John goes over to Sherlock’s the morning after the wedding, wanting to thank him again for the waltz—or that’s what he tells himself the reason for his visit is. What he finds erases every other fight from his mind.

In which John finds his way to a new life, and Sherlock finds his way back to his old one.

John hadn’t realized Sherlock had left his wedding until probably hours after it was too late. He was dancing, sharing kisses with his new wife when cheers erupted, and having seconds on cake. He was too busy to notice the absence of his best friend—his best friend whom he knew this was hard for—and he’d felt guilt wash over him the second he’d realized. He had been itching to break for the door, for 221B. But he’d stayed. It was his wedding. He should have preferred to stay. Guilt washed through him for this too. So he stayed. And he wouldn’t know the consequences of this until the next morning, when he used his key that he hadn’t had the heart to give back.

Ms. Hudson didn’t seem to be awake yet, although he didn’t blame her. They’d all had quite a sum of champagne last night. He took the stairs two at a time as quietly as he could manage, and hesitated briefly outside the door to his now ex-flat. He should have guessed something was off right then. There was no sounds coming from within. No rustling of papers, no mumbling. No tea boiling, no nothing. Sherlock definitely hadn’t had anything to drink, in fact he probably had left before the party really even started. John couldn’t think of any reason as to why Sherlock would alter his morning routine… Well, he could, but Sherlock never was the lie in type. He shook his head a little, and opened the door, expecting—hoping—to find his friend out. He wouldn’t have minded waiting a bit for Sherlock to return. If he was out and about that meant he was doing alright, didn’t it?

But Sherlock was not out. He was not out and he was not doing alright.

“Christ, Sherlock-“ John was on red alert in a second, so much so that for a moment he felt army canvas against his skin and hot desert wind in his hair, “Sherlock.”

The name brought him back to present. He repeated it over and over again, keeping himself there, keeping himself away from pure panic, as he nearly tripped over himself to get to where Sherlock was, slumped low on the floor, back leaning against John’s chair, arm out, needle inches from his open palm.

John pressed his palms to Sherlock’s neck, “Sherlock, hey, can you hear me?” His pulse was slow, and so faint that John could practically feel it struggling to reach his fingertips from underneath Sherlock’s paled skin, “C’mon.” He glanced at the needle, then at the small bruised circles littering Sherlock’s forearm, “Jesus, how much did you take? Sherlock, c’mon,” John pressed his thumbs in slow caresses over Sherlock’s cheeks, not sure why he was doing it, knowing it wouldn’t help anything, “Wake up, please. Please.”

Finally, Sherlock let out a breath that broke his steady breathing rhythm, signaling his approach to consciousness.

“John…” His lips barely moved but the word was clear as day, ringing in John’s ears.

“‘m here. Right here.” He hadn’t noticed he was holding his breath until he spoke, seeing stars at the sudden flow of oxygen to his brain, “Can you open your eyes?”

“John.” Sherlock’s head rolled against the sofa like he was trying to pick it up and failing.

John felt his throat tighten at the dangerous lack of response he was getting from his best friend, “Yes, yes it’s John. Sherlock, do I have to call an ambulance? Can you open your eyes for me?” Sherlock just breathed evenly, making a sound that was less and less recognizable as John’s name every time.

The panic John had felt spiked, “Fuck,” he cursed. He pressed the cool cloth to Sherlock’s neck, taking his hand in his own with the other, “Can you squeeze my hand? Just a little, Holmes, just to show you can hear me.”

John didn’t get a squeeze.


John had called the ambulance with shaking fingers, fingers that were still shaking as he sat in Sherlock’s hospital room—very nice hospital room, courtesy of Mycroft. He couldn’t get Sherlock’s words out of his head. He’d come to on the way to the hospital, obviously not himself and desperately trying to rip away the solution the paramedics were trying to detox him with. He was practically delirious, snapping and cursing out everyone in sight… until he’d caught sight of John. His entire body had gone limp then, falling lax against the stretcher, eyes never leaving John’s face.

“Just experimenting…” Sherlock’s eyes slid in and out of focus, “Was thinking last night. Couldn’t sort it through. Patches weren’t enough.”

“Mr. Holmes, what did you take?”

John had wanted to push the paramedic out of the way, to let Sherlock finish his sentence. 

Couldn’t sort what out?

Why did you have to leave?

Sherlock had ignored his question, eyes focused now, on John’s.

“Approximately 39% of the people present were only there for the alcohol. Common thing at weddings. People get sad. Only… people don’t want people to know that they’re sad. Funny thing, happiness. How it can make someone sad.” His eyes had slid out again, he was somewhere else, somewhere caught between this world and the drugs, “Are you happy..”

John had just stared back at Sherlock, shaking his head, “Sherlock-“ The paramedic pressed a hand against his chest. John hadn’t even realized he had started to lean forward.

“Sir, please let us work. Do you have any idea what he-“

But John wasn’t listening anymore. Because Sherlock’s eyes, still staring blankly, were wet.

And no, John thought, no, Sherlock, I’m not happy.

John closed his eyes against the memory, squeezing his hands together, trying to ease the tension out of them. He’d already burnt himself twice with his tea, he wasn’t going to risk picking it up again, even if it would calm his nerves.

He played the words over and over in his mind.

People get sad. Only… people don’t want people to know that they’re sad.

Sherlock had been talking about himself. John felt the pinch of this realization in his heart. The man who had mastered the art of masking one’s feelings not only needed drugs to tell John how he felt, but he needed to translate it into a hypothetical situation with statistics and reasoning. But, then again, what good would have come out of the alternative?

What would have happened if Sherlock had been sitting there, waiting for John to arrive, and had simply told him, heart on his sleeve, that John marrying Mary made him…sad. John shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the notion that anything he did could make Sherlock Holmes something as simple and as terrible as sad.

Why was he sad? Was it why he had left? Mary had been so quick to pack it up to Sherlock being socially awkward. John had been quick to take that reasoning. It was easy. He knew better. Selfish. John pressed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. This wasn’t how he expected the morning after his wedding to go. He knew he should have stayed in bed with Mary, with his wife, and yet, despite not having lived there for years, he longed for Baker Street. Maybe it was the fact that Sherlock’s presence now occupied it once again, maybe it was a wave of nostalgia… He’d needed Sherlock. Sitting here in the waiting room, he felt he’d always need Sherlock. Maybe more than anything else.

John closed his eyes, shaking himself. It’s the setting, he told himself. It’s the setting, and the shock and you don’t feel this anymore. You’re married and you haven’t felt this for two years-

“Dr. Watson?”

John stood, back straight, hands closing and opening fists at his side, “Yes. Yes? Is-“

“You’re here for Mr. Holmes, yes?”

John cleared his throat of the lump that had occupied it, “Yes. I- I am. Is he- how is he?”

The young nurse let out a breath, folding the clipboard she held against her chest, “Well, stable. But just barely. He really…” She pursed her lips in a concerned but soft way, “Dr. Watson, if he’s your friend, I’d recommend you urge him to get help. You’d told the paramedics that this was a one off, but… one offs don’t use drugs like that. That was a very precise concoction of narcotics he’d made there. Very… purposeful.”

John raised an eyebrow, shifting to pick up his tea, just to have something to hold. His hands had stopped shaking, every piece of nervous energy shifting to his pounding heart, “Right… I… Sorry, what do you mean by… purposeful?”

The nurse’s brows creased, and she gave him a sad, not smile, but her lips pressed together like if this was a happier situation it could have been. Instead the look was full of pity, of knowing, and of telling without words. John’s stomach dropped. He’d never felt more sick.

“Oh.” John set the tea back down, flattening his palm against the wall for support, “God. Are you sure?”

She tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear, “Well, only he can know his reasons. But whatever he was trying to do, it was dangerous. He probably knew it too. He either thought it was worth the risk or he just didn’t care.”

John closed his eyes briefly, inhaling sharply through his nose. He’d done this. He knew how this would effect Sherlock and he’d ignored it. He’d driven him to…

“I’d like to see him, please.”

She nodded wordlessly, and turned for him to follow.

Love these two. Just a little thing I did to get my brain in the zone for some Kitchens writing tomorrow! :) Feeling somewhat better!

anonymous asked:

40,89 & 59 with sherlock please:)

Characters: Reader x Sherlock Holmes

Warnings: Sherlock spoilers-ish ??? 

Prompts: 40: “Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it.” 59: “How do I even put up with you?” 89: “And when did you plan on telling me about this?”

Word Count: 358

A/N: hope you like it !!

Want to request a drabble? Read this post [x]

You struggled with the bags of groceries you were carrying and hauled them to your front door. You fumbled with your keys before finally unlocking the door. You pushed it open with your shoulder and staggered inside, dumping your bags onto the kitchen counter. You sighed, catching your breath, when you suddenly heard something crash from further inside your apartment. 

Grabbing a kitchen knife, you slowly advanced towards the sound. You stopped in front of your bedroom, and cautiously pushed the door open. You shrieked, jumping back, when you came face to face with Sherlock.

“Hello, y/n.” he said, his voice low. You shook your head, refusing to acknowledge him. Sherlock Holmes had died two years ago. Yet, he was standing in front of you. 

“No.” you gasped, backing away. “You’re dead. You’re dead, Sherlock!” 

“Clearly not.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and you glared at him.

“Do you know how much pain you’ve caused all of us, Sherlock?” you snapped, gripping the knife so tightly you thought it might crack. “John was distraught. I was devastated. Even Anderson was affected, out of all people! He’s practically gone mad, Sherlock! And yet, you’re here, alive!”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock sighed, and you gritted your teeth.

“Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it.” you glowered. 

“I technically didn’t want you to know I was alive yet.” Sherlock coughed, and you rolled your eyes. “I just wanted to look around your apartment, but you came home early.” 

“And when did you plan on telling me about this?” you gestured to Sherlock, the anger still swelling in your chest. “Have you told anyone else?” 

“Only Mycroft knows.” Sherlock responded, and you huffed. 

“Get out.” you pointed to the door with the knife, but Sherlock ignored you. 

“It’s time to get back into the game, y/n.” Sherlock stepped towards you, and you looked away. “You know you’ve missed it.”

“How do I even put up with you?” you glared at Sherlock, crossing your arms. Sherlock maintained your glare, before you finally relented and let out and exasperated sigh.

“Alright!” you exclaimed, and Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a grin. “When do we start?”