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A Bit Better	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3330 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
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The next few weeks were anything but easy. John went back to volunteering at the clinic, making it easier to duck out when Sherlock’s health deemed it necessary. The only thing that seemed to really change between the two was the intimacy of their relationship. Which meant after no time they fell back into a regular routine, but outside of, and to John’s dismay occasionally in, bed they were plagued by Sherlock’s demons.
One day John received a call from Lestrade, apparently he had been trying to get ahold of the detective for a few days about a case. Of course, Sherlock had spent the past three days defiling their kitchen sink with god knows what. It took half the evening and a ridiculous outburst, reminiscent of a petulant child before he told John why he’d been ignoring Lestrade.
“If I’d left well enough alone before we never would have gotten mixed up in that!” Their argument had moved to the sitting room and he was leering over John defensively, almost nose to nose. “I wasn’t well enough. If I had been I would have never fallen for his trap. I can’t let you get hurt again.” The last sentence was quiet, spoken just loud enough for John to hear before he stalked back to the green armchair, collapsing into it with a huff. “It’s just temporary anyways. I fully intend to return to the work, I just need to be sure I’m in full control of my facilities when we do.”
The withdrawals were terrible for the both of them. It wasn’t just the desire for the drugs that bothered Sherlock, it was the fact that he wasn’t in full control of his mind. John tried to help, but the detectives fuse was particularly short, and even John’s mild manner could only be cooped up for so long. Their hiatus from the Yard and cases didn’t even last to the end of the month. John didn’t mind in the least, he appreciated what Sherlock had been trying to do, to protect them, but even he was itching to get out.
One particularly bad episode had left Sherlock unable to sleep due to the horrific nightmares that not even sleeping curled up in John’s arms could cure. After waking up to Sherlock pacing furiously, John had stayed up with him for the next few days, catching a few blessed minutes of sleep when Sherlock would shower, or be preoccupied watching crap telly.
Sherlock finally made John sleep by promising to try to do so himself, and laying down beside him at night. However, he ended up just laying awake, brushing John’s hair until he fell asleep, and then would slip out of his arms to play his violin quietly, composing something new, or to work on quiet and hazardless experiments.

The second time Sherlock left the doctor’s side in the middle of the night John came out to find the detective sprawled out on the small sofa, seemingly utterly unconscious. There was a small sheen of sweat across his brow and the stradivarius was abandoned on the floor, where his lax hand had dropped it. John tucked a blanket around him and lifted his head, placing the union jack pillow beneath it before brushing the hair from his forehead. His roots were growing in dark brown and the curls were almost back to how they’d been before, the sight made John smile softly.
Absolutely ruined, the detective slept for twelve hours after that attack. That was the night John suggested attending rehab meetings.
Sherlock had refused at first of course, but John didn't let it go. Finally after another fit of sleepless nights and worrying the other man, the detective finally agreed. The night of his first meeting he was getting ready to leave and saw John slipping his jacket on as well. A shake of the head stopped him, and Sherlock refused to let him come. This was something he needed to do on his own.
However, a few weeks later when he came home from the meeting early, John’s worries were confirmed. He’d been kicked out for being a snarky sod. After a few moments of angry ramblings in which Sherlock made his case by countering with things like “She was the one that was a prostitute John. I merely pointed out that her last client had lied about his STD and that she should get checked.” But luckily with much grovelling, and a promise that he would be attending with Sherlock for all future meetings, they were allowed to return.
They seemed to help, and his temperament improved even though he only viewed going to the meetings as a way to put John at ease, and as observation. Although their life sometimes felt like a complete mess, they had their good days. More particularly there were days when John managed to stop acting like his doctor, and Sherlock slowed down enough to consider the relationship they had entered.
John knew it was Valentine’s Day, it was bloody impossible to miss, what with the traffic and the pink and red hearts taped to every shop window, which Sherlock had been quick to point out were terribly misinformative, but he wasn’t expecting anything. In fact, if anything, he had pointedly avoided the subject. Hearts, affection, sentiment. Sherlock had changed, but the last thing John wanted to do was frighten him off.
They were still just John and Sherlock. Their relationship had morphed so certain titles almost fit, partners, boyfriends, but no title had ever really fit anyways. They hadn’t discussed what this was since that first night. John wasn’t going to bring it up again, and he wasn’t going to put any stipulations on Sherlock.
With that in mind John had resigned himself to having a night in. Half way into the quiet evening Sherlock stormed out in an apparent snit only to return an hour and a half later with a bottle of wine and a box of the chocolate biscuits that John liked. He’d carried in a paper sack and eyed John carefully before sprinting into the kitchen and snapping any time John tried to join him. Finally he returned with the plate of biscuits and two glasses of wine. He’d pulled John onto the couch with him and put in one of those ghastly american action movies that John loved so much, and they’d spent the evening wrapped up with each other, sharing sweet kisses. They’d fallen asleep on the couch, but when Sherlock woke an hour later, he’d half carried the drowsy doctor to bed where they’d snuggled up together and slept late the next day.
Sherlock might not be emotionally stable or understanding, but he had known from the moment John had noticed that it was Valentines Day what he’d wanted, and it was the least he could do to put a smile on his face after all he’d been through.
Even after Valentine’s Day Sherlock continued to improve, and after a few months, he had filled out and there was almost no physical evidence of his addiction. He still had nightmares occasionally, but for the most part, life had returned to normal, well as normal as it got with Sherlock Holmes.
Mycroft had been able to put off the trial regarding the apparent murders for a short while, long enough for Sherlock to be able to come in and make his case to a lower level judge without displaying such obvious signs of withdrawal. It had all been for show of course. Mycroft had been very careful in picking a judge to deal with the cases, to be sure that they would rule in favor of his brother.
They were between cases, and Sherlock was at that point where he was mildly bored before being violent, and he was staring at John from across the room with a hungry look full of promises when there came a knock on the door. John couldn’t help but chuckle as he shot Sherlock an apologetic glance before heading down to get the door. He was sure the detective would have rather ignored whoever it was, the aversion to emotions and sentiment did not affect his libido in the least. When the mood struck he could be down right insatiable.
John nearly choked when he opened the door. His mind had wandered on him, replaying the previous nights activities. So when he found one Mycroft Holmes waiting rather impatiently on the stoop his mind came to a screeching halt. He quickly recovered, remembering that they had been waiting to hear from Mycroft since Sherlock’s meeting with the judge.
“Do we have a verdict?” His brows were furrowed slightly, hoping that that was all this was, he really didn’t want to deal with sibling rivalries or any government problem Mycroft could offer. More importantly he didn’t want Sherlock getting involved in any government deals, it never ended well. He could deal with sibling rivalry. It only led to some sulking, besides John had found faster ways to deal with sulks as of late.
“All’s well Doctor Watson.” He fished an envelope from his pocket and passed it to John. “Cleared of all charges, so I’ve come to collect. Sherlock’s doing better I understand?”
Everything about Mycroft’s demeanour was challenging, from his tone, to his raised eyebrow, to the way he leaned forward slightly on the tip of his umbrella. John’s lips pressed together tightly, and that only confirmed his assumptions. “Lovely.”
Sweeping past John he made his way up the stairs.
“Mycroft...” Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing as he leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. His brother would suffer dearly for interrupting the delicious plans he’d had for the doctor. Oh his brother would pay.
“I told you I’d hold you to your word. I’ve dealt with all of your transgressions, including covering up the Adler woman's death, yet again. You’re obviously doing well enough.” The last word dripped from his tongue as his eyes swept across the flat accusingly. John’s gaze followed the elder Holmes, trying to see what incriminating evidence he was obviously seeing, it eluded him.
Mycroft’s gaze snapped back to his younger brother, a certain air of mirth as he continued. “Friday. Seven o’clock. Mummy will be expecting you and John.”
“I’m still not exactly well Mycroft.” Sherlock said with disdain, “We’ll not be there. Give Mummy my apologies.” He turned his back on Mycroft, showing that the conversation was over.
“She’ll be rather disappointed.” Mycroft deadpanned as he turned away, his words weren’t meant for the detective anyways. His eyes locked with John, he knew who the guilt would eat at, and it wasn’t Sherlock. “I expect you’ll find time soon enough.”
He gave John a pointed look before heading toward the door, obviously not interested in engaging Sherlock further. He’d done all he needed to be sure Sherlock would visit their mother. Not this weekend perhaps, but he would. The door clicked behind Mycroft almost defiantly as John’s eyes bore into the back of a rather defiant Sherlock.

“Why won’t you go see her?” His voice was calm and curious, careful to keep any accusations out of his tone. Things had been delightfully good between the two of them and he didn’t want to upset their delicate balance.
Sherlock didn’t exactly know how to respond to the question. Part of it was his childish resilience to anything Mycroft wanted of him, but that wasn’t it. For some reason taking John to meet his mother seemed so intense. None of his friends or coworkers had ever met his mother before. Most of them assumed he’d been grown in a test tube and that Mycroft was just a guard dog.
Part of him also was hesitant to face her after all of the shenanigans surrounding his fake suicide. If she had in fact believed he was dead, she would be cross, and if not, Mycroft surely would have told her all about John, like the tattle tale he was, and she would still be cross. Even as a grown man his mother cross was a frightening thing. Her temper was like that of Aphrodite, once she was mad, you would be punished, even if she had to chase you down herself. The infuriating thing was, no matter how hard you tried to frazzle her, she would get upset yes, but not a hair would ever be out of place.
“Because I’m not ready yet John.” The words tumbled from his mouth before he could stop them, and he sat up, his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled and looking at the other man, “Why are you so insistent?”
It did strike him as odd that John was so eager for them to go. He didn’t know his mother, he couldn’t know if she’d been worried about him or not. Those who did know he had a mother always assumed that she was exactly like Sherlock and Mycroft. Brilliant, and cool. While she was brilliant, during his youth the detective had actually wondered if they had been adopted.
"She's very..." The words got stuck in his throat. Kind, intense, frightening. "I met her at the funeral. Well, your funeral. I wasn't exactly in my best form.... I just think it'd be the right thing to do."
This was not something he wanted to discuss. That had been the worst time for him, right after the fall. He'd gone to the funeral in a half catatonic state, been seated at the front and treated like a mourning widower. The Holmes mother had been kind, but not in a placating way like most.
Part of John's insistence had to do with doing what was right, more times than not his conscience had to work for the both of them. She had been more than accepting of how close he was to Sherlock, no questions, just an unnerving amount of support that was very Holmes. But mostly, he wanted the chance to meet her properly, considering how out of sorts he'd been last time they met.
“You want me to go visit my mother so that you can make up for first impressions?” his voice was strangely clinical and cold. He wasn’t sure why but this was something he did not want to do and he was going to dig his nails in and fight it as long as he could. He scoffed and laid back down on the couch turning his back to the doctor. All the arousal from earlier had dissipated from his body.
“No.” He said simply, and closed his eyes against the barrage he expected to come from John.
"You’ve got be kidding me. She's your mother Sherlock... You were gone for over three years. She has a right to see you." Any chance at a pleasant evening had just flown out the window. John set his jaw as he tried to rack his brain for anyway to get the child in front of him to cooperate. He had an idea, but it wouldn’t be fun for either of them.
"If I haven't seen her in that long she is used to it and she will be alright until I feel that I am well enough to see her!" His voice was strained, and he had no idea why John was fighting so hard for this. Shouldn't it be his decision? He pulled his dressing gown tighter around him as he burrowed into the couch cushions.
“Fine.” John’s voice was clipped, obviously done with the subject, as he stomped off to gather his tea from the kitchen before sitting at the desk to work on writing up their most recent case. It had been a few days, but he’d yet to have the opportunity to sit and even think about writing. Opening the laptop he began pecking at the keyboard, his brows furrowed in thought. He knew Sherlock would be surprised by his sudden acquiesce, but that was just what he wanted.
Green eyes peered over a shoulder as John literally gave up the argument. He was mildly surprised, but thinking back he realized John had been rather accommodating to his requests lately, perhaps they were just learning how to better cope with each other.
However, Sherlock found that this wasn't the case when he started getting ready for bed. He'd meandered into the kitchen, having decided to make tea to wind his mind down before retiring, and he made John a cup as well. Tea was the closest he ever got to an apology for being difficult.
John was still pecking away at the laptop when he set the cups down on either side of him. Long arms wrapped around his waist as a curly head nuzzled against the back of his neck, light kisses pressed into his hairline. "Are you almost ready for bed?" He asked between kisses.
"Hmm?" John hummed as though he hadn't noticed the man obvious attempts at seduction. The only sign that he'd taken any notice was the small smile that pulled at his lips as took a sip of the fresh tea. He didn't move in or away from the touch, he'd let Sherlock work out his reasons.
Setting the tea down, he continued seemingly oblivious to the detectives intentions. "I'll be done soon, no need to wait up."
Sherlock blinked. Normally when he got cuddly, as John liked to call it, he was up and ready to come to bed. Those times were few and far between. Although he often woke up embracing or being embraced by the doctor, during his waking hours he was still not a very physical person. Outside of sex anyway.
He looked down at John's blonde hair, picking out the strands of gray with his eyes as he thought. Was John still upset about earlier? He wasn't displaying any of his usual signs of anger, and he seemed quite calm. Sherlock's thumb rubbed against the hard planes of the smaller man's stomach as he thought. He'd taken the tea which was usually his sign that he'd forgiven whatever minor transgression Sherlock had done, but he was being....distant.
The word struck him like a freight train and his arms recoiled almost as if burned. "Alright then. Good Night." He left his untouched tea on the desk next to John and retreated to his bedroom. He lay on the bed, his back to the door and his breathing carefully measured to look like he was sleeping, but in reality his mind was running in overdrive, trying to comprehend John's sudden change.
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A Bit Better