Overflow Post II

[sherlockbbc_fic]

This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that were started on prompt posts that have since filled up or are close to full.

Comments

[anonymous]

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=29586407#t29586407

"What I really would love to read about now is a broken down Sherlock being comforted by John. Even if it's out of character (but if one can manage it to make in-character somehow would be great) Sherlock is crying in John's arms for whatever reason. It could be because he became an addict again or failed at a case horribly, or maybe because Mycroft died without Sherlock ever having a chance to tell him he actually cared about him. Something similar to this at least."

[anonymous]

“Sherlock? Are you… all right?” John’s voice broke through the crescendo of notes filling the room as Sherlock’s bow whirled across the strings, doing little to calm the frenzy of his mind. He allowed John’s words to be swallowed by the sound, driving up the tempo instead of responding. John was hesitating; Sherlock could feel him wavering on the spot, deciding whether to press the issue or just to let Sherlock’s mood run its course. Evidently he thought it would be best not to interfere, as he zipped up his coat and paused only to say, “right, well, I’m going to meet Mike for a pint. Try not to blow anything up, yeah?” He waited briefly, but Sherlock made no indication that he had heard and a moment later the door clicked shut, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts

[anonymous]

On the kitchen counter stood a bottle of whiskey, courtesy of Mycroft after a particularly valuable item was returned to the government once Sherlock had found the thief. Sherlock was not a drinker, having skipped that stage in preference of more illegal substances, but he had gotten himself very drunk on one occasion as an experiment and the experience had been-well, not pleasant, but possibly exactly what he needed to beat down whatever it was that had taken hold of him. As he did not have access to cocaine at the moment, it was the best he would be able to do

[anonymous]

John eased the door open, stepping warily into the flat. It was dark, and he let out a breath of relief. Sherlock must have gone to bed, then. He shrugged off his jacket and started toward the kitchen to get a cup of tea, but something that sounded almost like a rough sob stopped him in his tracks. He switched on the nearest lamp, throwing the shadows of the living room into sharp relief and illuminating the man sitting hunched on the sofa, clutching a whiskey bottle as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality. John took in the shattered teacup on the floor and a sharp wave of concern swept through him, settling somewhere under his ribs. Sherlock was trembling, the bottle shaking in his hand, and John noted that there was not much left in it

[anonymous]

“Can’t make it go, John. S’you… S’all you, and I can’t… It’s not enough,” he croaked, waving a hand to indicate the whiskey bottle. “Not enough to get it… get it out. Can’t keep fighting it, John, and then-” He cut himself off with another great shuddering breath, and spoke the last words in a voice barely above a whisper. “Then you’ll leave and everything, everything will…” He trailed off, burying his face in John’s jumper as though he thought he would sink into it if he clung close enough

[anonymous]

Sherlock shook his head slightly, his frown deepening, and his eyelids fluttered closed for a moment. “Everyone leaves, John. It’s all… transit…transitory. Caring is not an advantage.” He shook his head, as though trying to jostle the slurred syllables into place. John could feel his own frown deepening as waves of sadness and affection and a hint of exasperation rolled through him. All he wanted to do was envelop his wreck of a flatmate in his arms again and hold him until he stopped trembling, until whatever was eating him on the inside and making him look so lost was banished. He settled for taking Sherlock’s pale hand and stroking a soft pattern on the back with his thumb. Sherlock’s eyes opened a fraction, flicking down to his hand before refocusing on John’s face. “You,” Sherlock whispered, the fear in his pale eyes heartbreakingly obvious. “You’re in my head, your hands, your eyes, your bloody jumpers are in my head, and-” His deep voice broke, catching on a sob. “And here,” he continued after a moment, gesturing weakly at his