It's late by the time John limps home. He's not drunk enough to stagger, but he's been waiting in the Fox long enough to be really quite miserably drunk, thoughts just going round and round in sluggish loops to the soundtrack of Sherlock's irritable snips and gripes and the one word he never expected Sherlock to use. Cocaine.
He knows rough details of Sherlock's history with the drug, but it's always been something in the past, from before- so it's never been his concern, never been a subject Sherlock's been keen to bring up and definitely not one John's been inclined to pursue...
It seems to have caught up with them, though.
He slumps heavily up the stairs, intending on collapsing on his bed and into unconsciousness. Hopefully by the time he wakes up things will make more sense.
Sherlock hears John's footsteps and raises his head for a moment. He considers moving, going- where? To bed? To his bed? Which one would that be, anyway?
Probably the one he sat on to shoot up just after John left, he reflects glumly, and his head lowers again. He can't. Can't do this. He can't even be bothered moving. What's the point? John can think what he damn well likes.
He's only getting a glass of water, he tells himself as he opens the door into the living room- but Sherlock being there as he'd half hoped he'd be derails that one. He looks so pale, so horribly pale and weak, curled up on the couch.
"Sherlock," he says quietly, aching to wrap his arms around him and forget about the drugs, just sink into the relief of having him back. It'll send all the wrong messages, it's letting him think he doesn't care, that he'll let him do anything and still let him have anything of him he wants, but he can't bring himself to care. "I'm... I'm going to bed. Are you..."
He swallows, wets his lips and tries again. He'll probably just get snapped at for his trouble. God, but he hopes he's wrong. "You coming?"
Sherlock glances up in admitted surprise, not sure if he's hearing right. Really? He'd expected harsh words and guilt- probably well-deserved- not an invitation to bed.
"...I think so, yes," he says, with some uncertainty, agreeing before he really thinks about it because being wrapped up with John would be very, very welcome right now, everything else be damned.
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He knows rough details of Sherlock's history with the drug, but it's always been something in the past, from before- so it's never been his concern, never been a subject Sherlock's been keen to bring up and definitely not one John's been inclined to pursue...
It seems to have caught up with them, though.
He slumps heavily up the stairs, intending on collapsing on his bed and into unconsciousness. Hopefully by the time he wakes up things will make more sense.
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Probably the one he sat on to shoot up just after John left, he reflects glumly, and his head lowers again. He can't. Can't do this. He can't even be bothered moving. What's the point? John can think what he damn well likes.
If only it didn't hurt so much.
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"Sherlock," he says quietly, aching to wrap his arms around him and forget about the drugs, just sink into the relief of having him back. It'll send all the wrong messages, it's letting him think he doesn't care, that he'll let him do anything and still let him have anything of him he wants, but he can't bring himself to care. "I'm... I'm going to bed. Are you..."
He swallows, wets his lips and tries again. He'll probably just get snapped at for his trouble. God, but he hopes he's wrong. "You coming?"
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"...I think so, yes," he says, with some uncertainty, agreeing before he really thinks about it because being wrapped up with John would be very, very welcome right now, everything else be damned.
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