On a quick trip to the Tesco on the way home from work, John had no idea of just what was going on back at Baker Street, but ideas ran through his mind alongside his list of things to get. After their moment at the pool, John seemed more keen than ever to keep his eyes more open and observant than usual. It'd been too long, nearly a month now and no contact from Jim. It was as if he was waiting for them to let their guard down. John never would, but somehow he thought that wouldn't stop Jim.
Loaded up with basic necessities, including some well overdue tea, John returned to the flat to find it ... empty. This wasn't a completely unusual event, Sherlock deciding he needed to check on something or find the nearest hoodlum to catch because he was bored waiting for John to get back. He didn't think much of it.
Four hours passed and John was honestly beginning to worry. The need to know where Sherlock could be was grinding at him, knotting up a wonderful anxious ball in his stomach. No texts, he'd usually say something if he was gone
( ... )
After about another five minutes of letting the man lean against him, John couldn't stop the thought from reoccurring. Just do it. You'll never get a chance like this again. His mind started on that train of thought, and within minutes it was going a decidedly different way.
He needs you. No, he doesn't. John shifted a touch and Sherlock's head fell away from his shoulder to scoot him in a tad closer and bring his arm up behind him. There was a moments hesitation, a comical scene if the cabbie actually looked in the rear view at them. His hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder, unsure if it was going to go all the way, much like a first attempt on a first date.
John let out a slow sigh that gradually turned into a quiet 'oh sod it, come here.' The doctor's hand fell to Sherlock's hair and nudged him in flush against him. A beat later, John's nose nuzzled his hair and his lips fell right above the shell of his ear, against his scalp. It wasn't a kiss, at least John wouldn't call it that. It was merely a resting of his lips.
Sherlock went still against him for a few minutes, feeling quite comfortable with the arrangement. He grumbled wordlessly when John moved, thinking if he ever had to move again it would be too soon. He followed the urging of John's hand, shifting himself in closer and really not caring at the moment what the cabbie must think of them. He gave a soft hum of approval as he snuggled against him, appreciating the added warmth and solid presence to lean against. "Mmn, John." he mumbled when he felt him nuzzle his hair, really feeling surprisingly alright with how they ended up. It was odd, to say the least, but he was actually feeling better at having something to support him that was quite a bit more comfortable than his other option of the car door
( ... )
"Driver ... t-take the long way ... " He spoke a little softly, getting a nod from the cabbie that he'd heard him. He didn't want to wake Sherlock if he was indeed falling asleep. It was the best reaction he could have to the drugs, and John was silently glad for this little break. The rocking of the car seemed to settle the detective, the weight and drape of Sherlock's arm over his middle was reassuring. John's other arm leaned against the door arm rest, fingers brushing Sherlock's hand gripping his jacket.
John thought little on it and just acted, bringing his fingers up along the back of his hand and stopped before his bandaged wrists. Pressing Sherlock's hand harder against his side, he lightly caressed the top of his palm and moved his lips a bit in another not-kiss to his hair. He could finally let his eyes close for a moment and let the rocking of the car really ease those adrenaline tensed muscles.
Sherlock hummed and nuzzled in closer, finding the perfect spot against his shoulder to rest his head. He heard John say something he couldn't quite make out, though he had the distant hope that whatever he said would leave them to be like this a little longer. It was only going to get harder to sleep when the withdrawal kicked in, and he needed to get whatever bit he could before then. He couldn't imagine that his bed would be quite as warm and comfortable as he was now, anyway. At least until he woke up and fully realized how thoroughly he had invaded John's personal space.
He couldn't tell if he was still awake or if he'd finally faded into dreams, because he swore he felt John stroking his hand, and it was as soothing as it was unprecedented. He felt the dizziness subsiding as he was braced against him, allowing him to fall into a light sleep. He wasn't looking forward to having to move again when they got home, especially because it meant he wouldn't get to lean on John like this anymore.
Another slightly loud huff left his lips when Sherlock seemed to come to a full stop and actually drift off against him. Sherlock would likely not remember this taxi cab cuddle, and he didn't exactly mind that. It was a little secret, for John Watson alone to know. He might ask about it later
( ... )
Sherlock gave a petulant whine at the nudge, shaking his head with a 'mm-mm' sound of protest. He opened his eyes laboriously, barely having time to be confused as to where he had ended up before John was tugging him out of the cab. He was hazy enough from sleep that he couldn't tell if he had dreamed what happened. It was a possibility that his psyche was just using the pleasant memory of when he would fall asleep on Mycroft's shoulder to give him a sense of comfort enough to sleep. He couldn't prove anything either way, and his head hurt too much to really do much deducing on the matter, which would've been irritating if he wasn't so out of it
( ... )
Sherlock handed John his phone and the man just pocketed it. Getting a blanket and a few more pillows, he tossed them at Sherlock's feet and went to retrieve a few things and put the kettle on. The doctor returned with his Sherlock kit (that's what one called a first aid kit it at Baker Street). Inside it was all manner of gauze, bandages, stitching implements, ointments and other various things John has needed over the course of their time spent together
( ... )
In an uncharacteristic show of obedience, Sherlock left John to his work without comment instead of getting on his nerves as he usually would. Well, for the most part. He still hissed distastefully whenever his wounds were disinfected, but that was the standard reaction to alcohol being applied to an open wound. He watched John's motions silently, still on edge that any moment could be the moment when John finally loses his temper. He'd been calm -eerily so- through this entire ordeal, and it had Sherlock somewhat on edge. Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe John was punishing him even more by keeping him guessing as to when he'd finally get yelled at. That didn't really sound like him, so maybe he was just as exhausted from the day's events as Sherlock was
( ... )
"Y'know ... that's the first thing most drug addict patients tell me ... 'I'm fine'." It wasn't so much a warning that something was about to erupt, but more like he didn't want to see Sherlock go through with this. The heroin withdrawal. It would likely not be as severe as his first time coming off it, possibly because Mycroft and Mummy Holmes managed to get him into a methadone clinic. After just one injection, Sherlock wasn't eligible to go there this time around
( ... )
Sherlock made a face at John's words as he attempted to ignore any unease that crept up at being called a drug addict. Again it was like John knew somehow that there was another dose tucked away in his coat pocket just a few feet away. He wasn't an addict yet, but he had the distinct feeling that that would change just as soon as the first shudder of withdrawal hit him.
He watched as John retrieved his phone, huffing a sigh when told who it was. He really didn't need two people fussing over him, thanks very much. Still, it wouldn't hurt to look, he supposed. He picked up the phone and read over the message.
His eyes flicked back to John after he read it, noting John's hesitation as he looked over his own phone. "That would be Lestrade asking questions, I imagine." he said, debating what to say to Mycroft if he was indeed going to say anything. "What are you going to tell him?" he asked, curious as to whether John was going to broadcast what happened and tell him that Sherlock was on heroin.
John pursed his lips and glanced at the glow of Sherlock's own face in his mobile's reflection and put his away. "He doesn't like us leaving crime scenes, remember? Particularly ones that involve dead bodies that may or may not have been put that way by a certain blogger ... " John gave a terse grin at that and moved off of the couch. He was done with the bandaging and physically fixing up he could do to Sherlock's face, wrists and arm. He went to put away the first aid kit back into the kitchen
( ... )
Sherlock glanced from his phone with an unaffected shrug. "I needed medical attention. It couldn't be helped." he offered the simplest explanation to alleviate John's worry. Maybe it was compassion, or maybe it was just to keep John from harping on about it.
He decided against answering Mycroft, tossing his phone on the table and grabbing his tea instead. He pulls his legs onto the couch to sit cross-legged as he takes a sip of his tea, prepared just the way he liked it, as always. He glances over as John enters again, watching as he puts his revolver on the table. He tilts his head in interest at the edge John's words have taken. It seemed like John surprised even himself with that. "If there's something you want to say, you would do well to say it now before I start to detox." he said mildly. He would much rather John to vent his frustrations now while he was semi-lucid than when he was in the middle of withdrawal.
The more he thought about his words, the more he began to second guess himself. Perhaps Jim wanted Sherlock out of action and off the cases for a reason. Knowing that John would not allow him to work in this state, it was all too tempting. Well, John could imagine it was, if he knew Jim at all ... which he probably didn't. He let his head droop, chin almost resting against his chest as he let out a long, exasperated sigh
( ... )
Sherlock watched John's obvious exasperation with no change in his own demeanor. He really wasn't sure what he'd said to warrant that reaction, and he couldn't help but wonder if it would push him into saying something. He could tell that he was getting to him, not that John was making that hard to deduce with how obvious he was being about it. Was he going to leave? He wouldn't stop him if he tried, but the thought of being left alone with that vial was enough to put him ill at ease. He didn't want to admit to himself that the temptation would be too much for him without John around to keep an eye on him. He was stubborn, and he wouldn't yield his stoicism even in the face of a relapse into addiction. He already felt the beginnings of the yearning, almost hoping that John would get fed up and take off to leave him to it
( ... )
John dragged his hands away from his face and eyed the opposite wall, really not wanting to focus on anything at the moment. Then, Sherlock had to open his gob again. John huffed loudly and stood up, a few steps away from the couch he froze. He was about to storm out of there and suddenly spun around on his heel and nervously ran a hand through his hair again.
"Sherlock, do you have more?" There, he said it. When he didn't think his intentions came out clearly, John repeated himself, "Did Moriarty give you any more heroin? Or any other drug? Are you hiding something from me?" That last bit wasn't necessary, but it slipped out past his mind filter.
Loaded up with basic necessities, including some well overdue tea, John returned to the flat to find it ... empty. This wasn't a completely unusual event, Sherlock deciding he needed to check on something or find the nearest hoodlum to catch because he was bored waiting for John to get back. He didn't think much of it.
Four hours passed and John was honestly beginning to worry. The need to know where Sherlock could be was grinding at him, knotting up a wonderful anxious ball in his stomach. No texts, he'd usually say something if he was gone ( ... )
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He needs you. No, he doesn't. John shifted a touch and Sherlock's head fell away from his shoulder to scoot him in a tad closer and bring his arm up behind him. There was a moments hesitation, a comical scene if the cabbie actually looked in the rear view at them. His hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder, unsure if it was going to go all the way, much like a first attempt on a first date.
John let out a slow sigh that gradually turned into a quiet 'oh sod it, come here.' The doctor's hand fell to Sherlock's hair and nudged him in flush against him. A beat later, John's nose nuzzled his hair and his lips fell right above the shell of his ear, against his scalp. It wasn't a kiss, at least John wouldn't call it that. It was merely a resting of his lips.
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John thought little on it and just acted, bringing his fingers up along the back of his hand and stopped before his bandaged wrists. Pressing Sherlock's hand harder against his side, he lightly caressed the top of his palm and moved his lips a bit in another not-kiss to his hair. He could finally let his eyes close for a moment and let the rocking of the car really ease those adrenaline tensed muscles.
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He couldn't tell if he was still awake or if he'd finally faded into dreams, because he swore he felt John stroking his hand, and it was as soothing as it was unprecedented. He felt the dizziness subsiding as he was braced against him, allowing him to fall into a light sleep. He wasn't looking forward to having to move again when they got home, especially because it meant he wouldn't get to lean on John like this anymore.
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He watched as John retrieved his phone, huffing a sigh when told who it was. He really didn't need two people fussing over him, thanks very much. Still, it wouldn't hurt to look, he supposed. He picked up the phone and read over the message.
His eyes flicked back to John after he read it, noting John's hesitation as he looked over his own phone. "That would be Lestrade asking questions, I imagine." he said, debating what to say to Mycroft if he was indeed going to say anything. "What are you going to tell him?" he asked, curious as to whether John was going to broadcast what happened and tell him that Sherlock was on heroin.
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He decided against answering Mycroft, tossing his phone on the table and grabbing his tea instead. He pulls his legs onto the couch to sit cross-legged as he takes a sip of his tea, prepared just the way he liked it, as always. He glances over as John enters again, watching as he puts his revolver on the table. He tilts his head in interest at the edge John's words have taken. It seemed like John surprised even himself with that. "If there's something you want to say, you would do well to say it now before I start to detox." he said mildly. He would much rather John to vent his frustrations now while he was semi-lucid than when he was in the middle of withdrawal.
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"Sherlock, do you have more?" There, he said it. When he didn't think his intentions came out clearly, John repeated himself, "Did Moriarty give you any more heroin? Or any other drug? Are you hiding something from me?" That last bit wasn't necessary, but it slipped out past his mind filter.
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