Snow

"Sherlock?"

"John?"

"Good, it is you. Look, there's a... problem. I won't be coming home as planned."

"... what?"

"I... there's a blizzard up here. The tracks are snowed under. They just told us, nobody's going anywhere by train for at least four hours."

"... four hours?"

"Minimum. Could be more."

Silence.

"Sher, there's nothing I can do about it."

"Fly."

"... sorry?"

"Fly. There's an airport."

"Sherlock, it's snow. It buggers up traffic. All traffic, including air. I already checked, even if I could get to the airport it would be the same story. Train's actually a safer bet." Plus, if we crash I stand a better chance of surviving, he added to himself.

Silence.

"Sherlock, I have to go, I'm on a pay phone, there's others who want to use it."

"Use your mobile."

"I'm conserving the power, don't know when I'll be able to recharge. Look, if you need to talk you can text me and I'll call you back. I really have to go now, all right?"

Silence. People were beginning to give John killer eyes.

"Bye, Sher," he said softly. "I'll be home before you know it." When he still didn't get a reply he sighed and hung up.

"Sorry it took so long," he mumbled to the woman behind him. He picked his suitcase up and went to see if he could find a semi-quiet corner somewhere. One with a power outlet, if at all possible.

He'd barely made it a dozen steps when the text alert sound bleeped from his pocket. Sighing he pulled the phone out. No points for guessing who it was, the only mystery would be the exact wording.

COME HOME NOW

Well, he'd certainly kept it short and simple. John spotted a patch of vacant floor next to a ticket machine and swiftly appropriated it, squatting down on his suitcase while he threw together a quick reply:

Will be home quick as I can you big baby. Hold on. John.

He hesitated before adding: Love you.

And pressed Send.

 

Sherlock glared at the phone in frustration. In truth he felt like hurling it against the wall; the only thing that made him not do it was the fact that it was his only link with John right now. And he needed that link. Even though the text John had sent did little to calm him.

Except for those final words.

Love you.

Between them they had countless little ways and means of expressing this thing neither of them could quite comprehend, but words wasn't usually one of them. Sherlock understood his feelings for John almost as little as he had when he'd first become aware of them, and John... well, John was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that while he might not be gay as a rule, when Sherlock was involved he might as well throw away the rule-book straight away.

Which made the L word dangerous ground. Terra incognita. Here be dragons.

And now John had invoked it.

Sherlock stared at the text until his eyes smarted. Love you. Words John didn't use vicariously and never, Sherlock was fairly sure, expecting him to respond in kind. Which just went to show how lucky he was. And how foolish he'd be to jeopardize that luck.

Nevertheless he felt his gaze drawn towards the skull on the mantelpiece.

 

John hesitated after sending the text. Yes, he wanted so badly to call his lover and reassure him that everything was going to be all right. Except that there was a very real risk his phone would run down if he did, conversations with Sherlock tended to drag on, even if the man barely said a word.

Under the circumstances he felt helpless.

There was one thing he could do, though.

 

Sherlock had given up on glaring the phone into submission and was looking for distractions instead. He started by switching on the laptop and checking the weather reports and traffic information. No help there; the forecast was for heavy snow up north, currently paralyzing transportation. Just as John had said.

Not that he suspected his doctor of lying to him.

"Woo-hoo."

He groaned softly at the sound of his landlady knocking on the doorjamb. "Sherlock? Sitting here all alone in the dark?"

"Not any more," he muttered under his breath. Out loud he said, "Mrs Hudson! Anything I can do for you?"

"Oh don't mind me, I just thought you might like a cuppa," she fluttered. "All alone like this... Doctor Watson not back yet then?"

"As I'm sure you knew perfectly well before you came up here. He called you, didn't he."

"Ooh... Well, yes, he did. Said you might like a little company."

The only company Sherlock wanted was that of a man currently four hundred kilometres away and snowed under. He silently gritted his teeth. Then sighed. Oh well.

He pasted a huge smile onto his face. "Tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson."

 

John managed to get a mug of tea after queueing for nearly ten minutes. It was lukewarm and bitter, there wasn't enough sugar in the world to make it drinkable. He managed three sips and abandoned the rest.

He just hoped Sherlock was all right.

 

Sherlock wasn't remotely all right.

He'd done his best to tolerate Mrs Hudson's company, he knew perfectly well why John had called her and that it was just another of the doctor's ways of saying he cared. That alone made it more bearable.

And less so as well.

God he missed him.

Which eventually led him to snap and bite at his landlady, and when he added insult to injury with a scathing analysis of her latest suitor she had departed in a huff that even Sherlock could tell was a desperate attempt not to show how upset she was.

John would be furiously demanding that he go after her and apologize. And Sherlock knew he ought to. He just couldn't do it right now, if he tried he'd probably end up being even meaner than he'd already been.

He needed his doctor, his flatmate, his friend, his heart. He needed his John. And he couldn't have him.

The skull grinned at him, telling him what he could have.

 

"John."

"Sherlock? You all right?"

"I..." Silence.

John glanced around. Precious few pay phones these days, and every one busy. Have to be the mobile, then. "Sherlock. Talk to me."

"... miss you."

"I miss you too, Sher," John said softly. "I wish I was with you right now." He did, too. He was rapidly growing to hate this bloody train station, he wanted nothing more than to be home. Home in 221B Baker Street. Home with Sherlock.

"... thanks for the text."

"You're welcome. Did Mrs Hudson pop in?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

"... might have upset her."

He sighed. "Sherlock. We've talked about this."

"... miss you."

John sighed. He knew perfectly well what Sherlock was trying to say, he just wished the man was capable of actually saying it. "I'll be home as soon as I can, you know I will. I miss you too, you know."

"... you do?"

"Of course I do, you big baby," John said with a smile. Hoping Sherlock could sense that smile all the way down in London. "I miss you and I can't wait to get -"

**bleep**

"Sherlock?"

"... John?"

**bleep**

"Sherlock, I think my battery -"

**bleep**

"Shit!"

 

Sherlock stared at his phone. John had just... gone. Vanished.

This time he did throw it.

He could feel the panic rising, his mind instantly beginning to churn out every worst case scenario it could conceive of. And Sherlock's mind was capable of conceiving a lot of things.

He tried to hold on. He truly did. Thought up ideas for future fridge experiments, managed to spend nearly an hour online digging out obscure theories on tidal eddies along river estuaries and getting himself into a lather over people's idiocy, even going so far as tidying up his collection of blood slides. None of it worked for long, and after a few minutes of nothingness he would end up back in his armchair staring at the skull.

 

'The train at Platform Three will be departing for London in five minutes. I repeat, the train at Platform Three...'

John was already tearing across the station concourse.

 

Sherlock got up slowly from his chair and stepped across to the mantelpiece.

 

"Sorry, could I just... No, I don't want your seat, I just want to plug this in..." Holding out his charger, desperately indicating the outlet above the seat.

 

He stared at the snow-white powder beckoning to him, calling to him, promising him the rush of oblivion.

 

*beep*

"Sherlock?"

*beep*

"Come on, Sherlock, pick up."

*beep*

"Sher, if this is just you sulking I'll..."

*beep*

"Please...?"

"The subscriber is not responding. Please leave a message at the tone."

"Shit."

 

A sound. Didn't matter.

He raised the tiny spoon to his face, positioned it close to one nostril, and inhaled.

Slivers of chemical glass tore into his brain.

And he forgot John.

 

It was past ten in the evening when he finally let himself into No. 221B and climbed the steps to the flat. He cautiously pushed the door to the living room open, fearful of what he'd find. The room lay in semi-darkness, lit only by light spilling in from the kitchen. For a brief moment he thought it was empty, then his conscious mind registered the figure on the sofa.

"Sherlock," he called softly, setting his suitcase down and entering. The figure twitched.

"Sherlock." Moving closer. Oh yes, it was all there, the stiff posture, the clenched hands, a trail of darkness down his face from where his nose had bled. The frightened look when his eyes registered John's presence before sliding away again.

"All right, Sherlock, give me." John held out a hand. After a moment's hesitation Sherlock reached out a clenched fist and opened it. John plucked the baggie from the trembling palm and held it up, assessing the amount. Looked like he'd limited himself to one hit. That was something, John supposed. He hesitated, then tossed the baggie on the coffee table and sat down next to Sherlock, putting his right arm around the other man's shoulder.

"Why?" he asked softly.

Sherlock drew a ragged breath. "Missed you," he whispered hoarsely.

"I know you did," John replied. "I missed you too. You know that." I didn't get high though, was what he didn't add. Sherlock heard it anyway.

"I'm cold," Sherlock complained.

"I know." It was warm, but Sherlock was shivering. There was a woolly blanket on the end of the sofa; John managed to snag it without letting go of Sherlock and clumsily unfolded it, draping it over both of them. Settling against the backrest he pulled his lover closer, felt him relax slightly. He laid his left hand over Sherlock's, fingertips stroking and pushing the knuckles apart. He felt it then, the first minute tremors; gently pulling his lover's body closer he placed a clumsy kiss on Sherlock's neck. The detective lost it then, his entire body shaking as the sobs forced their way from his chest. "I-I'm s-s-sorry," he managed, almost choking on the words. "I'm s-sorry, John."

And John just held him.