A Good Man

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"Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay? Jesus, you've been out for hours."

The detective's eyes opened slowly, but his head felt like a dumbbell. His tongue felt as big as his mouth, and trying to speak was unbearable.

"John..." he managed. His voice sounded horridly strangled. His arms were immovable, and his legs equally so. He was on the settee in the sitting room, and his memory was completely black.

Then he remembered.

"Where is she, John? Where is she?" he frantically questioned.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock. You need rest."

"No..." he said, fighting John's consolations. "No, John...where is she? Where's she gone? Did you see her go? John...John...what's happened?"

"No one saw her, Sherlock. She was gone when I got here, and you were out cold on the bloody floor. Whatever you two had a row about, I imagine it wasn't...particularly good," he said, his eyebrows popping up with a quick flourish.

"No...she's...she's gone. Eurus...Eurus...something happened. I need to see my sister."

"What d'you mean she's gone?"

"She's GONE, John! She's gone. For God's sakes, just shut up. I can't be bothered. I need to get to Sherrinford," he said. He now looked drunk in every sense of the word. His arms flailed as he tried to control them, his voice drifted in and out of use, and his eyes were open only half way. He fell off the sofa, making the wooden floorboards rattle with the impact.

"Sherlock, you can't even stand up—you're not getting to Sherrinford today, mate. C'mon, let me help you to bed," John said. He set Rosie down on the sofa as he helped Sherlock to his feet.

"What's the time, John?" Sherlock asked, a bit of drool falling out of his mouth. It landed on John's shoulder, and the doctor gagged.

"It's nearly ten, Sherlock. I found you at one o'clock. I came over as soon as you started ignoring my phone calls. She did this to you, then?"

"Yes, but only because I made her."

"Bloody ridiculous."

"It wasn't her fault, John!"

"Yeah, alright..." John whispered, rolling his eyes with nausea. They were ridiculous.

Getting the door to the bedroom open, he shoved the detective down upon the bed once they were inside. Forcing Sherlock's feet under the covers, he shook his head at his friend's insane marriage relationship.

"I don't know where she's gone, John. I don't know where..." Sherlock was muttering over and over, rubbing his face as if he were having a hangover.

"Sherlock, are you sure you didn't...you know, take things the wrong way? She might be back in the morning, or—"

"No—she's gone. She isn't coming back, John. She's gone."

John's mouth went dry. He couldn't understand. What the hell was happening?

"John...you have to help me find her, John...John?"

The doctor remembered himself.

"Yeah, I will, Sherlock. I will. Just...go to sleep. You need it. I'm ordering you. Go to bloody sleep. I'll come 'round in the morning and we'll talk then. Just...good night," he said, pulling the covers up to the detective's neck.

"Good night, John," he whispered, his mind already seeming to fall into the dark abyss of dreams. He was breathing through his mouth, and after a few minutes, John deduced he had finally drifted off.

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