Chapter Text
Sherlock's footfalls echo up the seventeen steps to 221b. It's evening, but he doesn't bother to turn the lamp on. Enough streetlight glows through the windows to dimly light the flat. He dumps his shoulder bag carelessly on the floor in the landing to lighten his load before he crosses the room and gently sets his violin case down. It goes in its proper place near his music stand by one of the windows. He hangs his Belstaff and the morning suit's garment bag on the two coat hooks behind the door.
He folds himself onto the sofa. It had been a lovely wedding, he admits to himself, at least for a tiresome customary ritual. He fully understands the reasons why people go through all the pomp of course; he can even reference various sociology journals on the topic. However, it still seems like a grand waste of time. Humankind should really have evolved away from the fuss surrounding a simple pairing up. Now John and Mary are off on their honeymoon, which is yet another boring tradition. At least it is one he is not expected to be a part of, and now he is finally back home.
Home. It was what he had dreamed of for two years. Two years of chasing down the remains of Moriarty’s network. Two years of hunting and hard living. Traveling to places he would have never chosen to see, eating things he never wanted to taste again. He had killed for the first time; two men. One was clearly for self-defense, but the other had simply been an assassination. It had been necessary for his goal, and his target had been incontrovertibly guilty. He had been too dangerous to attempt to hand over to authorities. The killing is not something he feels regret over, but being the one to mete out punishment is not a role in which he is fully comfortable.
For those years he had yearned for the Thames and Trafalgar Square. He had wanted nothing more than his books, violin and Baker Street. A few crimes to solve involving strangers and nothing with personal consequences. Nothing that could burn the heart out of him. He is still surprised he could pine so deeply for everyday things. Now it is over and done and he is finally ensconced in his flat with the early evening bustle of London right outside his window.
He sighs into the darkness. He had somehow functioned on the assumption things would have remained the same in London with him gone. It was embarrassingly foolish to have spent so much time woolgathering over his return. It had bordered on romantic daydreaming, which gives him a stab of self-disgust. Obviously he couldn’t press a pause button when he fell off the roof at Bart's; life had resumed without him and things continued to change. Obvious.
He had thought he would return to a warm hearth and steady companionship. Instead his partner had got on without him. John had moved out, found himself a spouse and continued forward with a new life that did not involve the ghost of Sherlock Holmes.
Realizing the error of his expectations now does not comfort him. The flat still seems cold and dark with an emptiness that leaves him feeling hollowed out. It's just the unexpected, he chides himself. John Watson was after all, was always a surprise to him.
He curls into the back of the sofa and remains that way until the light of the morning.
####
“Hey.” John peers into the open door of Sherlock's sitting room. “I've brought lunch. Mrs. Hudson said she was sick of trying to feed you.”
221b still feels odd to John. A combination of somewhere he still belongs, but yet it is no longer his home. It reminds him of seeing his old bedroom at his parent's house after they turned it into a guest room. It contained his old familiar furnishings but with all his personal flotsam gone. Stripped of anything distinctively John, yet oddly still the same. His old headboard had a new mattress and a floral coverlet. The same wallpaper he started at his whole childhood was there, with all his football posters removed.
Anything belonging to John had been packed up and moved out of Baker Street years ago. He supposes Mycroft kept up on the rent, because the same furniture was still in the flat. The cow skull with its headphones was even there, too.
However, not everything was old. There is a new mirror over the fireplace with an arabesque mosaic border. Books stacked over every surface, yet he sees no signs of the usual pile of newspapers. A chess set John doesn’t recognize with marble pieces sits on the floor. The violin is in its usual spot, but in a different case. Perhaps it is even a different violin? He wouldn't be able to tell anyway. Things were familiar, but not quite the same.
Sherlock is perched on his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. He is in his dressing gown in the middle of the day, long graceful feet bare. His eyes flick over John before gazing back at nothing. He doesn't return John's greeting.
So John busies himself in the kitchen, moving aside abandoned experiments and charred Erlenmeyer flasks. It wasn't a lie that Mrs. Hudson needed a break from Sherlock. She had called John with increasing worry over the last couple weeks. He was unusually quiet. No banging in and out the front door; in fact he hardly left the flat at all. No sawing away at his violin at all hours. No gunshots, bad telly or police cars zooming up to the kerb.
“Lestrade tells me you were cleared to consult on a few cases again.” John tries again, conversationally.
“Yes, in a limited manner.”
“So...working on something?” He sets out the pad thai, and Sherlock pulls himself up to come to the table. He moves like an old man with stiff joints, his old careless grace gone.
“No.”
John eats and watches Sherlock scoot his noodles around his plate in silence. All attempts at conversation falling flat. It's not that they hadn't spent hours not speaking before. But this wasn't a companionable type of quiet or Sherlock being lost in thought. There was something that felt deeper in the silence this time.
“You know if you ever need anything...well. Mary and I only live a few Tube stops away.” He tries.
“What would I possibly need?” Sherlock asks, but he keeps his eyes fixed on down his plate of uneaten food. John feels a cold prick of fear for his friend.
####
John taps the sides of his teacup restlessly. “Something seems odd with him. I mean, more strange than he usually is.” He tells Mary.
“He seemed just fine at the wedding,” she tries. “Maybe he's just taking a break? He was running around for two years. I'd want a bit of a lay about after that.”
John scrunches his face in concern. “Not really his thing. I mean he's a lazy bastard, sure. It all changes if he can get on a case and then he is a man of action. Lestrade said he can offer him certain kinds of cases now, but he won't even look at anything.”
“Depressed, then?”
John shrugs. “It’s possible, he has dark moods. They usually don’t last long enough for me to think anything clinical was wrong. I saw him in a pretty bad state once over that Irene situation.”
Mary puts her arm around his shoulder, offering comfort. John leans into it with a hum of thanks.“If you think he needs you now, you should go. Maybe stay over a couple days.”
John laughs. “You mean, like bring a sad movie and some ice cream and we can have a good cry over his feelings?”
“Maybe not,” Mary admits with a smile, “It would make things easier if that worked, though.”
####
“Please John, go check on him immediately. I fear the worst.” Mycroft's voice sounds distant over the phone. “I'll send a car.”
####
When John arrives at Baker Street he finds Sherlock is sitting bolt upright in his chair, wearing only pajama bottoms.
“Sherlock,” John says firmly, and strides in front of him. “Let me take a look at you.” He knows exactly what he is going to find, and takes a deep breath to keep professional. Sherlock's dark curls are matted down around his temples in sweat, and his face is flushed. As John bends closer he can see his eyes are a bit bloodshot and his pupils are dark and wide.
“John. John.” Sherlock begins in stream of rapid fire words, “Who sent you? Mycroft? Of course it was Mycroft. He's spying on me again. He noticed someone different came by the flat, had him identified. It's the cameras. Those cameras of his…he must have ran complex facial recognition algorithms against a national database. It should be abuse of power to...”
“Shhh.” John lays one hand on Sherlock's shoulder to settle him, taking up the mantle of the calm doctor. His skin burns. John then presses his fingers against the carotid, and counts the beats. His pulse is too quick, but not dangerously so. John tries to ignore the plummeting feeling in his guts as he finally grasps Sherlock's elbows and rotates his arms. He finds the little puncture in the crook of his left elbow.
“How much and how long ago?” John asks, remaining steady. He doesn’t really have to ask what Sherlock injected. Mycroft and Lestrade both had laid out Sherlock’s past history with cocaine and morphine shortly after he had moved in. John feels a little tremor pass through Sherlock's arm.
“Not nearly enough and about nine minutes and thirty-two seconds ago. I'm fine. I'm perfectly capable of administering a proper dose. It's wearing off, it doesn’t last long. It didn't have the desired effect this round. More data is needed but I'm not sure if I have enough to make the next solution. Especially if Mycoft is scaring away every bike messenger in London with his black cars and cameras and...”
“Stop,” John orders him. He is trying so very hard not to lose his temper and now is the wrong time for that. “I should take you to A&E.”
“No!” Sherlock yelps, and springs up from his seat. He grabs at John, grasping at his clothes in desperation. “You can't. They will call Lestrade. I won’t be able to take cases at all if it happens again. They will court order me back to a dreadful clinic John, you won't. I'm fine. I know what I’m doing and you are here, so there is no need to...”
“Calm down, Jesus, you are going to give yourself a stroke!” John pries Sherlock's fists off his jacket and swats away his attempts of regaining a hold. “You are going to go and try to lie still for a bit and not to piss me off.” John orders and starts steering him to the sofa, “When you come down from this we are going to have a good and proper chat, hear? If at any time you start acting like a bigger wanker then you are right now, I am dragging you in. You are going to do every damn thing I say.”
“I knew you wouldn't make me go.” Sherlock interjects. John feels another shiver go through the lean body as he pushes him down on the sofa.
“Congratulations, arsehole, case solved.”
“You’re angry with me.”
“Shut up. Lie down and go to your bloody Mind Palace or something.”
Sherlock complies, watching John intently as he moves around that flat. He stops by the kitchen and clicks on the kettle; he hopes Sherlock has tea because John is going to need some. He supposes he can borrow some from Ms. Hudson, but he’d really prefer if she was left out of this little drama.
With that done, he moves through to Sherlock’s bedroom. It’s still tidy as a pin, so it doesn’t take much looking around to find a long sleeved cotton tee shirt. John stops by the toilet and retrieves the first aid kit, thankfully still well stocked. He wets a clean flannel before he heads back to his patient fidgeting on the sofa.
John takes Sherlock’s pulse again. “Slower. I think your ride is almost over.”
“Yes, I know.”
John scowls and grasps his arm, runs the flannel over the injection site. “I really hope you used a clean needle.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“I’m not warning you again.” He makes a few perfunctory wipes to get some of the drying sweat off Sherlock’s temple, neck and chest. Pulling an alcohol pad and plaster out of the first aid kit, John cleans and covers the needle prick. Sherlock lies back and tolerates the fuss on threat of arrest.
“Your body temperature is going to start to go back to normal, put this on.” John hands Sherlock the shirt. “I’m also guessing you’re not going to feel particularly happy when you crash.”
“I know.” Sherlock decides not to helpfully mention he usually would inject a bit more at this point to ease himself down.
“I’m going to make tea, order some take-away and call Mary. I think it might be a good idea if I say over tonight. Is that okay?”
“Unnecessary, but it’s fine. Don’t call Mycroft.”
“You forgot you are in no position to be making demands. I’m going to text him and tell him you haven’t overdosed, and I’m looking after you. You can fight with him later.” John goes into the kitchen and leaves his idiot friend to slowly sink into the depressing aftereffects of a stimulant high.
####
John waits for a couple hours, giving Sherlock a chance to lie down for a bit and recover. He finds the rest of the cocaine solution among his chemistry gear, and washes it down the sink. Sherlock refuses to eat, which is expected, but John gets him to drink a couple cups of tea.
Figuring he has put it off long enough, John sits on the coffee table and begins his line of questioning. “I want you to start telling me what this is all about.”
“Thinking.” Sherlock explains. “It is not for recreation. It’s simply a way to fine tune my brain. I have concluded that over the last couple weeks I have been suffering from a neurochemical imbalance. Since in the past cocaine has proven to be an excellent stimulant to improve my deductive skills, I started with that first. I am attempting a ‘jump start’ of sorts and working out the correct dosage.”
“Sherlock, you don’t play chemistry with your brain with illegal street drugs. You have to see how risky that is.” John says, exasperated.
“I am careful. I reduce the risks, I test the solution thoroughly.”
“Forget that you could give yourself a heart attack, or put yourself back into rehab.”
“The alternative is equally not acceptable. I have to work, John.”
John thinks this all through for a moment. “Let’s back up a minute, okay? Why can’t you work? What is going on?”
Sherlock falls silent.
“Oh no. See, after I find you high as a kite, the mute strategy is no longer in play. You're going to answer me.”
Sherlock fidgets uncomfortably, picking at the hem of his shirt.
“Sherlock...” John warns, growing frustrated, “Better me than some therapist in rehab.”
“I'm not being recalcitrant. It's not something I can easily explain.”
John nods. “I'm kind of pants at this whole talking about feelings thing too. Don't try to go New Age on me. Can you start with a symptom list?”
Sherlock nods, and considers. “I don't have a variety of cases to choose from right now. The Met is still hesitant to pull me in for high profile crimes, so Lestrade can only offer 1 and 2 level cases. My client base has dwindled while I was gone.”
“You mean, after you made everyone believe you were dead.” John couldn't help correcting that. It may be a little petty considering the circumstances, but it was going to be a good long time before he fully lets that go.
“Yes.”
“Your brain is driving you crazy from boredom? The whole tearing yourself apart on the launch pad scenario?”
Sherlock scowls. “That's. Just. It. I don't really seem to want to be a case right now. It's very disturbing.”
John nods. “What else have you been doing? I see some experiments in the kitchen that look like you started on. How about the violin?”
“Nothing holds my interest. So ergo, I began the stimulant methodology of which you disapprove.”
John thinks for a moment and considers his next words carefully. “If I told you I had a patient that came into my office with complaints of loss of appetite, malaise, lack of interest in things they once enjoyed and they were actively avoiding going out and seeing people, what would you diagnose?”
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and doesn’t look at John.
“Did something...bad happen when you were fighting Moriarty’s network? Something you haven't told me about yet?”
Sherlock closes his eyes.
Waiting in a darkened hotel room. Check silencer and chamber a round. Hear the click of the door handle being opened. Positive identification of target. Aim, point blank range. Pause breath. Trigger pull. Exit nearby stairwell. Deposit gloves in rubbish bin. Hail taxi and go across town, dispose of pistol in industrial park. Walk two miles to the train station to the airport. Vomit on the platform.
“Yes, something bad happened. Several ‘bad’ things. I wasn't on a holiday,” he replies snidely. “However the details of my little adventure are not the underlying cause of my current aliment.”
John decides not to pry too much into that right now. “Why don't you want to leave the house, Sherlock?”
“What difference does it make?” Sherlock huffs. “You and Lestrade work all day and return home to your spouses. Ms. Hudson has her bridge clubs and knitting circles, and there is only so much of her nattering I can take. There is no impetus to seek others' company when I can sit here and speak to my skull.”
Realization tolls like a bell inside John's head. Sherlock has, for all intents and purposes, returned home from a war. He has come back to a lonely flat. He isn't on good terms with his family. His friends are around, but relationships change, and it's hard to pick up right where one has left off after two years. Especially when a certain idiot dramatically popped off a rooftop and let everyone bury him.
While Sherlock's resurrection was big in the news, it doesn't come as a surprise that he really doesn't have many clients yet. Hiring a showy private investigator that appears in the tabloids would not be a first choice if a client's desire is to keep things private. Lestrade may be offering him low profile cases in sympathy, but of course Sherlock would suss that out. He probably feels less than useless, and no idea how he is going to fit back into his own life.
A lot like how John felt when he came back from Afghanistan.
“Shit.” John hisses.