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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.

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Sherlock had been gone for three years, so it really shouldn’t have been a surprise, but as the detective rolled up his sleeves one at a time John was sure the world was moving in slow motion. He could feel his heart beating in his throat from the anticipation. There was a small hiss as John inhaled through clenched teeth, it was worse than he had expected. The doctor in John moved quickly so that he was on his knees in front of Sherlock holding the unbandaged arm a little tighter than entirely necessary. His eyes scoured the skin, taking in every detail.

He ran a shaky finger from the inside of Sherlocks elbow down to his wrist, avoiding the painful marks as he worked his way through the maze, Sherlock cringed slightly at the touch. When John looked up at Sherlock his eyes finally blazed with the anger that Sherlock had been expecting.

His jaw was set tightly, trying not to completely unleash on the detective. Fingers dug into Sherlock’s arm before John finally spoke. “Did you even plan on coming back? Or were you planning on making a clean break of it all? Offing yourself for good this time!” John’s voice broke slightly at the end as he dropped the damaged limb, as if it burned him to touch it.

Sherlock felt his hackles rise and bit back a growl. How could John ask that? How could he think that the detective of all people was truly suicidal? His fingers caught John’s arm as it pulled away, not allowing him to shrink back. “You know nothing of the horrors I’ve seen.” as he hissed, his fingers tightened around John’s forearm, “Offing myself, as you say, would have been the easy way out. Wasn’t it you who told me that if it was easy it was wrong? Yes I took some drugs, I muddled my way through the past few years by using them. It is my cane, it is my psychosomatic limp, so don’t you dare reprimand me. I’m making the right decision now, I am asking for your help. That is what matters. You asked me if I ever planned on coming back, John I never planned to leave. I was forced to.”

John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s the entire time, his words cutting into the doctor painfully. Rage rolled off the detective in waves, they were running in circles. John’s arm relaxed in Sherlock’s grip as he dropped his head slightly, breaking their gaze. He was realizing that Sherlock had been through the same hell he had over the past three years, probably worse, and frankly, they needed each other. When he looked back to Sherlock there was something else ebbing in over the anger. Pity.

John pitied Sherlock for being alone for so long. His mind fell back to the nights he spent away from Sherlock during their years together. He would come home to find half the kitchen destroyed from the nights experiments, knives dug deep into table tops(assumingly thrust down into the wood top in anger), and on some of the worst nights, when John chose not to bring his gun along with him, he would come home to find Sherlock deciding where to shoot the wall next.

But Sherlock was not some child who had lost his parents, he wasn't an orphaned puppy, he was a grown man with problems. Problems he was handling maturely by asking for help. His eyes met the doctor's once more, but the normal emotionless gaze was now shadowed by a frigid cloud.

Shaking his head, almost unconsciously as he breathed softly, "Sherlock. . ." He didn't have words for what he was seeing. "It's done. This." His eyes dropped back to the damage as his fingers wrapped gingerly around detectives arm once again. "All of this." Fingers pressed softly into the pale skin for emphasis as his voice hardened, "I'll help you, but you have to stop this."

"John, I came to you as a man about this. Don't pity me. I can't stand it." his tone was venomous, but the small squeeze on his pained arm softened the edge in Sherlock's voice slightly. "I know I can't do any more of it, but I also know I can't stop alone." He practically spat the words at his flatmate. He was not admitting defeat. He never would. He still had the mind to stop, and until he didn’t, he still held himself above being broken by his addiction.

"I don't want to be who I've been for the past three years John. As long as I can still make that decision I do not need you to demand of me what needs to be done. I know I need to stop, Would I be asking for your help if I didn’t?" His hands and arms were shaking in frustration as his fingers loosened around John's arm leaving red fingerprints where he had been gripping. When he spoke again, the icy tone had melted out of his voice, "I do however appreciate your concern."

John slowly pulled his arm back, subsequently releasing Sherlock’s. John stayed there for a time, resting on the balls of his feet and still studying Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t truly angry with him, he was still here at least. But he also knew that his own reaction had not made Sherlock feel any better or more comfortable in the situation. It wasn't as if vulnerability was something Sherlock dealt with well.

Sherlock could see the thought process of the doctor as he deciphered Sherlock's less than pleasant reaction. When the shorter man had been watching him, Sherlock couldn't help but feel the way he assumed most people felt when the detective himself looked at people so intently. He felt exposed.

"No... No you wouldn’t." John spoke softly, but much of the emotion had left his voice. If Sherlock was ready to admit that he needed help than he really was done with it all. He looked back up, into the piercing gaze, "We'll get through this Sherlock." We both will. It was an unspoken promise from John, Sherlock wasn’t the only one with problems to work through.

After a moment his gaze fell to the floor in between them as his mind raced around what would come next. Giving a small, resolute nod, more to himself than to Sherlock, John stood up reaching a hand down for Sherlock, to help him up.

If there was one thing John knew about Sherlock it was that making him feel like he was less of man, less of a genius, less of anything really, would make the situation that much harder. Sherlock had to be in control of his mind, that was the most important thing, and John sidestepping him and 'pitying' him wasn't going to help at all.

"When was the last time you ate?" Sherlock appeared to be swimming in the familiar suit, if that was even possible. His gaunt cheekbones and long fingers seemed more defined than ever.

Rolling down his sleeves he stood, and straightened his creased button down shirt and worn jacket. He knew very well how awful he looked, he could see it reflected in John’s eyes. Part of it was from the drugs, part of it was from malnourishment.

"I know I look dreadful.." He said, his eyes narrowing, "and to be honest I don't really know when the last time I ate was." His stomach growled as if trying to tell him exactly when the last time was and that it had been far too long ago. He rolled his eyes.

"My body seems to be in total confusion. I am hungry, but my mind tells me not to eat. Stopping for anything has been a risk I've rarely taken in the past three years..." He frowned. Why did everything keep coming back to this? His stomach growled again and he looked down at the offensive part of his body with an angry glare. "I'm afraid if I eat much of anything I may not be able to hold it down..."

"That's alright Sherlock." John began bustling around the kitchen in a flurry, the need to fix everything that was wrong with Sherlock all at once over taking his mind. "We'll start small, but you need to eat." The real awful thing about Sherlock's condition was that he was already self destructive before he left. If this lifestyle, whatever it had been over the past three years, had made not stopping to rest or eat a thing of survival, than his old destructive habits would have only been ingrained deeper.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed John stopped and spun on the spot, running his hand through his hair, trying to think. His eyes flicked back to Sherlock, he really was a mess. "How about you shower and I'll make you something to eat." He paused for a moment, unsure of how Sherlock would take the next bit of information, "I didn't move anything, in your room I mean. Everything's there."

Of course this was a good thing now, Sherlock would have clothes for one thing, and it would help them fall back into some sort of normal, but it revealed just how difficult it had been for John to let go. Even after two years of therapy, which he managed to fake his way out of in time, a part of him still clung to the idea that Sherlock would return. Even as strung out as Sherlock was John knew he wouldn't miss this fact. By telling Sherlock he hadn't moved his things he was essentially laying out the past three years for Sherlock.

He drew his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down on it softly as he waited for a response from Sherlock. Any reaction or flit of expression that would tell John what Sherlock was thinking.

John hadn't quite realized it, but without Sherlock in his life he had begun to pick up on some of the habits of his lost friend. He studied peoples expressions, actions, words and derived truth and meaning from them. More often than not he missed the target, but he had cultivated the practice over the years alone.

Sherlock watched as John bustled around the kitchen. He was... Agitated.... Yes but that wasn't it... Was John nervous? He hadn't acted like this around him since they'd first met. Had things really regressed that far? Then John suggested a shower, and he had to admit, the idea of a hot shower was glorious. God knew his hair needed a wash, and he was sure he smelled awful. He nodded his head forward in agreement when John explained that he had left everything of the detectives where it had sat.

Millions of theories as to why zipped through his mind, and he reached out and latched onto the one that kept coming back through. John had always believed he would come back. However there was a deeper sorrow in his eyes, and Sherlock realized that in that hope he had probably been ridiculed not only by the populace for his faith, but by those close to him as well. Sherlock had not been the only one fighting a battle for three years.

His pure faith was staggering and Sherlock found himself inwardly smiling, even though outwardly he displayed nothing. John's eyes were flickering back and forth between his own, searching for a hint to how he would react.

The lack of emotion in Sherlock's expression frustrated John. He had been ridiculed and lost what little social life he had over the fact that he had clung to Sherlocks memory so desperately. At the time, John had begun to believe he was selling himself short, that he was ruining his chances at being happy for a pipe dream.

John’s expression was as open and vulnerable as Sherlock felt, and surprising even himself, Sherlock took a step forward to wrap his long arms around his friend in a hug. Initially the action had been meant to sooth John. Sherlock understood it as a social tool, something to use on others, but he'd always wondered the purpose of them. Now, as his arms circled the one person who meant the most to him he began to understand. Warmth spread through his chest where it pressed up against John, and he rested his cheek against the top of John's head, feeling more of that warmth spread across his face. He knew he smelled of cigarettes, dirt, and the rankness of the London Underground, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away when he knew it would have been decent to.

John's breath caught in his chest as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. It was the last thing he would have expected from Sherlock. The simple touches to the hand were one thing, he had been able to write those off as Sherlocks attempt to display expected affection or appear to be supportive. He had immediately written them off because, well, that wasn't the Sherlock he had grown to know. The Sherlock he knew had hid every ounce of proof that said he was human or felt any sort of emotion. Sentiment was not an endearing trait in Sherlock's mind.

“I know you believed in me when no one else would. Your faith is staggering John, and I should thank you for it."

Obviously the time apart had changed the both of them, as John heard Sherlock’s words, he had to stifle another bout of emotions. Hesitating for only a moment, out of sheer shock, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin waist, one hand clutched at the material of his coat, as if the action would keep Sherlock from leaving again.

He could feel Sherlock's face pressing against the top of his head and John simply fell apart. It didn't matter that Sherlock smelled of death, or that he was more broken than ever before. With Sherlock's arms wrapped around him John could no longer hold back the powerful turmoil inside his mind, something simply broke. His forehead rested against Sherlock's neckline, his cheek pressed against the dirty collar of his shirt. Soldier that he was, John stood tall as he clutched Sherlock, almost possessively. The only indication that a wall had broken inside of him was a thin line of silent tears making their way down his face.

Sherlock had changed in the time he's been away. He'd come to realize that caring for people was not necessarily a weakness. The words that John had spoken before he'd left to see Mrs. Hudson so long ago had constantly run through his mind as he'd been alone. Friends keep you safe. The grip around his back had startled him at first, the possession was something he had not expected.

No one had ever claimed him, even when he was younger. He'd always just been Sherlock Holmes. Not 'my son' or 'my brother'. That possessive grip on his coat told him that it was John now who was worried he would leave, not the other way around. He had often told himself it was just a matter of time before the man quit putting up with his childish behavior. Now he marvelled at the irony of the reversed situation.

Even with Sherlock holding him, the army doctor stood tall, and he felt it when the man shifted to lay his forehead and cheek against the detectives skin. Then suddenly, there was a wetness there. John was crying. It made him nauseous to think of what he had done to hurt the only person who cared enough to stake a claim in his life.

One hand came up to gently brush over the man's hair attempting to be soothing as his other hand drew small circles on his friends back. The more he touched the John, the more he wondered why he had been so averse to physical contact before. Pushing that thought away to examine later, he held John tighter, willing the man to let go if he needed to or seek more of the silent but broken strength Sherlock was offering.

John was so silent though, it was starting to drive him mad. "I must admit that this reaction is not what I expected. I was under the assumption that hugs made normal people feel better, not spontaneously burst into tears. Perhaps you are in shock, should I get you a blanket?”

He couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped his lips, but John couldn’t respond to Sherlock. He couldn't speak. If he did, he would surely lose any chance he had at remaining as stoic as possible. Shaking his head softly against the taller man's chest he gripped at the fabric in his hands desperately. If he could only will away the painful emotions than he could pull away, they could move on, but he didn’t. He allowed the comforting gesture's from Sherlock, basking in them in all honesty, but did not move or reciprocate the motions. He had imagined Sherlock's return too many times, and it was never anything like this. He had imagined Sherlock would be just as snarky as before, that he would simply appear and things would carry on.

“I know it hurts John. Don't hold it in, and don't be quiet. I need to know you're here and not reverting to somewhere in your own mind pushing this all away. I would hate for your limp to worsen because I hugged you and you didn’t express everything you needed to." Sherlock may not have been an expert on emotions, but he knew from experience with John’s anger that if he didn’t get it all out at once, it would build until he would explode viciously. He could only assume that this was another form of anger mixed with grief.

A few minutes after Sherlock spoke, as his face began to dry, John loosened his grip and pulled away from Sherlock slightly. Still standing right infront of him, their bodies just brushing, he looked up at the piercing crystalline eyes. Those hadn't changed. Everything about Sherlock seemed to have changed at this point, but those unnerving eyes had stayed the same.

"You know what frightens me the most? And I mean it tears at my very soul, it scares the bloody day out of me." His voice was shaking and his brows were furrowed deeply. This was the reason he had clung to Sherlock so desperately. This deep rooted fear that had come along with believing in Sherlock Holmes. His voice rose slightly, anger finally ebbing back in, "How will I ever know? How will I ever be able to trust, if something happens to you that, well that it's real? I'll always be waiting." And it was true, now that Sherlock had already come back from the dead once, John would not be able to accept his death easily. He grit his teeth together as his hands balled into listless fists at his sides.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock, John trusted Sherlock with his life before, and he still did. But then again, it was trust. There was a certain level of trust that had been destroyed that day. John had invested himself in Sherlock, he had been there with him through everything, and if John was completely honest with himself he loved the man. He loved him the way that any man would love his best friend or flatmate and Sherlock had broke him. He had taken that bond and used it against him. Now whether the whole act was for his safety or not, it didn't change the psychological toll it had taken on John.

John's words were like fire hot pokers through his skin. They burned through Sherlock, spreading anger and hatred with himself and the now dead Moriarty like a wildfire. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw set as John looked up at him, eyes so vivid in their pain that Sherlock could practically feel it. He had only ever known what it was like to be afraid twice in his life, and neither time had been pleasant. So he could on some small scale imagine the feelings coursing through the doctor's body, but in the same respect, he had no idea.

Sherlock's fingers squeezed into fists at his side as he realized this was something he would never be able to fix. This is what happened when you cared about people. They inevitably betray you, and things are never the same. He wanted to take it away. He was used to the dismal feelings of his own past and mind, he could handle it. But to see John, the man who was always happy or mildly annoyed so broken was more than he could bear.

"That day destroyed me. I can't go through that again, I just can't." John was almost yelling now, but at the last word his voice broke. His head fell and he finally broke down, silent sobs racking his body as he pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, willing his body to stop betraying him.

Sherlock had always thought grown men crying was just downright immature and foolish, but watching his blogger, his best friend deteriorate under the pressure was excruciatingly painful in a way Sherlock hadn’t experienced before. His chest was tight, and his palms were starting to bleed weakly from where his jagged nails cut into his hands. Sherlock wanted to scream and kick and throw things just to make it go away, wanted to revert to his childish nature, but he knew that wouldn't make things any better, and for once, he squashed that need to destroy down inside of himself. He was so angry, so effected by the other’s words that he had to leave the room, had to be alone. He couldn't take the fact that he had ruined the one and only thing he'd ever had going for him, by trying to protect it. What justice was there in the world?

Taking a small step closer, his body lined up with John's, one more silent reminder that he was indeed here before placing gentle hands on the others wrists to pull them away. He wanted to see it, wanted to burn the image of John's tear stained face into the wall at the top of the stairs in John's wing of his mind palace, so that he would have to see it every time he retrieved some information on him. A reminder always of what could happen if he wasn’t careful. For all his snarky words, for all his brutally honest deductions, he had never intentionally hurt someone. And while this pain John was feeling was not intentional, it was still his fault.

He held the man's wrists away from his face and leaned down a little, making sure there was no way what he was about to say would be misheard. Their noses almost touched, and his eyes flickered back and forth between John's to gauge his reaction.

"The truth is John? You can't. You can't ever know." His whisper was quiet, but strong in the silence of 221B. His lips twitched with some unknown emotion, and out of frustration he released the smaller man's hands with a little more force than necessary.

Turning on his heel, he headed to his room first where he picked up fresh clothes, and then to the bathroom to take his shower. After closing the door, he set his clothes on the closed seat of the toilet and turned on the hot water for the shower. Removing his clothes as the steam filled up the bathroom, he surveyed every scar he'd obtained in the past three years defending the very thing he’d effectively lost today. John. They were still friends if you could call it that, but he had lost all trust in the detective, and what was a friendship truly without trust?

One long thin scar ran the length of his spine, just to the right of the dip between the muscles of his back. Another, wider and bright pink against his pale skin ran along the lines of his ribs, curling from his upper back down to his navel. Other smaller ones littered his body and he frowned down at his arm as he pulled the self adhesive bandage away from the wound.

Four long gouges had left yellowed pus stains on the gauze pad that had been pressed up against the wounds. He winced, infection must have set in from the bacteria when he’d been wounded. He hadn’t had the time to clean it, and he was paying for it now.

Placing his hands on the cabinet, he glared at his reflection. In his mind he carried on a rant at himself, tearing down his walls and rubbing salt in the fresh wounds his interaction with John had left behind. With an angry jerk, he picked his trousers up from where he'd dropped them to the floor and pulled an orange pill bottle from the pocket. Vicodin. Screwing off the lid he poured three tablets into his hand, and rolled them over for a long time, weighing the consequences before finally popping them into his mouth and swallowing. Three... that was half what he normally took. It was a step in the right direction, and with the events of the evening so far, he could really use the heady feeling he knew the Vicodin could provide.

Sherlock stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over his tired muscles, washing off dirt and grime from traveling, and finally turned, letting the water soak into his hair. Once the curls hung limp in his face, he smoothed them back with both hands and let the hot water run over his face.

Then it all hit him, like a ton of bricks, and he slowly sank in the stream of water, letting it run over him as he sat motionless on the floor of the shower. John would never trust him again, and if he did it would take a long time to get back to the easy comfort they’d had before. He was even still using drugs when he’d asked John to help him stop. The irony of it made him run his spidery hands through his wet locks, tugging at them in frustration. He was too weak to fight his impulses, just like he had been too weak to fight Moriarty. His shoulders shook with tension as his fists tightened in his hair, pulling painfully at his scalp as if to remind him that this wasn’t just a nightmare. Although he had made it out of their reunion relatively unscathed, he had lost so much more than he had anticipated. A sinking feeling ripped through his gut as the thought entered his mind and spread like a poison.

Had hiding from everyone, including John, done more harm than good?
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A Bit Not Good