storyline one.

[docwithablog]

chronology -

00. word association w/ Sherlock

1. gen texting w/ Sherlock

2. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

3. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

4. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

5. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

6. texting w/ Sherlock

7. texting w/ Sherlock

8. texting w/ Sherlock

9. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

10. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

11. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

12. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

13. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

14. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

15. texting w/ Sherlock

16. otherwordly w/ Sherlock

17. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

18. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

19. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

20. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

21. texting - part one | texting - part two w/ Sherlock

22. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

23. texting w/ Sherlock

24. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

25. texting w/ Sherlock

26. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

27. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

28. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

29. truth or dare w/ Sherlock

00. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

30. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

31. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

32. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

33. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

34. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

35. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

36. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

37. texting w/ Sherlock

38. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

39. the case of the devil's root w/ Sherlock

00. word association w/ Sherlock

00. texting w/ Sherlock

00. penny for your thoughts w/ Sherlock

40. midnight texting w/ Sherlock

41. interlude w/ Sherlock

42. interlude w/ Sherlock

43. interlude w/ Sherlock

44. texting w/ Sherlock

45. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

46. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

47. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

48. texting w/ Sherlock

49. texting w/ Sherlock

50. texting w/ Sherlock

51. anniversary w/ Sherlock

52. texting w/ Sherlock

53. interlude w/ Sherlock

Comments

[docwithablog]

[ Day six. Day bloody six.

He'll be returning to work tomorrow which is undoubtedly a good thing, because they've started shouting at each other over completely ridiculous details like the fact that John dared to move Sherlock's phone from the coffee table to the mantle, because he was dusting -- an activity, mind you, that he very rarely engages in and even less now that he's living in Baker Street, because there's just no end to it. Dust accumulates, you remove it, it accumulates again and in that mess, Jesus. Not going there ever, ever again. Sherlock had given him a nice round of verbal abuse that he took for all of five minutes before yelling back at him fix your own damn messes, then, I'm going shopping and grabbing his coat on the way out the door, almost running Mrs Hudson down in the process.

He hadn't gone shopping, though. Not at first, at least. He went to the pub, grabbed a round of beer, maybe two and then he went shopping. Now he's returned, stalking up the stairs to the kitchen and more or less throwing the bags onto the kitchen counter. Sherlock's in the living room -- folding sheets? Seriously. Can his huge brain and even bigger ego actually deal with something so mundane? Impressive.

Yeah, he's not really impressed. He's frustrated still, has been frustrated for days at this point. Beginning to basically slap milk and some goulash-ish meat mix into the fridge, the dead people stuff that Sherlock keeps in there beginning to look strange after five days of the man being bedbound, John says over one shoulder, tone brusque: ]

I'm clocking in at seven tomorrow.

[acuriousincident]

[ The front door opens and closes, whereafter he can hear John's stomp his way up the stairs, throwing his groceries onto the counter and seeming generally... worse for wear. Usually, John takes his breaks and comes back, balance regained, but of course the past days have been continuously trying, haven't they? The man's temper is being tested beyond endurance, it seems. Sherlock folds up the last sheet and puts it in the pile before replying: ]

That's probably for the best.

[ His voice sounds flat and tired, still, his throat raw from vomiting up bile. He keeps thinking about drugs, about shooting himself up. Scratching his arms absentmindedly - healing track marks, scratch, scratch, scratch - he glances towards the mantle again, resigning himself to doing so regularly. It's how it goes with drugs, isn't it. They may be useful to block out inertia but in return, they call to you, even when you're trying not to listen. The heroin cravings will stay with him for months, supposedly, though he's normally quite capable of ignoring them. When he's got things to do, mind. Which, at the moment... ]

John, I need you to do something for me.

[ A part of him insists that John's already done quite enough but logically, there's no other way around this; not just for the sake of Sherlock's resolve, either. If the man actually wants to go to work without worrying about coming home to a repeat performance of the past week, something has to give. ]

[docwithablog]

Yeah? [ Although his yeah sounds more like a no, he still closes the door to the fridge and leaves the remaining groceries on the kitchen counter before walking over to the doorway, glancing out at Sherlock whose voice sounded much too tired and raw and all in all reluctant when asking for his help. As it ought to. John's been at his beck and call for 24 hours a day the past five days and although, honestly, he shouldn't expect to get anything in return, he's a doctor for God's sake, that's not how it works and besides, we're talking Sherlock Holmes here, what the hell does he want, neither is he used to getting shouted at every ten minutes for his efforts. Not part of his job description.

I'm talking about your private life, Sarah had said. John frowns, purses his lips, sighs and then, raises his chin. ] If it involves dust bunnies, I'm going to have to refuse.

[ Not that Sherlock would ask him to finish dusting, he was very clear about what exactly John could do with the feather duster and it wasn't pretty in the slightest. It's more an attempt to leave the rest of his options open. Ask me to dust and I might punch you, everything else is okay. It's okay. A deep breath and he looks the other man up and down, noticing that he's scratching himself again, track marks healing up nicely, John checked this morning -- no infections, no signs of septicaemia.

That part of his job, at least, stays the same. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ When John says yeah in that kind of tone, it tends to also mean no which is one of those confusing aspects of human interaction that makes adhering to social regulations utterly meaningless. Once you put up all recent data, after all, there's no reason why he wouldn't mean no; surely, there's a limit to human altruism (assuming, for one second, that the concept actually exists). All the same, he does walk up to the doorway, giving Sherlock a look and telling him, in even more convoluted terms, that yes, he might. Back and forth they go, these endless interrelational transactions and he's already so tired of it all, more so even, than when he started shooting up.

Frowning, he rubs the back of his neck. Nods towards the Persian slipper on the mantle. ]

If you could take out the trash.

[ Pause. He fidgets, his brain yelling at him to take that back, save the treasure, you can't waste it, it won't kill you, you've already proven it won't. With a disgusted sneer, he turns away and grabs his violin, pulling it out of its case along with the bow. Then, he just stands there with it, thinking about heroin. What a life. His gaze flies to the window, to the street beneath them and the cars going past. People, milling about, all of them showing traces and carrying around details of their individual affairs, whispering useless, commonplace stories at him even at a distance. God. Ugh. ]

[docwithablog]

[ The trash? What the hell is he talking about, John took out the trash before leaving earlier, there shouldn't be any -- Oh. The other man nods towards the mantle, towards the Persian slipper placed there and a realisation slowly, slowly dawns on him. But is your flat?

Jaw clenching visibly, he crosses over to the mantle in less than three steps, grabbing the slipper and shaking it a couple of times until a small ampoule falls into his hand, landing on his upturned palm among a whole little collection of old newspaper. Clever, Sherlock. Very clever. Maybe he should stop respecting the man so much and just rummage through all his shit to ensure there aren't more stashes hidden in plain sight, Jesus Christ. ]

Is there more? [ His voice is deceptively unbothered. Honestly, he feels on the verge of exploding, but his words are calm, collected as his fingers close around the ampoule and he turns towards Sherlock fully, standing among towers of dry cleaning with his stupidly loud violin, playing Bach and what not in the middle of the night... And yet, here he is, asking John to take out the trash. Like he fixed his door. And did the laundry, apparently also a thing he can do.

John's shoulders relax, dropping slightly. ] There's always more, Sherlock, Christ. What should we do, then, pay off all your dealers?

[ It's only halfway a joke. He might not want to, but he could always talk to Mycroft. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ Is there more, asks John and there's a distinctively dangerous edge to his voice, the kind that tells you John Watson can shoot a man without even the slightest trembling of his hand. Sherlock stares out of the window, breathing slowly and evenly. He needs to take his time, here, so he doesn't accidentally voice the thoughts currently rushing through his drug-deprived mind (tell him no, tell him there's nothing, tell him it's water, tellhimtellhimtellhim). Putting down the violin again, he turns slowly towards the other man and swallows, visibly. ]

Yes. [ Pause. ] Both questions.

[ It probably wouldn't take much for Mycroft to gather the necessary means - be they money-based or threat-based. Over the years, his brother has given up on controlling his usage after numerous attempts to force it out of him. Instead, he deploys the blame-game; making sure to inconvenience their parents every time he finds that Sherlock's slipped up, making sure to let him know what a burden it is for everyone. Making sure, too, Lestrade keeps him away from crime scenes. All of this, funnily enough, only gives him even further incentive to shoot up as thoroughly as possible. Vicious circle, that. Be that as it may, the man will no doubt be delighted to help.

With a sigh, he puts down the bow as well and heads for his bedroom, pulling out a handful of socks from his drawer (messing up his sock-index as a consequence) and shaking them, three ampoules tumbling into his palm. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at them. His arms are prickling. God, it's... right there. Right there. He's moved them around a bit the past few days, needing to touch them somehow, pathetically, like a squirrel moving its stash. He keeps still, feet seemingly frozen into the floor. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Yes.

Okay. Well, it's probably doable with a little help, God knows John doesn't have that kind of money lying around, but the British government no doubt does. He glances back towards the kitchen, towards his phone. He has an important call to make, it appears. For God's sake, when did he become the sort of person who intimidates drug dealers? Around the same time you became the sort of person to shoot serial killers and get jailed for vandalism you didn't commit, a helpful voice clarifies at the back of his head. Nevertheless, it somehow feels like a step down from going to war. Even -- if he's still saving people. Obviously.

When he returns his attention to the living room, to Sherlock, he's put down both his violin and his bow, setting off towards his bedroom and John follows with the small ampoule clutched in his grip, like he's carrying a bomb away from a crowded street -- the analogy not completely off, except he's actually following Sherlock into his bedroom again, so somehow he's placing himself in the middle of the bloody crowd, finding the man standing over his sock drawer, three ampoules more resting on his flat palm now and a couple of folded socks lying around on the floor. Neither of them speak for a while, they're just standing there, Sherlock staring at his drugs and John staring at him, the way his profile curves, the health(ier) tinge to his skin, his curls...

He sighs. ]

Listen, I'll fix it -- [ His free hand comes up, palm up, open. A slight shake of it. Here, you idiot. ] -- if you give me those.

[acuriousincident]

[ John's presence is, at this point, extremely familiar. They haven't lived together for long but Sherlock's a competent observer and he's saved all required variables many weeks prior. Everything else he's added since then - scent, clothes, hair, voice, movements - it's all details, enhancing the greater picture. John when he cooks. John when he reads. When he's angry, when he's delighted. Whenever he thinks he's winning at Stratego when actually he's getting his arse kicked. Episodes, glimmers, all adding to what he already knows: that John Watson is solid, steady and forceful in a rather incredible combination that's made Sherlock's life a little less empty, a little less flat.

I'll fix it he says and holds out his hand. Sherlock's fingers curl around the ampoules almost convulsively for a moment. Then, on a rough exhalation, he presses them into John's palm and steps back. He runs his hand through his curls and fluffs them up, mostly automatically, his gaze slipping away from the other man as he glances around the bedroom instead. Everything looks to be in transition between two very different states; the bed, unmade, the sheets missing. The imprints of the bucket on the floor still, because the floor needs washing. The window, open, the air in the bedroom just a tad too cold, too fresh. Looking back at John, he nods. ]

Thank you.