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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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“You can’t ever know.”

The words echoed through John’s mind as Sherlock stalked off and he thought of the blind faith he had put in Sherlock all those years ago. He wondered if he could find that again.

John had seen the anger building in Sherlock's eyes as he spoke, and he couldn't be sure where that was directed honestly. Had he crossed a line, said too much? Or was Sherlock angry with himself? Just as John's gaze had dropped he saw Sherlock's fists clenching, and there he was, Captain John Watson, standing in front of Sherlock Holmes, crying like a child. He felt foolish, betrayed, overwhelmed and relieved all at once. The hope that Sherlock would return had always been accompanied with the fear that he would leave again, so there was a sort of cathartic release in finally telling Sherlock that.

It took John a moment to remember that the detective had been planning to take a shower in the first place. That was what John had told him to do after all. He stood there frozen to the spot, listening to Sherlock rummage through his bedroom, go back across the hall, and into the bathroom. It wasn't until he heard the water running that he finally moved.

Leaning heavily on the counter his fingers splayed across the cool tiles, gripping at them, trying to hold on to reality. He stood there for a few minutes, his mind so crowded and confused he couldn't even think straight. Finally he decided that he might as well follow through with the promised meal, god knew Sherlock needed it. Listlessly John begun tearing through the fridge, looking for something, anything Sherlock would eat. It was as if his mind had gone blank. Sherlock never really ate in the first place, and John hadn’t been eating much as of late, so the kitchen was rather barren. Slightly calmed now that he had had a moment to center himself John moved to the bathroom.

He could hear the shower running, but he rapped on the door all the same. "Sherlock," He called, trying to keep his voice as even and normal as possible. "How's take away sound?" He hesitated for a moment, "The chinese place is still open." The words sounded feeble and empty as he said them, but it was the most normal thing he could come up with. The only way he could say to Sherlock, Yes we are broken, and I don't know what is going to happen, but let's have dinner.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he'd been in the shower when John knocked on the door, but the water was still warm so it couldn't been too long. His head was starting to go fuzzy from the pain pills, and the steam helped produce that lighter than air feeling in his mind he had been looking for. John was asking him a question, and he knew he needed to answer. The words, 'I'm not hungry' started to leave his mouth, but he remembered that he had told John he would attempt to eat. Wiping a hand over his face, he smoothed his hair out of his eyes again and cleared his throat before answering.

"Take away is fine John..." he called, "Don't order a full entree for me, I don't want to have an excess of leftovers...." He stood then, feeling less erratic than he had earlier, and finished washing himself before turning the shower off and giving his body a quick dry with a towel. He left the cloth over his head as he dressed, pulling on a clean pair of trousers and his favorite purple button down shirt. He realized then how much weight he had really lost. The trousers were slung low on his hips, loose, but not to the point that they would fall off, and his shirt that had been so perfectly taught against his chest before now hung off his frame, almost a full size too big. He sighed and tousled his hair with the towel until it was mildly damp before letting himself out of the bathroom.

He was trying to decide whether to do up the top button or not, when he sat down on the couch, laying his head at the end closest to the door, and propping his bare feet up on the other end. He decided to leave it open to let the cool air caress his damp chest, attempting to clear the foggy feeling from his mind.

It took awhile for John to locate the takeaway menu, it had been stuffed in the back of a junk drawer in the kitchen. He tried to remember if he had actually used the menu since Sherlock had been gone. He hadn't. It was a miracle the menu was still there, but John had been very careful to change as little as possible, just in case.

After placing their regular order, disregarding Sherlock's distaste for leftovers, John moved around the kitchen trying to keep busy as he heard Sherlock moving about the flat. It wasn't that he didn't want to face him, or talk to him. In fact it was just about all he wanted to do, but he didn't know what to say or how to act. So instead he bustled around the kitchen, clearing their tea cups from the floor, along with the one he’d spilled earlier, and busying himself with dishes that were actually already clean. After he saw Sherlock make his way to the sitting room, sprawling out the small sofa, John moved to his own small armchair. Picking up the novel where he’d dropped it on the floor, he stared at the words, not even attempting to read.

Sherlock had watched as John moved about the flat, neither of them knowing what to say, but both needing to say something. However, instead of trying to decide what nonsense to spout, they slipped into a comfortable silence and the detective began to think, pulling his reaction to the act of comfort he had extended to John back to the forefront of his mind. He wasn’t sure why this simple action had been so comforting, but if that was how everyone felt when hugging he wasn’t surprised that he saw people doing it so often.

The contact had offered the closest thing to silence he’d ever felt within his own mind, and apparently it had released something in the doctor as well. However, he wasn’t sure if it was merely an effect of the moment, or if it would be a constant. If it did prove to work as a silencer for his mind, Sherlock could imagine many times that would come in handy for the both of them. Sure he touched people for the work, but always on his terms. Having someone clutch to him so desperately would have caused immediate abortion of the contact before, but for some reason, he didn’t feel suffocated or nervous at John’s touch. The detective only felt needed and comfortable, things he’d never really felt. It wasn’t often Sherlock didn’t understand something, and it frustrated him to no end. Still, the question remained why was it that John was the one that had finally been able to fully touch him without total revulsion?

Sherlock decided quickly that it must be the reason everything else was different with the man. He just wasn’t like normal people. Sure he was just as much of an idiot, just as ignorant as them, but something in his character called out to the parts of Sherlock that were less than normal. Feeling that an experiment might be a good way to break the whisper of tension between them, he decided to close the distance. However, he was comfortable and didn’t want to move, which meant he’d have to entice the other man to come to his side.

When Sherlock finally broke the silence his voice was much calmer than it had been all night. He peeked up at the other man for a moment before clearing his throat. "John will you come here for a moment?" he asked softly.

Slowly setting his book down John stood and limped over to the side of the couch where Sherlock's head lay. John cocked his head to the side, wordlessly asking what Sherlock needed or wanted. He couldn’t help but notice the detective seemed so much smaller than before, the familiar shirt now hung loosely against him. All the same the shower had done him good, he looked more himself.

Sherlock turned over on his side, back resting against the cushions at the rear of the couch, creating a pocket of space with his chest and knees. “Give me your hand.” It wasn’t a question, and when the doctor responded, he noticed the tremor had returned to his left hand. Sherlock’s brows knit together as he reached up and stilled the smaller man’s hand. He felt his throat tighten, and rather than examine the feeling, he tugged on John, pulling him down on the couch in that space, and curled his knees and arms around him. A curly head rested against a strong thigh, fingers idle against his right side where they clasped together to keep the man in their grasp. The moment he settled, the raging whirlwind of thoughts in his head seemed to fade into nothingness. He breathed a sigh of relief, and all his muscles seemed to relax at once. So touching John did make the world quiet. He’d have to exploit that as much as John allowed. He was aware that this was uncommon for two men, and John’s constant ‘straight’ campaign would be a hinderance, but he would make John see his side.

It wasn’t what John had been expecting in the least, he had known what Sherlock was looking for when he asked for his hand. The tremor wasn’t something he was proud of, like his limp it reminded him, and everyone else, just how broken he was. It was not surprising that Sherlock had asked for his hand, but he had still held his breath as the long fingers stilled his own. So when he was pulled down into the taller man he let out a surprised huff of breath. At first he was shocked, but he quickly realized that he didn’t want to move, afraid that doing so would break whatever spell was holding them in this moment.

Finally after a long while of sitting that way Sherlock spoke, his voice was whisper quiet in the stillness. “I’m not really sure when this changed John. I know it’s odd, and I don’t really know if it’s good or bad, but I don’t want to be alone. ” His nose buried against the other man’s thigh as he continued, “Touching you seems to calm the torrent in my mind, and it seems to put both of us at ease. Let me stay like this for a while. Do you mind?”

Sherlock’s head was pounding from the drugs, and he refused to plead John, but now that he was aware this calm was possible, he was hard pressed to let it go. Something in John’s nearness made the nightmares that managed to plague him even in his waking hours disappear. His eyes felt heavy as he breathed in the warm scent of the doctor. Tea, books, and something uniquely John.

The fact that John was also so entranced by Sherlock’s touch was news to him, and it sent a chill down his spine to hear Sherlock tell him exactly what they needed. His mind raced as he tried to decipher his own motives. It was reassuring, that was without a doubt. It grounded him, knowing that Sherlock was still present, that he hadn’t yet disappeared from the world again. So, when Sherlock asked if John minded if they stayed how they were he shook his head softly and muttered, “No, of course not.”

The odd embrace made John think of how desperately he had clung to Sherlock, less than an hour before. They really did both need this.

It took awhile for John to really relax, and push his own worries and confusion from his mind, but in time he did, and as he heard Sherlock’s breathing slow he wriggled slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position for the both of them. It didn’t seem that Sherlock planned on letting him go and John could see him drifting off to sleep. It was just as well they stayed close, John thought, trying to excuse their behavior in his mind. There were very few nights that John was left unaffected by nightmares. Maybe the subconscious reminder that Sherlock was present would help.

Sherlock could practically hear John thinking. He’d long ago figured out that different people thought with different sounds. More often than not, John’s sounded like a speeding train to his ears. When he thought, he thought hard and fast, often missing the small things in favor of getting to his destination. When the wriggling started, Sherlock lazily opened his eyes and sat up on one elbow, curly hair askew.

“Uncomfortable?” he asked, for once stating the obvious, “We can move if you like. I’m not really sure how else we can fit together on the couch...” He turned his head, looking around and theorizing, “Unless you want to lay down with me. I think there’s enough room that way...” his eyes rose to John’s, the question in his eyes interrupted when the buzzer downstairs went off.

Closing his eyes in frustration, he turned his head towards the door. “That’ll be the take-away?” he deducted. Sighing, he curled up against John again, but clinging less so that the man could get up, “You’d better get the door then.” Some things hadn’t changed at all.

John’s mouth had opened wordlessly, unsure how to respond to Sherlocks offer. When he had begun to adjust himself he had planned to try and get some sort of rest, but when Sherlock laid it out so plain like that it caught John off guard. Hadn't he been considering just that option? But when Sherlock offered it, John felt like it might mean something more, and that frightened him. Luckily John was saved from answering, he had almost forgotten about the take away order until he heard the buzzer. Still, John hesitated for a moment, not wanting to break the contact just yet. It took no time for the impatient deliverer to hold down the buzzer again, longer this time. John pulled himself from the couch with a groan.

John hurried down stairs to pay for their meal while Sherlock considered the initial response he’d observed from his offer. It had appeared to frighten John, but why?

When John walked back into the room the detectives eyes were closed, obviously deep in thought. Not wanting to bother with dishes John sat down against the foot of the sofa pulling out one of the to go containers. It was something he vaguely remembered Sherlock being willing to eat in the past. The younger man’s deep thought was interrupted by John handing over the entire container, with a plastic fork from the bag, he offered Sherlock a small smile. The first real smile since the detective had showed up earlier that night.

"Eat up," John quipped, almost playfully.

Sitting up, Sherlock took the container and opened it with a frown. He really didn’t want to eat, but the disappointment he knew he would see on the doctor’s face made him think better of voicing that opinion. He forked some of the food, and took a bite. It was actually good. Another bite quickly became another until about half of the food was gone. His stomach felt full and happy for once, but he knew he should have taken it slower. Setting the food down on the table, he reclined back on the sofa once more, his mind taking off to figure out his earlier quandary .

John was pleasantly surprised at how much Sherlock managed to eat without complaining. When the younger man set down the food John turned, again trying to think of something to say, but seeing Sherlock’s eyes closed, his mind obviously busy, John turned back to his own food. He had learned a long time ago that when the detective was in his ‘mind palace’ it was best to leave him alone. He wouldn’t hear him anyways.

A few moments later Sherlock’s eyes flew open, his mouth forming a silent ‘oh’ as it hit him, and he propped his head up on one hand looking down at John who was such a slow eater he had barely made a dent in his food.

“My earlier offer... I had no ulterior motive. I meant what I said. My thoughts and body are very chaotic and erratic, and you are my best friend John, my only friend. There were times I thought I’d never see you again. I haven’t done much more than sustain myself, god knows the last time I slept, and nightmares plague me even when I avoid sleeping. But, somehow when I’m touching you or close to you, all of that fades. I feel like I can rest...” He sighed deeply and pressed onward, “Your silly notions of what is and isn't appropriate for two men to do has no bearing in our flat. It is our business what happens here, no one elses, and if it’s comforting, why not partake? Who will see you here besides possibly Mycroft? And who is he going to tell if he does? His cohorts at the Diogenese Club?” Sherlock snorted.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable John, but I know it relaxes you too. And I understand that this is all so sudden and confusing, my returning to you, but the past three years have been nothing but running and doing for others... I’d like to have a moment to just take what I want and need...” His voice was even, but his eyes were piercing, deducting every minute reaction John would have.

The food wasn’t terrible, but John hadn’t been starving to begin, so he had been picking at the bits of orange chicken slowly. When Sherlock spoke his fork was halfway to his mouth, and it stayed there throughout the entirety of his speech.

John was sure he was not helping Sherlock any with the expression he gave. As Sherlock spoke the fear returned, for a moment, before confusion overtook his features. Slowly John lowered the fork back to the take away box and set the box on the floor next to Sherlock’s. He averted his eyes so he couldn’t see the piercing stare tearing him apart. Focusing on the words that had been said John shook his head slightly, still not raising himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“Sherlock,” John started, his voice did not hold half the strength or stability that Sherlock’s had as he spoke. “We can’t. I mean, yeah, it is calming. It’s just a bit. . .” John didn’t want to say not good. It wasn’t that it was bad, it just wasn’t what two blokes were supposed to do to comfort each other, right? Then why did John want to say yes? Turning so he was facing Sherlock he continued, “We just can’t.” His tone dripped with finality, but his brows were pinched by his internal confusion.

Sherlock sighed. He could tell there was confusion storming over John’s brows, and he could see the conflict of emotions within his eyes before the other had turned away. Presumably to hide all that he was feeling from the knowing detective. In a fit of frustration, he let his hand slip out from under his head, causing his face to hit the cushion with a soft thump. This action caused his head to spin with the effects of the pills he had taken earlier. It seemed like eating had spurred the heady feeling on faster. His fingers gripped the couch tightly as he reigned in his thoughts enough to speak once John had stopped.

“It’s only a question,” his voice was muffled by the couch pillow he’d refused to pull his face from, “You can say no, simply saying we can't is a false statement. We can, there is nothing keeping us from it. However if the suggestion is so repulsive to you, a simple 'no' will suffice. Contrary to popular belief, I can not read minds, and though it’s very rare, my deductions can be wrong. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” He turned his head to face away from John, situating his body so that he was laying on his stomach. He didn’t want the other to see any reactions he might be having to the loopy high he was beginning to feel. “After all, I’ve always been a selfish sod, I should learn not to be, or so Mycroft tells me.” He shrugged his shoulders as a dark curl fell into his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to curl up against the warmth of the other man, perhaps drift off into a much needed sleep, but that was not likely to happen. Another sigh felt like it rattled his bones.

“How is your food?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

Something wasn’t quite right, but John couldn’t decide if it was simply the fact that Sherlock was worn and exhausted or if there was something else going on. He could see Sherlock digging into the couch tightly, his knuckles flushed as he gripped at the fabric. Maybe John should have been able to see the signs, but he had no idea how bad Sherlock really was to begin with, so it was difficult for him to understand what was happening now.

Even as Sherlock turned away in a huff, John didn’t move. He just sat, on the floor no less, listening to the younger mans rant.

“Since when do you care what Mycroft says?” John answered quickly, pushing the topic of their food aside by cleaning up the remnants of their dinner.

Sherlock knew he was being unreasonable, but the man had admitted it was odd and didn't that mean he didn't want to? The drugs were befuddling his mind now, which was strange in itself because they normally enhanced his ability to narrow in on minute details.

Turning back to look at John, he was grateful that his cool wet curls fell over his hot forehead. "When he started making sense..." He murmured, "which I suppose was always, so I guess it's more I'm seeing his side of things now. Stupid pra-" Sherlock's sentence cut off in a pained groan as he curled up tight on the couch gripping his stomach. Another intense stab of pain shot through him again and he cried out as every fibre of his being felt like it was being torn apart.

“Sherlock what’s hurting?” John’s voice was slightly panicked, but the doctor in him quickly took over. Trying to figure out if it had been the food or something else. At this point John realized he hadn’t even asked what exactly Sherlock had gotten into during his hiatus. What damage had he done to his body?

A wave of nausea rolled through the detective and he stumble to his feet, knocking into things as he tried to walk, the room spinning around him. One shoulder hit the hallway wall hard and he grunted in pain as another shockwave cramped his abdomen. He finally made it to the bathroom door and fell on his hands and knees, crawling until he reached the toilet. Just in time he pulled his head over the edge as his stomach tried to purge itself of whatever was causing this pain.

After his first initial heave, he moved back to pull the seat up before another wave caused his entire body to tense. Closing his eyes, he tried to ride each heave as smoothly as possible. His throat burned and he felt like a fire had raged through his nostrils as the bile and stomach acid burned the tender flesh.

There wasn't much to rid himself of, but the last heave produced two of the three half dissolved pills. Sherlock knew if John saw them he would be angry but he was shaking both from the sudden chill that had swept over his body and from the force of the spasms that had caused every one of his muscles to tense. His stomach lurched again, but there was nothing left for it to reject.

John barely had a chance to stumble to his feet as Sherlock rolled from the couch. It didn’t appear Sherlock could hear him through the pain. He moved at a surprisingly fast pace, down the hall, knocking over a lamp which John had to dodge and fix before following him into the bathroom. John grimaced slightly as he heard Sherlock’s retching, but he dropped to his friends side, smoothing his hair off his hot forehead.

“Shh. Relax.” John cooed, their previous conversation quickly forgotten. As Sherlock continued to heave John scrambled to his feet, finding a flannel he soaked it at the sink before returning to Sherlock’s side to drape the cool cloth over the back of his neck. As he fell to his knees beside Sherlock he caught sight of what looked like pills in the midst of the sick.

Pressing the cloth to Sherlock’s hot skin John cursed under his breath, shaking his head as he attempted to support the broken man. He was shaking hard, and didn’t seem to be fully aware that John had one arm wrapped around his back, unconsciously mimicking Sherlock actions from earlier as he rubbed small circles into his shaking frame.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” His voice was tired and exasperated, but not quite angry, at least for the moment. “What have you done?” John’s head dropped to the top of Sherlock’s shoulder as he sat, waiting for the tremors to ride out and for Sherlock to find his way back to reality.
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A Bit Not Good