Johnny Boy
Title: Johnny Boy
Summary: John's father is alcoholic.
Charaters: John, Sherlock, Andrew Watson, Harriet Watson
Pairings: Pre-slash John/Sherlock
Ratings: Pg-13 for alcoholism.
Words: 7,688A/N: A million thanks to my wonderful beta misanthropyray who saved the day.
I
“Daddy?” A seven year old John Watson said, standing in his pajamas out side of his bedroom door and looking up at his father with adoration in his eyes.
The man stopped from where he was grabbing his jacket off the coat rack and turned to his son. “What is it buddy? It's time for you to go to bed.”
The little boy hopped nervously from foot to foot and looked away with a bit of a blush on his cheeks but finally looked up at his father. “Can you read to me before you go? I know I'm to old for bed time stories but I got a book at school today and some of the words are to hard.” His blue eyes went to his sister's bedroom door, no doubt thinking that his elder sister would taunt him for asking for something so childish as a bed time story.
Still the man couldn't help the soft smile that graced his features. He dropped his jacket on rack and walked towards his son, scooping him up into his arms even though the boy protested that he was to old to be carried. “You're never to old for a bedtime story.” Andrew, better known as Daddy in this household, set the boy on the bed and tucked him in. He sat on the bed next to him and picked up the book that had been placed on the bedside table.
“You're not going to be late are you? Your mates won't be mad will the?” John asked after he had comfortably settled with his head on his Dad's leg.
“I don't think so and even if it did it doesn’t matter. I'm hanging out with my best friend right now and he's much more important then the lot of the them.” Andy smiled down at his son who smiled back with the same enthusiasm as a child who had just been given a puppy.
“You're my best friend to Daddy.”
II
A ten year old John ran down the hallway to his room like the hounds of hell were at his heels. It was only after the door was closed behind him and he was curled up with his face buried in a pillow did he allow himself to cry. Even through the walls he could hear his parent shouting. He didn't know how long he laid there sobbing but he did feel his mattress dip and a hand touch his back. It was much to small to belong to either of his parents. With invitation he turned and buried his face in his sisters neck and sobbed harder while she wrapped her arms around him.
“I-I-I di-didn't mean to do it.” He chocked out between sobs and gasps for air.
His sister hushed him and rubbed his back in a practiced manner, it wasn't the first time this scene had played out. “No Johnny you didn't do 'nothing wrong.”
He still had his face hidden in her neck but she could feel the way he shook his head in denial of her words. “I made him made. He said-”
“I know what he said and it was a load of bullocks.” Harry cut him off, anger tinting her voice. “Look Johnny he's drunk, he doesn't mean anything he says. It was a accident but since he's drunk he gets angry easier. We'll just have to be more careful alright?”
“Alright.” He agreed but she could still feel tears running down his cheeks and his shoulder shaking. They sat in silence just holding each other while the sounds of shouting filtered through the walls. It could have been hours or minutes later but there was finally a uneasy quiet that settled through the voice and put them both on edge. It wasn't until the door slammed shut signally that their father had gone out (most likely back to the pub) that either of them relaxed.
III
At fifteen John was at the top his classes as well as a starting member of the schools rugby team. There had been a match last night, they had won, and John been the only member of the team not to have anyone at the game to cheer him on. It wasn't unusual and if you asked him he would have told you he didn't mind. The truth was his father hadn't been to any of his matches in years, his mom had walked out of their lives when he was twelve so she was out as well. At first Harry went to every one of his games and usually dragged as many of her friends with her as she could gather. He always liked her friends because they treated him like another little brother and he always had the biggest, loudest, most entertaining cheer squad out of any of his teammates. But sometimes Harry would have to study so she would miss a game. A few friends showed up anyways the first couple of times she missed and gave him a ride home afterwords. He never sulked or was upset, she was growing up and he understood. She did so much for him that missing a game every once in a while wasn't a big idea.
Then she missed one because there was a big party and she wanted to go. She had been worried he would be upset but he laughed and told her to have a good time and not to drive if she planned on drinking. Harry lasted a hour before she felt so guilty she showed up with her friends and was particularly rowdy that night. He loved her so much then.
John didn't need anyone as long as he had Harry. She took him shopping when his clothes got to ratty or he outgrew them (a problem occurring with less and less frequency), came to his games, was nosy when it came to his personal life, and was generally the most annoying and wonderful sister that anyone could ever pray for.
Then she started partying and once she realized John was not going to feel abandoned if she missed a game every once in a while or he had to take the bus home occasionally. But soon every once in a while turned to once a month, turned to every other weekend, turned every weekend, to she just stayed at friends houses and didn't come home any more.
It hurt but John still didn't blame her. After all he wouldn't stay home if he had a choice either. Well Harry offered to take him with her but he didn't like the parties and her friends were different and made him uncomfortable. So he stayed home, better with the devil you know right?
Right?
So he stayed in his room as long as he could and his dad usually ignored him since when he was drunk it was pretty much out of sight out of mind. But when his stomach rumbled and he head the door close he decided to risk it.
Jumping up after a few minutes to make sure his dad wasn't coming back immediately he ran down the hall and to the kitchen. The fridge and cupboards were pretty bare since Harry didn't do the shopping anymore and John didn't have money to buy them himself. Still he managed to find a half eaten bag of crisps, a soda, and a cup of pot noodles. He put the kettle on and turned the stove to high hoping that he could get the water to boil before his dad returned.
The man had stopped going to the pubs after several incidents of drinking and driving and instead just went out to his shop in the backyard for hours on end while he drank himself into a rage. It made timing between his fathers coming and goings completely unpredictable and all the more nerve wrecking when he had to emerge from his room. Trying not the fidget he tried to will the water to boil but if anything it made it go slower. He was half tempted just forget the noodles and just make the crisps last until his father passed out and it was safe to wander the house without fear, when the door opened. John froze and tried not to look like he was tense at the same time.
He kept his eyes on the kettle and willed himself to relax his posture as his dad eyed him from across the room. His heart was pounding in his chest and Andy crossed the room and went passed him into the living room and his chair. John couldn't hold back the sigh of relief that left him. No longer as hungry as he was mere minutes ago he turned off the stove and grabbed his bag of crisps and cola before sneaking behind his father's back and down the hallway into his sanctuary.
Finally relaxed he went over to his rickety desk and sat down to finish his studies. It wasn't five minutes later his door burst open. “Do you care to explain?” His father demanded, his tone angry but not to the point of yelling. John froze as he faced his father and already felt his internal defenses slipping into place. His face went stony and all the squirming feeling in his stomach got pushed down until all he could feel was resignation.
“I don't know what you're talking about.” He said as calmly and with out inflection as he could. John had long since learned getting emotional or upset only made things worse. The best way was to just turn off and agree until his father's anger burnt itself out.
His father yanked him out of his chair and dragged him down the hall to the kitchen before letting him go and pointing to the pot of noodles on the counter. “Your so lazy you can't even pick up after yourself. I work all day to provide for my family and then you leave this crap laying on the counter? And the kettle? Leaving it on a hot burner like that. You want to burn the house down? You ungrateful brat.”
“I'm sorry Dad I'll pick it up right now and it won't happen again.”
“Damn right it won't.”
“I'm sorry.” He knew it was no use. Nothing he could say would stop his dad's furious tirade about how lazy and ungrateful he was. Selfish and spoiled. Stupid. It would go on and on for hours until John could hardly remember what the argument was about and Andy had passed out in his chair. Tomorrow nothing would be said between them and nothing would change.
IV
At twenty-five John had long since moved out of his father's home. He had went to medical school where he excelled. And as of twelve hours ago he was a member of Her Majesties Army. There was only one thing to do before he left and that was to tell his father. In all honesty he could have left and been gone for months before his father learned he was no longer even in the same country. They had only talked sporadically while he had been in college and missed calls were not uncommon.
He probably could have gone a entire year without being missed if he were honest.
Actually he had planned to just leave a message on his dad's voice mail but Clara, the nice girl Harry was dating, thought it was the type of thing that should be said face to face. He didn't try and tell her she didn't understand how his family worked and just complied because he liked her and she thought it was a good idea. So here he was in dress uniform in his old living room while his dad sat in the chair.
The man hugged him and told him he was proud. There were tears and heartfelt conversation. Clara had been right after all, John had not felt this close to his father in years. They left on good terms and John promised to call every week and his dad promised not to drink as much and he might even go to the local AA.
Long ago a thirteen year old John and sworn to himself that he would never trust his dad like this and get his hopes up. It only hurt more when he was let down as was inevitable.
Twenty-five year old John relearned that lesson the hard way when at eight o'clock he got a angry drunk message from his father. Lazy, ungrateful, selfish, spoiled, and stupid were still all their but coward and disappointment joined them.
It hurt worse then he remembered.
V
When John got back from the army, thinner and limping, he stopped in to see his dad. The man was also thinner and limping. Thinner because he was drunk more often then not and didn't eat because he forgot and limping because he had fallen down in a drunken haze and twisted his ankle. John has seen to many people die and had failed to many people to turn away and leave the man. The man because he didn't have a father. This man was not the man he had known when he was seven and star struck.
“You're going to rehab.” He told the man, the first words he had said to him in two years.
“Hu- what the hell no I'm not.” Andrew spat back, and just like that it was like no time had passed at all. Except now John wasn't a beaten down kid with no will to fight back. Now he was a expert at fighting back and it was all he had. He lived in a crappy flat in London, had not friends, and his only family were drunks. Fighting was his everything now.
“Yes you are. You can fight it but that is what is going to happen.” John told him in a no nonsense tone.
“I'm no alcoholic, I don't need rehab. And what gives you the right to talk to me this way? In my own home?” Andrew Watson said, standing up and looking ready to swing.
John was not impressed.
“My home.” He said blandly.
“'Scuse me?” His father growled.
“You are drunk more often then not and haven't been working. Once your savings ran out you started borrowing money from Harry. She couldn't afford it any long and tried to borrow money from me. So for the last four months I've been paying for everything you've been doing. Now you are going to pay me back.” John leaned his cane and stared his father down. No fear, no love, no anything.
“And if I don't?”
John shrugged. “If you don't I stop paying and the housed gets seized. And I doubt very much you will find anyone who will take you in.”
Andy stormed up to his child with his fist curled. “How dare you? I'm your father John! You would see me out on the streets?”
John didn't move a inch or bat a eyelash. “I'm saving your life. You may not see it and I don't expect thanks for it, but that’s whats going to happen.”
He didn't stick around for the argument. The next day he showed up again and packed a bag for his father who retaliated by getting drunk and passing out. When the man woke up again he was in a rehab facility with his bag at the foot of his bed. He was in a shared room and whoever owned the bed opposite had several pictures on the bedside table showing pictures of their family as well as several cards and letters tucked in the drawer.
At the age of fifty-four Andrew Watson knew he had ruined every good thing in his life and he was going to live for many years with the consequences.
VI
At thirty-six John lived in a messy flat with a enigmatic sociopath and a land lady who 'was not your house keeper dear'. He no longer walked with a cane and had a sense of purpose he hadn't had since his time in the military. Most importantly he was happier then he had been in years. That was until his father showed up and nearly sent the whole house of cards tumbling down.
Sherlock was off somewhere, probably bugging Lestrade, when Mrs. Hudson came to the sitting room and told him there was a man here to see him. Confused he asked her to show him in and promptly changed his mind when his father walked into the room.
“What are you doing here?” It was neither polite or really the best choice of words when addressing ones father who he hadn't seen in a year and a half. He didn't care.
Usually such a remark would send his father into a fit, telling him how rude and unappreciative. His father didn't start yelling or even raise a eyebrow. “It's great to see you too.” He said calmly if a bit tense. “No, it's alright I can imagine your shock.”
“Um...yea. What are you doing here?” That time there was a tick in his father's face but the man just took a calming breath and clamped his hands behind his back.
“Well Son, I was in the city and thought I would stop by and see you. We haven't talk since, well that day.” Andrew looked away from his boy and around the flat. “So this is it huh? Your sister told me you were living with a private detective, is that right?”
It was John's turn to shift uncomfortably. “Consulting detective actually.” He said and his father nodded like he knew exactly what that was. From there a awkward silence descended, they hadn't had a actual conversation in years and trying now was proving awkward. How does one go about asking their son for a summary of his life because he missed it by being in a drunken haze.
“That's...good.” He finally said.
“Yup.”
It was then he realized his son was a stranger to him and it made him angry. He was angry at himself but that didn't stop him from lashing out at John as was his long accustom habit.
“You didn't return any of my calls.” Andrew finally said, finding a way to turn the blame off of himself. Yes, it was John's fault he didn't know him. John had run off and joined the army to be away from him then showed up out of the blue to drag him to a rehab clinic and then never return any of his calls. He wasn't a bad father, John was just a bad son. That was it.
John tensed, sensing the change in his father and falling back into old habits. “I didn't want to talk.”
“I'm you're father!”
“Oh please you haven't been my father in years!”
The back hand actually caught him off guard; there had been a handful of incidents when he was growing up when his father had hit him but he had always been three sheets to the wind at the time. He didn't stagger though his head did snap to the side and he could taste blood on his tongue. While he had been caught off guard he wasn't actually shocked. His father didn't like confrontation, which is to say he was use to his family rolling over for him. John took a deep breath and ran his sleeve across his mouth to wipe way the blood before he look calmly at his father. “Well.”
Andy was breathing hard and not looking the slightest bit apologetic. “I may have made mistakes but I am your father and I demand respect. I'm trying dammit and the least you could do is give me a chance!”
“Or else what? You're going to hit me again?” John said dryly and looked distinctly unimpressed. “I've been in a war Dad, and I chase criminals for a living. Do you really thinks you can do anything to scare me? Get out of my house.”
“I don't want to scare you, I want you to listen!” The older man yelled. “I've tried Johnny! I went to rehab and I've been following my programs so the least you can do is give me a hour of your time.”
If anything that made John angrier. “Oh yes it's what, month eight? Well I guess that makes up for everything doesn't it. Especially because the only reason you are sober is because I had to drag you to rehab after you passed out in a pool of your own vomit. Well now that you've ruined all our lives and only now decided it would be a good idea to sober up let me welcome you back and forget everything else.”
Andrew looked tempted to hit him again. “I've already said I'm sorry John, what more do you want for me? All I want is a little support from my kids.”
“Well I think I speak for both Harry and myself when I say we've supported you enough.” John scoffed. “Now get out.”
Andrew left; not because he wanted to but because before they could come to blows a voice was cleared from the doorway. It wasn't Sherlock, but DI Lestrade standing a bit awkwardly but alertly in the doorway. The man knew he was seeing a private moment between family members but he had seen what some families could do to each other and couldn't in good mind leave. It was awkward but Andrew left and John wasn't sure if he should be grateful or angry at Lestrade.
He settled for calling his sister and warning her that hurricane Andrew might be headed her way and to call if she needed him.
As Sherlock would say; WRONG. Andrew did not in fact storm over to his sister house and unfortunately what he did do was not a surprise to either Watson sibling.
At the age of fifty-five Andrew Watson broke his sobriety and stumbled back to his son's flat in a bitter rage.
VII
John had not told Sherlock of the days events though the man had guessed that there had been a unwanted male visitor in the flat and had to be of a personal nature due to John's unwillingness to discuss it. So at ten thirty at night when a hoarse yelling could be heard coming from out front and Mrs. Hudson came to him worried if she should call the police John was quick to reassure her that he would take care of it.
While he was outside trying to calm his father down Sherlock watched from the window. Unbeknownst to his flat mate, he had every intention of stepping in if the elder Watson gave into the violent urges that so obvious to anyone who cared to study his body language despite how unappreciated the intervention would be. John got beaten up enough on cases without his family adding to the damage.
It took forty- five for John to get his father calmed down enough to no longer be yelling and another thirty before he could get the man into a cab. He had spent the entire time in the chill winter air without a jacket and only a thin jumper for warmth.
A good flatmate and friend would have had a cuppa waiting for him as well as some comforting words. Sherlock just stared at him while plucking tunelessly on his violin.
John didn't expect any different.
Andrew Watson would be fifty-six before he talked to either of his children again.
VIII
John picked his way through the glass bottles and aluminum cans towards the couch with a melancholy air. Last time he had been here he had been filled with a righteous indignation and it had clouded everything else out as he dragged his father into rehab. The last few days though had worn him down and left his feeling hallow except the deep reverberating ache in his chest and made him feel ten years older then he actually was.
He sat in a the dingy armchair beside the couch and waited for his father to wake.
The room was chill Andrew could no longer afford the heating bill and usually he was to liquored up to feel or care or even remember about it any ways. If he had any less self control he would have started sobbing right then and there, but John had a will of iron when he choose to exert it.
Sitting in a frigid room with the only sound being that of is father's snoring was like being fourteen again. It was sickening and until that point he hadn't thought it possible for him to feel any lower. He spent the next two hours lost in though and his father spent them in a drink induced blackness.
The man awoke with a grunt and rolled over and blinked in surprise at his youngest child sitting in the chair with his arms wrapped around himself looking for worn and on the brink of collapse himself. “Johnny-boy? What'cha doing here lad?”
John actually looked shocked at the endearment he hadn't heard in years as well as the confused worry in the man's tone. He had been expecting to be greeted with shouts and hateful words. This worried tone reminded him of a time before he had lost his father to drink, when he still believed in his personal hero. That concerned tone nearly undid him.
“It's Harry. Her liver gave out; she's been in the hospital for days. We tried to call you but your phones off.” And by off he meant disconnected due to lack of payment. Still the fact he was not mentioning it just went to prove how worried he was. His father looked just as concerned with guilt and shock mixed it. It was the best thing he could have done right then. John was worried for his sister and that feeling of familial sentiment transferred right along to his father when the man hadn't done something to ruin it. Right then he was so desperate to save his family he could have forgiven the man for anything. “Lord knows how, but she got a transplant despite her history and it looks like the livers taking. Still we thought you should know.”
Of course they thought he should know when she was dying and they both knew a raging alcoholic had no chance of getting a transplant. Expect apparently there was. It just so happened a liver turned up just in time and Harry was a matching blood type. No doubt a local government official had something to do with it; still he wasn't complaining.
“Oh thank God.” Andrew breathed. “Can I see here? I mean will she let me? Shouldn't upset her in that state.”
“Yea Dad. I think she would like that.”
At age fifty-six Andrew saw the first genuine smile from his son in years.
IX
Sherlock tried to stay out of John's private life; well that wasn't true because around Sherlock Holmes nothing was private. Anyways, Sherlock knew John had a dysfunctional family and talking about it fell under the 'not good' category so it was never discussed. When the head of the Watson clan invaded their home he had refrained from commenting other the the obvious facts of what had occurred. Then the man nearly drew the police to their home with his drunken ravings and it was only because Sherlock had called in a personal favor from Lestrade, that the man wasn't arrested. John couldn't afford the bail and was to soft hearted to leave the man there no matter how rightly he deserved it.
Minor interferences yes; but for Sherlock it was as respectfully distant as he could make himself.
Then came this. And oh the things he longed to do to Andrew Watson; he was very creative by nature but this had really brought out the worst in his dark side. This level of sheer hatred had once been reserved solely for Moriarty but the elder Watson had managed to stumble into there and the man didn't even notice.
It wasn't for the crimes the man had committed in his past (and the signs were so obvious that it was painful, but John had never mentioned his childhood and he saw no point in bringing it up until now) but the ones he was going to commit.
It was one of the few times Sherlock hated his great skills for he could see the train wreck that was about to happen.
Andrew Watson hadn't done something wrong, no it was that he had done something right. And it was going to destroy John.
He knew John had been having a difficult time with his sister's potential death (again another favor Sherlock had to call in) but had had been admirably strong. It was only when Harry was on the mend that John had returned to the flat with the look of grim determination and his shoulders held rigid, and announced he was going away for a few days to see his father.
Sherlock had prepared for John to come home a emotional wreck despite his best efforts not to show it and walk around like a zombie. It had happened the night and a few days following Andrew's little scene in front of their flat. In a effort not to be emotionally effected John turned off all felling as to distance himself from them. The experience had been quite disconcerting for Sherlock and had no idea how to fix it. He had tried to be the ideal flatmate but all his efforts had been ignored. Even more worrisome. In the end though John had pulled himself together and they went back to usual.
And that was when he and his father weren't on speaking terms. Now John had just spent the last two weeks in the company of both his father and his sister. It was more or less the ideal family the man had always wanted.
Of course it was only a matter of time until Andrew once again disappointed his children.
At age 36 Sherlock was contemplating becoming a murder to save his only friend the pain of once again watching his father fail.
X
John knew it was only a matter of time before his dad went back to his old ways; he knew it. But still he couldn't help but feel hope flood his chest every time he saw his father sober and smiling at them every time they had met up.
Harry was home out of the hospital and John would have stayed with her (being a doctor after all) but their father had offered to stay for a week or two since 'John had his own life and no doubt that detective fella' would be needing his help catching killers and the like'.
Both he and Harry had been a bit uneasy about that but she had tentatively agreed and John didn't have the heart to say no either. So he went back home and packed a bag so his father wouldn't have to go all the way back home and took it to Harry's where his father had been set up in the spare room.
It worked out well then either of them had hoped. Andy still drank but he didn't get drunk, it was just enough to keep the with drawls away. He cooked for her and John brought groceries when he came over (practically every night) and for the first time in years they felt like a family; sitting in the living room and eating off tv trays while commentating on the latest drama that was all the rage.
And that stupid feeling of hope was going to be his down fall.
He knew he shouldn't get so comfortable with this picturesque little family that had some how come out of the ashes of their ruined relationships. But it was so hard not to. Each night he went over he told himself that this night he wouldn't laugh along. He'd keep his distance. Not fall for it it this time. And then that plan fell right apart when he heard laughter from the sitting room and the excited calls of 'Johnny-boy!' when the heard the door opening. Somehow his defensive wall just didn't work on them.
It was just going to make the fall out worse, he knew, but he just couldn't help himself.
And that terrified him.
Still that night he returned home happier then he had felt in a long time. He should have learned that in his life no good thing could last.
As he closed the sitting room door behind him Sherlock looked up from where he lay on the couch plucking away at his violin.
“You know it can't last.” The detective said as John was hanging coat.
“Sherlock. Don't.” He warned, not turning around as he very deliberately set the coat on the hanger and held on to it like it was the only thing holding his temper back.
Sherlock sat up; setting his violin aside in favour of steepling his fingers in front of his mouth in what John dubbed 'thinking pose #3'. “All patterns suggest it is only a matter of time before your father falls reverts to his established pattern of behaviour and I think it would be best if you prepared yourself now for the inevitable so you will no be so distraught when it happens.”
What he had meant to say was; 'Your father won't change despite your best efforts. You should pull back now so he won't hurt you again. I'm worried about you the only way I know how.'
What John heard was; 'Your father is a worthless drunk and we both know it. I don't have time for one of your sulks like last time so get yourself together so I won't have to deal with it.'
“How would you know? You haven't even met the man!” John snapped back at him, automatically coming to his father's defence.
“Really? I may not have met him formally but I believe his invasion and eviction from our flat was a memorable occasion that only proved the facts I had already deduced.” The detective said, holding is own temper back.
He had meant it to be; 'I've seen him John, you don't have to hide the truth from me. Not that you could. I'm smarter then you and trying to help so listen.'
What John heard was; 'I don't have to meet him to know he is an alcoholic. He was causing anarchy in front of our flat for half of London to see and hear; remember?'
“Deduced? What have I told you about prying into my life?” John asked incredulously, barely keeping from yelling the words. “God, you have no sense of privacy, do you? My life isn't a puzzle to work out and I'm sorry if it is an inconvenience for you but you have no right to judge me or my family.”
“It's increadbly inconvient if you must know.”
“Sherlock!”
“Oh really John, now you’re just being defensive because I have pointed out obvious unpleasant truths you don’t wish to acknowledge. If you can not see logic then there is no point in us having his conversation. Good evening.” With that Sherlock stood from the couch and pulled his bathrobe tighter around his body before making his way around John and to his bedroom.
At the age of thirty-eight, John wondered how his life could go from so high to so low quite so quickly.
XI
Unfortunately it happened not long after that. John had gone between home and his sisters house on the days following the fight, being sure to keep his normal schedule and try not to let them know he was upset. He was not a good liar or actor but he thought he had hid it well enough and he was sure neither his father or Harry noticed anything. On day two Sherlock had been especially churlish and told him it was because of them cared enough to notice. Needless to say another row followed that. Things between him and Sherlock had been uncomfortable at first, Sherlock being standoffish and John refusing to apologize, though after a few days a case came up and they were off like nothing had happened.
Unbeknownst to John it was the calm before the storm.
Sherlock had run off suddenly while investigating a crime scene and was several blocks away before he realized he had once again left John behind without warning. Thankfully, the doctor was growing used to such behaviour but even so, Sherlock felt the unfamiliar feeling of guilt at leaving him to find his own way home. So once realizing he had rushed off alone again he pulled out his phone and shot John a quick text telling to do some research on parakeets and it could be vital to the case. That should have been enough to inform any dimwit what he was up to and no doubt John would be grateful at being kept informed. Sherlock felt quite pleased with himself for being so considerate.
It was a hour and a half later he noticed that John had not texted him back. He sent him another text telling him to inform Lestrade to start checking the victim's finances to see if he was renting a second flat and that if he did find it to call him immediately and not to touch anything. Fourty minutes later he got no reply. A small surge of worry filled him and he sent a third text telling John to contact him immediately. Ten minutes later he was in a cab and half way back to Bakers Street.
He entered the flat and found how quiet it was quite unsettling. Sherlock moved up the stairs silently and kept quite attentive; listening for even the slightest sound. Hearing nothing he cautiously pushed the door to the sitting room open and found John sitting on the couch. At first he wanted to be angry at John for just sitting their while he was quite uncharacteristically working himself up into a ball of nerves but then he took in the other man's posture.
John had his arms propped up on his knees and face buried in his hands, hunched over in a way that was very out of the ordinary compared to his usual perfect military posture. It all screamed WRONG to him.
“You didn't respond to any of my texts.” It was said neutrally, he was sure of it, but John still flinched. One of the first things about John Watson that had struck him was the man's need to prove himself and anything that could be remotely seen as a failure would put him immediately on the defensive.
“I was busy. Sorry.” John didn't sound sorry. He did sound absolutely miserable however.
Sherlock's eyes roamed over the doctor and saw a dozen different signs that showed what had happened to John since the time they had separated, the first being the mud splashes on the man's trousers and the last being the way the black smudges on the front of his jumper from where he held a crying woman and got mascara stains on this favorite article of clothing in return for his kindness. For some reason the loss of John's jumper made him sadder then the loss of his father, though the jumper was the more faithful of the two.
He didn't know what to say, he had never been any good at comforting on the very rare occasions that he had tried. Since his extensive vocabulary decided to fail him at such a crucial moment he switched tactics for a more direct approach. Human's were generally social creatures and studies had proven that they gained a instinctive level of comfort from proximity or contact with others, so if words had failed him then he could at least provide comfort via contact.
His long legs carried him over to the couch in three steps and he slid onto it next to John close enough that their shoulders just barely touched. There, objective reached, now he just had to wait and any further steps necessary would be judged and based off of John's responses.
Which really wasn't much.
Clearing his throat he attempted speech, if only to provoke a response. “The victim was training parakeets to say specific words then sell them at the pet shop he ran under a false name to his contacts, this way he could pass on information without ever having contact beyond the transaction. I believe he was killed when he sold the wrong bird to the wrong group and someone found out his mistake.”
It was perhaps not the route most people would choose when trying to comfort a friend but Sherlock liked to distract himself with work when less savory aspects in life cropped up and maybe John would be the same way. Unfortunately all he got was a uninterested 'hm' in response.
The silence between the stretched for several minutes after that. It was uncomfortable but Sherlock found he just couldn't quite bring himself to abandon John for the second time that day. And considering the recent actions of Andrew Watson it would bring the total up to three for today alone, though the elder Watson's was a much more permanent form of abandonment. Still he in no way wanted to be lumped into the same group as that failure of a man.
“Are you going to say it?” John finally croaked, tearing Sherlock from his thoughts.
“Say what?” He asked looking at his friend for the first time since sitting down.
“That you were right.” It was a bit muffled since John still had his face buried in his hands. A unusual characteristic since the ex-soldier wasn't the sort prone to hiding, though he was uncharacteristically emotional over this development so there must be a correlation between the two. Shame or embarrassment over displaying emotions no matter how warranted, perhaps, and therefore he felt the need to hide them away and since he couldn't emotionally he had to resort to doing it physically? He would have to remember to investigate further at a later date. “You said it earlier, he is a alcoholic who is never going to change. In the end it will be the bottle he picks every time and he only wants to deal with us when it is convenient to him. He does this every time and I am to stupid not to fall for it or fall for it even when I know he won't change. If I've left anything out please let me know.”
Sherlock actually felt annoyed and a bit hurt that John would think him so harsh about his emotional well being. He would put it down to hysterics. “I may be cold at times but I find it disturbing that you think I would find your personal tragedy something to gloat over.” In a unheard of display of tenderness Sherlock put his hand on John's back in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “Compassion and stupidity are not the same thing. You may be dull at times but your own loyal nature does not allow you to turn your back on the people you care about no matter how much they deserve it.”
John stayed hunched over, silent and tense. You could practically see the gears in his head grind to halt and Sherlock watched with a critical eye trying to predict John's reaction. There was several minutes of silence before John's hoarse voice broke the silence. “Wrong.”
“What?” Not the most elegant response in the world but it was all his stunned mind could come up with.
“I said your wrong.” John said, finally lifting his face from his hands. He was please to note that the other man hadn't been crying; their was only so many emotional barriers he could cross in one evening. “I told him to go and not come back.”
Well...he honestly hadn't seen that one coming. Despite he warnings days previous he hadn't honestly expected John to cut his father off for good. The man was constantly surprising him. “Oh, well, I did tell you that there was always something. No one can be one hundred percent right one hundred percent of the time.”
“Do you know,” John started, “I thought about telling him to get lost for years; always thought it would make me feel good. Just feel cold though.”
Again a surprise. The detective cast a eye around the room but the throw they usually kept on the couch was spread over the back of Sherlock's chair on the other side of the room where it did no one a bit of good. Instead Sherlock just lifted his hand from where it had still rested on the other man's back and looped it around his shoulder pulling him close. It was a bit awkward to have John pressed up against him and in his personal space, but his friend needed comfort he could really supply so the least he could do was provide a bit of warmth.
John chuckled from where he head now rested on Sherlock's shoulder. “Not really what I meant, but thanks.”
So they sat there. Sherlock with his arm around John, neither really happy but better then they were when they had been alone.