#drunk!john

Once he got to the hospital he gave his name and the orderlies told him that Sherlock was in emergency surgery. They couldn’t let him in but they let him wait just outside. He sank into the hard metal chair, so many thoughts and feelings swirling around inside that he was surprised he didn’t just explode.

  My wife is an assassin and shot my best friend. His heart stopped. He still might die. She’s carrying my child and I don’t even know her real name. My entire marriage is a lie.

  Sherlock is dying. Sherlock might die and it’ll be my fault.

  I’m a terrible best friend.

  John pressed his hands to his mouth and tried very, very hard not to start bawling in front of the nurses.

    He was there when Sherlock woke up. It terrified him to see the man looking so pale and weak and in so much pain. He recalled the sounds Sherlock made as his heart began to fail, the usually strong, confident voice tight with agony and reduced to pathetic whimpering as he thrashed around on the floor.

  “Hey.”

  Sherlock looked confused to see him there.” Wh…” He blinked and looked around, quickly absorbing where he was and why he was there. “Why aren’t you with Mary?”

  John was disturbed to feel a wave of physical revulsion pass through him at her name. The flash drive in his pocket felt like a bar of lead. “Oh, hmm, let’s see. Maybe because my best friend was bleeding out on the floor and might have died! Didn’t realize your life was such a minor thing, Sherlock.” It was way harsher than he intended it to be, but he was very much on the edge at the moment.

  Even tubes in his arm and stitches in his chest did not stop Sherlock from glaring at him. “John, don’t get so worked up. I told you, she wasn’t shooting to kill.”

  “Which is why, you know, your heart almost stopped.”

  Sherlock sighed in annoyance and gave a weak cough. John tried not to fuss over him too much. The doctors were taking good care of him, and luckily, there hadn’t been too much internal damage before they’d gotten him to surgery. He’d have a scar for the rest of his life (what a thing to have in common) and it’d take him a few months to be back to speed but he’d be ok. Well. Relatively speaking.

  “Jesus, Sherlock…” He sat back, the full weight of the previous night beginning to hit hard. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t even realize how much pain you were in until they showed up… I’m a terrible friend.”

  Sherlock made a noise that might have been a laugh. “That’s hard to imagine, John.”

  “Shut up,” replied John with equal amiability in spite of himself. Without thinking he reached out and squeezed his friend’s hand. He felt Sherlock tense before hesitantly squeezing back. The heart rate monitor may have sped up a bit but he didn’t really care.

  “You’re not allowed to do this anymore. Disregarding your wellbeing like this? You have to stop. Do you understand me, Sherlock Holmes?”

  “John—“ His hard gaze stopped Sherlock’s protests. The other man sighed, and gave a small nod.

  “Very well. I’ll try. If it makes you feel better.”

  Suddenly Sherlock sat bolt upright. John jumped to his feet. “Sherlock, are you ok? Does it hurt?”

  “John, what day is it?”

  “Oh, uh… July 11th. Why?”

  Sherlock scowled and let his head hit the pillow. “I’ve missed your birthday by four days. I’m usually much better about punctuality.”

  John chuckled. “Is that all? Geez, Sherlock, you almost gave me a heart attack there.”

  “Happy birthday, John.”

  John let out a long, low breath. Some birthday this was shaping up to be. “Thanks.”

  AUGUST

  John moved back to 221B. It was too much to stay in the house with Mary, and all the hurt and distrust and horror swirling around them. She didn’t ask him if he’d looked at the flash drive (he hadn’t) and he spoke very little to her. She didn’t protest when he tossed several days’ worth of clothing into his duffel bag and grabbed his toiletry kit.

  Sherlock had been released from the hospital the previous week but was still recovering. He didn’t look surprised when John had hesitantly asked if he could stay for a little while, merely nodded and replied, “Your room is as you left it.” Neither of them brought up that Sherlock had returned John’s armchair to the living room.

  They were both fragile, both in a lot of pain, and John didn’t think either of them would be willing to talk about it.

  He still hadn’t read the flash drive.

  SEPTEMBER

  “Sherlock, stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Scratching the scar. That’ll just make it worse. You need to not irritate the tissue or it’ll take longer to heal.”

  Sherlock groaned and flopped back in his armchair. “I hate this blasted scar. It itches constantly and it hurts when I try to play the violin. How am I supposed to work if I’m debilitated, John?”

  John sighed and lowered his newspaper. “Sherlock, I am telling you from experience, if you leave it alone and take it easy, it’ll heal faster.”

  Sherlock drummed his fingers on the chair arm and let out another annoyed sound. John felt his temper climb, as it had a tendency to do these days.

  “Shut up. Ok? Just be quiet, Sherlock. I really am not—“ he took a deep breath through his nose. “—I don’t want to hear about how boring it is, or any of your other bullshit right now.”

  “You’re the one who brought it up, John.”

  John slapped the paper down. “Well, can you blame me? God forbid I might be a little on edge! I only found out my wife has been lying to me about everything since we met and shot you! We can’t all in total control of our emotions, sorry!”

  Sherlock looked a little shocked. John’s temper had been on the surface for months, and for some reason this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He sprang to his feet, pacing around the carpet aggressively.

  “I just thought maybe, you know, maybe, I could try to have a normal goddamn life but nope! Surprise! My wife is an assassin and oh guess what? She’s also carrying my child! Is it so much, Sherlock, to ask for someone in my life who’s not—“

  “Not what?” Sherlock looked sharply at him.

  “A sociopath,” hissed John. “I need someone in my life who actually gives a damn about my feelings, and empathize with me, or, no, how about, let’s talk about the fact that none of this would have happened if you hadn’t left!”

  “John, I—“

  “No, shut up! Just shut up and listen to me! I thought you were dead, and you never once bothered to tell me that you were alive, or anything! You just let me grieve, and then Mary came around and I thought maybe I could pull my life back together again, but I can’t even have that, can I? And then the truth comes out, and not once, not once did you try to see things my way or try to understand why I might be upset! You just… defended her! And then you sided with her when she blamed everything on me. Do you have any idea, Sherlock, how that made me feel? And if you hadn’t… if you’d died I… fuck.” John leaned back against a wall, the wake of his explosive anger leaving him weak.

  “John…”

  “I’m going out.”

    John did not return until almost one in the morning, thoroughly drunk, having attempted to drown his sorrows at the bar around the corner. The strains of Sherlock’s violin floated down the stairwell, guiding him, stumbling, back into the flat. John clumsily locked the door and tossed his jacket onto the floor, squinting at Sherlock, who was playing in almost total darkness, a single light illuminated his tall figure.

  John stifled a burp and wandered over to his armchair. “That sounds nice. What is it?”

  Sherlock’s playing ceased (John pouted, he was enjoying it) and he turned to study is inebriated friend. “You’re drunk.”

  “Mmm, and you’re… tall.”

  Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, you’re not of a sound mind.”

  “I’m fine, Sherlock… didja know… this thing…” John thrust a hand into his trouser pocket, pulling out the A.G.R.A. memory stick. The black Sharpie letters gleamed in the low light, taunting him. “Do ya think I should read it?”

  “I…” Sherlock swallowed. “I think that’s your decision, John, but you should make it soon.”

  “Nope.” John grinned teasingly, and tossed the stick across the room. It bounced off into the darkness.

  “John.”

  “Sherlock, I’m…” John pushed himself to his feet, swaying a bit as a surge of nausea swept through him. Sherlock was instantly by his side, catching his elbow. John leaned into him with a contented little hum.

  “Come on.” He let Sherlock lead him into his bedroom. He flopped down onto the bed—regretting that as his stomach protested—and kicked his shoes off. Sherlock tossed the duvet over him.

  “Hey, this is your room. ‘R we gonna—“ hic “—sleep together?” John wriggled around under the duvet, trying to get comfy.

  “No, John. Just sleep. I’ll be in the other room. I daresay you’re going to wake up with a headache and upset stomach, and light and sound sensitivity due to severe dehydration. I’ll leave a glass of water on the nightstand.”

  “Tha’s nice of you,” mumbled John, eyes heavy. He caught Sherlock’s arm as the other man made to leave, sitting upright. Sherlock’s breath hitched but otherwise he betrayed no sign of surprise. John threw his arms around Sherlock’s torso, forcing him to kneel on the bed, and pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of aftershave and bow resin. It was so distinctly Sherlock—John sighed, feeling the other man’s heart rate pick up under the silken dress shirt as he smoothed his hands down his back in a rather intimate way.

  “I’m sorry I yelled. ‘M mad. Mad at you and Mary. And at me. Cause I keep doing stupid things. I just wish...” There were a lot more things on the tip of his tongue, more intimate confessions, things he’d longed to say for years, but his remaining sobriety clamped down on those thoughts and kept them at bay. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

  “Always, John.” Sherlock gently pushed him off and laid him back down before retreating to the door. “I’ll bring you some water. Just… if you need anything, I’ll be here.”

    John woke up, as Sherlock predicted, with a pounding headache, and the sunlight peeking through the curtains to stab him in the eyeballs didn’t make it easier. He tried to sit upright and a wave of nausea slammed into him and sent him sprinting for the toilet. When his stomach was empty and he finally returned to the bedroom, groaning, he realized that it wasn’t his bedroom.

  Last night came back to him in bits and pieces. Oh good lord. What had he done?

  John stumbled out of the bedroom, moaning in pain as his head protested at the movement. The flat was quiet, the curtains mercifully closed. Where was Sherlock? He peeked into the living room and saw the man sprawled out on the sofa, long limbs awkwardly arranged on the cushions. John felt a twinge of guilt. He wandered back to the bedroom and found a glass of water sitting on the nightstand.

  At the breakfast table, he tried not to notice Sherlock working out the kinks in his muscles. The other man was brewing tea, but luckily it didn’t have much of a smell so he didn’t have to go back to the loo for another bout of retching.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Sherlock softly, considerate of John’s sensitive state.

  “Like shit,” rasped John with a weak chuckle, dropping an Alka-Seltzer tablet into his water and watching it fizz white.

  Sherlock smiled crookedly. “I did warn you.”

  “Sherlock, I didn’t—“ John cleared his throat, flushing slightly. “I didn’t… do anything to you last night, did I? I don’t remember everything.”

  His flat mate (former? Current? He didn’t know anymore) gave him a quick, calculating glance before responding, “Of course not.”

  John had a feeling he knew more than he was letting on. “God, Sherlock, I’m sorry about that. And about yelling at you… I just… I don’t know what I’m going to do…”

  Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. Then he stood up and set the flash drive down on the table before walking into his room and closing the door. John was so distracted with worrying about his marriage it never occurred to him to ask why Sherlock had even had the flash drive in the first place.

  OCTOBER

  Work was so awkward these days. Mary and John didn’t speak unless it was in regards to a patient. Everyone else noticed the tension, the anger, but didn’t comment, though they probably wondered what in the world had happened. “But didn’t they just get married this spring?” he would hear them whisper when they thought he wasn’t nearby.

  He still couldn’t believe that this had happened.

  What did I ever do?

  He took the stairs up to the flat slowly.

  My whole life, to deserve you?

  He paused. Sherlock was playing the violin. He smiled.

  “Feeling better?”

  Sherlock paused in his playing, turning to glance at John. “I am, finally. Transport can be so… disappointing, sometimes. It still itches.”

  “Yes, I know. I see you scratching at it when you think I’m not looking.” John set a small jar on the table. “This helps soothe the irritation. I used it a lot the first few months after I got shot.”

  “Thank you.” Sherlock offered him a brief smile and John felt his heart lift. It never failed how Sherlock’s appreciation of little things he did cheered him.

  “Any cases?”

  “I’m still deciding what to do on Magnusson. I’ve to find out everything I can about him.”

  “You’re still on that?” John felt alarm pinching at his throat. “Why?” If they’d never broken into that man’s office, they wouldn’t be… this wouldn’t have….

  “I need to get back the documents he has on Mary,” replied Sherlock like it was obvious.

  John was shocked. Still? After what she did, Sherlock still wanted to help her? Why, for God’s sake?

  “What? Sherlock—for the love of God, she shot you!”

  “I am aware, John.”

  “No, you don’t seem to be! You don’t help people who put you in hospitals, Sherlock! You just… why would you do this? I don’t understand.”

  Sherlock stared at him like he had begun speaking Greek. “Because it will protect her and the baby from blackmail, and it’ll protect you as well. Is this not obvious?”

  John clenched his fists. When he put it like that, there wasn’t a lot of room to argue. “It feels… wrong.”

  “As I stated John, it’s about protecting you as well. If you find that offensive—“

  “It’s not that, Sherlock, don’t try to twist this conversation around, you know exactly why I’m upset about this.” The two men glared at one another until John threw up his hands. “Forget it. I need a drink.”

  He’d bought a handle of vodka earlier that week and intended to put it to good use. As he poured himself a drink, he glanced at Sherlock, who hadn’t gone back to playing and was just staring at the alcohol with an undeterminable expression.

  “You want one?”

  “John, after that disaster of a stag night, I’m never touching alcohol again.” Sherlock frowned and sat across the table from him. “We shouldn’t have become so intoxicated. Molly helped me to calculate our ideal intake prior to going out, I don’t know what happened.”

  “What? You actually seriously did that? What am I saying, you’re you, of course you did that. Ah, so that’s why you were keeping track on your phone. Explains the graduated cylinders too.” John took a sip, chuckling. This man was something else.

  “Yes, and something threw it off! I just don’t understand it. The calculations were perfect.”

  John felt his cheeks warm, as a hazy memory grew clear. “I—ah—may have had something to do with that.” Sherlock looked sharply at him and he squirmed guiltily. “I, um, spiked our drinks a few times.”

  Sherlock blinked in surprise. “That was YOU?”

  “Yeah, I was—pretty drunk already and I didn’t realize you were keeping track of all that data for a reason. I just thought, you know, one of your experiments. Sorry. I ruined all your plans there.”

  To his surprise, Sherlock didn’t even look angry, merely like some great mystery of the universe had suddenly revealed itself to him. John quickly added, “But I had fun.”

  “You said it was awful.”

  “No, YOU said it was awful.”

  “And you agreed with me.”

  John thought about it. He had indeed. “Well. I was suffering from a bloody miserable hangover at the time, so my views might have been a little biased. But looking back, I thought it was fun. It was funny to see you drunk.” He grinned at Sherlock, who huffed and crossed his arms and John could have sworn he was blushing.

  “Well I hope you treasure that memory forever because you’ll never see it happen again.”

  John laughed, and then laughed again because it felt good to do it. For the first time since he’d found out about Mary, John didn’t think about the flash drive at all.

  NOVEMBER

  “I still love her, you know.”

  “Mmm?” Sherlock looked up from his microscope, where he’d been comparing various samples of mold grown on a loaf of bread. It would help determine whether the suspect had indeed stabbed his wife in the kitchen before skipping town.

  “Mary, I mean. I still love her and I… I mean I’m still married to her, you know? And she’s pregnant with our kid.”

  Sherlock’s lips thinned. “Well, it’s only natural you would want to reconcile your marriage. After all, logically speaking, you’re probably quite safe with her. She’ll do anything to protect you.”

  John scowled. “Yeah, including going on lying to me forever if you hadn’t caught her, and shooting you for no good reason.”

  “John, I told you her reasons—“

  “And all of them are bollocks, Sherlock, and you know it.” There was a tense silence before Sherlock went back to staring at the slides. They’d gone out on a few cases since the “incident,” as John was now calling it, and when Sherlock wasn’t researching Magnusson or complaining about his itching scar he was insisting John accompany him. He seemed to understand how much good it was doing John to be out in the field again, like old times, the detective and his faithful blogger out stopping crimes and embarrassing Scotland Yard.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “It appears that the mold growing in the center of the bread reproduced faster than the mold on the crust and you’re avoiding the obvious question, which is ‘Should you go back to Mary?’ and the short answer is ‘Yes,’” replied Sherlock brusquely.

  “Wha—you do want me to go back to her?”

  “John, it hardly matters what I think, this is your marriage and your decision, is it not?”

  “Well… it matters to me what you think.”

  Sherlock finally looked away from the microscope, his expression—uncertain? Nervous? John met his gaze, feeling the air buzz with everything they weren’t saying.

  I wish you’d ask me to stay.

  “John…” His phone buzzed and the moment was over. Sherlock scowled and retrieved it. “Yes?” His posture changed, from uncertain to creeping dread. “Hello, Mum.” John smirked and turned away before Sherlock could see. “Yes, I… no, it’s fine, it’s been fine. Yes… oh, really? But I—fine, fine! All right! Is Mycroft going to be there? Are you sure you can’t—yes, all right, fine! All right. Yes. Yes, we’ll be there. I will. I’m hanging up now. Bye.” He thumbed the “off” button and tossed the phone onto the table with a disgusted snort. John forced his features into a serious face and turned back to him.

  “How’s your mum?”

  “She wants to have… dinner on Christmas Day. With me and Mycroft.” Sherlock nearly shuddered. “And she wants to invite you… and Mary. I told her we’d all be there.”

  “Me? A-and Mary? W—Sherlock, why didn’t you ask me first? I’ve barely spoken to her since—you know!”

  “Well then I guess you’d better decide what you’re going to say to her, John, because Christmas is less than a month away,” replied Sherlock coldly before going back to the mold slides and ignoring John.

  DECEMBER

  John carefully carried two steaming mugs of tea into the sitting room and over to where Sherlock was sitting as they watched the fire burn low. It was Christmas Eve, and John had never found himself dreading a Christmas Day so much. Tomorrow they’d be at Sherlock’s parents’ house, and he’d be… with Mary. He’d made up his mind, but that didn’t improve his feelings on the prospect ahead. He was still furious, still felt betrayed, and still hated himself for what he knew, deep down, was true.

  You are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people.

  It’s what you like.

  “Merry Christmas, John.”

  “Sherlock—“ John’s throat closed briefly, and he started again. “Sherlock… I can’t do it.”

  Sherlock looked at him, concerned. “John, I thought you’d decided—“

  “No, I mean, I have, I have. But, I need—I need your help. I can’t do this by myself. I don’t know what to say to her. Please.” John had never asked for something like this from Sherlock—was hardly sure the man could even give him what he was asking for. “You’ve done so much already but I need—please, help me.”

  A brief flit of discomfort (pain? Was it the scar again?) passed over Sherlock’s countenance before he went back to his default detached expression. “Of course, John. Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

  John smiled a bit. “You always do.” As he handed the mug, he let his hand linger on the other man’s for a moment longer than he normally would. Or that he normally should. Maybe he didn’t care so much about pretense anymore.

  Sherlock did not pull his fingers away. Instead, to John’s surprise, he gripped his hand and gave it reassuring squeeze, just as John had when he was lying in that hospital bed what seemed like ages ago.

  Whatever happened tomorrow, they’d face it together, just like they always had.

  “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

      John stared at himself in the mirror, practicing the words over and over in his head.

  The problems of your past is your business. The problems of your future are my privilege.

  Maybe if he repeated it enough times he’d start to believe it.

  He’d never read the flash drive. He couldn’t. There was a part of him, a very small, desperate, romantic and loud part of him that wanted to continue on pretending that Mary had never done the things he suspected her of doing. That in spite of everything she was still the sweet, quirky, clever woman he’d fallen in love with, the woman who’d pulled him from the depths of depression after Sherlock’s phony suicide and danced with him at their wedding reception. He couldn’t let himself believe it was all a lie.

  He wouldn’t abandon his pregnant wife. He wasn’t that kind of man, even if she’d done… what she’d done.

  “John, hurry!”

  “I’m coming!” he called downstairs. As he grabbed his jacket, he thought again and also grabbed his handgun, which was lying on the dresser, and stuffed it into the pocket. Thundering down the stairs, he caught sight of Sherlock winding his scarf around his neck, looking impatient and annoyed.

  “I’m not looking forward to this at all but Mummy never lets us hear the end of it if we’re late.”

  John chuckled but it sounded fake to even his own ears. He pressed a hand over the pocket containing the A.G.R.A. drive.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” John let out a long, steadying breath. Just think of it as another case, another battle. You’re going into battle, he told himself.

  Sherlock nodded and the two of them headed out into the chilly December morning. John turned his collar up against the freezing wind.

  “We just have to stop somewhere first, to pick up a friend of mine.”

  John stared at him. “What friend?”