This Is Real

Chapter Fourteen

John was practically dragging Sherlock up the driveway, the taller man stumbling and giggling to himself, mumbling something about bees. When he felt the fabric of his friend's coat slip from his grasp, he whirled around to look at what on earth had happened, sighing deeply at the sight he was met with.

"Ow," Sherlock whined, rolling onto his back. "I fell over."

"You tripped over your own bloody feet," John bent down to hoist him back up, not an easy task with how long and lanky the other man was. "Get up, you great lump!" When Sherlock gasped loudly and clapped a hand over his chest, John's eyes widened, realising he might have accidentally hurt himself. "What is it–"

"My shirt!" Sherlock cried. "You've ripped my shirt!"

Tipping his head to look at what Sherlock was going on about, he saw the prussian blue shirt was in fact torn. From what he could see, at least four buttons had come flying off and there was a frayed edge at the collar. "Oh calm down, Dolce and Gabbana. You've got loads of shirts."

Sherlock was ignoring him, squatting down unevenly and dropping to his hands and knees, scanning the brick of the driveway for any missing buttons. "But this is one of her favourites!" He clearly valued his shirts over his Spencer Hart suits considering how frantically he was moving on his knees.

"You mean Eve?"

The noise that came from the man on the ground could only be described as despair. "Obviously Eve! She's gonna be so mad– Oh!" he triumphantly held something up between his fingers. "Got one!"

John shook his head. "That's a stone."

"Is it?" Sherlock tossed it behind him when John nodded. "Well don't just stand there, Watson! Help me!"

"Eh, no," he reached down and grabbed his arm, dragging him up once more. "Let's get you inside. We'll look for the buttons later."

"But–"

"No. Inside." Once he'd finally got Sherlock up the step and under the porch, he was digging around his friend's coat for his keys while Sherlock just stood there and let it happen. Then John heard a sniffle. "Are you– Are you about to cry?"

"Of course I'm not!" Sherlock growled, not so subtly wiping his eye.

John only realised he was grinning when Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Sorry, no, not funny. Why are you upset?" Maybe the best way for deal with this, John decided, was to speak how he would to Rosie.

"You ripped my shirt."

John snorted. "Seriously?"

"Evie really loves this shirt!" he said, defensive. "She gets all flushed and her pupils dilate and–"

"Okay. Get the picture. You really don't need to cry, you can buy another."

Sherlock yanked his friend's arms out of his pockets, and stomped his foot. "You don't understand!"

John took a deep breath, willing the world to give him just a little extra patience for the next five minutes. "I just want to get you in the house and..." he trailed off, eyes softening. "This isn't just about the shirt, Sherlock. Help me understand."

"I–I'm high," he stammered. "She's going to leave me."

Oh. John reached out to touch Sherlock's shoulder, finally grasping what was truly bothering him. "You were drugged, Sherlock, it's not the same, it's not going to ruin your sobriety. It will wear off within a few hours and have no lasting effects. The hospital checked it all out, you'll be fine."

"After... After–"

"After what Irene revealed," John continued for him. "You're worried Eve's going to be annoyed she wasn't called?" Sherlock nodded weakly. "You're overthinking. She'll be fine. Now, give me your key–"