Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mrs. Hudson’s voice echoed through the flat as she departed, her heels tapping against the floor. “I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear!” she called out, her voice growing faint as she closed the door behind her. John leaned back in his chair, idly flipping through the newspaper, eyes scanning the headlines for something, anything remotely interesting. Unfortunately, the paper was as stale as usual, with nothing more than tedious and petty headlines. In short: boring.

God, he sounded like Sherlock.

With a sigh, he closed the newspaper and let it rest across the arm of the chair. His gaze drifted to the window, where the bare branches outside swayed gently in the wind, and a small cluster of nightingales flitted around the window frame. He glanced at his watch. Though it was only a few hours past noon, the fast approaching winter shortened the days, casting an early shadow over Baker Street.

A click at the door pulled his attention, and he sat up a little straighter, half-hoping to see Mrs. Hudson with a cup of tea. But of course, it was the one and only Consulting Detective, storming into the flat with a purposeful stride that bordered on agitation. John could immediately tell that what Sherlock had been working on was going nowhere. The detective’s shoulders were tense, his face drawn, and there was a restless intensity in his eyes that John had seen too often in recent days.

Sherlock had been working on a case for a week or so, albeit not a fascinating one. However, he’d gotten absolutely nowhere. Not a single deduction had led him in the right direction. 

Which, to John, might have even been a little funny; that is if it weren’t for the man’s restlessness. The fast pace of his eyes. The way he held his hands behind his back, one hand gripping the other’s wrist as he paced. 

And John knew this behavior much more than he cared to. 

He hated the way over the past few days that dullness faded Sherlock’s eyes, and yet made them look so incredibly alive. Not to mention the nervous- no, the exhausting energy it brought to the flat. 

John was pulled from his thoughts as Sherlock swiftly made his way to the desk, looking every bit the hyperactive mess he’d become over the past few days. His eyes were too wide, his body too rigid, like a coiled spring waiting to snap. He didn’t even acknowledge John as he moved toward the desk, pulling papers out with a speed that bordered on frantic.

“Sherlock.” John sighed, rising from the chair. 

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer back from the detective. 

"Sherlock, you're using again, aren't you?" His voice was tired, carrying the weight of a dozen unspoken conversations.

Sherlock froze, back still facing John, his hand pausing mid-motion. "What are you talking about?" he said, far too quickly, his eyes flickering with the kind of evasive energy John had come to know well.

"You're using again." John’s voice was calm, deliberate. Nearly clinical. There was no accusation, just the statement of a fact. 

Sherlock turned around abruptly, the chair he knocked into scraping harshly against the floor. "I'm perfectly fine. You're being melodramatic." His monotone voice replied in a very conversational tone, as if trying to prove some kind of point.

“You’re destroying yourself.” John pointed out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You know this-” He pulled one hand from his pocket, motioning entirely at Sherlock. “-isn’t sustainable.”

Sherlock began walking to the kitchen, brushing past John without a glance, digging around for something else that was likely allegedly case related.

“John, don’t appall me when I’m high.” Sherlock’s tone had been casual, almost dismissive. 

John watched his flatmate dig through the kitchen, making a splendid mess might he add, as his shoulders tightened with frustration. 

“So, what then?” John let out a humorless laugh. “You just keep falling apart, and I keep pretending it’s not happening?”

Sherlock stopped his rummaging for just a moment, his head tilting down with his curls quickly following suit. 

“That would be entirely preferable if that’s your description of it.” The detective muttered in the silence. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

That evening John paced around the flat, picking up here and there, mostly in an effort to locate anything Sherlock had stashed. If he’d been so inclined to stash it in the flat in the first place he supposed. 

He even checked all the spots that he’d notice Lestrade would gravitate towards on ‘drug busts’ when Sherlock withheld evidence. 

And still he found nothing but a few nicotine patches. 

With a sigh, he discarded them, sitting down at the desk. He folded his hands together, trying to think. 

Sitting down at the desk, he folded his hands, staring at the mess Sherlock had left behind. Calling Mycroft was an option, though not one he particularly wanted to entertain. Mycroft’s help never came without consequences, and John wasn’t eager to invite that level of interference into their lives. In fact, it could honestly just make a larger mess. 

Lestrade was a viable alternative, though John was equally reluctant to call him. Lestrade was already overworked, and burdening him with Sherlock’s self-destructive behavior would only add to the detective’s load. 

The weight of it all settled in John’s chest, leaving him feeling trapped and directionless. There was nothing he could do tonight. No leads, no solutions. He huffed, defeated, and glanced at the clock. It wasn’t exactly late, but the change of seasons surely made it feel that way. And, regrettably, there was nothing more to be done.

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Morning rolled around sooner than John would have liked, the sun’s rays gleaming through the windows. As he stretched, he made his way out into the living area, assuming it wise to check on his flatmate. 

Unusually, Sherlock didn’t appear to be in the flat whatsoever. No sign of more clutter on the desk, no madness in the kitchen. No ramblings, no pacing. No Sherlock strewn on the couch thinking endlessly to himself. 

In any other context, John would shrug it off. Maybe Sherlock had taken a trip to the corner shop to pick up milk for tea. Or perhaps he was up and about on a case. 

Both seemed logical- but at the particular moment in time, John found them.. Severely unlikely. 

John eventually found himself knocking on Sherlock’s door, his brows pulling into a concerned expression. 

“Sherlock?” He questioned, as he stopped knocking. With little response, he waited outside the door for a moment. There was something that just felt- off.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock?” He questioned, as he stopped knocking. With little response, he waited outside the door for a moment. There was something that just felt- off. 

A part of him wanted to just open the door. 

Before he could think about the decision too much, he found his hand slowly drifting to the door knob, twisting it open. 

His eyes scanned the room before he looked at a ghastly pale Sherlock, who was staring- not quite at, but almost beyond the evidence and files on his table. 

He didn’t look entirely awake, and yet somehow he looked… almost alert.

Silence settled over John as he let go of the doorknob. He carefully took in Sherlock’s state: his almost strained quickened breathing, the slight twitches of his hand. He took a step closer, the worry in his chest coiling tighter with every detail he noticed.

John found himself quickly moving towards his flatmate, his face contorting into one of worry. 

Sherlock’s hand was gripping the pocket of his shirt, over his heart. 

John took notice of this, causing his first action to be grabbing Holmes’ left hand swiftly off the table to feel his pulse. The detective was laced in a cold sweat, so much so some of his curls were sticking to his forehead. Feeling his pulse, albeit only for a few seconds, was enough to tell it was well over a safe rhythm. 

Sherlock had been caught off guard with Watson’s entrance, and tried, rather pitifully, to shove the man away. He tried to pull his hand away from John, and John let go as to better steady Sherlock on the chair. 

“What did you take?” John demanded, lifting Sherlock’s face to get a better look at his eyes. 

His light blue eyes were almost perfectly covered by his pupils. It was unnerving to say the least- but it did write off a few drugs that Sherlock might have taken. 

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t focus on John’s entirely, instead they seemed to stare just to the left of him. 

He stared at his flatmate, dumbfounded, for no more than a split second before he found himself desperately searching the pockets of the detective's coat. 

He remembered how Mycroft had told him that during a ‘danger night’, Sherlock would write out a list of substances he’d taken. 

After a moment, John realized there was no list. 

John cursed under his breath as his fingers came up empty. No list. That meant either Sherlock hadn’t bothered to keep track, or he didn’t want John to know. Both of which sent a cold ripple of dread through him.

“Sherlock,” John tried again, his voice firmer this time. “What did you take? Don’t lie to me. I need to know.”

He felt like he was pleading with a dead man, as Sherlock wouldn’t- possibly couldn’t even look at him. 

He wanted to shake Sherlock, slap him, shout at him, anything. He let go of his friend’s face, slightly appalled when it nodded off to the side, before he tried to pull himself back up. 

John hastily searched his own pockets for his mobile, and hastily fished it out dialing Lestrade, be damned if he was busy or not. 

The phone rang once, then twice, before Lestrade’s familiar voice answered, laced with exhaustion. 

“John, mate, haven’t heard from you in a while.” 

“Can you get an ambulance to 221B? Sherlock’s taken something- he’s overdosed.” John forced himself to keep it short and sweet, because quite frankly if he were to talk longer; well, he didn’t think he could now that the situation was starting to set in. 

Which hardly made any sense: he was a doctor. He’s dealt with far worse than this- and yet he could feel himself shaking. He could feel his words nearly tripping over themselves. He could feel his heart beating out of his own chest.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, and then Lestrade’s voice turned serious. “Bloody hell. Is he still conscious?”

“Barely,” John replied, glancing back at Sherlock, who was slumped in the chair, his head lolling still to the side. “He’s not making sense, not really responding. I don’t know what he’s taken or how much.” 

“Right,” Lestrade said, his voice clipped and urgent now. “I’ll call it in. Paramedics will be on their way. You’re there with him, yeah?”

“Of course,” John snapped, as if it were obvious, forcing himself to take a deep breath. 

“Good. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

The line went dead before John could respond, and he shoved his mobile back into his pocket, his hands trembling slightly. He turned back to Sherlock, who seemed.. Wrong.

Something was wrong. More wrong. John just couldn’t tell what.

And then it hit him: seizure.

“Sherlock-” John half-shouted, as he watched the detective’s body jerk somewhat violently, the chair skidding back before toppling. John lunged forward, grabbing him somewhat in time to stop Sherlock from hitting the floor too hard. 

Before he could say more, Sherlock’s entire body stiffened, muscles locking in a rigid arc. His arms trembled, and then came the spasms: sharp, uncontrollable- they wracked his frame. John lowered him to the floor swiftly, clearing away the papers and mess scattered around them with a quick sweep of his arm.

On instinct, John turned Sherlock onto his side, making sure his airway stayed open. His fingers brushed Sherlock’s clammy skin as he checked his pulse again. 

Sherlock’s teeth were clenched tightly, his breaths hitching in shallow bursts between the spasms. His eyes fluttered, rolling back into his head. John’s stomach twisted, but he stayed calm, steady, his hands precise.

The convulsions began to slow, each shudder less intense than the last. After what felt like an eternity, the rigidity faded, leaving Sherlock limp and pale. His chest heaved as he sucked in quick, shallow breaths, eyes half-closed and unfocused.

John glanced at his watch, tracking the seconds. The faint wail of sirens reached his ears, cutting through the suffocating stillness. He sat back on his heels, exhaling sharply as he pushed Sherlock’s dark curls away from his face. 

The paramedics burst in moments later, their voices brisk and professional. John stepped aside, giving them room.

“40 second seizure,” he said shortly, gesturing to Sherlock. “Post-overdose, unknown substance. Airway’s clear. Pulse rapid but steady.”

He rattled off all of what he knew to say. He felt like he was in a fog, like what was happening wasn’t entirely.. real. 

They nodded, quickly getting to work. John hovered nearby, his hands twitching slightly, his jaw tight. He didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock as they placed an oxygen mask over his face and began prepping the stretcher.

He followed them out without hesitation, grabbing his coat on the way.

"He's stable for now," one of the paramedics said, glancing at John. “But it’s touch and go until we know exactly what’s in his system.”

John nodded tightly, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He followed them to the ambulance, his mind flooding through worst-case scenarios.

As the ambulance pulled away, John sat beside his unconscious friend, his fingers curling tightly around the edge of the bench. He had questions, and anger was simmering just beneath the surface, but none of that mattered right now. It could come later. 

Sherlock Holmes had always danced too close to the edge; tonight, it felt as though he’d finally slipped.

And frankly, if this fall didn’t kill Sherlock, John felt he might be the landing that does. 

Chapter Text

John felt the next few hours go by in a haze. He’d come back to some level of consciousness ever so often when the waiting room chair began to get uncomfortable. 

He watched people walking in and out, observing them as a way to distract himself. Eventually, it had stopped working, and he began thinking again. Which was lovely. 

He didn’t understand how it all just set in at once. 

He got up from his chair and began making his way.. anywhere, really, he supposed.  

Soon he found himself standing still in the cold air, the hospital’s fluorescent glow spilling faintly into the parking lot. It was quiet, save for a few car horns, a stark contrast to the volume of the people inside.

He rubbed his hands together, though not really for warmth. It felt like a comfortable action to go through some kind of motion to distract himself. The lump in his throat tightened uncomfortably, as he watched his breath, now visible in the chill.

His mind raced, thoughts flashing through his head. He thought of Sherlock in that chair, pale and seizing. The seizure. The weightless silence that followed.

This shouldn’t be new. You’re a doctor. You’ve handled worse.

But none of that mattered. This wasn’t just anyone. 

It was Sherlock. Brilliant, impossible Sherlock.

And for all of his wit and cleverness , he had nearly died today.

Stupidly, too. For nothing. Over nothing. 

And it would have been John’s fault. He’d watched him relapse. He knew it was a ‘danger night’. 

And he did nothing. He let Sherlock retreat to his room and be left entirely to his own devices.

If Sherlock had died, it would have been indisputably John’s fault.  

His thoughts spiraled, replaying every moment with merciless clarity: Sherlock convulsing on the floor as John could only watch. 

You knew better.

He walked faster; his pulse hammering in his ears. The tightness in his chest clawed at him, pressing harder with every thought.

You should have stopped him. You knew.

He stopped at a lamp post, leaning against it. He tried to steady himself, inhaling deeply, but the cold air only cut deeper, ironically, burning his lungs. He rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a muffled groan of frustration.

It wasn’t just guilt—it was anger. Anger at Sherlock for being so reckless. Anger at himself for letting it happen. And beneath it all, fear, 

Because no matter how infuriating Sherlock could be.

No matter how insufferable the detective was, with his blunt comments and rude remarks. 

The thought of losing him, actually losing him, was unbearable. At least to John. 

John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, forcing the tears back before they could fall. “Bloody idiot,” he muttered, though it was hard to tell if he meant Sherlock or himself.

A car door slammed somewhere behind him, breaking the silence. John straightened, lowering his hands. His breath came in shaky bursts now, but the ache in his chest had dulled just slightly.

He forced his feet to move. Standing here wouldn’t change anything, and it certainly wouldn’t help Sherlock. Or himself for that matter. 

The rhythmic crunch of his footsteps on the frosty ground anchored him, even if only faintly. He walked aimlessly along the edge of the parking lot, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. His fingers brushed against the smooth metal of his keys, and for a moment, he contemplated just leaving. 

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

He turned back toward the hospital, his pace steadier this time. His mind still spun, but his thoughts were clearer. Sherlock had survived, and that was what mattered. There’d be words later, and John definitely had words picked out, but for now, all John could do was wait.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

It was strange to see Sherlock so still. John was sitting in the hospital room with him, and he couldn’t get over how odd it was. 

His flatmate looked incredibly improved from the state John had last seen him in. The sharp lines of his face had softened, and though he was still pale, there was color returning to his lips, and a faint rise and fall to his chest that reassured John more than he wanted to admit.

The doctors had discovered that it was a cocaine overdose quickly, leading to everything going as well as it could have. 

John glanced at Sherlock again, his eyes providing nothing short of a glare. 

“You’re lucky,” John murmured, his voice barely audible in the still room. “You’re so bloody lucky.”

He wasn’t sure if the words were meant for Sherlock or himself.

John leaned back in his chair, letting his head rest against the wall. The beep of the heart monitor filled the room, steady and relentless, grounding him in the present. It was a sound he’d always considered annoying in hospital rooms before, but tonight it felt like a lifeline.

He reached for Sherlock’s hand, gently taking it in his own. John’s thumb brushed over Sherlock’s knuckles absentmindedly. Not long after, he let go. 

John sank back into the chair, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his frustration and guilt. He hated how much this had shaken him, how it had cracked through the walls he’d spent years building.

He hated how much he cared.

The thought startled him, but it didn’t feel wrong. It wasn’t just the bond of shared danger or the camaraderie of living together. It was more than that. Sherlock had wormed his way into John’s life, and no amount of denial or anger could change that.

And God help him, John couldn’t imagine a world without him.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The faintest movement caught his eye, pulling him from his thoughts. Sherlock’s fingers twitched against the bedsheet, a small, almost imperceptible motion.

“Sherlock?” He offered, sitting up a little straighter, his hand almost instinctively reaching out for Sherlock’s arm. He hesitated, opting for his hand to rest on the bed’s rail instead.  

No answer. 

It took a few agonizing moments, but then, finally, Sherlock’s eyelids flitted open: although  unfocused at first, the blue-gray irises, although duller than usual, were unmistakably his.

“John.” His voice was barely above a whisper, scratchy and weak. His eyes danced quickly around the room, taking in the current situation. 

Relief crashed over John so suddenly he almost felt dizzy. “Yeah, I’m here,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “You’re in hospital. You overdosed, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he blinked slowly, as if he had trouble processing the words. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Instead, he seemed to be gathering his bearings, his gaze still hazy but trying to latch onto reality. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, and John couldn't stop himself from watching the faint movement. His hand hovered near Sherlock’s, but he didn’t dare touch it again. 

“It was only to think.” Sherlock explained. 

John's stomach tightened at the words, his grip on the bed’s rail instinctively tightening. "To think? Sherlock, that’s not how it works. You don’t overdose to think." His voice, though quiet, was thick with disbelief. He looked at Sherlock with an astonished expression. 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered again, and for a moment, John thought he might slip back into unconsciousness, but the detective’s gaze sharpened, and he blinked rapidly as if forcing himself to remain awake. His voice was weak, but it carried a familiar determination, despite the toll the drugs had taken on him.

"I wasn’t... thinking straight." Sherlock’s words were clipped, struggling to be formed. He shifted slightly in the bed, but his limbs were slow and sluggish, as if the overdose had stolen more from him than just consciousness. "Needed clarity... and the usual method," he added, almost apologetically, as if John would understand.

Clarity. 

John almost laughed, but it came out as a hollow, bitter sound. "Clarity," he repeated softly, shaking his head. "Sherlock, you could have died. I—" He stopped himself, running a hand over his face in frustration. 

Sherlock’s eyes darted to him then, and for a second, John swore he saw something like regret flicker behind the usually impenetrable eyes. But it was gone in a blink, replaced by that same calculating coldness. "You’re angry," Sherlock stated, his voice strained but steady. "It’s not... what you think, John." 

John’s chest tightened, and his gaze hardened. He leaned forward, as he fixed Sherlock with a stare. “Not what I think?” He bit back a scoff, shaking his head. “You nearly died, Sherlock. What else is there to think? How the hell do you justify this?” The last thing he wanted was to start a fight when Sherlock was in this condition. And yet, the words kept spilling out, one after another. “Overdose—just for clarity? For what? A case ? A game ?” 

Sherlock blinked slowly, as if gathering strength to speak, his hand twitching slightly under the covers. “It was never... for the case,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice hoarse. “It’s just... sometimes, thinking isn’t enough. And you wouldn’t understand.”

John’s heart gave a sharp, uncomfortable lurch at Sherlock’s words. 

‘You wouldn’t understand.’  

The phrase stung more than it should have, because Sherlock had used it countless times in the past, as if he were set apart from everyone else, above all human concerns, and especially above understanding.

 And every time Sherlock had said it, John had taken it in silence. But now- oh now, when he could barely keep himself together- he wasn’t about to let it slide.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. “Don’t- don’t do that,” he said, his voice a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. “Don’t pull the ‘ I’m Sherlock Holmes’ card. Not now. Not when I’ve been sitting here, worrying, because I didn’t know if you were going to wake up, Sherlock. I didn’t know if I’d have to-” His voice failed him, and he quickly swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. The last thing he wanted was to fall apart, not here, not in front of Sherlock.

“John-” Sherlock began.

“No, stop it-” John cut him off, dismissing him with his hand. 

“John.”

“Stop it. Stop.” He shouted louder than he anticipated. 

Sherlock blinked whilst looking at John, and eventually gave a slight nod. After a moment, he let his head rest back on the bed. With his eyes pinned to the ceiling, he began to speak once more. 

“John, you are the most incredible man I have ever met.” His voice betrayed him, not quite remaining steady. “I’m so sorry that I can’t fix this.” He let out a humorless laugh. 

Chapter Text

Days had passed. 

Sherlock had been discharged from the hospital under strict recommendations for rehab. But, of course, Mycroft had intervened, his influence ensuring that his brother returned to Baker Street instead of a facility. Mycroft had argued for Sherlock’s sake, allegedly, though John suspected it was as much about keeping the family’s name untarnished then it was about Sherlock’s preference.

He rarely left Sherlock alone, despite the detective’s growing irritation at the constant presence. Sherlock had never been good at voicing gratitude, and this situation was no exception. He didn’t thank John for the meals brought to him, or for the tea left steaming on the side table, or for the steady, watchful companionship. Instead, he muttered complaints about his lack of privacy or snapped when John lingered too long in the doorway.

And yet, John would never budge. 

One evening, after an unusually tense day, Sherlock broke the silence in a way that startled John out of his book.

“You’re smothering me.” He muttered as a fact, not speaking in John’s direction as he brushed his tremor laced hand against his violin. 

John looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock picked the violin up, sitting down in his chair, his long legs tucked beneath him. The faint glow of the fireplace casted shadows across his pale face. His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried a sharpness that cut through the quiet.

“You’re hovering,” Sherlock continued, his voice clipped. “Watching me like I’m some experiment on the verge of failure. It’s maddening.”

John closed his book with deliberate slowness, setting it aside before responding. “I’m watching you because you nearly killed yourself, Sherlock. And forgive me if that makes me a bit… attentive. ”

Sherlock glared at John for a moment, with a lack of response. 

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken tension. Sherlock’s hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the violin in his lap. His fingers hovered over the strings, but he didn’t play.

“It wasn’t-” Sherlock began, his voice quieter now, though no less clipped. “It wasn’t about dying, John.”

John’s jaw tightened. “Well, you could’ve fooled me.”

Sherlock’s gaze darted toward him, the flicker of irritation clear. But it was quickly replaced by something more difficult to read- something vulnerable, almost fragile. He set the violin down on the side table, his movements deliberate, as though he were afraid it might shatter under his unsteady grip.

“I was trying to think,” Sherlock said at last, his voice flat but quieter, the sharp edges dulled by exhaustion. “To clear my mind. That’s all it was.”

“We’re not having this conversation again.” John said firmly, his hand slicing through the air as though cutting the argument short. 

Sherlock’s expression hardened, his pale features drawn into a frown. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers, a familiar pose that looked almost nearly sad in his weakened state. “You don’t get to decide that, John.” His voice sharper now, though still laced with fatigue. “You don’t get to dictate what we talk about or don’t talk about. Not when you’re the one making assumptions about my intentions.”

 “Your intentions ?” he repeated, scoffing. 

Sherlock’s tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he met John’s gaze. “I didn’t intend to die .” He shot back, each word measured, deliberate.

“Well, congratulations on that.” John snapped, his tone biting. “But you sure as hell didn’t seem to care much about whether or not you’d live either.”

The room fell into a tense silence once more. Sherlock looked away first, his gaze dropping to his hands, which were now gripping the armrests of his chair tightly. His knuckles were white, his fingers trembling. 

Sherlock noticed his own hands, and his face contorted with an expression no less than disgust. Since the focal seizure he’d experienced, he couldn’t seem to slow the shaking of his hands. He found it incredibly infuriating. 

John sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. The exhaustion weighed on him, not just from the long days of watching over Sherlock, but from the constant emotional push and pull. 

“Sherlock, I’m not doing this because I want to ‘ control’ you.” he explained, his tone measured. “I’m doing it because I care. Because someone has to care, even when you don’t.”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately. His fingers flexed against the armrest, the tremors refusing to still. He seemed to shrink slightly into the chair, the sharpness of his earlier words fading as he spoke again, quieter this time.

“Caring is not your responsibility.” His voice deepened as it grew softer. He met John’s eyes for just a moment as he said it. 

John let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t get to decide that- and frankly, it’s not about responsibility. It’s because I-” He hesitated, searching for the words. “It’s about being friends . About being there for someone, even when they make it bloody difficult.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable yet searching. “You think I make it difficult?” He questioned, with the faintest ghost of humor tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John snorted. “You’re impossible.” Yet, he felt a smile creeping into the corner of his face.

Chapter Text

John woke with a start, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes and muttering to himself. "What time even is it?" He glanced at the clock on his bedside table, the glowing numbers reading 5:27 a.m.

The sharp screeches of a violin continued, grating against John’s ears, and frankly, his patience too. "Unbelievable." He muttered. He shuffled toward the living area, his irritation growing with each step.

As he pushed the door open, the sight before him made him pause. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, the violin tucked under his chin and the bow in his unsteady hand. His face was pale, almost ghostly in the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. 

But what struck John most was the sheer determination in Sherlock’s expression. Despite the tremors in his hands, despite the screeching notes that made the air vibrate unpleasantly, he continued. His gaze wasn’t on John but on the violin, as if willing it to cooperate through sheer force of will.

John crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. "You know, most people save this kind of racket for the daylight hours."

The violin screeched once more before halting, and Sherlock dipped his head, letting the violin with his hand fall to his side. 

For a brief second, John thought he might snap back with one of his usual cutting remarks. Instead, Sherlock raised his gaze, his eyes shadowed but sharp. "It’s not racket," he said, his voice low, almost defensive. "It’s.. recalibration ."

John stepped further into the room, the edge of his irritation softening as he studied his friend more closely. Sherlock looked frayed, worn thin in a way John rarely saw.

"Right." John said, his tone gentler now. "And does this ‘recalibration’ really need to happen at-" he glanced at the clock on the mantle, next to the skull, "-5:30 in the bloody morning?"

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately. His fingers flexed around the violin’s neck, the tremor in his hand more pronounced in the quiet of the room. "I can’t sleep." he admitted finally, his voice clipped. But John could tell what the detective meant to say was “ I can’t play. I need to figure out how to play again.”

Sherlock would never admit to John how much the event had shaken him. At least not completely. John would notice the tremors in his flatmate’s hands worsen throughout the day, and frankly it was a miracle he could even hold the violin bow correctly. 

John blinked. Sherlock not being able to sleep wasn’t exactly ground breaking, but the way the man had said it just felt- off.  "So, you decided to serenade the flat with... whatever that was?" John gesutred vaguely to the situation. 

Sherlock looked down at the violin in his hand, his grip tightening. "It’s-" He thought for a moment. "Precision- control.” After a long pause, he continued. “I need to be able to play, John. I need it.”

The confession hung in the air, causing John a pang of guilt for his earlier irritation.

Sherlock scoffed softly, the sound more self-deprecating than dismissive. "You wouldn’t understand."

"Try me." John said, his arms unfolding as he approached.

Sherlock carefully set the violin down on the chair. “Actually, I think I might try to get some rest.” He said it as though he’d only just then considered it an option. He said it carefully, calculated. 

Defeated, picking and choosing his battles, John gave a swift nod. “Good, good.”

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Morning came sooner rather than later to John’s dismay, sun radiating in from the window. As he walked into the living area of the flat, he saw Sherlock’s violin missing from its stand; in fact, missing everywhere. 

Days passed, and he hadn’t seen it once. More passed, and never once had John heard it. 

And likely, he would never hear it again. 

The day the music died.