The duvet was wrapped around him, and the thought that John was tucking him in flitted across his mind amidst all the other thoughts whizzing through his brain. Suddenly, he felt the bed recompress as John got up from the mattress. A pale hand shot out from under the duvet, grabbing hold of the man’s wrist, eyes begging him not to go.

“I’m not leaving I promise.” Giving the thin shoulder a light grip John hurried from the room.

He let go without much of a fuss and curled in tighter on himself, hoping John was telling the truth. His mind was not working at full capacity, and he felt muddled. Withdrawal was always the worst for him because it took away the clarity that he started using to achieve.

Once in the kitchen John quickly finished the groceries, putting the perishables away and leaving the rest for later. Then, filling a large glass with ice water for Sherlock and snatching his novel from the side of his armchair, he stole back down the hall.

“Sherlock?” John called out as he entered the room, knocking on the door way for good measure, not wanting to startle Sherlock in his current state.

The trembling man wasn’t sure how long the doctor had been gone, but it had felt like an eternity. “John?” he called weakly, one trembling hand finding it’s way out of the tangle of duvet to reach out to the man. Sherlock wanted the pain to stop. He wanted his heart to quit beating itself against his ribcage, and he wished his lungs would open up. He felt like he’d been chasing a criminal through London and couldn’t calm down.

“John...” he croaked out again. The doctor could offer him some relief, if only it was to ground him. He felt like he was floating, falling, and any second he might crash back to the world.

Slipping off his own coat and shoes and dropping them in a heap on the floor, he moved to the side of the bed where Sherlock was so desperately reaching out to the doctor. He put the book and drink on the side table before taking a seat on the edge of the bed within reach of the man falling to pieces before his eyes. It was a dreadful sight for John to take in.

“Shh, relax Sherlock,” The words slipped from his mouth, an attempt to soothe and ground Sherlock. Tentatively he pushed the now damp curls from his pale forehead. With a sigh John pulled himself back along the bed so he was using the wall as backrest. Stealing a pillow he stuffed it between himself and the wall before drawing the quivering man to him. One arm rest lightly over Sherlock’s back with the young man curled, half way in John’s lap, his face resting gently on John’s chest.

There was nothing John could do at this point, save for comfort Sherlock through the waves of withdrawal. Not knowing what else to do other than offer comfort, John raked his hand through the damp curls. Muttering to him softly he waited for Sherlock to find a grasp on reality.

The moment Sherlock felt himself pulled into John’s arms, he knew that no matter what he felt like, no matter how bad the pain seemed or how visible the tremors were, he knew that he was not going to fall as long as John Watson had a hold of him. One arm was around John’s waist as his face was pillowed by the gentle rise and fall of the doctor’s chest as he breathed. His arm squeezed tight for a moment, just a firm reassurance that John was there and curled his head downwards. He could get through this. With John he could do anything. Hadn’t they proved that time and time again?

Closing his eyes as the tremors continued to wrack his body and the pain in his stomach and limbs continued, he tried to focus on the feeling of John’s form beneath him, taking great pains to breathe in his scent with shaking lungs.

John had spent the better part of an hour in a futile attempt to calm the tremors with gentle words and feeble gestures, but as with many things in life, the throws of addictions are not so easily overcome. By the end of the first hour Sherlock’s clothes were soaked through with sweat, and John’s book lay forgotten. He wasn’t even sure why he had grabbed the novel in the first place. A part of him thought Sherlock would lie weary and exhausted, that his presence might be enough and he could simply spend the early afternoon reading contentedly. This of course was not the case.

After it became apparent that his attempts were doing nothing to halt the violent actions John focused on trying to make Sherlock comfortable. Help him ride it out. His body would have to relax at some point, and when that happened his doctor would be here to help him recover, mentally and physically.

It got worse before it got better. So many different horrid sensations raged through the detective, that he thought he just might have offed himself if John hadn’t been there. At one point every nerve in his body felt like a searing hot knife had been stabbed into it. He’d stopped crying out, as it only made the pain worse,and his fingers gripped the material of John’s shirt as he lay there whimpering pathetically.

As time rolled on John felt hands clasping onto his own clothing, desperately, the once mangled cries now dying down. Leaning his head back against the wall, trying not to think about how much pain Sherlock was actually in John continued on with sort comforting touches, one arm wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s thin waist to keep him from rolling away.

Finally after a few hours, the tremblings dissipated, and Sherlock lay breathing heavily against John’s neck. He had tipped his head back some time ago, in pain, and through his withdrawal, he hadn’t noticed that his face lay across the man’s shoulder now. He was sure he had sweat all over John, and the fact that the man had laid there with him, taking care of him the whole time made him start to feel a warmth down in his clammy stomach.

“I...” he croaked, his deep voice deeper with the exhaustion he’d put it through. He swallowed to wet the dry walls of his esophagus and tried once more, “I think the worst of it has gone...” it was barely more than a whisper through his abused throat.

John’s head snapped up upon hear Sherlock speak coherently. His hair was all but soaked down to his scalp and he looked utterly exhausted, John barely noticed the fact that half of his jumper was damp from Sherlock’s body lying on him. Reaching across to the nightstand he sat Sherlock up. “Here, sip on this. You need to drink something.” The ice had long since melted, but all he needed was Sherlock to become dehydrated on top of everything else.

The worst part about this whole ordeal wasn’t hearing Sherlock cry out in pain as he tore at the pain that racked his body. Nor was it when the man had become so tired that he didn’t even bother crying out. The worst part for John was the fact that he knew this was not going to be the last ordeal. Yes Sherlock had gotten over addictions before, but as far as John knew the detective had never been this far gone.

Sherlock took the cup he was given and took small sips at first and worked his way up to large gulps. He felt like he was parched, and with the amount of sweat he'd put out, he wouldn't have been surprised. He ran a pale hand through his wet curls, pulling them away from where they had been plastered to his face and neck. Glancing at the clock to check the time, he saw that he had been laying on John for almost three and a half hours.

Turning back, he looked at his flatmate appreciatively, a hint of a smile attempting to curl the corners of his lips, tired but content. "You stayed.." He said softly. His tone was very grateful.

“Of course.” John muttered, his eyes dropping slightly, surprised by the warm tone Sherlock was employing.

"I think I'm going to go take a shower... And I wouldn't doubt you would want one too. If we hurry..." He stood then, a little wobbly, but he kept his feet under him, "we can still make it to Angelo's before the dinner rush..." He carefully stretched his arms and shoulders before moving to his dresser to pull out some fresh clothes. He was going through a lot of them... He'd have to take them to the cleaners soon. The detective desperately tried not to think about the way his muscles were trembling from being locked up in pain for the past three hours. He had made plans to go to Angelo’s with the doctor and he was not about to change that. He would be damned if he let his addiction rule his life any more than he had to.

Unraveling himself from the sheets John followed, his eyebrows raise in surprise as Sherlock swayed on his feet, “Seriously? I mean, yeah we both desperately need a shower, but we can just have a night in, Sherlock you need to recuperate.” He was surprised at how quickly his flatmate had jumped from the bed given his current state, and he hardly seemed steady on his feet. John eyed Sherlock carefully, like he was afraid he might keel over at any moment. “You should really take things slow.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved to the door, a little more sure of his footing now. "Honestly John. I feel much better now.. Life is not going to wait for me to take things slow. Any moment my organs could rupture and fail due to my bad decisions or for any reason at all. I will be alright. Generally I only have one bad fit, the tremors may return, but if I don’t exert myself too much, I should be fine.. Now I am going to go take a shower. If you will strip the bed i'll make it up with fresh linens while you are showering." He retrieved the desired clothing from the chest and was out the door, on his way down the hall to the shower.

John stood surprised for a moment, and then with a shake of his head he went ahead and stripped the bed of the damn sheets. He wanted to insist that Sherlock stay home and rest, but in all honesty a bored Sherlock was probably a worse risk to both of their sanity and safety. Not to mention John had been looking forward to the dinner. Angelo’s was where they had started, where they had had their first stake out, and somehow, John thought, going back to that place might help make things right.

Tossing the dirty sheets into a hamper John made his way to his own now unused room to find a fresh pair of clothes. The good doctor found himself going back and forth on which jumper to wear. It was a fresh start, he told himself, and the first time they would be going out where people might see that Sherlock was alive. That was plenty enough of a reason for John to want to look nice, right? Picking a deep blue jumper and dark denim trousers John hurried from the room, Sherlock was surely finished with his shower by now.

Sherlock had taken a quick shower, washing his hair and body without much thought, and rooted the medicine cabinet for a bottle of paracetamol. Without John to observe him, he didn’t attempt to stop the tremors. Pills rattled in the bottle as he dumped four into his hand, and he set them on the counter to keep from spilling them. Sherlock tossed them back without water and looked at himself in the mirror. There was no need for the doctor to know just how bad he was was there? Worrying him unnecessarily would result in another boring evening in the flat in which he would probably just fall asleep, and he’d already had more than he cared of a bed for at least a few hours.

The detective brushed his hair out of his eyes and decided to down two more of the paracetamol and stow a few in his pocket in case things got worse over the course of the evening. As he exited the bathroom he was much too flushed to dress in more than his dress slacks until he’d had a moment to cool off.

John was still in his room when Sherlock peeked his head around the door, and he hurried to his room, carrying his shirt and jacket. He set them on the desk before moving to his closet and pulling out his navy silk sheets. Normally he saved these for the summer when the weather was warmer, but if John were to continue to sleep with him he didn't see staying warm being a problem. He started making up the bed, tucking the sheets under then pulling a heavy quilt from the chest at the foot if his bed up and over.

John had just popped his head around the corner of the door frame as Sherlock began to dig through the chest, and John caught an unencumbered view of his pale back. A hand rose to cover his mouth silently, was this what Sherlock had been hiding when he’d asked for privacy the night before when he had been changing? He had never been shy about baring his body before, and now the doctor’s suspicions that there was still more the detective was hiding from him were confirmed. A long scar stretched down his spine, and another deeper wrapped around disappearing at his rib cage. John backed from the room and into the bathroom without a sound, slipping to the ground once safe behind the door.

Sherlock, still dazed from his earlier ordeal didn’t notice the event. He tucked the quilt in just as he had the sheets before replacing the pillow cases. After he finished he took a step back to admire his handiwork. That would do he supposed. He frowned and looked around for his shoes, finding them tucked under the bed on the closet side, he bent to retrieve them, and sat on the bed to put them on before finally moving to don his button up shirt and suit coat. He hissed slightly as the material moved over his arms but shook it off as he began to button it from waistline to his chest, leaving the top two undone as per usual.

John was holding his phone uncertainly. His first thought, after fleeing for the sanctity of the bathroom, had been to call Mycroft and demand he start explaining, but something was stopping him. It was the same reason he hadn’t said anything in the room. Sherlock had hid this for a reason, the same reason he wouldn’t tell him about his time away John could only assume. Locking his phone and stuffing it in his pocket John’s mind began reeling with horrifying images to explain the scars. Panic coursed through the doctor as he tried to shake the realization that someone had done that to Sherlock.

What had Sherlock been through?

The shower that followed was fast, a matter of necessity. Dressing quickly he hurried to Sherlock’s room, his mind still trying to decide how he could convince Sherlock to explain what had happened to cause those marks, or if he should push the detective for information at all. The images were eating at John, but he stood in the doorway casually, a small natural smile plastered upon his face. “Ready?”

"Almost..." Sherlock swept his coat and scarf up off the floor where they had been tossed in haste, and shrugged into the stiff material, wrapping the scarf around his neck in the process. A quick toss of his head sent his curls flying, giving them a tousled look as he pulled on his gloves.

When he turned to John, he could tell there was something wrong, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what. He wanted to ask, but decided to wait for a little bit, perhaps it was nothing after all.

"Alright let's go, we'll take a taxi, and it's on me." He smiled warmly as he touched John's shoulder, leading him out of the room and down the steps. He wondered vaguely where Mrs. Hudson was, he hadn't seen her since he'd come back. She must be on vacation with her sister or on another one of those overnight bingo trips.

Before John could try and formulate any sort of real question he was whisked out to the street by the Consulting Detective. And as John snuck a second look while Sherlock hailed down a cab he couldn’t help but think that he saw it. It might have been the look in his eyes that revealed he was deep at thought, or it might have simply been seeing him clean and crisp in his coat, scarf and gloves. Whatever it was, as Sherlock led him out onto the busy streets of London he couldn’t help but smile. His Sherlock was still there, it’d just take some time to find him.

His Sherlock? Sliding into the cab next to Sherlock, who had already given the direction, John tried to backtrack that thought. Sherlock had been his friend, he wanted his friend back, completely. That made sense, right? John studied him for a moment wishing he had the ability to see what was hidden just beneath the surface. “You sure you’re up for this?” He gave Sherlock an earnest look, wanting him to take the out if he really needed it, but secretly praying he didn’t.

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't think he needed to. John knew he didn't do anything unless he absolutely wanted to unless forced by the powers of the cosmos. He looked out the window for a bit before finally turning back to his friend. The blonde looked stressed. He knew he was the cause of it, and he very much wanted things to be alright between them, to be... As they used to.

Even though John's smile was larger and easier now, he still looked like something was bothering him. "What were you thinking about earlier?" He asked, avoiding John’s question. His eyes focused and intense on the doctor’s as if he could pull the information from their depths. "Earlier, before we left the flat." He clarified, knowing John wouldn't have followed his internal monologue.

John’s facade faltered for a moment, he let his smile slip and the worry show. He hadn’t meant for the slip to happen, but once it had there was no denying that something was wrong. Thinking carefully John sidestepped the actual issue, “Still wondering what you’ve been up to the past three years. It’s like when you’re a kid and they tell you not do something. It’s all you can do.”

John kept his gaze unfaltering, not wanting Sherlock to see how worried he really was for the man. “I know you won’t tell me. Patience is a virtue right? Or some bloody nonsense? It’s fine, It’ll drive me mad until I know, but it’s fine.” With a small shrug he gave Sherlock a half-smile that said he really wasn’t going to bother him about it.

“So anything else you missed while you were away? I’m sure the morgue has a few subjects available if you want to go their next,” John laughed heartily as he watched out the window, his eyes no longer catching Sherlock’s every emotion.

The comment took him by surprise and Sherlock actually laughed. "I think we should limit this to murder cases and Angelo's. I'm not sure I could handle all the excitement." He smiled warmly, but after a beat his expression changed. It became wistful, and a little pained.

"As far as the other. I know you're curious. I just... I want to put that conversation off as long as I can to be honest." He turned to look at John then, and that raw expression was back, like he was baring his soul for John as he reached forward, his fingers curling over the other man’s hand.

"It's both hard for me to stomach, and to imagine myself telling you.. I know your reaction will be less than positive, and although negatives have been hovering over our heads since I returned there is a sort of brittle calm between us. After the past three years, I think we both deserve to cherish a little of that first. Also we have an entire genocide of skeletons before us to examine before we go opening locked closets for more..." His brows drew down in concern.

"I promise I will tell you when the time is right. Promise me you will try no to focus on what I'm not telling you, and instead focus on the here and now?" He smiled brokenly before squeezing John's hand one more time, and pulling away to gaze out the window once more. They must be drawing close to Angelo's now.

As Sherlock’s gaze drifted back towards the window John’s fell to his hand, which suddenly felt empty. When had he started craving that intimacy with Sherlock? He nodded mutely, quite certain his answer would be seen out of the corner of the detectives eyes. It was difficult to focus on the here and now. Focusing on here and now meant focusing on whatever wasn’t going on between him and Sherlock.

John realized though, Sherlock was right. They had so many problems that they needed to work through, so many bridges to rebuild, they didn’t need to cause any more hurt to each other. John just hoped the younger man wasn’t holding on to something painful for John’s sake. Promising himself that he would check with Mycroft, make sure whatever it was that he was hiding, that it wasn’t hurting Sherlock. Mycroft constantly worried about his little brother. He would tell John everything he needed to know, nothing more nothing less. John could count on that much.

There was barely enough time for John to really think about anything that was going on between him and Sherlock before the cabbie was pulling up to Angelo’s.

Sherlock opened the door, and held it for the doctor. Once they had both exited the taxi, the detective paid the cabbie and sent him on his way before turning back.

“Shall we?” he asked holding his hand out for John to precede him. He did however open the door for the other as they entered. He smiled as a hand came down to push softly against his lower back as he passed by, feeling the need for the contact, not really knowing where it came from, and not caring to chase after the answer either.

The constant contact from Sherlock was becoming normal, to the extent that John understood on some level that the younger man needed the physical reminder that they were together again. All the same the gentle reminders sent chills up John’s spine, and when they stopped inside the crowded restaurant John had to remind himself not to lean back into the lanky body behind him.

“JOHN WATSON!!!” Billowed a bright voice, “I haven’t seen you in ages! Any table you want! How have you been?!” the big man shook John’s hand vigorously, “You and your date will eat fr-” The man looked up to see just who John’s ‘date’ was. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open in a silent cry.

“Bless my beard!” he bellowed, “Sherlock Holmes!” he was ecstatic. “Here here!” he seated them at the table they had occupied on their first case, and Sherlock didn’t miss the irony. “I’ll get you a candle!” and the man lumbered off to get it for them.

“After you.” Sherlock said, his smile wide and real for the first time since returning from the grocery that afternoon.

Shaking his head John dropped into the seat, “Exactly the same,” he mumbled softly, even down to the candle. But oh how things had changed since the first time they had visited Angelo’s. It was becoming undeniable, a part of John was falling for Sherlock. John quickly pushed the thoughts away. They were supposed to be repairing their friendship, this was not a date. He repeated the mantra to himself in his head a few times before looking up at Sherlock, a bit more relaxed. “Well that was easy, he didn’t seem bothered in the least that you were, ya know, dead.” John laughed softly, he knew Angelo was a bit daft, but this was rather amusing.

“Some people aren’t as worried about me as you are John. Although Angelo cares for me and respects me, he knows that if I died, and then one day I showed up unharmed... he’d know I had a reason.” He spared a glance at John for a moment, sliding into the booth beside him before Angelo made his way back over to their table. He handed both men a menu and set a white candle on their table. The big man gave them a thumbs up and left them to their conversation.

“This brings back some good memories...” Sherlock commented, remembering their conversation in the same spots they were now. He didn’t even bother looking at the menu. He knew it well. “I thought about this place often while I was gone...”he said softly, as if he hadn’t really meant to say it out loud.

Smiling into his menu John feigned as though he wasn't sure what to order. He always got the same thing of course, but out of habit he scanned the choices diligently. After a few moments John spoke softly, "I came here a lot, after everything. I couldn't stand cooking for myself, so if I really wanted to eat I'd come back here. Angelo was always very kind. Probably why he was so excited, I haven't been by in months." His eyes didn't leave the menu as he spoke, but he had been staring at the same item since he had started the confession. He wasn't sure why he was telling Sherlock, but he wanted something's out in the open, even if they had to be Johns skeletons.

His heart wrenched hearing that. He knew of John’s habit of not eating when he got depressed, and he wondered if the man had been as bad as he had about keeping his body in good condition. He had looked pretty haggard when he had seen him just yesterday evening. Already, he looked much better, and he wondered again why his disappearance had caused so much pain in John’s life. All at once he realized that he had been very selfish since he’d turned up on the doorstep to 221B with practically no explanation.

Now that he was aware of this folly, he vowed to make it up to John that night. Somehow, he would figure out how to help his flatmate as much as the other was helping him. He realized he’d been staring at John over his menu for a good while now, and cleared his throat as he looked away. “I’m glad he took care of you when I couldn’t.” His voice was strangely weak and he looked away, towards where Angelo was returning for their orders.

“The usual.” he said quickly, handing the larger man his menu.

"Oh, right," John stammered, finally looking up from his menu, "usual for me as well. Thank you Angelo." After handing off the menu and waiting till the larger man was out of earshot John turned back to Sherlock.

"It was never your job to take care of me, nor was it anyone else's.". He spoke with clarity, as though there was no way someone could mistake those facts. "I'm not trying to make you upset or anything like that, I just. . . I know you have your reasons for keeping certain things in the dark, but for me, to move on I have to get rid of all those bad memories, make new ones. It'll just take time." His lips pulled to the side as he studied Sherlock's reaction, "sometimes getting things out in the open helps." John shrugged, "Just don't worry about it too much." Last thing John wanted was to make Sherlock angry with himself.

He only hummed in response, he was careful not to let any of his thoughts open over his face as he delved further into the possibility that things were worse than he could have imagined for John Watson. He’d left the man to pick up his messes time and time again, but this one had by far been the worst. He was a little distracted when Angelo brought their drinks, promising their food would be brought out shortly.

“I don’t think that it’s my job to take care of you John. Of course not, you’re a grown man. But...” he turned to look at him finally after the awkward silence, “Isn’t that what friends do? Care for and do for each other even if it’s not their job?” He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, “Isn’t that what you’re doing for me?

This caused John's brow to furrow deeply, half surprised, half confused. That was not something he had expected to hear from Sherlock of all people. "Yes, I suppose you're right." After a moment John broke out into a relaxed grin. "We both are sort of beating ourselves up about all this huh?" Letting out a light chuckle John’s whole body relaxed, finally letting go of the built up tension between the two of them.

The light hearted chuckle made Sherlock smile, and steal a glance at John. It was good to see him happy again and not worried over the detective. Angelo arrived shortly with their food, and they chatted about different things, the novel John was reading, and the alarming growth rate of particular mold Sherlock had found on his travels. Things had seemed to slide back into the slot that ‘normal’ held when it came to them.

They were about halfway through dinner when Sherlock’s phone rang. Frowning, he dug in his pocket for it. Not many people had this number. He looked at the number and saw Lestrade’s name across the top. Swallowing his mouthful of food, he answered it.

“How did you get this number Lestrade?” he said. No salutations, straight to the point.

“Who do you think?” the Detective Inspector retorted.

“Mycroft has really got to learn to keep his fat mouth shut.” he said bitterly, cutting his eyes at no one in particular, “What do you need?”

“Well Sherlock... we’ve gotten a murder and kidnapping case... and it’s one I think you should see....”

A/N. Hope you guys are enjoying this.. leave us some feedback <3
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A Bit Not Good