docwithablog | storyline one.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

[ 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.

storyline one.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject