Chapter Text
After what felt like an eternity, the apartment on Baker Street was silent. The only sounds that could be heard were the soft hum of the refrigerator and the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall. The living room was dark and cold, with a musty smell that hinted at a lack of human activity. All the doors were closed, and the curtains were drawn shut, shutting out any light that might have come in.
As the eyes adjusted to the darkness, it became clear that the apartment was in a state of neglect. The dust had settled on all the furniture surfaces in the living room, forming a thin grey layer that obscured the once-shiny surfaces. The sofa, armchairs, and coffee table were all covered with the same layer of dust, as were the bookshelves and the framed photographs on the walls.
Despite the clear signs of disuse, the apartment had a certain charm about it. It was easy to imagine the apartment as it once was with the sound of violin playing, and the smell of tea wafting through the air. But for now, the apartment sat in silence, waiting for someone to bring it back to life.
As John walked towards the kitchen, he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled deep in his bones. His heart was pounding so hard that it felt like it might burst out of his chest at any moment. The closer he got, the stronger the stench of spoiled food became, making him feel nauseous. When he finally reached the kitchen, he leaned over the table for a better look, and what he saw made him feel as though his insides had been turned upside down. The table was a chaotic mess, with an almost black liver lying in a pool of its own juices, and broken eggshells scattered around it. A cup full of lukewarm, dark tea sat beside the liver, and to its side were several fingers, the origin of which was unclear.
Next to the sink stood a collection of empty bottles, four of them red wine and one whiskey. Although Sherlock was not known for his fondness for alcohol, he had partaken in drinks with the doctor twice in the past, both times resulting in pleasant memories.
John's apprehension grew as he walked down the hall towards the bathroom. Upon opening the door, he was greeted with a disturbing sight - syringes carelessly thrown into the sink, almost empty medicine boxes strewn about, and dried blood on the floor. The fear he felt only intensified as he made his way to Sherlock's room.
His heart sank as he entered the pitch-black room, which was as lifeless as the rest of the house. John's throbbing headache made it difficult for him to hear his own voice as he called out, "Sherlock?" He switched on the light and saw Sherlock lying on the bed with his back facing him, looking weak and small compared to the bed he was on.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked softly as he approached the bed. But as soon as he touched Sherlock's shoulder, the boy flinched and withdrew, shaking and covering himself with his hands.
"Please, please don't hurt me!" he whimpered, his voice barely audible.
John's heart shattered into a million pieces when he realized the reason behind Sherlock's reaction. He quickly reassured him, "Hey, Sherlock, it's me, John! You're safe, I'm not going to hurt you." But it was too late. Sherlock was afraid of him, and John knew it. The once confident and brilliant detective was now a trembling, scared little boy, and it broke John's heart to see him like that.
" Go away, go. Don't you dare touch me! I haven't done anything wrong to you, I haven't! Don't make me remember what I tried too hard to forget for the last four weeks." His long fingers still covered his eyes. John's legs felt weak. He thought he might pass out at any moment. He blamed himself for what he saw in front of him and for everything that had happened. If he hadn't beaten Sherlock a month ago in the morgue, things wouldn't be like this now. He was at a loss for words and unable to ask for forgiveness, as if his mouth had been sealed shut. Sherlock was visibly shaking and having a panic attack. John approached him and gently touched his hands, trying to ease him.
" Just breathe and open your eyes" he whispered
The detective opened his eyes slowly, avoiding eye contact with the man in front of him. His face looked much paler than John remembered, with dark circles under his eyes.
"Please, breathe at the same time as me," John said, slowly calming down, he felt relieved to see the result.
"Now, look at me please" The doctor said in a whisper. The man in front of him slowly met his eyes. His blue eyes looked the same, but the fear in them made John tear up.
The atmosphere between them was tense, and there was an unmistakable feeling of unease. They stood facing each other, their eyes locked in a silent exchange as if trying to read each other's thoughts. They breathed in unison, their breaths syncing up in the small space between them. The air felt thick and suffocating, charged with unspoken emotions. Despite the close proximity, there was an impenetrable barrier between them, as if an invisible force field was keeping them apart. Every second of the silence felt like an eternity, stretching out into infinity.
"I'm sorry for my panic attack. I didn't expect you or anyone else to come to me after everything I've done," said Sherlock, his voice heavy with guilt and shame.
John's heart sank at the sight of his friend's distress. "What are you talking about? Everyone cares about you - Mycroft, Greg, Mrs Hudson, Molly. We all care about you, Sherlock. I care about you," he said, his voice trembling with sadness.
Sherlock's eyes were red and watery, his face contorted in anguish. He tried to wipe away his tears, but they kept streaming down his cheeks. "You can cry, it's fine. Out of all people, you have every right to cry. Let yourself cry, Sherlock," John said softly, trying to comfort him.
After hearing those words, Sherlock finally broke down, letting out all the pain and sorrow he had been holding inside. John embraced him tightly, feeling the weight of his friend's anguish and wishing he could take it all away.
As John stroked his best friend's hair and watched as the tears streamed down his face, his heart broke for Sherlock. The pain in his friend's eyes was almost too much for him to bear. But as he held him close, he felt the weight of Sherlock's body against his own, and he knew that he would do anything to ease his pain. As Sherlock finally fell asleep in his arms, John couldn't help but feel a surge of emotion. He realized in that moment just how much he cared for Sherlock, and how much he was willing to sacrifice for him. And as he silently cried, he knew that he would always be there for him, no matter what.
John felt a throbbing headache and decided to sit down on the bed. He placed his dear partner, Sherlock, lightly on his chest, feeling the warmth of his furry little body. John's gentle strokes on Sherlock's hair brought a sense of calmness to the room. As he stroked his hair, John's mind wandered back to the last few months, replaying the events that had taken place. He was determined to help Sherlock stay clean and healthy to avoid losing him again.
The softness of the pillow beneath his head and the rhythmic sound of his own breathing soon lulled John into a deep and peaceful sleep.