Denial | A Johnlock fanfiction

Guilt on Baker Street

"Would you like another tea, John?" Sherlock said, trying to cheer the older man up just a little.

"Please." was all John managed to say. Two horrible things on the same day. His best friend had relapsed in drug use for an unknown reason, and a woman had died because of him. Sure, he had no real attachment to him, no friendly or romantic infatuation, but she had died because of him.

He stared at the floor, the kitchen light giving a small amount of light to the otherwise dark flat. Sherlock took the abandoned, now cold and tea walked straight into the kitchen as John sat in his chair, his gaze still fixed on the floor. The air was thick, and John could tell that Sherlock was having a hard time, but Donivan's words didn't seem to have affected him.

"Thank you," Sherlock said as he handed John a tea. He hadn't made one for himself.

"I believe it's me who's supposed to thank you, Sherlock." John attempted to laugh, but his face fell immediately from the guilt.

"No, for everything. For defending me in front of Donivan." Sherlock said, sounding uncharacteristically thankful. "Lestrade told me what you said. It's not your fault, John. It's never your fault. I promise you."

John swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. He had never felt this guilty in his life, even when men had died at war when he hadn't. This was different, this was direct. He took her to Baker street, he declined her advances, he wanted her to leave, to never return. She had died because of it. John closed his eyes, holding the bridge of his nose. Even though he didn't know her, he felt guilty. Tears began to roll down his eyes, despite not wanting to show Sherlock how bad he truly felt. It was then he felt two arms wrap around him in an embrace. It felt good to know that Sherlock cared, even if it was unlike him to show it. John wrapped his arms around him, blinking back tears.

"Don't fight it, John. It's okay to cry." Sherlock said.

"Say's you," John said playfully through the tears, pulling away from Sherlock's hug. It felt horribly cold without him hugging him. Sherlock didn't say anything but looked confused at the remark. "What happened the other day? You can tell me anything."

Sherlock stiffened. He was still awfully close to him, and his face went dark. They made eye contact, and his eyes held so much sorrow that John had never seen in Sherlock's eyes before. John felt guilty for asking but really wanted Sherlock to open up to him, to tell him what was going on. Sherlock broke the eye contact first and walked over to his armchair where he sank into it. John waited a moment. He could see Sherlock's mind turning as if thinking about how to reply.

"You're right, John. I can tell you anything. But not this. You would hate me." Sherlock said. 

"I could never hate you, Sherlock," John said back immediately. Sherlock scoffed, and John could see the cogs of his mind turning. John could swear his eyes were filling with tears but didn't say anything. He didn't want to upset him further or cause him any embarrassment. What could Sherlock possibly say to make him hate him? Even if he killed a man, he would be there for him. He knew for sure that there would be ample reason.

"Even if you bloody killed a man -"

"It's nothing like that, John. Trust me, you don't want to know. I wish I didn't," Sherlock said, his voice strangely quiet. He stood up from his seat. "I'm tired, John, I'm going to head to bed -"

"Sherlock Holmes, you sit your ass down right now," John half shouted. Sherlock didn't sit down at first but stared at John hopelessly. John knew he would just shoot up if he let him go to his room, or be alone for that matter. "That's an order, Corporal."

Sherlock sat down and John could swear he saw a flush of red spread across his cheeks. Anger? It must be, John reasoned with himself, although Sherlock didn't look angry. John ignored it, his thoughts quickly turning back to the night events. He tried to ignore his racing mind, and let out a deep sigh. Sherlock looked at him, his eyes filled once again with worry and deep sadness. 

"You need to eat, Sherlock." Sherlock groaned as John said this, and sunk further into his seat. "Please, for me. Anything, even if it's small."

Sherlock looked at him and their eyes met. They held their gaze for a moment before Sherlock pushed himself up and walked to the kitchen, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a bite. He sat back down in his chair as he ate it slowly, looking uncomfortable the whole time he did. John's brows furrowed together as he watched the younger man. What was wrong with him? Why wouldn't he eat properly? It could be the drugs making him lose his appetite, as cocaine is an appetite suppressant, or maybe it was something even worse than that, judging by the discomfort on Sherlock's face.

"Why aren't you eating properly, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Not hungry," Sherlock said.

"The truth, please," John demanded. 

"That is the -"

"That's an order, Corporal," John said, remembering that it had worked the first time he had said it. The same redness crept up on Sherlock's face, and he averted his gaze in the other direction. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt for a second before taking a deep breath.

"Don't go all army doctor on me, John," Sherlock said. "But it... it hurts to swallow. And it hurts after I eat."

Anorexia. Not the kind where you desire to be skinny, mind you, not that John knew that for sure. This was a typical case, however. He had all the symptoms, lack of desire to eat, pain when swallowing, and hating the feeling of being full. John's focus had left Yasmin completely, and he was now deeply concerned for Sherlock's health.

"Anorexia. Typical symptoms, Sherlock. You really need to see a doctor -"

"You are a doctor." Sherlock retorted.

"Will you let me treat you?" John asked, agitation growing. "For the drugs, as well."

"I- yes, yes," Sherlock reluctantly agreed. "But I'm full. Can we start tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow's fine," John said in agreement. "Today for the drug misuse."

Sherlock groaned for the one-millionth time that day but didn't protest. John smiled. At least for now he was complying, even if it would be hard on him over the next few weeks, or even months, of recovery from both afflictions. Time passed slowly, and at two in the morning both he and Sherlock were hanging by a thread. John needed to sleep, and so did Sherlock for his health and well-being, but sleeping on these chairs would do them no good. 

"We need to sleep. We have a few options. We either sleep on the floor, or we sleep in one of our rooms together. Heads and tails." John said finally, struggling to stay awake. Once again, that same red flush appeared on Sherlock's cheeks and he looked at him in shock, as if suddenly wide awake. Sherlock looked at him, his eyes holding confusion and something John couldn't quite place. "Come on Sherlock, it's not like I'm asking you to have sex with me. Let's go. Your room, or mine?"

"Mine," Sherlock said, standing up. He looked awkward as they walked together, and his breathing was heavy. "We don't have to, you know, sleep heads and tails. It doesn't really matter. I don't want you to kick me in the face."

"Okay, not heads and tails then. Now get changed, I'm not looking. Don't try anything sneaky, either." John said, turning his back.

"O-okay." It must be the drugs making Sherlock act this nervous, John reasoned with himself as he waited. Sherlock got changed quickly and when John turned around, he had another set of sleeping clothes in his hands, offering them to him. His face was deep red as he turned his back on John. "So you don't have to leave me, doctor."

"Thank you, detective," John said, taking the clothes from him. He put them on quickly, folding his worn clothes into a neat pile and placing them on top of Sherlock's chest of draws. He climbed into Sherlock's bed, Sherlock hesitantly climbing in next to him. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John." And with that, John fell asleep.