Nothing New
Jan. 10th, 2016 10:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanSummary: It's the first night after Sherlock short exile, and John has trouble sleeping.
Notes: Spoilers for The Abominable Bride. Talk of suicidal tendencies and drug use. Happy reading!
-x-
221b Baker Street. John’s home away from home. Or his second home. His former home? It was hard to say. These days, when he said that he was going home, he never meant Baker Street, but it still felt like home. He felt at home here – at least after Sherlock came back. Baker Street felt like home again.
Now Mary was asleep in his old bed upstairs in his old room – one of Sherlock’s pillows between her knees – which looked almost exactly as it had before Sherlock jumped off the roof. John had left close to everything when he’d moved out the first time. He had planned to come back for it, but he hadn’t, and having it all there had come in handy after… after… God, he still had problems articulating it even in his own head. It had come in handy after he had found out who shot Sherlock, and John hadn’t been able to look at his wife without wanting to physically hurt her. Baker Street, and the second bedroom upstairs, had been convenient when he hadn’t trusted himself to not get violent with Mary. The second bedroom upstairs, they had really needed it.
John had pulled in a chair from the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom. He rationalised it with the fact that Sherlock still wasn’t out of the woods, and that he needed monitoring. That’s why John sat there counting his friend’s breaths as he slept. It wasn’t even remotely the reason, and John knew that. This was the third time in less than a year he watched over Sherlock when he slept, watching his chest rise and fall just to make sure he wasn't dead. John knew exactly why he was sitting there, and it had very little to do with monitoring vitals
He was high before he got on the plane.
They’d had to force Sherlock back here. He’d been on the phone with Lestrade (and anyone else who took his call) to get his hands on the recording of Moriarty. He wanted to know how the broadcasts had been hacked – or who had been paid off to press the play button. Something about things not always having to be so very clever and that bribing weak-minded people was an easy way to create the illusion of power one didn’t necessarily possess. John hadn’t been able to follow that particular ramble.
They had forced him back to Baker Street, and he had surrendered to John’s check-up – but not until John had started to count the things on the list. That damned list! John didn't always trust his pharmacology knowledge, but he had frequently read up on his Class A narcotics after Sherlock’s first Danger Night. That, plus the list and the fact that Mycroft seemed to trust its content (which John wasn’t sure he did), was how he had let himself be talked out of taking Sherlock for a proper drug test. It should bother John how many times he’d allowed Sherlock to convinced him to not take him to hospital, but it didn’t. Not as long as Sherlock let him examine him, at least. And as long as he didn’t find anything that was wrong. Or, life threateningly wrong. Sherlock was still high, on drugs and on a case, and John just…
Whatever Mary had said to have him take a shower and go to bed was beyond John.
You’ve been reading John’s blog – the story of how you met.
John had an obscenely filled glass of whiskey in his hands. He had poured it as soon as the other two had fallen asleep, but two hours later he still hadn’t touched it. He had an eight months pregnant wife upstairs and a friend who had overdosed just hours earlier so it didn’t seem right; if anything happened, he couldn’t have been drinking. Not that he had a car. If anything actually happened, he’d have to call for a cab or an ambulance or… Mycroft. And his mobile was out in the sitting room. Still. Pregnant wife and junkie friend. It added up to no alcohol.
He had never considered Sherlock as suicidal. Ever. Self-destructive, yes, but John had always thought him too fond of himself for suicide and there hadn’t been any signs. John knew this, because Sherlock had killed himself in front of him and John had spent years going over every interaction they’d ever had to see what he’d missed. Every conversation he remembered, every note on every case. Every time someone had called him a freak, every time Lestrade had sent him away from crime scenes. Every time John had left for a date. Every time they had argued. Every time he had been rude to Molly. Everything. John had gone over it all, again and again, so he knew, for sure, that Sherlock hadn’t shown any signs of being suicidal before throwing himself off a building.
Yet he had.
Now John sat there, with a whiskey he wouldn’t drink, and did the same thing for the last year. Because Sherlock had tried to kill himself today. Right in front of him. Again. And just like the last time, John hadn’t seen the signs. Last time he hadn’t seen the signs because there hadn’t been any. Sherlock hadn’t been suicidal, he hadn’t killed himself.
Today? John had no idea what to do with today.
He couldn’t have taken all of that in the last five minutes.
The list of substances Sherlock had taken kept coming back to him. Sherlock would have had to be really determined to get his hands on all of that while in solitary confinement. He must have really wanted to get high. Who had helped him? It sure as hell wasn’t Mycroft (who, as far as John knew, was the only person who had been allowed to see him). John understood, more intimately than he wished, just how much Sherlock’s drug habit tore at Mycroft, how much it wore him down. Not because Mycroft had opened up to him about, but because John, too, had a younger sibling with a substance abuse problem. So no, it wasn’t Mycroft who had helped him.
Still, Sherlock had got his hands on enough pills to kill him. And he had taken all of them. John had looked though all his pockets as soon as they came back to Baker Street and found nothing. Sherlock had taken enough pills to kill himself. He had taken enough to kill himself.
I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it.
He had taken enough to kill himself. John couldn’t get passed that. Not because he, like last time, couldn’t see why, but because after hours in the dark next to Sherlock’s bed, he thought he could see why. He had been sitting there, noting Sherlock’s every breath, and going over the last couple of months in his head and… he saw it. He retrospectively saw it.
Perhaps.
Sherlock would never admit to doing it on purpose. John wanted to believe him. John really, really wanted Sherlock to not have intentionally taken an overdose, but…
Look after him. Please?
If John had been his own patient, he would have told him that he couldn’t blame himself, that this wasn’t his fault. Everyone is responsible for their own actions. As the brother of an addict, he knew Mycroft’s words about nobody deceiving like an addict to be true. Sherlock swallowing enough pills to overdose, and potentially die, while reading his blog after they had said their final good-byes? John swallowed thickly. He might be an unobservant idiot, but there was no way he could not see what that meant.
Since this is likely to be the last conversation I’ll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?
Sherlock stirred, but did not wake. John held his breath until Sherlock had stilled again. He had lost Sherlock for real twice already (which in itself was ridiculous). Two times he’d had to say good-bye and imagine his life without him. On top of that he’d almost lost him three more times. And he had never— No wait, that wasn’t true.
About three months after Sherlock’s funeral John had contemplated suicide. He had found Sherlock’s stash of oxycodone – prescribe by one Dr John H. Watson – and for five days John had walked around with enough pills in his pocket to kill himself twice. Pills had never been his way of choice, though, and Lestrade had made it perfectly clear that the gun he didn’t know anything about was safe in his personal arms locker.
There were no solutions tonight. No answers. Sherlock had a new case. He would go on tomorrow as if what had happened today was nothing. He would dismiss every single one of John’s concerns as if they weren’t important. He would throw them aside as he had the list on the plane, render them irrelevant and focus on the case. John had no idea how to do that. He had ignored a lot of things, pretended to not have seen a lot of stupidity, but this…? He had to talk to Sherlock about this, regardless of if Sherlock cared to listen or not.
The East Wind takes us all in the end.
Before the sun came up, John emptied the glass of whiskey.
Notes: Spoilers for The Abominable Bride. Talk of suicidal tendencies and drug use. Happy reading!
-x-
221b Baker Street. John’s home away from home. Or his second home. His former home? It was hard to say. These days, when he said that he was going home, he never meant Baker Street, but it still felt like home. He felt at home here – at least after Sherlock came back. Baker Street felt like home again.
Now Mary was asleep in his old bed upstairs in his old room – one of Sherlock’s pillows between her knees – which looked almost exactly as it had before Sherlock jumped off the roof. John had left close to everything when he’d moved out the first time. He had planned to come back for it, but he hadn’t, and having it all there had come in handy after… after… God, he still had problems articulating it even in his own head. It had come in handy after he had found out who shot Sherlock, and John hadn’t been able to look at his wife without wanting to physically hurt her. Baker Street, and the second bedroom upstairs, had been convenient when he hadn’t trusted himself to not get violent with Mary. The second bedroom upstairs, they had really needed it.
John had pulled in a chair from the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom. He rationalised it with the fact that Sherlock still wasn’t out of the woods, and that he needed monitoring. That’s why John sat there counting his friend’s breaths as he slept. It wasn’t even remotely the reason, and John knew that. This was the third time in less than a year he watched over Sherlock when he slept, watching his chest rise and fall just to make sure he wasn't dead. John knew exactly why he was sitting there, and it had very little to do with monitoring vitals
He was high before he got on the plane.
They’d had to force Sherlock back here. He’d been on the phone with Lestrade (and anyone else who took his call) to get his hands on the recording of Moriarty. He wanted to know how the broadcasts had been hacked – or who had been paid off to press the play button. Something about things not always having to be so very clever and that bribing weak-minded people was an easy way to create the illusion of power one didn’t necessarily possess. John hadn’t been able to follow that particular ramble.
They had forced him back to Baker Street, and he had surrendered to John’s check-up – but not until John had started to count the things on the list. That damned list! John didn't always trust his pharmacology knowledge, but he had frequently read up on his Class A narcotics after Sherlock’s first Danger Night. That, plus the list and the fact that Mycroft seemed to trust its content (which John wasn’t sure he did), was how he had let himself be talked out of taking Sherlock for a proper drug test. It should bother John how many times he’d allowed Sherlock to convinced him to not take him to hospital, but it didn’t. Not as long as Sherlock let him examine him, at least. And as long as he didn’t find anything that was wrong. Or, life threateningly wrong. Sherlock was still high, on drugs and on a case, and John just…
Whatever Mary had said to have him take a shower and go to bed was beyond John.
You’ve been reading John’s blog – the story of how you met.
John had an obscenely filled glass of whiskey in his hands. He had poured it as soon as the other two had fallen asleep, but two hours later he still hadn’t touched it. He had an eight months pregnant wife upstairs and a friend who had overdosed just hours earlier so it didn’t seem right; if anything happened, he couldn’t have been drinking. Not that he had a car. If anything actually happened, he’d have to call for a cab or an ambulance or… Mycroft. And his mobile was out in the sitting room. Still. Pregnant wife and junkie friend. It added up to no alcohol.
He had never considered Sherlock as suicidal. Ever. Self-destructive, yes, but John had always thought him too fond of himself for suicide and there hadn’t been any signs. John knew this, because Sherlock had killed himself in front of him and John had spent years going over every interaction they’d ever had to see what he’d missed. Every conversation he remembered, every note on every case. Every time someone had called him a freak, every time Lestrade had sent him away from crime scenes. Every time John had left for a date. Every time they had argued. Every time he had been rude to Molly. Everything. John had gone over it all, again and again, so he knew, for sure, that Sherlock hadn’t shown any signs of being suicidal before throwing himself off a building.
Yet he had.
Now John sat there, with a whiskey he wouldn’t drink, and did the same thing for the last year. Because Sherlock had tried to kill himself today. Right in front of him. Again. And just like the last time, John hadn’t seen the signs. Last time he hadn’t seen the signs because there hadn’t been any. Sherlock hadn’t been suicidal, he hadn’t killed himself.
Today? John had no idea what to do with today.
He couldn’t have taken all of that in the last five minutes.
The list of substances Sherlock had taken kept coming back to him. Sherlock would have had to be really determined to get his hands on all of that while in solitary confinement. He must have really wanted to get high. Who had helped him? It sure as hell wasn’t Mycroft (who, as far as John knew, was the only person who had been allowed to see him). John understood, more intimately than he wished, just how much Sherlock’s drug habit tore at Mycroft, how much it wore him down. Not because Mycroft had opened up to him about, but because John, too, had a younger sibling with a substance abuse problem. So no, it wasn’t Mycroft who had helped him.
Still, Sherlock had got his hands on enough pills to kill him. And he had taken all of them. John had looked though all his pockets as soon as they came back to Baker Street and found nothing. Sherlock had taken enough pills to kill himself. He had taken enough to kill himself.
I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it.
He had taken enough to kill himself. John couldn’t get passed that. Not because he, like last time, couldn’t see why, but because after hours in the dark next to Sherlock’s bed, he thought he could see why. He had been sitting there, noting Sherlock’s every breath, and going over the last couple of months in his head and… he saw it. He retrospectively saw it.
Perhaps.
Sherlock would never admit to doing it on purpose. John wanted to believe him. John really, really wanted Sherlock to not have intentionally taken an overdose, but…
Look after him. Please?
If John had been his own patient, he would have told him that he couldn’t blame himself, that this wasn’t his fault. Everyone is responsible for their own actions. As the brother of an addict, he knew Mycroft’s words about nobody deceiving like an addict to be true. Sherlock swallowing enough pills to overdose, and potentially die, while reading his blog after they had said their final good-byes? John swallowed thickly. He might be an unobservant idiot, but there was no way he could not see what that meant.
Since this is likely to be the last conversation I’ll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?
Sherlock stirred, but did not wake. John held his breath until Sherlock had stilled again. He had lost Sherlock for real twice already (which in itself was ridiculous). Two times he’d had to say good-bye and imagine his life without him. On top of that he’d almost lost him three more times. And he had never— No wait, that wasn’t true.
About three months after Sherlock’s funeral John had contemplated suicide. He had found Sherlock’s stash of oxycodone – prescribe by one Dr John H. Watson – and for five days John had walked around with enough pills in his pocket to kill himself twice. Pills had never been his way of choice, though, and Lestrade had made it perfectly clear that the gun he didn’t know anything about was safe in his personal arms locker.
There were no solutions tonight. No answers. Sherlock had a new case. He would go on tomorrow as if what had happened today was nothing. He would dismiss every single one of John’s concerns as if they weren’t important. He would throw them aside as he had the list on the plane, render them irrelevant and focus on the case. John had no idea how to do that. He had ignored a lot of things, pretended to not have seen a lot of stupidity, but this…? He had to talk to Sherlock about this, regardless of if Sherlock cared to listen or not.
The East Wind takes us all in the end.
Before the sun came up, John emptied the glass of whiskey.
