ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

An Evening Of Addictions (Part 4)

It had been a week already, but it felt longer than the whole two whole years he'd spent dismantling a certain criminal network. Sherlock was one fake-smiling nurse away from ripping the IV line out of his arm and sneaking out the window into the inviting London air. 

That is why, when it was Gavin and not a doctor who entered the room, Sherlock's faith in humanity increased, just minimally. 

"Hey," said George. "How're you holding up? You don't need to answer that, it's a courtesy to ask."

Sherlock couldn't resist rolling his eyes. "Have the incompetent devils of existence given their verdict?"

"The people who saved your life," Graham chastised him, "said you're free to go."

"You can be useful." Sherlock's tone seemed to be torn between sarcasm, delight at being discharged and genuine appreciation for Giles' newfound purpose in life. 

"You'd think a brush with death would sober him up," said Gareth, almost to himself. 

Sherlock stretched as much as he could with the tubes in his arms and the cracks in his ribs. He hadn't died, evidently, but a rib had nearly punctured his right lung, and there were multiple fractures along his right arm and leg. 

"And John?" The words tumbled out like impatient men standing in a stagnant queue before he could reign them back in.

It didn't seem to register as anything significant with Geoff. The detective inspector tilted his head to the side and lifted a shoulder hesitantly. "Well, he's been better," he admitted. "Barely slept this past week."

Sherlock was nodding distractedly before he was done speaking. "And the girl, what happened to her?"

"Jessica?" said the D.I., recalling the night of the accident. "Haven't seen her, she hasn't been to. What, does she really matter?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He pressed his palms together and rested his chin on his steepled fingertips, and shut his eyes.

~

Sherlock had meant to meditate, not fall asleep. He had wasted so much time, the devils had said he could go back home, back to the comfort of shabby wallpaper and a shabbier living room.

When he woke up, John was sitting by his bedside, asleep in his chair. He looked utterly exhausted, the way a new parent looks when their troublesome toddler takes a two minute break from wrecking everything in the house.

No one was around. The heart in Sherlock Holmes grew till he felt like it would swallow him whole.

He allowed himself to drink in John's appearance. His evidently darkened frown lines seemed to smoothen out into a clear expanse, turning back time itself to show a younger John Watson. As Sherlock watched John snore ever so lightly, an uncontrollable smile graced his features. Sherlock's eyes in that moment captured the essence of endearment, shining with blatant adoration and endless gratitude for a friend who sacrificed time and sleep for him.

What had he ever done to deserve the friendship of John Watson?

~

Sherlock returning to Baker Street was uneventful. He sulked. He played the violin. He sipped tea.

Essentially, John felt things shift back to normal, like a puzzle piece fitting seamlessly into what appeared to be a disorganized mess.

That was the life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Order within chaos.

Although, admittedly, there was more chaos than order in that equation.

But John loved it. Every second.