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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
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“Jesus, Sherlock.” His voice was tired and exasperated, but not quite angry. “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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The detective felt soaked with sweat when the dry heaves finally subsided. A curly head lifted and allowed him to cross an arm over the open mouth of the porcelain bowl before dropping back down to rest on his forearm.

He was now painfully aware of John's forehead on his shoulder, and his mind replayed the other's question. He chose to ignore it for the time being, assuming it was rhetorical anyway. Warm hands were rubbing soothing circles on his back, and now that he was aware, his body cringed a little when John’s hand touched the still sore pink scar that sliced across his back and side.

When a portion of his strength returned from the nethers it had disappeared to, a slender hand pulled the rag off the back of his neck and wiped his face and nose before flushing away the evidence of his transgression. Pulling away from the toilet, he leaned back on his heels and let his head fall to the side, towards John as he tossed the rag into the bathtub. He was breathing hard, and his chest rose and fell weakly with each pained lung full of air.

"No more take-away for me thanks..." He said half jokingly as he closed his eyes. He was so exhausted he felt like he could go to sleep right here, raw sinuses and all. He ran a sleeve across his brow to keep from feeling like he was drowning in sweat, and his stomach muscles felt sore from the extreme spasms they'd been forced into.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he chanced a look up at the doctor, and ended up meeting his gaze. He was sure he looked like a kicked puppy begging its master not to be cross, and to be completely honest, that's how he felt as well.

There was very little remorse for Sherlocks predicament in John's eyes when the younger man finally raised his head. For a moment he didn't say or do anything, the hand on Sherlock’s lower back stilled but didn't move away. After what seemed like ages John leant Sherlock back against the wall of the small bathroom and stood to leave without any explanation, pausing for only a moment in the doorway to give a short order.

"Don't move."

He hurried to Sherlock's room, a room he hadn't entered in two years. Even now, knowing Sherlock was alive, John felt a shiver creep down his spine as he pushed open the door. It was irrational obviously, but it pained him to be back in this room. He supposed it was due to the many sleepless nights he had spent memorizing every detail of it, hoping he would derive some understanding as to what had happened.

Shaking his head, as if to shake off the painful memories, John went to the dresser and found a pair of flannel pants and a white t-shirt. Grabbing the familiar blue robe from atop the bed post he returned to the bathroom.

Sherlock grimaced and solidly banged his head against the wall after John left him there in the bathroom. He stupidly felt like apologizing, but that wouldn't get him any sympathy from his flat mate. Not that he wanted sympathy, he just didn't want him to be mad. He lifted a shaking hand to his face and rubbed it over his nose and mouth. Things between them were already delicate, and this was not helping to reaffirm John that Sherlock was still a good investment in his life. The detective was painfully aware of how close they were to 'too much' for the older man.

He had no idea what John had left him to do, and he couldn't hear him. A small seed of panic began to manifest in his mind as the thought that the other might have left shocked him practically sober. He sat up straighter and strained his ears to listen and there. There was the tell tale limp and the doctor was coming back to the bathroom. His relief was short lived when the doctor returned tight lipped and obviously very cross, but keeping it under a thin veil of control. John kneeled next to Sherlock as he finally spoke.

"What did you take?" That was what was important right now. What did he take? Would he be okay? John would save being angry at him for a time when he would actually remember it. He held onto the fresh clothing, waiting for an answer.

Rather than answering and betraying the waver he knew would be in his voice he slid a slender hand into his pocket and retrieved the pill bottle. It was a prescription made out for him of a very high dosage of Vicodin, the kind they gave out after surgeries or for severe bone injuries. He relinquished it without hesitation and folded his hands in his lap. He'd done much worse, and he'd had much worse reactions in the past. If John knew he wouldn't be making such a big deal now, would he?

Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest and hid his eyes from the light with one hand, leaning his hand back against the wall. They were sensitive, and he had a headache. Now he felt like a small child, and all he wanted to do was curl up and disappear from John's gaze. Would it always be like this? Would he feel like this any time he wasn't strong enough to shake his addiction?

Leaving the clothes in a heap John took the bottle, flipping it over in his hand to read the label. He popped the top and in one fluid motion he stood, pouring the remaining pills into the toilet and then tossed the empty bottle into the trashcan with a little more force than necessary, causing the can to shake slightly. John stayed standing away from Sherlock as he ran his hand through his hair, trying to keep a reign on the anger that was inevitably building.

John let his hands fall, causing his shoulders to slump slightly, before turning to face Sherlock again. It was a pathetic sight, seeing his once rather pompous friend so shattered. As John gazed down at the detective his features softened slightly. He was still angry, there was no denying that, but Sherlock had come for help. The drug use hadn’t been a secret in any way. Letting out a heavy sigh John knelt down to Sherlock’s level.

“I need to know everything you’ve done to yourself. Unless you plan on going to the surgery and getting another doctor that is,” He smirked knowingly at that, he knew Sherlock would not go to see another doctor unless John said he couldn’t handle the problem, and even then Sherlock would still insist it could be dealt with at home. “But that can wait a bit. Can you stand? You need to change out of this.” John pulled at the damp cloth, he didn’t understand why Sherlock got dressed anyhow. It wasn’t like they had any where to go.

Sherlock nodded, feeling like a chastised child even if John hadn't said much about it. He considered taking the clothes back to his room to change, it was far too early for John to see his scars, but something in the doctor’s tone had said he wasn’t going to stand for Sherlock being alone quite yet. Sherlock shot him a glare, that didn’t quite hold the venom he’d hoped for.

“Mind giving me some privacy?” John shook his head, exasperated, but went to stand outside the bathroom, not in the mood to argue with Sherlock even if he was half drugged.

Stronger now, Sherlock stood and started unbuttoning his sopping wet shirt. He let it slide off his torso before sifting through the pile of clothes and slipping on the t-shirt John had been brought. It was infuriating that John couldn’t even trust him to dress himself, but it was his own doing wasn’t it?

When he’d finished dressing he turned around and retrieved his clothes before shakily taking them to his room and tossing them in the hamper with the clothes he'd been wearing when he returned earlier that day. When he returned to the sitting room, John on his heels, having hounded him the entire way. He sat on the couch, pulling his feet up in the seat and draping his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees. He knew John was going to drill him now. He was partially glad, because he didn't even know where to begin.

Dropping into the couch next to Sherlock John kept his attention on his own hands, which were clasped in his lap. He knew that the other man was waiting for him to speak, to do something, but John was having a difficult time deciding what issue was more pressing; what he had taken today, or what he had taken over the past three years.

Deciding that he needed to make sure that Sherlock was coherent enough to actually divulge whatever other self harm he had done John settled on the first problem.

“So,” John started, turning his attention to the lanky man wrapped up in himself. “I know the food didn’t sit well, but how much vicodin did you take? And when exactly did you take it? Before you got here?” He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible, which wasn’t easy, a hint of irritation was surely audible. That was the difficulty in being both the friend and doctor of Sherlock Holmes, trying to keep his emotions separate from the problem, and right now John was furious that even while asking for help Sherlock couldn’t seem to keep himself sober.

He didn’t want to answer. He knew he was only going to dig himself into a hole, but he also knew not answering would make him upset as well. He didn’t raise his head, didn’t look at John, just answered as mechanically as John had asked the question, by avoiding it. “I’ve mostly done opiates through the morning.” he said softly, “I haven’t done anything harder than that in a few days...”

Sherlock’s fingers tapped against the side of his legs to a rhythm only he could understand. He hated how awkward and clinical this already was, and how much worse it was going to get. But he has asked for help, and he knew it was going to be a long road. He didn’t want to be the addict he’d been all his life. He wanted to be better than that.

Frustrated, John let out a guttural sound, almost a growl. “No, Sherlock. What you just lost in the toilet with half a box of take away. When did you take those and how many did you take? I need to know how coherent you are at the moment.” He hadn’t meant to lose his composure, but he had none the less.

The incessant drumming flowing from Sherlock’s fingertips was somewhat worrisome in the fact that it assured just how far he had fallen, just how addicted he was. John chewed at the inside of his lip, hard enough that he could taste a tinge of blood on his tongue. He was torn between hating Sherlock for doing this to himself, and his desire to simply make it all go away. To take this mans pain and will it out of his body somehow. John couldn’t help but wonder what he had been forced to do over the past three years that had led to this.

“Three John.... I took three before I got in the shower...” He closed his eyes against his words. Stress was high, and he knew they were both being a little short with each other, but neither could really blame the other. When he spoke, his words were contained, but irritated, his voice coming out around obviously grit teeth. “I am competent enough, can you please get on with your inquisition?” He turned his face away, no longer sure he could leave his face open for observation of his expressions.

“Dammit Sherlock,” John sighed heavily at the word inquisition. “I’m not trying to attack you.” Exhausted and emotionally spent his head rolled back against the couch. Closing his eyes he continued speaking, his voice considerably more affable “I need to know what all you’ve done, any,” he paused for a moment, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he tried to think of a pleasant way to ask the question, “anything that may have been detrimental to your body. We need to get you healthy Sherlock.”

“Yes...” he steeled himself, and looking up he let his eyes bore into John’s. He wanted Sherlock to talk? He would talk, and he would make the doctor sorry he pushed. He had grown extremely angry at John’s loss of temper, and now it was his turn. He knew he was thinking irrationally, but he was tired, and grumpy, and more than a little hurt, both physically and emotionally.

“You want to know what kind of drugs I’ve done in the last three years John? Yes. I’ve done all of them at one time or another. I’ve gone months without eating much at all, I’ve lost count of how many nights I’ve gone without sleep.” as he spoke, he took on a similar anger and tone like he had back in Dublin after seeing the ‘hound’ in the hollow. “Have you ever been addicted to something John? Have you ever had this burning need deep in your gut demanding that you have more of whatever it is? Getting over an addiction is like trying to teach yourself how to stop breathing. Because when you stop, you remember all the reasons you started taking them in the first place. So forgive me if I can’t just drop it all right NOW.” He was getting angrier the longer he spoke, and with a growl he stood and began pacing,although he did not stray far from the couch.

John cringed, the anger in his voice was venomous, but kept still and quiet throughout the rant. It was like a twisted form of a deduction, the angry, bitter words spilled from his mouth almost as fast as Sherlock’s mind produced them.

“I come back to find you broken John. I come back and I find you broken and hurting, and I am the cause... if you knew.... if you had an inkling of what has happened. What I’ve done... what I’ve given up and lost... “ He had been gesturing wildly with his hands, and now they fell limply at his sides.

“You have every right to be angry, you have every right to tell me to do this on my own, and you’re not, and I appreciate that more than you will ever know, but I am going to have to ask you to be patient with me.... Please John...”
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By the end John had brought one hand up to his face, his fingers pulling at his lips in anguish. Broken, hurting. He was, but that didn’t mean he knew it was so obvious. As Sherlock finished speaking he nodded mutely, his hand finally moving to tear through the short blond hair. “I’ll. . Yeah.” John nodded again, finding full use of his vocabulary after a moment, “I’ll do my best Sherlock. I’m sorry for pushing you, just sit down.”

Sherlock had expected John to yell back, but he didn’t. Almost as if he didn’t know what else to do, he moved towards the couch, and dropped down next to the doctor. He didn’t stop there though, and let gravity pull him sideways, dropping his head onto John’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.. I shouldn’t have yelled. And it wasn’t fair of me to say that...I’m just.. angry at myself...” Sherlock’s fingers began tapping on his leg again as he leaned on the doctor’s shoulder. The touch felt warm and spread through his chest, sapping the anger right out of him.

When he felt Sherlock lean into him John was only mildly surprised. In fact the physical reminder that his friend was really back, that this wasn’t some sick nightmare, calmed John significantly and after a moment he adjusted so he was sitting a bit taller to accommodate for their height difference before leaning his own cheek against the still damp curls.

“I know. It’s okay,” he muttered softly, watching Sherlock’s fingers twitching against his leg. A painful reminder that John hoped would fade quickly.

“Sherlock?” John shifted as he caught sight of the underside of the arm that had been bandaged earlier. He had sat up and carefully pushed up the loose sleeve of the Sherlock’s gown, revealing the deep, obviously infected, gashes. “Dammit Sherlock...” His voice was much softer than before, almost pained by what he was seeing. Without waiting for a response he stood, his hand slipping to gingerly grasp his friends wrist, hauling him off to the bathroom.

“You can explain while I clean it.” He stated, his voice terse, but not quite fueled by anger as it had been.

The detective stumbled to his feet and followed John mutely. He was pressed down to sit on the toilet, and Sherlock decided if he never had to spend another moment in this bathroom it would be too soon. Fighting back at this point would be unproductive, so he sat obediently on the toilet and pulled up the sleeve of his robe.

“I got in a fight.” He didn’t care to elaborate much more, “I got scratched, didn’t have time to care for it.” The detective shrugged noncommittally as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“A scratch?” John scoffed as a pulled a medical bag out from under the sink. Setting it on the counter he rummaged around until he found everything he would need. Unfortunately he’d have to scrub out the infection before he rebandaged the arm, something he was sure Sherlock was going to resent him for.

“Lay your arm over the sink.” John started, and when Sherlock obliged he continued, running warm water over the wound as he spoke. “You’ve been following me for days Sherlock. I’m sure you could have managed to stop for a moment.”

“The infection had already set in at that point, and I didn’t have the proper implements to properly clean it. So I changed the bandages thrice a day. I couldn’t do much more. Could you quit lecturing me? I think I’ve got the point by the pain in my arm. You’re sure to be inflicting more whilst cleaning it. That’s punishment enough wouldn’t you say?” his tone was clipped in frustration. He wasn’t really mad at John, but he was tired of being reprimanded at every turn.

John shook his head and began scrubbing the wound, trying to put just enough pressure to clean away the most of the infection without causing any undue pain. “You’re lucky I have some antibiotic samples or we’d have to make a trip to A&E. You could have gone septic.” Then realizing he was beginning to lecture Sherlock again he moved on. “Is there anything else I should check for you?” He couldn’t help but wonder what Sherlock had been through while he was away, how this had happened.

“No.” The detective’s answer was simple as he cringed against the pain shooting up his arm from John’s scrubbing, “After this.. I think I’d like to get some sleep.” he said softly.

Sleep. John desperately needed to sleep. He was physically, mentally, and emotionally drained, but given their previous conversation, before Sherlock had gotten sick, the statement had a double meaning. Once he had finished cleaning out the wound and dried it with a towel he turned back to Sherlock, and in a barely audible tone he whispered, “Yeah, we both need the rest.”

Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed as he spoke, “You’re thinking about what I asked you earlier.... as I said, I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.” However, even as he spoke, he couldn’t bare to pull away from the doctor now. John had medicated the wound and was gently wrapping his arm in fresh bandage. No wonder normal people slept so much, emotions were exhausting. Heaping that on top of the rest of what had happened today, and his weariness from the past three years, Sherlock felt like a dead man walking.

“It would be a lie for me to say that I didn’t sorely want it though.” The arm John wasn’t cleaning, snaked up his broad back and gripped at his shirt, a definite difference from his earlier grumpy notions. A warm glow began to descend over Sherlock then, the touch dominating his thoughts and sending the rest of his swirling consciousness fluttering in the breeze.

If John was honest with himself, he wanted it too. He felt ridiculously at ease, so close to Sherlock, but as he thought back to their life before he realized this was only slightly new. It was new in the fact that the contact had never been so intentional, but Sherlock had never been one to respect personal space. He had constantly found minute ways to be in contact with John, even out on cases he would stand precariously close. An unconscious signal to everyone around, John was his blogger.

The only part of the whole affair that really made John uncomfortable was the idea of it, he would be sleeping with another man, in the most literal form of the phrase.

“I’m sorry Sherlock” John paused, hoping Sherlock would understand what he meant, he couldn’t do this. “I’ll just be down the hall.” He meant the last bit to be reassuring, that he wasn’t leaving, but it ended up coming out as yet another apology. John finished wrapping the bandage, but held onto Sherlock’s arms lightly.

The detective felt as if the doctor's words had sliced through him, and when he spoke, his words were more clipped and sharp than he'd meant them to be. "You needn't apologize John, we're both adults here."

He stood, suddenly John's comfort had turned to fire against his skin, and he needed to be away. "Goodnight then." With a swish of his dressing gown he was gone before the doctor could speak.

John stood frozen until he heard the resounding click of Sherlock’s door closing behind him. Pressing his hands into the cool tiles of the counter he hung his head in defeat, so much for fixing them. After a few short minutes John fumbled to his own bedroom, now much more aware of his limp than he had been in years.

He lay in bed for what felt like hours. There was a faint rustling coming from the floor below, somethings about the man would never change he supposed. Eventually, however, John managed to slip into a restless sleep where nightmares quickly plagued him.

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Sherlock hadn't been able to sleep. He hadn't even bothered to turn the sheets down, and had just ended up laying down on top of the duvet. He was thinking of all the experiments he'd left behind, which ones he'd have to start over and whether or not he could have a smoke without being caught when he heard it the first time. A soft whimper he couldn't really place. Stilling he strained his ears, listening for some signal as to where the noise was coming from..

Then there was a groan of agony and a shout of his name. The detective was on his feet and sprinting up the stairs. His legs were still a little wobbly but he managed to make it to John's door without too much trouble. When he threw open the door, he saw the doctor thrashing in the sheets, hands clawed in the pillows, and face screwed up in agony. He hesitated only half a second before lunging for the man an gripping his shoulders tight.

"John, John! Wake up!" He laid a cool hand over the burning forehead hoping it would help return the man to the waking world, "John wake up! I'm here!" When the thrashing didn't stop he gripped the man's arms tight and began shaking him, gently at first, then harder until he woke.

John woke with a gasp, his mind still trapped in the depths of his nightmare. Without realizing who was trying to shake him awake John swung, his fist landing against Sherlock’s chest.

The detective's breath was knocked out of him, and he coughed once, closing his eyes in those few seconds where air would not come to him. Sherlock had to hand it to the doctor, he had a powerful left hook, but when The younger man opened his eyes once more, his green gaze met a wild and frightened blue one.

Almost instinctually he wrapped his arms around the flailing man attempting to calm him, trapping his arms as well. "John. Calm down, it was only a nightmare. I'm here."

John writhed in Sherlock’s arms desperately, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. It took nearly a full minute for John to relax enough to realize Sherlock was clutching him to his chest, speaking gently to him.

“Sherlock!” His friends name came out almost as a cry of relief. Something about Sherlock returning had made his normal terrors that much worse. He relaxed into the detectives grasp, breathing heavily against his chest as he tried to steady his breathing. His own chest was tight, anxiety and fear threatening to take over again if he closed his eyes. But his mind couldn’t settle on that. He couldn’t have Sherlock in here, there were too many secrets.

“I’m fine.” He managed to gasp out, knowing that wasn’t really true. “I-.. Tea. Downstairs.” He muttered, trying to pulling himself from the detectives arms, who seemed to have relaxed once John had acknowledged his surroundings.

John stumbled to the door, shaking all over, but stopped there holding it open in a clear invitation for Sherlock to leave the room, now.

"I was only trying to help." The detective slid off the bed after the doctor, and for a moment he stood in the door. He couldn't tell if John intended to follow or not, and it made him feel uneasy. However the doctor's expression made him turn and head down the stairs anyway.

He filled the kettle and turned the burner on, absently rubbing his sternum where John had struck him. It throbbed with a dull ache and he was sure to have a bruise. Leaning against the counter, he ran a hand through his tousled curls. John had been screaming his name. Was he having nightmares about his fall or just losing his best friend?

Sherlock had thought at the time that he could handle whatever came after his decision to fake his own death. Now, he wasn't as certain.

John waited until he could hear Sherlock mucking about in the kitchen before he followed down the stairs. He padded into the kitchen slowly, not quite meeting the detectives gaze. Nothing like this had happened before, even when John had first moved in. Sure he had still had his nightmares, but they were calm, and rarely happened once he’d fallen into daily life with Sherlock.

Leaning against the back of the counter John kept his focus on the floor, his features hardened once more into a veil of military bearing. His eyes flicked to Sherlock momentarily as he muttered gruffly.

“I’m sorry about that. It’s not normally that bad.”

"No need to apologize John." He said softly. He raised his hand, remembering the way Lestrade would pat one of their shoulders at a crime scene when he approved of what they'd done. However before his hand rested on the doctor's shoulder, the kettle whistled.

Sighing, he fixed the tea, and handing the striped mug to the smaller man, "Are you positive you're alright?" His hand fell down to catch the doctor's arm around the bicep, his fingers chilly against the other man's skin.

John shudder slightly when Sherlock’s fingers pressed against his skin, but the shaking seemed to stop at the touch. Taking a shaky breath he nodded, his own fingers slightly burning against ceramic mug. His focus turned to where Sherlock’s hand was resting against his arm, and gradually John’s mind began to feel less erratic.

Nodding once again, having not actually answered the first time, he cleared his throat and said, “Yeah... I mean no, but I will be.” He finally looked back up at the detective, his piercing green eyes were almost painful but John offered them a sheepish grin and shrugged before dropping his gaze again.

Sherlock let his hand slide up to the doctor’s shoulder, almost as if asking for those eyes to meet his again. He could see the way the man had relaxed under his touch and he wanted to experiment more to see if he was the catalyst or if the doctor was calming down by himself. He removed his hand and crossed his arms, his tea forgotten on the counter.

“You had nightmares before, but... these are different.” he knew he was stating the obvious, but he’d learned that sometimes John just needed to be coaxed before he talked about things. “What changed about them?” His eyes flickered over John’s body, searching for signs of tension at the lack of contact.

Sure enough John’s frame quickly tensed up, his fingers gripping the mug in his hands a bit tighter. Again he didn’t answer immediately, but when he did his voice was colder than it had been before.

“You know what changed.” He didn’t blame Sherlock, not really. Well, maybe he did, but it wasn’t as if he was trying to make Sherlock guilty for it, not right now anyways. He simply didn’t understand what Sherlock’s motive was here. “You really want me to say it?”

“Would you feel better if you did? I know you need to talk about things... I’m not always capable of reading when you do or when you don’t.” He reached out and squeezed the doctor’s shoulder, and reached for his tea, leaving his hand where it lay.

“You don’t have to. I’m merely trying to help. Although I was asking what has changed with your nightmares not necessarily what changed to cause them, however since you approached the subject, that makes it a logical assumption that you do indeed need to talk about it.” He turned his eyes to John once more, his expression softer than it had been all night.

Setting his cup down on the counter behind him John shook his head, lips pressed together tightly. “It’s not that simple Sherlock.” He started, for someone who had known his limp was psychosomatic from one look Sherlock really seemed to know nothing when it came to how people actually dealt with emotions.

“You’re right, I probably need to talk about it. But I don’t want to. It’s painful enough seeing... seeing what I see at night, I don’t want think about it any more than I have to.” He had finally looked back up at Sherlock without shying away. The almost sympathetic look he was receiving was a bit alarming coming from Sherlock, but he pressed on. “And did it occur to you that the thing that caused my nightmares to come back is the same thing that changed about them?”

His head cocked to the side, carefully studying Sherlock’s response. He was still exhausted from the nightmare and his anger was quickly taking over his addled mind. He wasn’t angry at Sherlock because he’d caused the nightmares. No at the moment he was simply infuriated that the detective could stand there calm as ever, asking what had changed. “It all goes hand in hand Sherlock.”

“You’re angry.” The statement was obvious, but Sherlock felt like he needed to say it anyway.

John’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “No shit Sherlock.” His brows knit together as he looked back at the detective, part of him realizing he might have been too harsh. “Do you understand why?”

“Because I was gone for three years? Because I didn’t tell you? John this emotional nonsense doesn’t make any sense to me, it never has!” Sherlock forced himself to stop and take a breath. If there was one emotion he knew well it was anger, and he refused to let himself fly off the handle at John.

“Yes. All of that is out in the open John. I don’t understand necessarily why!” He gripped the man’s upper arms with both hands , “Emotions are totally internal, and I know you think I can read minds John but I can’t. And I know that you’ll let this eat away at you. I’ll watch it happen too, and it’ll eat away at you until you blow up and do something idiotic, like have a row with a chip and pin machine and run off to Sarah’s! No John, you can’t just... hide from all this.”

“I’m not!”

The two words ripped from his chest, a painful mix of emotions playing across his features. “I have to deal with this every day Sherlock. I’m not hiding from anything. I’m dealing with it.” The outburst finished John’s voice began to soften a bit. “I don’t expect you to read my mind, but I do expect you to have a bit of understanding. You’ve been gone for three years. I’m not going to rehash the painful memories that haunt me because you think I need to talk.”

The tremor that had been in his voice when he’d first woken from the nightmare was gone, as was the shaking. He looked back at Sherlock steadily, not making any move to pull away from the detectives grasp on his shoulders.

“I can’t change what’s been already been done.” His voice was measured, as if he were trying to keep himself calm, “You act as if I did this to spite you, just to hurt you, and you couldn’t be further from the truth. If you think for one moment that I was ignorant of your pain, then you are very narcissistic. I didn’t leave immediately. I watched you for days, and I thought you were going to be alright. I thought you’d move on with your life. Isn’t that what people do after the death of a friend? They have to.”

His hands gripped tighter on John’s arms like he thought the man was going to leave, “I didn’t expect this. I didn’t do what I did knowing that this would happen to you. Perhaps I was just in my actions, perhaps I was not, but one thing does remain. The moment I knew I could, I came back, and I think that should count for something. I’m trying to help you John, and you’re not letting me. What more do you want from me?”

The last phrase was a little more raw than Sherlock was comfortable with, and he released the doctor’s shoulders, turning away and taking his tea to the sitting room. Folding his long limbs onto the couch, he sipped his tea, suddenly feeling very exposed.

John ran a now shaky hand through his hair, trying to calm down. He did not want to fight with Sherlock right now. He was irritated and angry with the man, but frankly he just didn’t have it in him. Once John felt as though he could speak to Sherlock without lashing back out he followed his friend, sitting on the opposite side of the small sofa.

“I’m not asking you for anything Sherlock.” John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his upturned hands. When he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper. “I just can’t talk about it all. It’s too painful. Maybe you’re right, maybe I am hiding from it all but... my nightmares haunt me enough. I don’t want to think of them while I’m awake any more than I must.”

Sitting back against the sofa, avoiding the detectives knowing eyes again John’s voice hardened a bit, “I’m not trying to blame you for anything, but don’t expect me to just open up to you. It’s been a long time.”

"You were never open with me." Sherlock set his tea on the table and carded both hands through his unruly curls.

"You never told me anything, I found it all out for myself because I'm observant. I knew things you didn't necessarily want me to know. I don't expect you to be.... This is why I don't..." His hands flittered between them as he struggled to explain, " I don't do nice. I don't comfort. People always end up worse off after I've tried."

Flopping back against the couch, his knee brushed the doctors as he sprawled out in almost mock anguish, "That, along with the fact that it's tedious and exhausting with rarely positive results..."

“Then it’s settled.” John interjected, unconsciously leaning toward the detective a bit. “You be your normal obtuse self. I’m not expecting you to fix me.” It was the closest John could come to admitting he was broken. He closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the sofa softly, mentally and physically exhausted from the past day.

"It's not like there's a book I can read on the matter John. I've hurt people before and they generally run off, and if they do talk to me again, it was never something of this caliber. People have always been replaceable in my life. When confronted with someone who is not...." His mind was chaotic, trying to pull in words that would express his meaning, calculating John's reactions, and trying to find ways out of the argument.

Huffing a sigh of frustration, he leaned over, his head coming to rest on the doctor's shoulder, craving the calm he knew it would bring. "I haven't... I've never hurt someone like this and I am unable to appropriately gauge how best to proceed. Losing you, your friendship would be disastrous. And it is my experience that my normal obtuse and aloof attitude does not condone one staying after something of this magnitude." The tendrils of calm spiraled through his body, starting at all the contact points where he was touching the smaller blonde, forcing the nervous thoughts away and replacing them with a hazy warmth.

A small, almost sad smile pulled at the corners of John’s lips. It was ridiculous, but Sherlock’s words were endearing and if John was being honest with himself, losing Sherlock a second time would be just as disastrous as the first. John quickly relaxed into Sherlock’s hold on him, leaning his head to rest on top of the dark curls.

“I’m not going anywhere Sherlock... I’m probably nuts, but... We’ll figure things out okay? You know I’ll tell you if you’re doing something a bit not good.” The anger he’d felt earlier had completely dissipated when Sherlock had leaned into him. He had just gotten the detective back, the last thing he wanted to do was make Sherlock think he wasn’t wanted.

"Sleep with me." The words were out of Sherlock’s mouth before he thought about the way they might sound to the other man, "I can feel how the reassurance of my being here relaxes you."

He didn't look at the doctor, just let his fingers twist in the man’s shirt tail, "Try it tonight? If it doesn't work, then I'll admit I was wrong and you can go back to your nightmares. However, I really think it will work, and if I can offer a reprieve from something I caused...." He trailed off before clearing his throat. He pushed on so as not to sound too different from his normal self, "besides you want me to sleep, we both know I need it but my mind won't shut off, I've been on the run too long. You make it quiet. So I you don't do it for you, acquiesce for me?"

John swallowed thickly, his mind twisting and turning with internal debate. It was nice, the contact, the physical reminder that Sherlock was not dead, that he was home, but that did not change how the idea of sleeping with another man made the part of his mind that practically screamed straight cringe.

But Sherlock was right, they both needed to sleep and they needed the added comfort of each others presence, so John managed to make a deal with the battling sides of his mind. It would be be fine, it would all be fine, as long as it was just to allow them both the rest they needed.

He nodded against the top of Sherlock’s head, “Yeah. We can try it. Your bed?”

"Of course. I imagine the intimacy of sleeping on your tiny twin bed would be to much for your psyche." He smirked softly before sliding to his feet, "Come on Doctor Watson. At your leisure." And he strode off to his room.

John took a deep breath before pushing himself to his feet and following the detective to his room. The memories weren’t quite as suffocating now that Sherlock was in the room with him, but he still made it a point not to look around the room, standing awkwardly in the doorway as he watched to detective slip into the bed.

When Sherlock scooted to the side, leaving a space for him, John made his way to the bed only dragging his feet a little. He was still a bit apprehensive but he clambered into bed next to Sherlock, leaving a few carefully measured inches of space between them.

The detective knew the doctor would be uncomfortable with too much contact, so he kept it light, unassuming. Cool hands started at the doctor's shoulders and slid down to his shoulder blades before his right arm slipped outwards to pillow the soldier's head. His other arm stayed wedged between them, a barrier for John's benefit to keep them from getting too close.

Sherlock felt his mind quiet again, and let out a contented sigh. The feeling of exhaustion crept up on him and suddenly his eyelids were very heavy. "Comfortable?" He asked finally, a yawn in his voice giving him away.

"Mmhmm." John mumbled softly and he was, for the first time in a long time he was warm and comfortable. There was a familiar voice nagging at the back of his mind asking what the hell they were doing, but he'd deal with it later. For now it seemed that he would be able to find peaceful sleep for the first time in years.

"Good." Sherlock said softly before closing his eyes and actually drifting off into a deep sleep.
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A Bit Not Good