Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I don't understand Sherlock, can’t you be nice for once!” John finally snapped. If there was one thing he didn’t like about his friend was this careless part, forgetting not everyone is a high-functioning sociopath, or worse, he didn’t forget he just didn’t think anything of it.

“Oh come on, what’s gotten into you, John?” Molly already had tears forming, but she wasn't going to let them fall. Sherlock was there and she didn't want him to think she was weak or any less of her. Because no matter how much he hurt her she would still be there for him if he needed her.

“Will you just, stop being you for a second! Molly’s human you know? She did something nice for you and all you do is say those awful things to her. You’re really horrible.” That was a tad shocking, for everybody. No one dared to speak up. Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, it was the same as before, just as emotionless. But, it did hurt. It wasn’t the first time John would call him horrible, he called him many names in the past and he tried not to think much of it. It did make him a little bit sad. but emotion and feelings weren’t his domain, clearly.

“I was just telling the truth, would you like me to lie? I’m sorry I offended you, John, but I think Molly can defend herself.”

“God, you just don’t get it! The stuff you say does have an effect on people, it leaves marks, not that you’d know. You are so ignorant Sherlock Holmes, so very ignorant.” With that said, John got up and stepped outside. He felt like he was going to actually cry and he didn’t want Sherlock out of all people to see him. Most probably he’d ridicule him and that would be the last thing he wanted.

Mrs Hudson motioned for Sherlock to follow his friend outside, but he didn’t need someone to push him, he bolted outside not even ten seconds after. The rest was left in rather awkward silence.
Once Sherlock got outside, he was welcomed by the cold wind of December, thank God he thought about getting his coat. To his right was John, standing with his hands in his pockets, staring into nothing. Sherlock approached him, carefully, not saying anything just first, only joining his friend by staring at the sky. He had to be careful about what he was about to say next, or else he might lose his best friend.

He noticed with a side-eye glance that John was chewing on his lips, something he used to do for a long time until he met Sherlock. “I remember the first day we met and you were chewing on your lip and you wouldn’t stop,” he smiled slightly at the memory, how they first met, their first day together, how John literally killed someone for him, “and I told you to ‘stop that, it annoys me’.”

“‘Stop that it annoys me’.” They said it in sync and Sherlock turned to look at John but he wouldn’t budge. He was still staring at some imaginary dot in the street. It was complete silence, no car was passing by, no one was out, of course, it was late and Christmas.

“And I never did it again, in front of you, because you told me it annoyed you. I didn’t want to annoy you, so I only did it in private,” every word that got out of John’s mouth felt so soothing. Also, it was only now that Sherlock realised the weight his words have on other people, he told John to stop doing something, he stopped. He told Molly once he didn’t like her lipstick and she changed. She kept changing it until he liked it.

“But it didn’t actually annoy me, it bothered me because I knew you’re hurting yourself. And I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” It was John’s turn to look at Sherlock, but he already turned his head, staring at the sky again. What the detective said, it made John feel warm inside, knowing he did care.

“And one day, your lip was busted, but no one punched you. I knew and I asked, ‘why’?”

“I never said anything, because I knew you knew. I didn’t want to tell you the truth and I didn’t want to lie to you either, so I just stayed silent.” Sherlock had called John over for a case and when he came he noticed the obvious busted lip caused by none other than himself. The detective knew the reason for this ticks that humans have; usually out of nervousness or anxiety, but why was he nervous around him? He just couldn’t figure it out, he didn’t know. He didn’t like not knowing.

“I knew that and I didn’t ask anything, I just took care of the wound.” A small smile made its way on Sherlock's face that John hadn't missed. He looked good, in his long black coat with the collar up, the curly mess on top of his hair and his icy blue eyes. He looked so good. He was so beautiful in John’s eyes and that smile topped everything, that bloody smile that he rarely wore, it looked so good. And it all made John nervous, Sherlock Holmes made John Watson so very nervous.

Sherlock wanted to ask, why? Why did he make John nervous? And John only thought he was so stupid for not understanding, for not getting it, the smartest man he ever met couldn’t figure this simple puzzle out. But the detective decided to shut up, for now, he could wait a tad more. He wasn’t going to ruin the snowstorm that just started. He gave his coat to John since he didn’t have one, without saying anything.

To say that John was startled was an understatement, he would have never expected something like this from his friend. He just took his coat off and placed it over John, careful not to touch him, or else he might catch feelings and he never said a word. They sat there in silence and Sherlock took out a cigarette. John did throw a dirty glance at him, but to his surprise, the taller placed it between his lips and never took out his lighter.

“It’s something I like to do, as a ritual of mine or something, it makes me cope better.” John smiled, knowing how he struggled with cigarettes and wanted to give up, it made the doctor proud.

Chapter Text

John always thought he was a genius and never doubted Sherlock. But this chase after a quite creepy but seemingly innocent man made the doctor doubt Sherlock, for the first time. He had shown up at his door, allegedly high, and telling John to come with him for this case. Mary’s loss had a huge impact on John, he saw her everywhere, he missed her like crazy. What he failed to notice was that it took a toll on Sherlock as well. Of course, he didn't notice when he was too busy accusing his best friend of killing his wife and being in denial.

Sherlock had a time in his life where everything was so dark, he was using constantly and was in denial about it, he had all of these thoughts, these bad thoughts that wouldn’t get out of his head. That was until he met Detective Lestrade and started working on cases. That’s what started to get him high, but of course, with no proper therapy or rehab he didn’t give drugs up completely. He barely used them and now that he had John in his life he only smoked cigarettes nowadays but decided to give those up as well. He was ok, but of course, everything went to hell the day Mary died. He kept thinking it should’ve been him instead of her, he started using again, he almost overdosed one time, but he didn’t pay attention to how much he had injected, so it wasn’t intentional.

Now, he had never thought John would fully attack him, but he did. He started throwing punches and kicking, he didn’t say anything or tried to fight him, he knew he deserved it, after all, it was his fault Mary had died. He felt like he needed to be punished, he needed something bad to happen to him. He needed to hurt, it was the only way he’d feel good. It wasn’t like that, hurting himself or letting others throw punches didn’t solve anything, it made the guilt disappear but only a little. Sherlock felt so miserable, he couldn't live like this, he didn’t want to, for someone who's never been emotional, he felt a lot now and he wanted it to stop. It was like torture but he’d rather get beaten up than having all these feelings at once.

He was now in the hospital, waiting for the days to pass and to get out, to go home and find a way to deal with everything, or ignore everything. Sherlock thought back to the time he was eating fries with what he thought was Faith. He was standing on the edge of the bridge, telling the girl her life isn’t her own, that she won’t be the one to grieve and suffer, yet he thought about jumping himself. What did it matter now? No one cared about him anymore, Molly, Greg and Mrs Hudson probably got tired of him being an asshole all the time, Mycroft didn’t like his guts from the moment he was born and John… John never wanted to see him ever again, that’s what he thought at least.

After John had attacked him, Sherlock insisted it was nothing much, only the bleeding nose and busted lip and they let him home. Once he got home, he ignored Mrs Hudson who was concerned about him, she’s only pretending, she doesn’t care.
“Just shut up!” he burst while trying to find his keys. Mrs Hudson was petrified since he never yelled at her, like that, but she didn’t know she was yelling at himself. So she left and went back to her apartment, not wanting to piss him off more or anything.
After he entered he looked at the mess he made. God, how he hated to clean up. But he wasn’t going to, because this time, this time he had enough. Why him? Why did he have to be this smart? Why did he have to be this high-functioning sociopath? And if he was a sociopath why did he care? He cared so much it was hurting and he couldn’t handle it. He thought about recording a video or writing a note but for what? Who would read it? Who would care?

Sherlock made his way around the kitchen, searching for any leftovers and he luckily found something. Something strong enough to kill him this time. So, without any hesitation or doubt, he started mixing some opioids, a deadly mix of them including heroin, fentanyl, carfentanil and some lesser-known opiate known as U-47-something Sherlock didn’t bother to remember, then he injected it in his arm, followed by a heavy dose of alcohol, to be sure he’d die. And to make the overall kinda great feeling even better. Then, he laid on his little chair and closed his eyes, feeling extremely dizzy. Memories started flashing through his eyes just before he lost all control over his body and he started sleeping. This combination of opioids is extremely deadly and he could be dead within the next five minutes.

After Mrs Hudson had run off to her room, he called John. she knew Sherlock needed someone right now, he looked like he needed someone and she would’ve never guessed how much he needed someone right now, because right at that moment, when John picked up, Sherlock was mixing his drugs.

“What is it, Mrs Hudson?” He was tired. That was a tiresome day and John wasn’t in the mood for anything, especially since he knew Mrs Hudson was calling about Sherlock. He didn’t want to see him now.

“Please, John, come over, quickly. He needs you, you in particular. He’s vulnerable and damaged, I’m begging you!” The doctor wanted to interrupt at least three times, but Mrs Hudson talked over him. And no matter how much he didn’t want to get up and go, he did. For some inexplicable reason. Actually, it was more for Mrs Hudson than Sherlock, just to calm her down, knowing that the only thing Sherlock would do right now is sleep, or play the violin.

By the time he parked, Sherlock already started to slip away, not dead yet, but he didn't have much time. John walked up to his, what was once their door, and knocked for a few times. Then he started to call his name. Then knocked again. And then a combination of both, but louder this time. The door was locked so he decided to leave, but something felt off, he couldn’t put it in words, it was just odd. So, like a reflex, he asked Mrs Hudson to open the door.

There, he found Sherlock sleeping in his chair and he thought everything’s fine. But, if there’s something John remembered in his time living here, Sherlock was a light sleeper, he would wake up at the smallest of sounds and he definitely would have woken up if he heard someone knocking on the door like that.

So he went closer, calling his name, hoping for a response. Once he got close enough, he saw the syringes lying beside him and his pulse started going faster. “Uhm, Sherlock, i-it’s alright, everything's fine- Mrs Hudson call an ambulance right now!” John started panicking when he felt no pulse whatsoever. He tried to reassure his friend it’s going to be fine but it was more for himself.

Yeah. That’s right. He forgot Sherlock was his friend. And he treated him so miserable these last couple of weeks, not to mention what he did to his face. If Mary would have seen him, like this, the way he acted towards Sherlock she would for sure assassinate him. How could he have been so stupid? His friend was already high, on drugs, not in a good place and somehow he still let him go without saying anything. That and he forgot how Mary wasn’t only his wife, but Sherlock’s friend as well.
It wasn’t long until the ambulance came and took Sherlock, of course, John came as well. They started to perform CPR and did everything they could to keep him alive since he had a small pulse.

When they made it to the hospital, John was left in the waiting room, while Sherlock was under surgery. John was shaking, almost crying, he did spill some tears in the ambulance. He tried to believe that this was just Sherlock pulling off a trick or accidental overdose. He couldn’t believe it, what if Sherlock was not going to make it? Oh no, but he had to.

Before the doctor came out, Mycroft arrived, just as worried as John, which came as a surprise, since he never showed emotions, just like Sherlock. “What happened?!” the doctor could barely answer, John himself didn’t know what happened. Only that he found Sherlock like… like that. Even if they were bickering all the time and never agreeing with each other and saying they don’t care about each other or anyone else, there he was, the was Mycroft silently crying when he heard a nurse saying the patient overdosed. He didn’t even try to hide it, he just let his tears flow, which again, took John by surprise. John himself was crying since he found Sherlock until now.

Mycroft took a seat beside John, not knowing what to say. Neither of them knew. Did they keep thinking about Sherlock, why? Why now? Wh, why, why?! John thought that was so selfish, right when he needed him the most, he did something like this. Oh, but how very stupid of him to think like that, even now. Somehow he forgot Sherlock happened to be human too, not only a machine like he told everyone he was. No, that was a lie and John knew. But now that he was hurting because of Mary, he completely forgot about Sherlock, about how he was hurting too and memories flashed through his eyes. All the times he called him arrogant and stupid and careless. But that was before Mary died. After that, he didn’t even realise what he had done to his best friend. He threw punches at him, he kicked him when he was at his lowest point, both literally and metaphorically. John told him he didn’t need him, he told him so many horrible things, he lost Mary, no one was there for him because they were there for John and on top of it all he started using again, he was a mess, everything was going to hell and his world had blown up.

And no one noticed. No one was there for him. Wow, John was a great friend, truly. The best, him and Molly who seemed to have forgotten about Sherlock and Greg who never thought once about checking up on him and Mycroft who… was his very own brother and never said a word. He never did.

If Sherlock was going to die, which he won’t, he couldn’t, he simply couldn't, it wouldn’t be fair, John would make sure to make his life the very best. He would come over every day, make him breakfast, solve cases and all that. Only if Sherlock would take him back, of course.

“So…”

“So…” Mycroft started, but never continued, he didn’t know-how. Or he did but didn’t dare to speak. He really didn’ want to ask ‘so how did you find him? Why did he do it?’ it would feel like torture. Losing his brother… especially this way would kill him inside, not just upset him, it would destroy him completely.

“Mrs Hudson called to make sure he’s ok and when I walked in he was just, laying on the couch, looking so lifeless…” John didn’t even dare to say dead. And then he saw anger in Mycroft’s eyes, like he was about to jump to his throat and tear him apart, piece by piece, thinking how John was supposed to be there. But he knew he should’ve been there as well. He never really was, was he?

The doctor came out, both males jumping up and bombarding him with questions. “He’s fine, he made it, barely. He took quite a huge dose but we managed to save him. He’s in a medically induced coma now, he’ll wake up in a few hours. You can go and see him if you’d like.'' With that, the doctor left to see another patient and the pair walked in Sherlock's room.

He was laying there, so peaceful, wrapped in wires and connected to beeping machines. John sat down on a chair near his friend and Mycroft stood beside him, just watching. The very stoic soldier started to cry again. His older brother started shaking, he thought about all the scenarios possible and about having to bury his beloved brother.

They stood there for one more hour, John thought it was appropriate to call Molly and Greg and Mrs Hudson. They had to know. And within that one hour, Mycroft and John were there, not talking to each other, only sitting on chairs besides Sherlock’s bed, all three had arrived.

All of them starred in shock, Molly started crying immediately and Greg looked so lost and broken. They asked ‘how? Why? When?’ all of those annoying questions that John wasn’t really in the mood to answer.

None of them wanted to leave, they wanted to be there when Sherlock woke up. They didn’t want to leave him alone, again. So three more hours passed by and nothing happened. The nurse that came in once an hour to check Sherlock’s doses and pulse told them to go home, sleep and come back tomorrow. But no one was willing to go. Mycroft had requested a special room for his brother and they moved him quickly into a more spacious one with a private bathroom.

Six hours in and all of them fell asleep, except John who swore he will not sleep until Sherlock wakes up. But it started to get harder and harder as hours passed by and the sun started to rise and suddenly it was the next day. The others woke up at some point, Greg and Molly calling in that today they are not coming to work. They have to be there for Sherlock. The nurse was starting to threaten them to at least go home and change then come back. They each took turns. Going home, changing and grabbing something to eat only to come back to Sherlock, who was still in a come.

Panic reached to John, yet again, as Sherlock wasn’t waking up. The doctor kept on reassuring him, saying a coma can happen and often happens so there’s nothing to worry about. After all, he apparently had minor internal bleeding as well that held him back and made his wake late. John never felt so much guilt before, he didn’t even remember a time he cried like this, for hours and hours. It was agonizing. He wanted Sherlock. He needed him. There were so many things he hadn’t told him, he needed to come back.

He let out a small groan and tried to push himself up, but he immediately fell back as the pain took over. Sherlock was really sore and stiff, his muscles tight and there was pain all over the place. John was the first to jump up, followed by Mycroft and the rest. They watched him closely and waited for him to say something.

"W-Where am I?” An obvious question, he was at the hospital he quickly deduced. The events of last night came over, like a huge wave, sinking him at the bottom of the sea. After he drifted he swore he started hearing all sorts of things. Mostly it was ‘Sherlock’ or ‘Come back please’ and it all seemed like John’s voice, combined with others.

“At the hospital, you’re ok now.” The last part came more like a whisper, meant only for Sherlock. Molly went after the doctor after she made sure Sherlock saw and acknowledged her. The detective kept on trying to get up and leave, obviously, the wires were pulling him back. That and the fact that his whole body was aching, even breathing was an effort right now.

Soon, the doctor came in with a list and started explaining this and that. “You’ll have to stay here for a few more days until your pulse gets back to normal and your breathing is steady. The internal pain wasn’t really bad, but it might cause shortness of breath and headaches.” Sherlock groaned internally at the thought of having to stay in here for a few more days, he already lost a day unconscious and he wanted to go solve cases, not be in a hospital bed. Also, he’d try to avoid contact with people because they’d start asking questions, especially John.

The doctor had told everyone to go, to let the patient have some rest like he didn’t in the past twenty-four hours, then he told Mycroft about multiple programs, for substance abuse and therapy for Sherlock. He had never once in his life thought something like this, talking to a doctor about therapy for his baby brother would happen. He still wasn’t really over what had happened, but he coped with it. The others left, John tried to stay but the nurse wouldn’t allow him. They all went to get some coffee, all but Mycroft and Mrs Hudson and talked. At first, no one wanted to open up the subject, but as time passed by, the three of them started to talk about Sherlock. Molly was the first one to open her mouth and after that John and Greg started to open up too.

These next few days were not going to be easy, at all, not that this day was, but the shock and the ‘what if’s’ were not a problem now since they knew Sherlock was alive and taken care of, physically at least. They had to get him to open up somehow, but they didn’t really know-how. Sherlock would never open this matter up and he’d ignore it, just pretend like his suicide attempt didn’t happen.

John left early, said he was going home but didn’t even realise that he told the cab to go to Baker’s street, 221B. It was like an instinct, a reflex. Once he realised he was there, he went up, in what used to be their flat and pushed the already open door. He stole a glance at the place, it was a complete mess. But his eyes fixed in one spot, Sherlock’s chair. He remembered all the good times they had, solving crimes together, having dinner, John making breakfast in the morning, making some tea in the afternoon, Sherlock sitting in his chair or on the couch, with his hands together, thinking. He remembered how incredibly gorgeous Sherlock was looking when he was in his mind palace and John could do more than just steal a glance. Sometimes, even though it might sound odd, he would stare at his flatmate for more than a few seconds, observing every single detail on his face, how his cheekbones were so sharp, how good they looked on him, how his icy blue eyes would stare intensely at John sometimes.
Yeah, they did that. Sometimes they would just stare at each other for a few moments, neither knowing why. Sometimes their breathing would match and Sherlock always pointed it out.

But how gracious did everything fall down? It all went to hell in a few days. A few days in which John decided to ignore Sherlock completely, to lock him out and to blame him for what has happened. And everyone was so focused on John, they forgot about Sherlock. Oh, how wrong of them. Even though Sherlock was a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath that doesn’t feel anything, John knew. He saw past this facade, he wasn’t just a machine, no. He had feelings, but would never share them, not even with himself. That’s why things like this happened.

Sherlock would never admit it and would never let anyone know or see that he, in fact, was so vulnerable. He was so very vulnerable, more than John or Molly. Small things, like Davonav or Anderson calling him a psychopath, a freak, would trigger and make him so sad, yet he never wanted to show it. He didn’t even know what this feeling was, he didn’t want to accept it, so he rejected it, every feeling actually, he rejected and ignored it. Like that would make things better, or solve problems. Not even Sherlock knew how stressed and vulnerable he was, he didn’t know that the smallest thing would send him over the edge. He didn’t acknowledge it. He chose not to.

John wished this whole situation was just a very bad dream and he'd wake up and Sherlock would be pacing around his flat out of boredom, but no. This was a reality. And John certainly didn’t want it, so he decided to go to sleep until tomorrow when he could go and see his friend.

The doctor woke up a few times because of the nightmares. The time Sherlock fakes his death keeps on playing in his head, but a different version, where John goes after his friend. He keeps running and running and finally makes it to the rooftop, where Sherlock was. Just when he was about to pull his friend back, he fell and John fell with him. Now they were in their flat and his friend was on the couch, dead. John kept yelling at him to come back, begged him, but he never came back. He was going to have these nightmares for quite a while, John was sure.

Either way, it was the next day and the doctor was looking forward to seeing Sherlock. He needed to make sure he’s ok, that he’s not dead, like in his dreams. He didn’t waste a second and started getting dressed, greeting Mrs Hudson and calling a cab. He almost ran to Sherlock’s room in the hospital and waited a few seconds before knocking on his door.

“Come in.” Clearly Sherlock’s voice, loud and clear. Once he got in, his friend was staring out the window. His eyes were empty, his hands a bit shaky and he didn’t care to look at whoever entered. John took a seat, somewhat close to Sherlock’s bed but not so close.

It took a little while until conversation sparked between the two. And it started with Sherlock complaining about how incompetent the doctors and nurses and the people around him were. A small smile made its way on John’s face, it was just like old times, Sherlock insulting people and pointing out how stupid they were. Except he was in a hospital due to last days events he simply didn’t look like Sherlock. He was more pale than usual and his cheeks sharper. Even if neither wanted it, someone had to start talking about what happened.

“And then that idiot suggested therapy! Why would I need therapy?! Stupid... They are all so stu-”

“They’re right though.” this. This was the perfect moment to spark the conversation, yet John regretted it as he saw Sherlock’s face change, he even turned his head to look at John, for the first time he entered.
“What do you mean by that?” he scoffed. He was being so passive aggressive, John sighed internally as he realized how hard this was going to be.

“Well, you just tried to commit suicide…” He spoke softly, easy, hoping he won’t trigger the other. Or himself.

Instead, Sherlock denied it. So very casual. He insisted he didn’t try to do such a thing, which made John a little happy. Because maybe he didn’t try to do it on purpose, he tried to inject a dose but slipped. Not that that was any better, but still.
But John knew, he knew that what Sherlock had done wasn’t accidental. No way it was and he couldn’t keep on hearing his friend saying it was, lying to himself like that. “Then tell me what it was!” John couldn’t help himself as he snapped at Sherlock. Perhaps not the wisest choice right now.

“I was just- taking the edge off.”

“Sherlock, no, you weren’t. You wouldn’t have put so much if you didn't mean to kill your-yourself.” he stuttered a bit at the end there, still not grasping his head fully around the fact that this actually happened.

“How would you know what I would’ve done?” His tone was still sharp and aggressive, but his eyes were softer, a tad more vulnerable.

“Because you’re my friend. And I know you.” John choked on his words as he felt a knot form in his throat. He had no right to say he was his friend after he left him all alone. He had no right to try and fix him after he was the one who broke him in the first place.

Sherlock also got stuck, not knowing how to respond to that. For some strange reason he felt like he needed to cry, an overwhelming sensation crashed over him, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to cry in front of John, it would’ve made him look weak and pathetic and worst-case scenario, John would pity him. That’s the last thing he would’ve wanted, pity. He already had received tons of pitiful looks, from nurses and his doctors and his friends.

He felt the urge to get up and push him out the door, not wanting to talk anymore with anyone. Especially since he knew he’d snap at him at any moment and Sherlock didn’t want that. He’d feel guilty afterwards and guilt wasn’t a pleasant emotion. Even though he shouldn’t feel guilty at all, about anything.

And John knew that it was written all over Sherlock’s face. He felt guilty because he really did cause harm, unlike Sherlock who was under the appearance that he did, when he obviously didn’t. John, on the other hand, caused some serious damage that he hoped he could repair.

It didn’t take more than two minutes, which was a lot for Sherlock until he decided to tell John to get out. He couldn’t control the venom in his voice, the way he spat the words without even looking at his friend. He didn’t want to look at his face, he didn’t want to see the sadness in his eyes or the way his whole face fell. It seemed too agonizing.

“I won’t go. I won’t let you alone, again.” The fact that John acknowledged that he left his friend alone through a dark time made Sherlock’s heart swallow a little. The fact that he thought about him and was trying to make things right bought a small smile on the detective’s face. And no matter how hard he tried to hide it, it didn’t go unnoticed since John smiled as well, a sad smile, but still.

“Ok then, doctor, what do you want.” he slowly turned his head to face John to see what kind of reaction he got out of him since this time he used a softer tone, his usual tone in fact.

John thought for a minute, what did he want? He wanted Sherlock to be ok and back to normal. He wanted to go and solve a case. He wanted to comfort Greg when Sherlock mispronounces his name, yet again. He wanted to wake up, make tea and pour two cups for him and Sherlock. He wanted to get all this over with already and he knew Sherlock would be more than ready to get things back to normal, ignoring all his problems, but John knew if this would happen, at the next argument no matter how small, he’d break completely and god knows what would happen.

“I want you to be ok. And I want you to open up, to me, to Mycroft or a therapist. Anyone Sherlock. Please.” the pleading look in his eyes almost made Sherlock turn around. The way he said ‘please’ did something to Sherlock, it made him realize some things. It made him realize how self-destructive was in the last days, or years. The damage he bought upon his friends, he never realised, he was too busy ignoring his problems.

Perhaps he would talk to a therapist, but he knew he should talk to his brother as well. This whole thing and other things Sherlock’s gone through these last five or so years took a toll on Mycroft as well, even though he’d never admit it. And he’ll talk to Molly and Greg too, maybe. Just maybe. And definitely to John. But he’d wait, at least until he gets back home and that should be in a day or two.

“Yeah, I, Uhm, will. After I get out, ok?” Sherlock offered a polite smile and John’s face lit up. He didn’t expect this reply, but god he was happy with it. More than happy. He was euphoric, for the first time in a while.

And then, there was a moment of silence, a moment between a glance and a kiss, where the world stopped, for the briefest of times. There was no one else but them and the anticipation of their platonic relationship becoming more, a moment so intense it just hangs in the air as it pulls them closer, emotionally. It was a moment so perfect, that when it came to an end they realised it was only the beginning of a new ‘us’.

Only when the nurse came in John decided to take his leave, the smile never disappearing from his face. And Sherlock’s stayed in place the whole day. “Feelin’ good, are we?” the doctor had asked when he came to check upon him. Even this idiot had seen an improvement in his mental state, Sherlock thought. After explaining this and that, the doctor finally let him go. He needed a ride and his doctor had suggested calling someone to pick them up. Knowing John and Lestrade were at work and Mycroft was not an option, he called Molly. Which seemed rational at first, but then regretted it the moment he stepped in her car.

Nice environment, small car, she came in a hurry. Her pony lose and messy, lipstick freshly put on, it wasn’t dry yet. It reeked of perfume, meaning she put it in the car, a few minutes ago. He noticed she tidied things up quickly not a long time ago since the front seat was clean and the back had not so much.

She always had that polite smile around Sherlock, just a little flirty, but not too much. Not now though. He could barely see any emotion on her face and Molly wasn’t facing him so he couldn’t read her properly. But he knew she was upset, a tad angry even, Sherlock deduced from the way she was gripping the steering wheel. There was something else though, something he just couldn’t understand and he might even ask about this.

Once they reached 221b Baker Street, Mrs Hudson rushed to help them, even though there was nothing to help but she insisted. Kept asking if Sherlock is ok if he feels good, no one told her exactly what happened, but she sort of assumed.

When he got to the door, he was a bit hesitant, not knowing if he actually wanted to go in. Molly didn’t rush him, she just stood behind, waiting patiently not saying anything. Freak. Show-off. Arrogant. You machine.

“Shut up!” Molly flinched, she was startled and extremely confused. Sherlock sometimes told her to shut up when she wasn’t saying anything, but it wasn’t like this. This was more of a disparate cry like someone had just stabbed him in the throat. It was loud and angry and even Mrs Hudson stepped out of her apartment to check if something happened.

The voices were only growing louder and louder, it was all John’s voice and the feeling of injecting another in his veins was so persistent. He thought he might’ve heard another voice, a woman’s, but he wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure of anything right now. Where he was, if he was alone or with someone, hell, it didn’t matter if he was in a crowd filled with people, he was still alone.

A warm feeling rushed through his body, starting from his shoulder and it didn’t fade. Sherlock had managed to get a hold of himself and realised it was Molly’s hand, gently placed on his shoulder, barely touching, as if she’d press too hard he might break. Which he was actually on the brink to do.

“What… Uhm, what did you say?” he tried to be gentle, realising he had scared her for a second which sent a pang of guilt right through his heart.

“Nothing, I didn’t say anything,” she was careful, trying to calm him down. Molly was pretty sure he was close to a panic attack right there, “Are you ok, Sherlock?”

He simply nodded and finally pushed the door open. Clearly, someone had been here before because the place was more tidied up, the syringes gone and the dust cleaned off. Definitely Mrs Hudson. There were some cookies in the kitchen on the counter, still warm, so freshly baked. It was nice being back. It seemed like he never left. Like nothing ever happened.

“Thank you, Molly. For being here.” she smiled. Sherlock rarely apologized or thanked and it was nice when he did, especially now, it seemed so sincere. It really was. But god, he shouldn’t, because she did nothing but drove him home and she felt so bad, seeing the state Sherlock was currently in. In fact, she saw him like that, almost, before. A few weeks prior to this, he was in a similar state, but she was so occupied with Rosie and John, she didn’t really bother to do or say anything.

She helped him around the apartment and promised to stay for a few more hours until John came by. Things were going to be ok. They had to, Molly promised herself she was going to do everything to put Sherlock back together, alongside John and Mycroft and Greg.