A Bit Not Good

When the detective’s taxi rounded the bend, he asked the cabbie to drop him off at the corner. Their front stoop was surrounded by paparazzi. Sighing, he figured he’d have to use Mrs. Hudson’s back door. She wasn’t home, but she left a key under the mat. Turning down the alley, he made his way down to the back stoop,and lifted the key from it’s spot to unlock the door before replacing the key. It screeched open, and he had to pull fairly hard to get it to close again.

 

Sherlock’s return home after the abrupt dismissal from John found him pacing his room with a heavy heart. He couldn’t quite figure out why he was so... bothered by the fact that John had run off to help a friend. It came to him when he had finally set about moving his old clothes to the back of his closet and hanging his new clothes in the front. It was because it was a woman friend that he jumped to so readily. Their friendship was already so tenuous, he worried that a woman wheedling her way into his life might just rehash old arguments John had about Sherlock demanding so much of him that he scared John’s dates off. None of them had been great for him anyway, and besides the thought of anyone else receiving the calming touches John bestowed on him was infuriating.

 

Suddenly the overwhelming frustration that had come over him when the thought that Lestrade might be seeking after his Doctor returned two fold. Leaving John’s clothes still folded in the bag near his closet, he sat on the edge of his bed, fingers steepled under his chin, and turned this feeling over, examining every bit of it. Desire to have a person to one’s self, constant desire to be the focus of attention from said person, frustration and even volatile anger when person is encroached by another individual.... Jealousy. He looked up from the floor then, a little surprised. He was jealous over John? Why? John was his flat mate, but he was his own person.

 

But there it was, and if he was truly honest with himself, he knew John had been more than just his flat mate since he’d come back. He was Sherlock’s rock, the one he knew he could depend on, the one who had lain beside him, even at his own discomfort, and let the detective ride the waves of withdrawal as if it were nothing, soothing him when he should have just left him to deal with it on his own.

 

Sherlock realized then and there, that he would never be worthy of the friendship that John Watson bestowed on him. Not now, not ever. And yet, here he was, running off to help someone he hadn’t even known about. His mind flickered back over the past few days, to every thing he had done to warrant John wanting to possibly leave 221B, every single thing he’d been an arse about, and the evidence was staggering. John shouldn’t have even let him back in the flat, let alone stuck by him, but he’d been by his side through everything. Sherlock chided himself that jumping to conclusions about John leaving just because he’d gotten a call from a woman. He sounded like... a jealous lover his mind supplied, but he quickly tossed the idea away with a quick shake of his head.

 

As he’d been flicking through the events of the past two days through his mind, he’d caught the tails of something he wanted to reflect on further. One of the websites he had skimmed through had mentioned something about John’s declining health. He’d seen the evidence himself, but knowing exactly how it had happened was something different entirely. Deciding it was necessary research to help John rebuild the walls Sherlock had busted down with the past three years, he retrieved John’s laptop and sunk into his chair to scour the vast internet for any source he could get his hands on to see just how much Mycroft had been lying to him.

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The cab ride from downtown to Mary’s flat took a little over a half an hour. Just enough time for him to realize how hastily he had left Sherlock, without explaining where he was going. He knew Mary was fine, she had told him the police had already been by, the intruder had left. But she was shaken up and John was her friend, sort of, so he couldn’t very well tell her no.

 

Mary had started working at the surgery shortly after Sherlock’s death, that in itself made it easy for John to talk to her, at first anyway. There was a certain appeal to the fact that she didn’t know how absurdly close they had been or just how deeply it had cut at John. All Mary knew was that his old flatmate had offed himself, and that information was supplied solely by the rumor mill around the clinic, and the papers of course.

 

As time went on though Mary became increasingly persistent in her attempts to gain John’s interest, whilst the poor doctor was readily slipping into his own self destructive depression. Dating had left his mind a long time ago. Eventually the two were able to balance out, Mary was overly chipper whenever she saw him at work, and they would share a table in the breakroom if their lunches overlapped. But that was the extent of their relationship and John had begun to believe Mary’s romantic pursuits were a thing of the past.

 

When the cabbie finally pulled up to her building John hastily paid the driver and bound up the steps to her flat, rapping harshly on the door. He was thoroughly surprised when a rather unbothered Mary answered the door. She was by no means unattractive, just sort of a cookie cutter beauty. She stood just a few inches shorter than John, shoulder length brunette hair, hazel eyes, and thin but not absurdly so.

 

These were not the things John was thinking about as he looked her over. She was holding the door open, standing to the side so he could walk in, and he did, looking around the room incredulously. “You said you had a break in?” He started slowly as, “What the hell is going on Mary?” Looking around the small flat John could easily see that everything was fine, nothing seemed out of place or disturbed and looking back at Mary he saw no answers. She was standing innocently with a small smile. She was wearing dark blue shorts and a black tank top, much different than how John was used to seeing her dressed for work. God how he wished he could do the things Sherlock did, the detective would surely already know what was going on.

 

“There was, but I guess the alarm scared them off. I was just really shaken up and wanted some company.” She was pouting slightly, “If I had known you were going to be such an arse about it I wouldn’t have called you for help.” Letting out a small ‘hmph’ she stalked from the entryway into the kitchen area.

 

John followed after her predictably, shutting the door as he did so. “I don’t mind helping you out Mary, but you made it sound like there was an emergency, which,” he raised his arms, gesturing to the untouched room, “is obviously not the case. I was in the middle of something.”

 

She spun around on the spot, the pout gone, replaced by a devilish smile. “Oh, I didn’t mean to ruin your day,” Taking a step forward she caused John to back up against the counter. “Let me make it worth your while.” Her voice was seductive and breathy, John stood still, unanswering, his hands splayed against the countertop on either side of him. A part of him wanted to stop the entire encounter right there, but he was frozen. Stuck between curiosity and pure frustration. Stepping closer she ran her fingertips down his jaw line, letting her nails caress the skin causing an involuntary shiver to roll up his spine. Mary smiled and hummed approvingly at his response.

 

Closing his eyes in an attempt to block her out John spoke softly, “Mary, we can’t do this. I’m sorry but-”

 

“Shh.” She placed her own finger to his lips, “I know you want this dear,” her body was perhaps a centimeter from his own, the heat of it resonating, alerting his senses. “No one will find out.”

 

As Mary leaned in to place a kiss against John’s lips a series of thoughts rushed through John’s mind. He hadn’t been with anyone in ages. It was about time he went out with a woman, and it was definitely about time he got laid. Sherlock would probably scare her off just like he scared everyone off before. Sherlock.

 

That was the last thought the crossed his mind. When her lips met his it was as if a dam had broken, acting on pure instinct John leaned in, catching her around the waist to pull their bodies together. In a moment they were stumbling towards the sitting room, where she gently pushed him into the couch before crawling on top of him. Straddling his hips, she ducked back down, their lips crashing together again.

 

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The further Sherlock delved, the more he wished he’d never started. The things he read were awful, and he really wanted to lay Mycroft out for hiding all of this from him. Most of the websites he’d seen so far talked about how thin John had been getting, and how the press had been harassing him, but there were a few sites with Videos and photos that had startled him more than he’d thought possible. Apparently there had been a lot of hate mail sent to 221B in regards to Sherlock’s death and the accusations made against the detective. Some sites included images of the letters they’d stolen from the house. There had been so many that the postman had just left them on the doorstep instead of trying to put them all through the slot.

 

He’s not coming back. If you miss him so much why don’t you join him.

 

What do you think you were trying to prove?

 

He was just another man. He fooled you too.

 

Give up.

 

The hateful words jumped from the screen, anger coursing through him as he scoured the images. There was a video at the bottom of the page, and he clicked on it. The video jumped to full screen so he could easier read the faces of the people in them.

 

It was a candid video, probably shot with someone’s cell phone, and the quality was shoddy at best, but it was clear enough that he could pick out landmarks. Sherlock could tell from the surroundings that they had caught John on his way to work. Apparently, spotting him walking, the filmer called out to him and the camera shot only the ground for a moment as the person made their way across the street.

 

“You’re John Watson right?”

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met and I’m just late to work.” he heard John’s voice respond. The camera finally came back up and he was face to face with John, looking horrible. Sherlock deduced that it couldn’t have been long after his ‘death’, the doctor had dark circles under his eyes, and his face was gaunt. He looked much older than he was, and his clothes were slightly disheveled, as if he’d just stumbled out of bed to go to work. All these signs pointed to the early stages of grief, and the curly haired man found his fingertips pressing together beneath his chin of their own accord.

 

“I just had a few questions.”

 

“Yes you all do. But I really am late to work I have to go. Good day.” John pushed past the person with the camera and started walking off when they shouted after him.

 

“How does it feel to know that your best friend lied to you?” In the camera, he could see John stop and stiffen, “Did he have you fooled completely too? Are you mad about his death?”

 

With military precision he turned and marched back to the person with the camera, his voice measured and cold. “He was not just ‘some friend’ “ The words sounded nasty as John spat them at the man behind the camera. “He was my best friend. He didn’t lie to me, and I will never believe the lies Jim Moriarty engineered to force Sherlock Holmes to jump... You shouldn’t either. He may not have been perfect, but Sherlock was a better man than this world deserved.” He started to turn away when the cameraman asked one more question.

 

“People say you still believe he’s alive out there somewhere. Is that true?” The derogatory tone was evident even second hand. The camera jostled as John grabbed the man by his shirt front and shoved him into something, a car by the sound his body made against the metal door..

 

“Yes.” John stated venomously. “I believe in Sherlock Holmes. He is out there somewhere, biding his time until tossers like you quit smearing his name with your bloody accusations. I know what they say, and I don’t care. You’ve gotten your interview, now do us all a favor and fuck off...” He let the man go with a shove, and turned on his heel, stalking away quickly towards the clinic.

 

The video came to an end, but it was only one of many. When Sherlock finished several others, he felt like he was going to be sick. After everything John had believed in him the whole time. He felt some unknown emotion pricking the back of his throat. John hadn’t believed any of it. He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to keep looking, he had to know exactly how bad it had gotten.

 

Half an hour later, after watching videos and reading as much as his brain would allow, he slowly set the laptop on the floor, that first video had not been the worst by far. Sherlock lifted his legs into his chair, tucking them against his chest, riding out the slight tremors of anger pulsing through him. John had dealt with so much. Being physically and verbally harassed on the streets, publicly on the news, in the papers. They all said he was crazy and delusional. The detective let his head rock forward as the overwhelming need to have John home so that he could reassure himself that the man was here and alright crashed into him. John was becoming his new addiction, and without it, the cravings for more dangerous substances were coming back full force.

 

He fought it as long as he could, sitting curled up in his chair, knuckles white as he clenched his fists from the effort it took just to keep still, and finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t sit there with those feelings anymore. Rocketing up from his chair, he swept all his usual hiding places for drugs, between the mattress and box springs, behind the sink, in his skull, everywhere, but it seemed John had been very thorough after he’d left. Opening all the cabinets in a feeble attempt to find something, anything, to take his mind away from the horrors he’d discovered, he finally came to the cupboard closest to the fridge and his eyes narrowed when he found the liquor inside. It was mostly whiskey and beer but there were a few half empty bottles of other varying hard liquors. John’s drinking problem that he’d read about.

 

The effects alcohol would have on his brain proved too tempting just now to let the opportunity slip him by. Standing up on his toes he pulled the box of beer from the shelf and one of the tumblers of whiskey. He poured himself a small amount, about the volume of a shot in a clean coffee mug and downed it before deciding on another before abandoning the tumbler and mug, and proceeded back to the living room, box of beer in hand.

 

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When the pair had fallen back into the sofa Mary’s efforts had become more insistent. Her tongue quickly found its way between his parted lips, kissing him deeply. She was straddling his hips, pressing against him, encouraging the hardness beginning to tent his trousers. At some point his hands had slipped beneath the back of her tank top, his fingers skimming along her back, dragging the shirt higher up.

 

Mary’s hands trailed down John’s chest until she was gripping at his jumper. She tugged at it, as if to show her displeasure that he was still wearing it, but John’s mind flitted back to 221b. He was back in Sherlock’s bed, their bodies intertwined, his deft fingers holding on to John and John letting him hold on as long as he needed, because he needed it too. But the image was fleeting, as one of Mary’s much smaller, more delicate hands snaked down to palm at his member through his trousers, drawing a stifled gasp from the doctor. He pushed the memory of Sherlock aside, desperately trying to focus on Mary. He should want this, there was no reason not to, right?

 

John was pulled back to reality as the zip of his trousers was pulled down and Mary pulled away, giving him a chaste kiss before sliding down his front, pulling at his trousers and pants as she went.

 

“I think,” she started, pushing his jumper up and pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along his hip bone, “You should stay over.”

She looked back up at John through half lidded eyes. His trousers were pulled low on his hips, and he could feel her breath through his cotton pants. There was no reason for John to say no, none at all, except...

 

Sherlock. The man popped back to the forefront of his mind. He had just managed to get Sherlock back, the last thing he wanted to do was lose him because of some woman. Yes, that was why he was feeling so apprehensive, he reasoned with himself, he just needed time to get used to having the insufferable man back in his life. For the time being, Mary did not fit into that. The doctor had been lost for three years, sinking in his own mind and if it was a choice between a woman and Sherlock the answer was obvious. He needed Sherlock.

 

Gently sliding back into the couch, moving away from Mary, John began stuttering. "I can't do this, I'm sorry."

 

He attempted to pull his trousers back into place and, as calmly and politely as he could he tried to explain. "I need to go." He was slightly confused by his own actions, wasn't he John ‘three continents’ Watson? He almost couldn’t believe he was walking away from this, but with the image of waking up wrapped in Sherlock’s lanky arms burned into his mind he could hardly look at Mary, let alone shag her.

 

Bracing herself on the sofa Mary leaned forward catching John and, pressing her lips right below his jawline, "Oh don't leave, I know you want this." Her lips brushed against his skin lightly and she punctuated the statement by rolling her pelvis into his growing erection

 

Pushing her away more firmly, John untangled himself so he could stand. "No, I'm sorry Mary I really... I shouldn't have done that." His eyes focused on the floor as he buttoned his trousers, mortified that he hadn't stopped things earlier. Mary scrambled to her feet next to him, seemingly aghast.

 

“No? What the fuck John!” Wrapping her fingers around his wrists she pulled his hands back around her waist pulling them together again. Her lips moved to his neck, but he jerked away quickly.

 

“I mean it. I’m not interested Mary.” His patience was wearing thin as he slipped away, moving towards the door.

 

She followed after him, a determined look on her face, which to be honest, was dreadfully frightening . When he paused at the door to slip on his shoes she grabbed him by the cuff of his sleeve, wheeling him around. "You won't have another chance with me John." She looked upset, genuinely, and John chewed at his lip for a moment before nodding his head.

 

"I know."

 

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The taste of the beer had been dreadful, but the effects were better than nothing, and at some point he had gone and retrieved the whiskey bottle and his mug from the kitchen. His brain had pleasantly slowed down enough that he didn’t feel like he was going to have an anxiety attack from all the new information he’d discovered. The news was on, talking about Sherlock’s sudden return and what this meant. Vaguely he thought that this would be a PR nightmare for his brother, and that thought made him laugh.

 

He felt wonderfully light in his chair, surrounded by all the cans he’d already drank. Thirteen in total. He leaned his head against the back of the chair, as he was sitting sideways, watching the news with mild disinterest. He wished John were home. The man had been gone a long time, and he was starting to get uncharacteristically lonely. Even though the alcohol was making him happier and more easy-going than normal, it also magnified the emptiness he felt knowing that John was not in the flat. He finished off the can he had been working on, number fourteen, or was it fifteen? The thought that he couldn’t remember something so simple because of the influence of the alcohol struck him as intensely funny. He was laughing when he heard the key in the lock and the door opening downstairs.

 

“John?!” He slurred. It startled him momentarily that he could not detect the nuances of the step to confirm that it was the doctor, but he shook his head and moved to stand. The sudden change in position made all the alcohol run to his head, and he stumbled forward, unable to keep his feet under him, he overcorrected and ended up falling backwards onto his rear on the floor, laughing a little at his folly.

 

John had returned to the flat, already irritated after his encounter with Mary, to find the stoop of 221b crowded by paparazzi. Thankfully, due to the past few years, John was a professional at pushing through with his head down. By the time John made it in the flat he was so done with the day he barely heard the detectives call. He had been mulling over everything that had transpired since he left her flat, getting nowhere. Even though Sherlock was part of the confusion, all John had wanted was to be home. That being said, throughout the almost hour long taxi ride home John had began to grow irritated, not only with himself, but with the detective. As if Sherlock hadn’t done enough damage by jumping off that building, now he was mucking up any chance John had at being normal with whatever it was they were doing.

 

When John entered the sitting room and glanced in Sherlock’s direction as he had to do a double take. He froze just inside the doorway, a myriad of emotions playing across his features, and in the time it took John to see exactly how many cans littered the space around Sherlock his anger morphed into an utter rage.

 

“What the-? Honestly? Drugs weren’t enough? Now this?!” He moved farther into the flat looking about to see if there was anything else he should know about. There were half a dozen cans of beer littered around Sherlock’s arm chair and his own bottle of whiskey open on the coffee table. John had already been angry with Sherlock before he had walked in the flat, and the alcohol had given him a reason to unload on the detective.

 

Sherlock could tell John was mad, but his alcohol addled brain wasn't processing things very quickly. He tried to get up but his limbs wouldn't obey, and by the time he rocked back down to sit, it processed that John was angry that he had been drinking.

 

Looking up at the doctor who was angrily searching for other drugs or inhibitors around, he suddenly he felt very much like a child that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He didn’t like the feeling and tried to defend himself.

 

“You left so suddenly” it came out more slurred than he like, and it sounded pathetic even to his own ears, “I was... doing research and you seemed so sad...” he knew he wasn’t making sense but he was trying to convey what had happened that had drastically changed since John had been away.

 

“They were awful to you....” he reached a hand out to catch the doctor as he was passing by, and managed to catch his sleeve, “You’re not okay...” he finished. He couldn’t tell John in his current state all the things he wanted to tell him, but the small things were getting out. Enough that he knew once John had calmed down, and he had sobered up, they would be talked about and not just pushed to the wayside.

 

A bit of the anger ebbed away slightly at Sherlocks attempt to explain, but John still pulled his sleeve from his grasp roughly, and Sherlock felt a stab of fear run through him as the doctor pulled away. Combing a hand through his short blond hair he turned to face Sherlock.

 

"And this is how you wanted to deal with it? Bloody hell I was gone for what? A few hours? Dammit Sherlock!"

 

Johns hands rose with his voice, the next words caught in his throat so all Sherlock heard was a sharp intake of breath. Dropping his hands he turned away, angrily gathering up the cans that littered the room. Halfway to the kitchen he turned back to the drunken man.

 

He couldn't decide who he was more angry with, himself or Sherlock, and if his was feelings for the detective were being fueled by anger or pity, "You know what? Sod it. I don't want to hear it." And he didn't. If it had to do with what had happened to himself during Sherlocks hiatus he didn't want to be reminded.

 

Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “I...” he tried to think of a way to explain himself without sounding like a total idiot. Everything sounded stupid in his head, but he needed to get it out.

 

“I got sick to my stomach about what I saw... “ he felt like he was sobering slightly with all of John’s anger sending tendrils of fear that he might leave once more coursing through his body, “I tried John.. All I wanted was for you to come home....I tried... I tried not to think about it. I tried to fight it.. I just... I couldn’t...” He looked up at John, eyes glassy and red, but unwavering. John was angry, but he needed to tell him this, he needed John to understand why.

 

“I’m sorry John...” he whispered, just loud enough for the other to hear,

 

Seeing Sherlock’s carefully constructed defenses falling to pieces in front of him was almost too much for John. Shaking his head he strode from the room, down the hall. He returned with a small trash can and the duvet from Sherlocks bed. As pissed as he was John couldn't leave Sherlock to his own devices.

 

Jaw set, John made up the sofa for Sherlock while avoiding any eye contact as he moved about the flat. When everything else was done John moved to stand over Sherlock. "Come on." His tone had slipped from anger into utter frustration. "We can have it out in the morning after you've slept it off." His lips were pressed into a straight line as he reached out a hand to help Sherlock to his feet.

 

Sherlock wasn't sure whether to take the mans hand or not, but since he was offering, and Sherlock wasn't sure he could make it up himself, he took it and allowed John to help him stumble to the couch. Once there he rolled so that his back was to John, curling up and struggling to pull the blanket over himself.

 

"If you think it best John." He said settling in to try to sleep off the alcohol. Perhaps things would be better in the morning.

 

John didn't bother responding to Sherlock. Once his flatmate was situated John stomped off to his own room, locking the door behind him. He didn’t want to be woken by the detective trying to fix things between them. John wanted to hide out in his room for as long as he pleased, and when they fixed things it would be on John’s terms, when he wanted to talk to Sherlock he would.

 

He hadn't slept in his own room, or by himself for that matter, since Sherlock's return. John stood for a moment, staring resentfully at his small bed. Eye’s closed, his hands tangled their way into his hair as his mind attempted to process the days events. He had given up a bloody shag, for what? To make sure nothing upset Sherlock? To keep whatever was going on between them going? John desperately tried to not think about what was happening between him and his flatmate and why he’d given up Mary for him, because if he did he would have to question his entire identity.

 

In a fit of frustration John swept the assortment of items littering his nightstand to the floor. He stared at the mess for a moment, confused. Relationships aside, John feared for Sherlock as well. The man was haunted by more demons than John could count.

 

His shoulders dropped as he relaxed slightly after the sudden outburst. After a moment he sat on the edge of the bed, kicked off his shoes, and, not even bothering to change, fell into a restless sleep.

 

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Sherlock winced when he heard everything hit the floor from John's outburst and curled in tighter on himself. He'd really done it this time. He felt awful and all he wanted was to curl up beside his doctor and sleep until things were okay again, but he doubted that would ever happen at this rate.

 

He turned his face into the pillows wondered how hard he could press his face into it without suffocating. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it eluded him, only letting him slip into a shallow doze.

 

A/n: For those of you that are having trouble finding us on tumblr. You can find Shelly at Shellybees.tumblr.com and you can find Devo at DevoKitsune.tumblr.com. We love your reviews. Please keep them coming. <3