JOHN'S POV
I lay in bed, gazing at my ceiling as I listen to Sherlock's groans and wails through the thin walls. This was a regular occurrence; most nights in-fact. Some nights it wasn't so bad, but from the agonising sounds coming from his room, I can tell its bad tonight.
It's hard for me to try and block the noises out to sleep. Whenever I hear them, I wake, alert and wide-awake. Then, my mind doesn't let me sleep until the wail quite, or until they sound a little less painful.
I grab a hand full of my duvet and clench it tight, trying to fight off the urge to run to his room and comfort him. He would hate if I did that. He would also hate me knowing that he can't sleep through the night. Sherlock doesn't ever like to seem weak, he wants people to see him as the emotionless sociopath he tries so hard to be.
I, on the other hand, know better than everyone else; I know him better. It has been clear to me for some time that he isn't okay. Not since he came back. All I see him do is replace his food with strong spirits and over-load on different types of pills and medication.
The noises from Sherlock's room are getting worse; they're getting louder and more painful for me to listen too. I release my fist of duvet and turn on my side so that I could use my pillow as earmuffs. It doesn't drown out his wails, but it muffles them which I'm grateful for.
I still have a burning desire to run to him, but I know I can't.
Ever since Sherlock had faked his own death, he had been like this. It had been a year now since he had, he only let me know that he faked his death about three months ago.
Before I knew he was alive and before he came back to me, I was the one over drinking and sleeping all day. I was so lost without him and I felt so alone. Once he returned, I was fine, I was mad at hell with him, but my disbelief and thankfulness that he came back dulled my anger quickly. But we have now swapped, I'm fine and he's the one in a terrible state.
I don't know why, but he had changed. He wasn't the self-centred, arrogant, up-his-own-ass Sherlock I know; he's broken. And it's up to me to fix him. I haven't had much success with that so far. I'd tried to get him to do some case's, but he refused and told me that he didn't care about that anymore, not in the slightest. It was a task enough getting him out of bed in the morning. I'm doing my best, I'm trying to be here for him, but he doesn't seem to want my help anymore. Not like he used to.
I stare blankly into the dark thinking about everything. My mind was running wild, and all my thoughts are about Sherlock.
SHERLOCK'S POV
I wake covered in sweat with my sheets sticking to my pale skin. Another one. Another nightmare.
I rub my temples before pushing myself up with my elbows into a sitting position. I hold my manic pants for a few seconds to see if I can hear anything. To my gratitude, all I can hear is silence. I'm glad I hadn't woken John or made him stir. After a while of him asking me if I was alright in the morning it became clear to me that he could hear me when I slept. His eyes would always fill with fear when he asked. I hate when he would ask, it hate him hearing me. Though, I'm grateful he has never attempted to speak with me about them, cause then I'd hate it a lot more.
I reach out to my bedside table using my hands feel around for my pills, knocking some other stuff on to the floor as I do. I use them to help me sleep, but unfortunately, they don't stop the nightmares.
If I took more pills than I needed, then I would be able to sleep without nightmares. The few times I've tried that, I've struggling to get up the next morning. More than usual that is.
But right now, all I want is for my brain to shut off. Stop working; just be blank for a while.
I open up the pot and get four out. I close it and throw them on to the floor so I can't have anymore. My hand searches the side-table for my bottle of gin which I quickly locate as it is always close by.
I screw open the bottle and take a swig. I swallow my pills and wash them down with another swig. Within a few minutes, I'm taken to a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
JOHN'S POV
I roll over in my bed to take a look at the time. My clock reads '6:00' in a bright red which stings my tired eyes.
Sherlock had stopped wailing after a while, so I managed to get some sleep last night. Though, I'm not too sure why my body still felt the need to wake me this early.
I turn away from my clock and glance over at the window. The curtains were closed, but I can see the sun highlighting the edges of them, showing their eagerness to fill my room with bright sunlight. I can hear birds chirping outside, glad that to be awake another day. I close my eyes and inhale, embracing this tranquil moment. It doesn't last for very long, because the thought of Sherlock pops back in my head. I open my eyes and sigh to myself, attempting to push the thought of him out of my head.
Even though it was early, staying in bed would just give me time to think, too much time. And to be truthful, I didn't want to think right now.
I crawl out of bed and stretch, feeling my tight muscles loosen. I take a shower, spending longer under the hot water than usual. I'm hoping the noise wakes Sherlock up so that I can see him, but when I get out and listen, there's no movement from his room. I sigh, worth a try.
After getting dressed, I make my way to the kitchen to make my first cup of coffee of the day. I put the coffee machine on and the aroma of coffee beans fill the air. I smile for a short second, the smell makes everything seem normal again. When the coffee is made, the smell fades and I'm left with the stench of alcohol. My smile quickly vanishes, allowing a frown to form on my face. I can tell I'm going to need a lot of coffee today, not even to keep me up, I'm going to need it to cover up that stretch.
I drop down into my armchair, placing my coffee on the side-table. I grab my laptop, open it and log on with an overly complex password to avoid Sherlock getting in. I open my blog and scroll through the entries. I don't write about mine and Sherlock's adventures anymore, because there are none to write about. If I did write, the only subject I can think of is that Sherlock is depressed with a major alcohol and pill reliance. Of course, that's not something I want to share with anyone.
I start reading through old cases while sipping away at my coffee, but after reading a few, sadness fills my empty stomach. I quickly close the lid of my laptop and gaze over the yellow smiley face on the wall, mocking me.
I'm mid-train of thought when I hear a loud thud from behind me, I instantly know it's Sherlock's door hitting the wall. I turn my head to catch Sherlock stumbling out of his room with nothing but joggers on. His chest is pale and he looks like he hasn't eaten in weeks.
I quickly put down my coffee to go over to him, but before I can even stand he's already in the bathroom with the door locked.
I don't even have to get close to the door to know that Sherlock was throwing up; I can hear the retching from where I was sat. He has either gone overboard on the pills or on the alcohol again. Or both.
I head over to the bathroom door and stand outside it. I tap gently on the door.
"Sherlock?"
There's no response.
I knock louder now, "Sherlock, can you let me in?" I ask getting worried now.
The response I get this time is merely the sound of him vomiting.
"SHERLOCK!" I bang the bathroom door with my fist so hard it makes my hand ache.
Still, no answer. A few seconds pass and I hear the bathroom door unlock slowly. I turn the handle and walk-in. Sherlock was scrawled out on the floor with his head next to the toilet, holding it with his arms for comfort.
I leave the door open behind me and sit down next to him. I place my hand on his shoulder, he quickly shrugs off it off him.
"Sherlock?" I say, my voice soft and cautious.
"What do you want John?" he asks avoiding my hot gaze, "I'm busy and I can't deal with your loud knocks."
"You wouldn't be busy throwing up if you'd just stop drinking and taking pills!" I shout much louder than I meant to. Sherlock doesn't answer, he continues to hold himself against the toilet, staring into space.
"You need to stop this now Sherlock." I pled much quieter, "You can't go on like this."
"Why not the hell not? No one cares what I do John." Sherlock spits arrogantly. I clench my fists in a ball, feeling the anger swarm through me.
"Me! I do, I care and you know it." I inhale sharply, "You left me Sherlock, you left me for so long and then you come back and make me watch you slowly destroy yourself. And do you wanna know the worst part?" I glance at him and he continues to avoid my gaze, "There's nothing I can do to stop it and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do to help." I look down at my hands, "You don't know how it feels."
The last words I say make him look over to me, I feel his eyes on me so I pull my eyes from my hands to meet his. It's only now I notice the deep black bags under his eyes and take in him matted crazed hair.
"I do know how it feels to watch someone you care about and love so much, be hurt so badly. You don't know how it felt when I was away from you for so long. You thought I was dead, and you were so hurt. I watched you visit my gravel, you were so empty and I could do nothing about it." He remains claim as he stares into my eyes. He continues, "You were destroying yourself because of me. And that killed me...it kills me." Sherlock claims. He glances down and inhales. His eyes look lost and his expression is filled with despair.
He's doing all this because of me? I don't understand. He thought he'd hurt me so bad that he thought he should destroy himself in return? I want to tell him that he shouldn't be doing this, but there's only one thing I can seem to ask.
"You love me?" I raise my eyebrow, confused. I gaze at him intently waiting for his answer.