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thegameison_sh entry for the last round of this cycle...
Title: The Tipping Point
Pairing: John/Sherlock - either friendship or more, depending on your reading
Rating: PG
Warnings: references to illegal drug use
Word count: just under 750
One drop of blood, that was all it took, one drop splashing into a basin of water accomplishing something John and Lestrade and Mycroft had all tried and failed to do. It had made Sherlock pause, and for the first time in months look at himself.
Sherlock stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, seeing himself as a whole rather than as a series of parts (shirt buttoned, chin shaved, teeth brushed). His skin was very pale, but he had always been pale. The shadows under his eyes had deepened to a near-purple, closer to bruises than bags, and his lips were chapped. That did not particularly concern him either. What did worry him was the way his right hand trembled as he held his razor.
Sherlock gently set the razor down on the edge of the sink and took the plug out of the sink. He watched the water, faintly tinged with pink, swirl away, and then he went through to the sitting room. John was sitting there, and with the same sudden clarity with which he’d looked at himself, Sherlock saw that John was tired. No, something beyond tired; a bone deep sort of weariness that Sherlock himself had sometimes reached at the end of a particularly long case. But John didn’t have the look of a job well done. He was just exhausted.
“John.” Sherlock sat down in the chair opposite him. “I need help.”
It was like pulling on a cord just-so, watching a knot unravel. John sat up a little straighter, but his eyes were wary.
“We need to clear the flat of everything.”
“Yes.”
“Everything, Sherlock. You can’t hold anything back.”
Sherlock felt his fingers curl instinctively into his palms, but he nodded.
“Yes.”
John rubbed his face.
“I’ll need to fill a methadone prescription.”
“No methadone.” Sherlock’s voice brooked no arguments. “Methadone withdrawal is worse than withdrawal from illegal opiates, you know that perfectly well.”
“But if we managed your methadone dosage - ” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I take your point.” There was a pause. “It’ll be bad, you know.”
“Of course I know, John. I’ve done it before.”
Not like this. It had never been like this.
After the first twelve hours he felt like he was dying.
After the first twenty four he wished he was dead.
After that -
When his fever broke, John was there. Sherlock couldn’t remember much of the last twenty four hours, but he also couldn’t remember John not being there.
“How are you feeling?” John looked both exhausted and entirely alert. Sherlock found himself wondering if that was how John had looked in Afghanistan as he considered his answer to John’s question. Not better, no, but -
“I feel like myself.”
John didn’t smile, but something in his face eased. And then the moment passed, and John was once again his doctor, taking his pulse, checking his temperature, making him drink some kind of vile rehydration solution. Sherlock realised he was wearing fresh pyjamas. At some point he supposed he’d made a mess of himself. John must have cleaned him up. Maybe later he’d feel embarrassed about that.
“If you’re up to eating, Mrs Hudson made soup. Just a clear broth.”
“Yes.”
As John got up, Sherlock remembered something from the tangle of the last two days.
“John.”
“Yes?”
“I told you I hated you.”
John paused at the door and looked back at him.
“Yes.”
Once John would have said it didn’t matter, it was the drugs, it was the withdrawal, he was sick, it wasn’t him.
“I didn’t mean it,” Sherlock said eventually, when it became clear John wasn’t going to say anything.
“Yes, you did.” He said it simply.
“I -” Sherlock was briefly flummoxed, and he pushed himself up against the pillows. “I wouldn’t mean it now.”
“I know.”
There was another pause, and Sherlock cleared his throat.
“Do you want me to apologise?” He sounded almost annoyed. John considered this for a moment.
“No. You haven’t had time to feel sorry yet.”
Sherlock supposed this was true, and he felt a sudden sinking sort of fear at what he might feel when he had had time.
“Not today, then. But - I will.”
John looked at him thoughtfully. Sherlock had never thought John was very observant, but this was one of the most probing looks he’d ever received.
“Yes,” John said at last. “This time I believe you.” His smile was brief, but bright.
Title: The Tipping Point
Pairing: John/Sherlock - either friendship or more, depending on your reading
Rating: PG
Warnings: references to illegal drug use
Word count: just under 750
One drop of blood, that was all it took, one drop splashing into a basin of water accomplishing something John and Lestrade and Mycroft had all tried and failed to do. It had made Sherlock pause, and for the first time in months look at himself.
Sherlock stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, seeing himself as a whole rather than as a series of parts (shirt buttoned, chin shaved, teeth brushed). His skin was very pale, but he had always been pale. The shadows under his eyes had deepened to a near-purple, closer to bruises than bags, and his lips were chapped. That did not particularly concern him either. What did worry him was the way his right hand trembled as he held his razor.
Sherlock gently set the razor down on the edge of the sink and took the plug out of the sink. He watched the water, faintly tinged with pink, swirl away, and then he went through to the sitting room. John was sitting there, and with the same sudden clarity with which he’d looked at himself, Sherlock saw that John was tired. No, something beyond tired; a bone deep sort of weariness that Sherlock himself had sometimes reached at the end of a particularly long case. But John didn’t have the look of a job well done. He was just exhausted.
“John.” Sherlock sat down in the chair opposite him. “I need help.”
It was like pulling on a cord just-so, watching a knot unravel. John sat up a little straighter, but his eyes were wary.
“We need to clear the flat of everything.”
“Yes.”
“Everything, Sherlock. You can’t hold anything back.”
Sherlock felt his fingers curl instinctively into his palms, but he nodded.
“Yes.”
John rubbed his face.
“I’ll need to fill a methadone prescription.”
“No methadone.” Sherlock’s voice brooked no arguments. “Methadone withdrawal is worse than withdrawal from illegal opiates, you know that perfectly well.”
“But if we managed your methadone dosage - ” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I take your point.” There was a pause. “It’ll be bad, you know.”
“Of course I know, John. I’ve done it before.”
Not like this. It had never been like this.
After the first twelve hours he felt like he was dying.
After the first twenty four he wished he was dead.
After that -
When his fever broke, John was there. Sherlock couldn’t remember much of the last twenty four hours, but he also couldn’t remember John not being there.
“How are you feeling?” John looked both exhausted and entirely alert. Sherlock found himself wondering if that was how John had looked in Afghanistan as he considered his answer to John’s question. Not better, no, but -
“I feel like myself.”
John didn’t smile, but something in his face eased. And then the moment passed, and John was once again his doctor, taking his pulse, checking his temperature, making him drink some kind of vile rehydration solution. Sherlock realised he was wearing fresh pyjamas. At some point he supposed he’d made a mess of himself. John must have cleaned him up. Maybe later he’d feel embarrassed about that.
“If you’re up to eating, Mrs Hudson made soup. Just a clear broth.”
“Yes.”
As John got up, Sherlock remembered something from the tangle of the last two days.
“John.”
“Yes?”
“I told you I hated you.”
John paused at the door and looked back at him.
“Yes.”
Once John would have said it didn’t matter, it was the drugs, it was the withdrawal, he was sick, it wasn’t him.
“I didn’t mean it,” Sherlock said eventually, when it became clear John wasn’t going to say anything.
“Yes, you did.” He said it simply.
“I -” Sherlock was briefly flummoxed, and he pushed himself up against the pillows. “I wouldn’t mean it now.”
“I know.”
There was another pause, and Sherlock cleared his throat.
“Do you want me to apologise?” He sounded almost annoyed. John considered this for a moment.
“No. You haven’t had time to feel sorry yet.”
Sherlock supposed this was true, and he felt a sudden sinking sort of fear at what he might feel when he had had time.
“Not today, then. But - I will.”
John looked at him thoughtfully. Sherlock had never thought John was very observant, but this was one of the most probing looks he’d ever received.
“Yes,” John said at last. “This time I believe you.” His smile was brief, but bright.