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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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It wasn’t long before John’s dreams turned to nightmares. He was back in Afghanistan, the gunfire ringing in his ears. The soldier lying on the ground in front of him was bleeding profusely soaking through his uniform, there was no saving him John had to move on. He had to keep moving, there was someone he had to save. If he didn’t hurry they would be dead too. The air shook with gunfire and it felt as though he was running in quicksand. John could see him, in the distance, his coat billowing behind him.
But then there was a figure behind him, John tried to yell out. To warn him of the dark figure approaching, but his friend just smiled down at him, refusing to move, refusing to save himself. The gunshots faded and John was staring up at St. Barts again, the figure was getting closer. John tried calling out again, begging the man to turn around. When all the sounds of war had faded John felt shell shocked, the world was silent, but he could feel the air ringing around him in anticipation. Desperate, he tried to call out again, but it was as if he was drowning and the words wouldn’t form.
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Sherlock wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but he woke sometime later to an unknown noise. Coming into awareness, he listened harder for what it was that woke him. A cry rang out in the flat startling him the rest of the way awake. John!
He struggled to extricate himself from the blankets and ended up knocking himself to the floor, tipping the empty wastebasket over noisily, with the blankets wrapped around his legs. It took a moment for his groggy brain to work well enough for him to pull them free, and when he did, he folded them beneath himself trying to get to his feet. When he made it, he was still wobbly, but he made it to the stairs without any major problems. However, when he reached the base, another sound that Sherlock could only categorize as a terrified scream forced him to work faster. He tried to hurry up the stairs but lost his footing and cracked his face against the stairs.
Blinking away the pain, he shook his head and made his way to his feet once more, ignoring the blood that began gushing from his injured nose. The dizziness from the alcohol and his fall was causing black spots to dance in his vision. He made it up the stairs and landed heavily against John's door as another sound of agony was wrenched from his friend.
"John!" He called reaching for the knob. It didn't turn. Locked. "John!!" He called again, banging his fist on the door. Another stomach churning cry made his legs go weak, and he slid down the wall to his knees, leaning his head against the door jamb, beating the door with his fist one more time as the alcohol in his blood sapped all of his strength.
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“Goodbye John.”
No. John could feel himself racing to the body on the ground, mangled and broken, but it felt wrong. This wasn’t right. He looked up and he saw the dark figure leaning over the edge of the building. It was laughing at him.
“John.”
The world around him was fading, and John felt like he was drowning again. He could hear Sherlock calling out to him, but he had just fallen. Trying to remind himself that none of it was real John fought his body for consciousness.
Sherlock was sitting just outside the room, he felt so helpless. This is what his addiction did to him, it made him useless. With an angry growl he slammed his head against the wall, absolutely hating himself.
Finally John awoke, gasping for breath, his body was covered in a cold sweat. He hadn’t had a nightmare that bad in months. The nightmare he’d had the night Sherlock had returned hadn’t compared. Taking a moment to reorient himself John lay still, until he realized it had been something outside of the room that had woken him. Standing carefully John unlocked the door and pulled it open. A small gasp escaped his lips at the sight.
“Shit, Sherlock what happened?” John dropped to his knees, cupping Sherlock’s chin in his hand to turn his head back and forth, inspecting the damage. There was blood across his face, clearly from a bloody nose, it looked as though he’d been in a fight, but his droopy eyes said the alcohol was still weighing on him.
"You cried out in your sleep..." He said softly, raising a hand to bat John's away, but it was clumsy and sluggish and didn't do more than swat at air. "I was worried you were hurt.... You sounded awful..." He took a labored breath and reached out enough to grab his arm.
"I tried to come get to you.... But it seems the stairs and gravity were against me. Your door was locked... And I couldn't get to you..." He squeezed Johns arm gently, his eyes glassy, worried, and tired, "Never mind about me. Are you alright? You sounded like someone was hurting you."
Even though his brain was befuddled with alcohol, his eyes flickered over the doctor's body and face for any signs of physical injury. Save for the sheen of sweat across his skin John looked exactly the same as he had when he’d left Sherlock out on the sofa.
Wrapping both arms around Sherlock’s shoulders John pulled the still drunk man against him. It took all his self control to still the tears that threatened him. “Oh you pathetic sod,” his words were light, “I’m fine.” John’s face was buried against Sherlock’s curls, his arms wrapped tightly around the thin shoulders pressing them together, he ignored the smell of booze that surrounded them. Sherlock cared. He was drunk, they had just fought, but John had cried out from the nightmares that haunted him and Sherlock had been there. Again.
Sherlock relaxed into the embrace, and when John buried his face into his hair he sighed and raised a weary hand to the back of his neck, holding him there to prove he only wanted to help.
They stayed like that until John pulled away a few moments later, returning to inspect the damage as he had before, as if nothing had happened. Standing, his voice riddled with concern John reached out a hand to pull Sherlock to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Pulling Sherlock to his feet, the man helping him as much as he could, John wrapped an arm around his thin waist and they made their way down stairs. It was an arduous task, but soon enough they had made it to the bathroom. John set Sherlock up on the toilet while he cleaned the dried blood away with a damp wash cloth, a scene that was becoming far too familiar. The detective sat as still as he could as the flannel was swiped across his face, but after a moment, he closed his eyes and leaned into John’s hand, his now clean nose brushing over the pulse point. One shaky hand came up to hold the doctor’s warm palm against his face.
"Are you going to leave?" He hadn't meant for the words to come out of his mouth, but there they were between them now, and he couldn't bring himself to meet John's gaze.
Rubbing small circles against the pale cheekbone with his thumb, where his hand was pressed to cup Sherlock’s cheek he spoke softly. “No. I’ll be cleaning all of the alcohol out of the flat in the morning, but I’m not going anywhere Sherlock.” Pulling his hand away John finished wiping away the blood, there wasn’t any permanent damage at least. “Stay here.” he muttered, smoothing the hair off of Sherlock’s forehead before heading to the kitchen.
John returned moments later with a glass of water and two small round tablets. “Drink up, then we can head back to bed.” He held out the water with one hand, the tablets in the other.
Sherlock couldn’t help the wave of relief at the ‘we’ in John’s sentence as he took the tablets and swallowed them along with most of the water. He felt more sure of his feet now, but he didn't stand right away. Instead he wrapped one lean arm around John's waist and pulled him close, tucking his head against the man's stomach and holding him close. John stood surprised for a moment, and then placed a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, his fingers nestled in the dark curls soothingly.
"John there's something I need to tell you." His entire body was shaking as he spoke. He knew he'd never have the courage to tell John otherwise, but even now he feared what the doctor might say. "I... Need to tell you about the past few years." John didn’t dare speak, for fear that it would make Sherlock stop talking.
Sherlocks arms tightened around his middle as if he were afraid the other man would run away, "I spent three years trying to find every one of Moriarty's men. I let some... Hurt me... I killed some too..." He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed onwards, "I didn't want to tell you... You always thought so highly of me. It’s rare for a protagonist to be so dark, and you always wanted me to be the hero. For once I wanted to fill that role for you John."
He pressed his face fully into the doctor's stomach and gripped him tight. The thought of disappointing John caused a surprisingly gut wrenching feeling.
Breathing a heavy sigh of relief John wrapped his other arm around the top of Sherlock’s shoulders, the hand on his neck moved up to card through his hair softly. He had feared Sherlock would wait too long to tell him, or that he would never feel safe enough to tell that secret. John spoke softly as he held onto the other man just as tightly “It’s okay Sherlock. I could never hate you. We’ll get you through this. I promise.”
He knew Sherlock was still rather drunk and his emotions were running high, but he didn’t want this to end. Not the pain or the emotional havoc of course, he’d give anything to put a stop to all of that, but how close him and Sherlock were. He realized this was why he had walked out on Mary. He wanted to stay, holding onto his flatmate, his friend, and at that moment, it didn’t matter why. John suddenly regretted his reaction the night before, everything Sherlock had been through and he’d just walked out on him. He knew Sherlock needed, above all else, help, and that wasn’t something he was well versed in asking for.
“I’m not really tired, but would you mind laying down with me? My head is starting to spin, and I feel the calm you seem to exude for me would help. ” he pulled back finally look at John, “I’m sure it would benefit you too as it seems you lack in nightmares when you sleep by my side.”
John smiled softly, “I was sort of counting on that Sherlock. I...” It was his turn for confessions, swallowing hard he continued, “You’re right. I won’t be able to get back to sleep on my own, not after that nightmare.” It was a miniscule admission in comparison to Sherlock’s, but it was John’s way of saying he needed Sherlock just as much as Sherlock needed him.
Helping him to his feet, John led them across the hall and into Sherlock’s room. “Sherlock,” John started softly once he had closed the door. “I’m sorry, for earlier. I should have listened to you, I shouldn’t have locked myself in my room like...” like a petulant child, he thought to himself, “like that.”
The detective curled up under the blankets and held his arm out showing John that he was welcome beside him. “Don’t apologize John.” he said shaking his head. “You had every right to be angry. Now get over here and lay down before something else happens....” he was only half joking, and let his arm fall back to the mattress.
With the apology off his chest John relaxed and clambered into the bed next to Sherlock. It had become a sort of trick, trying to figure out just how close he was supposed to be to the other, waiting for a thin arm to snake round and pull him closer. John lay with his back to Sherlock, he could feel the other’s body weighing into the bed directly behind him and he closed his eyes, contented.
Even though he enjoyed the smaller man in his arms, with everything that had happened tonight, Sherlock wanted to feel John’s arms around him as well. The remnants of what he remembered coming out of his first withdrawal with John’s arms circling him, and then again at his brother’s home were warm in his mind. He knew that space between them was John’s tentative homosexual barrier. The doctor always left the decision up to him, as if the lack of control gave him more peace in his own mind, and at times it was irritating, but times like now, it gave him the perfect opportunity.
Leaning forward just a bit, he wrapped a lanky arm around John’s hips, grabbing the one that was resting on the mattress and pulling out and up, showing the smaller man that he wanted him to roll over. When his demands were met, he scooted closer, and moved down so that his curly head was just tucked under the other’s chin.
“I know we don’t usually do it this way...” he trailed off as he snuck an arm underneath John’s body, and the other curved over his hips, drawing small patterns on his spine, “But, when I woke this way before, your heartbeat kept my mind clear. Both of our nerves are high tonight... and I think it would be better to wake this way.” His voice was unsure as he finished, hoping the other man wouldn’t run away frightened like he had the first time.
Resting his chin against Sherlock John slowly conceded, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, tucking the taller man against him. It was different, but John found he rather enjoyed holding Sherlock like this. They would get through all of this, they had to. John was acutely aware of the dexterous fingers tracing shapes into his skin and finally, in the silence of their embrace, John found himself contemplating what it was they were doing.
The thoughts and questions that rolled through his mind were surprisingly calmer than they had been before, the soothing touch kept him grounded. Unfortunately, as John clutched the younger man to his chest he could come up with no understable definition for what their relationship had morphed into. They would have to talk about it eventually, John mused, but not yet. It wasn’t long before John drifted off to sleep, Sherlock still wrapped in his arms.
The detective continued his small drawings on the doctor’s back long after he’d fallen asleep. He enjoyed the moment that all of John’s muscles relaxed as he fell asleep. It was a small victory that he could make the other man so comfortable. Sherlock nuzzled in the hollow of his throat almost unconsciously as he reflected on how this one man had barreled into his life and completely changed it. Sherlock had been so affected by this man that he didn’t know how to live life without him anymore. Even in the past three years the thing that had driven him was that he would see John again soon, and, to be fair, no one could really describe his recent history as living, just surviving.
He took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of his blogger and letting it wrap him in a warm cocoon of safe and comfortable. The rhythmic in and out of his breathing along with the gentle sleep sounds of the man that held him close lulled him off to sleep.
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Sherlock woke and instantly knew something was different. Cataloguing everything before opening his eyes made him aware of the slight pounding headache in his temples, his mouth was dry as the sahara, and his limbs all felt heavy. The Alcohol... right he thought. The next thing he realized was that a weight was pressing on his chest and arm.
Opening his eyes, he saw the messy blonde bedhead of John resting on his chest. Sherlock’s arm was looped low around his back, hand resting on the curve of the smaller man’s hip. One of John’s legs was threaded through his own and his arm was wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. The doctor seemed peaceful, no evidence of nightmares across his face, just warmth. The detective felt himself smiling as he brought his other hand up to brush tousled hair out of his face and card his fingers through the soft texture. When he reached the base of John’s neck his hand rest there, playing with the silky strands as he waited for the smaller man to wake up. Absently his mind told him he wouldn’t mind the doctor taking his time, because here, now.... he felt blissfully happy, for no reason he could fathom.
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The first thing John noticed as he slowly slipped into consciousness was the pleasant sensation on the back of his neck. Pressing his face deeper into Sherlock’s chest he hummed sleepily, enjoying the sensation, but not quite awake enough to register what was going on. In his sleep induced haze John’s arm wrapped tighter around Sherlock’s torso, as his hand tucked under the detective’s side he felt his fingers brush against the cool skin of the detective’s exposed hip. His eyes snapped open, now absurdly aware of their embrace. Tearing himself away, a bit too quickly, John pulled his body up so he was sitting with his knees pulled towards his chest. His face buried in the palms of his hands.
Waking up so caught in Sherlock’s embrace, finding himself reaching out for the intimacy, had shaken John. His thoughts flitted back to what they were and what the hell they were doing. Not wanting to face it just yet John muttered, without raising his face from his hands, “I have work today.” and then stealing a glance at the small alarm clock next to the bed John groaned and swung his legs off the edge and onto the floor, “And I’m late. Shit.”
Sherlock tried to force the pained expression from his face that came from John’s sudden removal from his side, but he didn’t succeed very well. He wasn’t really sure how to handle the situation but, he gestured to the bags near his closet. “I hadn’t put your clothes away, they’re just there...” He moved to the other side of the bed, standing and feeling a little awkward as he did so. The sudden separation had stripped the warm all encompassing feeling he’d just had, and it was such a stark contrast it made his head spin.
“John...” he gave himself a moment to gather his thoughts and broach this subject in the best way possible, without irritating the other man further. “You’re always so content, latching on to me like that in the middle of the night, your subconscious mind obviously finds comfort in our closeness, but the moment you wake you are so volatile and against it. Why do you fight something your own body seeks out?” He was truly befuddled by the actions of his flatmate. He could take one look at him, deduce everything he needed to know physically, but when it came to his irrational deprivation, Sherlock doubted he would ever understand it.
John quickly began digging through the bags of clothes, he considered taking the bags back to his room, but something stopped him. If he wasn’t sleeping in there any more was he supposed to keep his clothes here, where he was sleeping? The thought just wrought more conflict in his mind. He paused though as Sherlock posed his question, John’s head slipped forward a bit as he tried to think of anyway to answer him. Settling on a pair of clothes John stood to face Sherlock, it felt odd staring at each other from across the room.
“It’s just,” John started before inhaling sharply and shaking his head. “It’s complicated Sherlock.” He didn’t want to have this conversation yet, partially because he was leaving for work and they needed more time than they currently had, but mostly because John was afraid that if they tried to label what was going on between them, if John pointed out the absurdities of their actions then they would stop. That was the last thing John wanted.
Sweeping from the bedroom John headed for his own to change, hoping Sherlock would let the subject lie, but of course, he did not.He followed him up the stairs at a fast pace, his usual lack of acknowledgement for personal space creeping up again. “It’s not complicated John. You always make things seem so difficult when they are simple.” He saw the irony in saying that, considering he had been the one to fall for something simple by trying to make it complicated.
“You run away whenever things get hard, John. Frankly, I’m contracting whiplash from your actions. Normally you would be the situation would be reversed, but since I have come back, my general disposition has been pretty constant, you however have been all over the place. You curl up next to me, you want to comfort me and help me, but the moment I try to do the same for you it’s like you internally blanch. You push me away. Is it because I’ve done something to upset you? Have I caused you so much emotional distress that you can’t let me return that which you are so keen on giving me? Normally I can read you like a bloody bedtime story but now it’s like you’ve been written in a language I don’t know...” He was getting frustrated now, and his voice became elevated.
“Why are you so afraid?” His jaw was set as he stopped, just inside of John’s door now, worried that if the man got too far away from him he might not be able to get through to him.
John threw his clothes to the bed and began searching through his drawers for shorts. Avoiding any eye contact with Sherlock, lest he chose that moment to read John’s emotions. Finding a pair of shorts and throwing them onto the bed with the rest of his clothes John began pacing about the room, shaking his head. Finally he faced Sherlock. “You. . . You haven’t done anything to upset me, and I’m not afraid. It’s complicated Sherlock,” John repeated shaking his head as he pinched his brow between his forefinger and thumb, “Don’t you see that?” John’s brow furrowed as he looked up at detective, “There is no reasonable bloody explanation for what is going on in my life right now. But I’m dealing with it and I’ll be damned if you’re going to try and say I run away when things get difficult, not after the last few days. You can’t Sherlock, you just can’t.”
"You've stuck around for the hard stuff that I'll agree to, but you're filling up your time with me and what I need, but any time we broach the subject of you or what's been going on in your life for the past three years it's got to be a god damn bloody secret!" He was getting angered which was very unlike him, and he would blame it away later on the headache pounding through his temples now. He couldn't stand the fact that John was putting the detective before himself. Not like this.
"You want me to tell you, you pester me about what’s been going on, and granted you have reason to be upset at me, but you change the subject anytime you are mentioned, you get upset when anyone tries to talk about it and you push me away when I know it's good for you! What?! Am I just not allowed to CARE?!?" The last was a shout that startled even himself. His chest was puffed up, and his feet were spread, he was staring John down in a way he never had before.
John held his ground, glaring up at Sherlock, but it only lasted seconds before John’s shoulders fell. He stood in front of Sherlock, defeated, shaking his head. “Just sod it, I’m not mad at you. I need to get ready for work. You mind?” His eyes flicked towards the door, gesturing for Sherlock to leave. He couldn’t be mad at Sherlock, because frankly, he was right on just about every count.
Sherlock’s face was totally expressionless as he turned to go, grabbing the knob. He was almost out when he stopped, not even bothering to look at John when he spoke.
"I'm not the only one that needs help healing after the past three years..." And with that, he slammed the door behind him.
John threw his head back letting out a frustrated groan as the door slammed closed. Looking back down at the clock he hurried to change into the new clothes, it was sure to gather some attention at work. And then, as if he didn’t have enough tearing at his emotions, John realized that going to work meant he was going to have to face Mary. He could not believe how much his life had been upheaved in the past three days.
Once he had dressed John shot a text off to Sarah, apologizing for being late and promising to explain once he was there. She didn’t respond, but John was sure she had seen the news reports, she would know Sherlock was back. The thought actually made John laugh, how typical that was, John missing work thanks to Sherlock. The normality made him smile softly. Slipping his phone back into the pocket of his new fitting denim trousers John made his way down stairs. He found sherlock dressed in the snug black jeans and plaid button down from the day before, legs curled up in his chest, violin in his lap, plucking the strings of his violin and tuning it expertly with deft fingers.
Avoiding the previous blowout John spoke, “Can you promise me something? Promise me that you’re done with it all. The drugs, the alcohol. If we want to move forward I need you to do that for me.” The doctor had calmed down considerably as he stood waiting for Sherlock’s response, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, chewing at the corner of lip.
"No." His answer was sharp and short. His anger was still ripping strong through his veins, and he needed to calm down. The Stradivarius in his hands helped marginally, but what he really wanted was something he'd never imagined crossing his mind. He wanted John to leave. He wanted him to go to work and leave the detective with his mind for a while, to process some of the things he'd been pushing to the side in favor of his company, but mostly he just wanted to calm down from the uncharacteristic rage that was just under the surface of his features.
“No?” An incredulous expression crossed John’s face. “Sherlock, what’s the point of all this if you aren’t planning on getting clean? I need to know that you’ll be here, be sober, when I get home.” His pulse picked up again, the small calm he had managed to hold onto dissipating quickly, John’s irritation and anger could be read easily by the detective as his lips pressed into a hard line.
He glanced up at the man. Bad move, the expression there fanned the flames burning in his chest. He hated the pain he saw there, hated the doubt and lack of faith he saw. Was this what John really thought? Feeling rather hateful he responded with something he knew would send the doctor out the door with his tail between his legs.
"After everything that has happened, out of all the painstaking efforts I have gone through to try prove to you that I am back and willing to change... After all that I'm doing and have done to show you that I am worth trusting again why on earth would I want to make you a promise I am unsure I can keep? No Doctor Watson I will not make you that promise when it is likely that I will relapse at some point. I do not intend to, but as last night proved, you are not always around to keep my better half at the forefront." He turned back to the tuning of his violin.
"Good day." The dismissal was forceful and final, the plinks of the strings echoing the harshness of his words.
John froze, grinding his teeth together as he fought the desire to lash back out at Sherlock. Finally he turned to leave, his pulse pounding in his head. “Fine,” he cut sharply, “I’ll be home at three, try and hold yourself together till then eh?” He didn’t wait for a response. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, hanging his head defeatedly he pressed his back to the wall. He knew Sherlock had a point, it was very likely that the previous night wouldn’t be the last time Sherlock would slip, and he had been trying. God Sherlock had been doing more than trying, John shook his head as he pushed off the wall and moved to leave. He had barely taken a step toward the door when he heard a familiar tutting behind him.
“John dear, everything alright?”
Of course, Mrs. Hudson was home from her sister’s, she had no idea what had transpired during her absence. John mulled over the fact that the timing of her trip had been oddly convenient before turning to face her. One hand raised to cup the back of his neck nervously. Ignoring her question John smiled warmly at her, “How was your trip?”
She began chattering away about her weekend easily and comfortably, giving John a moment to decide how to tell her who was waiting upstairs. He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice that she had finished speaking until she repeated his name.
“John?” Her head was cocked to the side in concern, “You sure everything is alright? There were a few people waiting out on the street when I got home this morning. It looked like the press again, did something happen?”
Glad he had already warned Sarah he’d be late John nodded, “Yeah everything’s fine. Just. . . “ He breathed out heavily, moving to put a hand on her shoulder tentatively as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. “Sorry, this is difficult to say, but Sherlock. . He’s back. The jump was fake. He was forced to, but he’s back, upstairs actually... I’m so sorry to tell you like this Mrs. H.”
She fixed him with a look that clearly said she worried for his mental status, but John just shook his head. “I have to get to work. You can head up and see him if you’d like, but he’s a bit touchy this morning.” John rolled his eyes at this, hoping the detective would show some mercy to the poor woman. “Mind if I slip out through the back? Those people would be reporters and I don’t want to deal with that this morning.” She nodded slowly, still obviously worrying for him. Giving her a quick peck on the cheek John rushed out through her kitchen, hailing a cab out on the street before the reporters caught sight of him, his mind still terribly overwhelmed.
A/N:
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A Bit Not Good