Meaning: (something used as needed)
----
It wasn't even six in the morning when Molly and Greg woke to find John missing from where he'd fallen asleep. They found him scrubbing at the carpet in the room he shared with Sherlock, crying and grumbling to himself as he put an insane amount of elbow grease into the work.
"John, are you okay?" Molly asked gently, not getting too close.
The smell of vomit and cleaners mixed was putrid, and as much as she empathized with John, she tended to be a sympathetic puker and there was no point in making two messes.
"Sherlock, the damn imbecile, he had to go and-- shit! Why won't this come out?!" John threw the scrubber down, emotionally exhausted. "Why did he do this?"
"This was before you, John. You had nothing to do with it." Greg whispered, "He's done this before, even before Jim, he has a history of... self-destructive tendencies. You couldn't have stopped it. Even Sherlock couldn't have, he did that to the pills so long ago, he wouldn't be able to tell them apart-- he would have made sure that was the case."
"You knew?" John's voice warped, "Why didn't you do something?"
"What could any of us have done?" Greg urged severely, "You weren't around the last times, Molly and I were kept out of it, but it was bad enough that his own brother won't even let him see their parents. Their parents used to visit Sherlock at the hospital every time, ask what they did wrong as parents, ask what they could do to help, it killed both Sherlock and Mycroft to watch their parents waste away over Sherlock's attempts, you know. Sherlock hasn't seen them in years. He wants to, but Mycroft and Sherlock refuse to until he's better."
"He doesn't know what better is," Molly whimpered, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Greg and I have been friends with him for years, but with you.... he seems to lighten a little. The road doesn't stop once he gets out, or gets a support system, it's his job to want to find a healthier way to survive and deal with this. Right now, he's better off being away from everything for a while."
"I know," John nodded, picking up the cleaner for another round. "Thanks. I just, I need some time... I'll take him his things today, he'll be able to call and text you then. He'll be restricted to family-only at least until tomorrow, he lied to get me on the list of family. If he doesn't keep you updated, I will. I may see you tonight... or not, I don't know."
Greg and Molly left silently, they sensed the relationship between Sherlock and John had changed, and wanted to respect the distance for now. So, John continued to scrub until the floor came clean, showered, collected Sherlock's things in a bag, packed a few things of his own, and waited until time got closer so he could go to the hospital.
...
Time passed slowly, but as the time passed his nerves began to settle. After arriving at the hospital in a cab, he got the room number from reception, and was met with the sight of Sherlock sleeping and Midsomer Murders whispering on the television. The thought of Sherlock guessing the culprit in the first few minutes, due to his perceptive nature, made him smile.
Sherlock looked less fragile today, the multitudes of IVs reduced to one and some color having returned to his face. His hair wasn't plastered to his forehead with sweat anymore, likely because he had been allowed a sit-in shower at some point while he was gone. Sherlock's mouth was parted, breathing quietly through his mouth in his sleep. John wanted to move a stray curl from Sherlock's forehead but restrained himself.
He set the essentials at point places in the room: toiletries by the sink, phone plugged in by the visitor chair, clothes in the small pantry, a jumper of John's on the ledge of the bed.
He had hesitated to bring the wool jumper, seeing as it was unnecessary being indoors, but hoped Sherlock might find it somewhat comforting. He reclined in the visitor's chair for at least one full episode of the show before falling asleep. The chair was more comfortable in the new room, and the sound of the tv lulled him to sleep easier than he cared to admit. He fell asleep watching Sherlock breathe, glad the prat was alive.
...
He wasn't sure how long he'd been out but an episode of Dr. Who (featuring the 4th doctor, if memory served) was nearly over when he woke to the sound of utensils scraping dinnerware. He groaned, stretching, before turning to Sherlock who had the sweater lying beside him on the bed.
John, somewhat embarrassed, made a point to not comment on it.
"What are you eating?"
"Jell-O," Sherlock muttered with distaste, he picked at it a few times with a spoon before each bite. "Strawberry, I think."
"How unfortunate," John jibbed, taking a bag of crisps from Sherlock's tray and opening them.
"I don't believe you asked if you could have those," Sherlock muttered, not looking up from his plate as he started digging into a sad plate of chicken alfredo.
"You would have offered them to me eventually." John shrugged noncommittally, he was still in a daze from his talk with Molly and Greg. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock made a sound of acknowledgement.
"What are your plans, after all this?"
"Hmm," Sherlock muttered as though in thought, though his face was blank. "I imagine that my thesis will succeed, as it should, and from there I'll enter the workforce with or without Mycroft butting his nose in to have a say about it. I'll have my doctorate, my school life will be complete, and I have to move on... I suppose. Move out of the dorms, get a flat somewhere, join the rat race-- whatever else it takes to qualify as a functioning adult-- and... try not to fall off the proverbial wagon again. The psychiatric specialist they keep sending to check in on me will likely suggest I seek out help on a regular basis until things get... managable."
"Sounds like a lot of grey area there, a lot of ifs," John admitted.
"Surely," He clicked his tongue, getting a piece of food from his teeth, "but that's what it takes. I don't plan on failing again this time."
"What changed?" John hazarded to ask.
"After everything that happened, I realized I want you in my life, John Watson. I plan to entice you to stick around, and to do so-- judging by your expression that night-- I can't do what I did again. I can't plant landmines without a map to punish myself for something out of my control."
"You're spouting a lot of insightful stuff, Sherlock. Is that your words or the psychiatrist's?"
"Her words, nearly verbatim." Sherlock admitted, cracking a smile, "but she has a point, and my words got her there. She reminds me of you somewhat, though that may have more to do with height than wisdom--"
"Sherlock!" John puffed instinctively, irritated.
"I'm joking," Sherlock waved his hand, taking a sip of tea. "I've thought about your words a lot in here. I really enjoy your company. Mind sticking around a while?"
"I planned to," John admitted, "but I would like to know more about you, your family, things like that."
"I can't introduce you as my fiancé, should you meet them," Sherlock reasoned, "my parents would have a fit."
"Likely because we aren't engaged."
"Right, good point," Sherlock nodded absently, as though it had not occured to him.
This earned a dumbfounded look from John who just summed it up to Sherlock being, well, himself.
"You should call Greg and Molly, they're worried about you," John insisted, taking the phone from the charger and handing it to him. "I can leave you alone in the room--"
"No, stay, I can have Mycroft get you something from the vending--"
"Wait, he's here?" John looked around the room instinctively, as though he had somehow managed to fit in the shadow of various objects.
"In the waiting room, yes, he may be a dullard but he does care... somewhat."
"Can't you invite him in? I never got to formally meet him, he was in such a bad mood given the situation." John asked, glancing out the room window to the hall.
"He was just irritated I never seem to go away-- like a bad rash I just reappear with a flare-up now and again." Sherlock memorized the line from Mycroft the day prior, "Besides, one person at a time. I prefer you, he can wait until Greg and Molly are allowed in."
"Just... you call them. I wanna have a talk with Mycroft," John patted Sherlock's hand. "Be back soon."
"Anything he tells you about our childhood don't listen, he is a filthy liar." Sherlock muttered, getting on the phone with Molly (who put it on speaker with Greg).
As soon as John left the room he could hear Greg and Molly overlapping each other to yell at Sherlock.
"Yes, yes, John got me everything I need... No, my intelligence has remained the same... I am, in fact, quite sane, thank you... Wow, name-calling doesn't become you, Gregory... Yeesh, Molly, didn't know you had it in you, take a breath..."
...
More of the same followed as John went to sit in with Mycroft who was, yet again, typing away at his phone endlessly. He sat across from him, pulling up a chair and sitting down.
"Mycroft, I'm not sure we were introduced before, my name is John--" he started, reaching a hand out.
"Ah, yes, the fiancé. " Mycroft sneered, not taking the handshake but continuing to type on his phone.
"We aren't really--"
"I know, my little brother just wanted me out." His own comment earned an amused glance at his own cleverness as he turned to look at John, who finally tucked the phone away in his pocket. "You do seem meaningful to him, though. He seemed-- dare I say-- embarassed, when I asked him how you reacted that little stunt of his--"
"I don't think that's fair to--" John was cut off by a look which told him he didn't know what he was talking about. He quieted when he saw something almost like sympathy in Mycroft's eyes.
"My brother is somewhat... disturbed, if you will. Never found a healthy way to channel his intelligence, you know. He dabbled in drugs--both legal and not-- and has nearly killed himself four times now between stupid stunts like the mixed pills, and gross negligence like his overdoses when he was still doing illegal drugs.
"He has been extremely, and I do mean extremely, lucky there were not severe lasting damage to his brain or body. His psyche, however, is a different story entirely... as I am sure you are now aware. That Jim boy got in his head, pushed all the right buttons to drive Sherlock to the edge again. The third attempt was when Sherlock and I agreed he should not see Mummy or Daddy until he is better and not at a danger to himself.
"The worry wasted my parents away worse with him, than without him, so I hope this will be the last. He seems to take a shine to you, and before he kicked me out he assured me this attempt was not on purpose but a stupid thing he did after Jim Moriarity died to cope, I guess. That being said, do not underestimate my brother, he can be manipulative when he wishes to--"
"I know," John rubbed his forehead, a tired smile on his face. "At least towards me, it has been with good intentions. Maybe it's too early but, I trust him. He seems to have some plan for the future."
"One with you in it, I imagine." Mycroft chuffed, "He never grew out of his childish attachments, anyone who ever paid him any mind, good or bad, his relationship with them would be entrenched into him."
"You speak as though he's tender-hearted," John joked.
"He is," Mycroft paused, "though he tries his best not to show it. He has seen me as an enemy since we were children, mind you neither of us were particularly lovable children, but I was always respected more as the eldest, much to Sherlock's irritation. Our personalities are just incompatible, it seems.
"All that being said, why aren't you in there with Sherlock? I'm sure the two of you are nearly attached at the hip, seeing the shine he took to you." Mycroft seemed perpetually bored, dispite the selfish amusement in his eyes.
"He's talking to Greg and Molly, figure I should give him time alone and talk to you a while." John admitted, earning a look resembling surprise from Mycroft.
"Interesting. They have never spoken to me much. I imagine they take what Sherlock says as gospel. I believe he likes to call me a-- oh, what was it-- 'a filthy liar with an unfortunate face'." Mycroft grumbled, actually rolling his eyes.
John held in the desire to correct him, with a supressed laugh, that Mycroft's "unfortunate face" was left unmentioned.
"I understand why you were cold to Sherlock. I may not have liked it, but I felt the same way. I could see from your face you had similar emotions as me in the waiting room, waiting around for news. I was furious with Sherlock, honestly." He took a moment to take a breath, bewildered by acknowledging it aloud. "He called me, of all people, when he realized his mistake-- he didn't even call an ambulance! All I could think was he was lucky I answered, lucky I cared--"
"Exactly," Mycroft smiled a little, albeit smugly. "He trusted you to answer, to drop everything, and to come to his rescue. Stupid boy, isn't he?"
John fell silent, leaning his head back on the waiting room chair in thought as Mycroft went back to typing away on his phone. He wanted to see Sherlock again, take a look at him with this new information in mind but figured a little more time would be better.
Stupid or not, he grew to care about Sherlock in the few months of living together. Sure, they mostly spent time talking in the dorm room, game nights with Molly, and passing conversations with mutual friends like Greg (pretty much just Greg, Sherlock was not a fan of Anderson, after all). They spent so much passive time together, eating together, and Sherlock's soothing of his nightmares were cherished times with happiness and purpose he hadn't felt in a long time.
John rose his head to look back at Mycroft who was still typing on his phone, "You should make up with Sherlock if you can. He needs you, even if he doesn't know it. Wish I still had my sister to talk to."
Again, Mycroft did not look up.
"Were that to happen, you would be forced to resign yourself to the role as a buffer between my brother and I. Surely, you realize this?"
"It would be worth the babysitting," John assured with a smile.
Mycroft had the briefest smile of amusement before it faded back into neutrality, "Mummy will love you."
John felt proud of that, despite the embarrassed flush in his cheeks, "Good to know."
"Sherlock will miss you, get on." Mycroft muttered, shifting to a more relaxed position in his seat. "I'll talk to him a little later."
"I'll make sure he doesn't throw anything at you," John promised, taking his leave.
...
Walking back in the room, Sherlock looked exhausted as he glanced at John like he was a refreshing sight, "Ah, John, you're back."
"Nice talk?" John smiled, knowing the answer as he sat in his comfy visitor's chair.
"I have never heard so many explicitives out of Molly's mouth in the entire time I have known her. Amazing lung capacity, that woman." Sherlock observed, "Greg, ever the boy scout, insists I get a move on and take responsibility for my schooling. How was your conversation with the devil incarnate?"
"I like Mycroft, he's reserved but it's clear he cares about his family a lot, despite his filippance. I think you two should patch things up. Not that you asked my advice, but there it is."
"Duly noted." Sherlock seemed to at least consider it for a moment before his mind returned to the task at hand. "Whilst you were out, I was informed I could have more than one visitor at a time, starting tomorrow. They also said you could stay overnight if you wanted to--"
"My overnight bag's in the corner. I didn't sleep well last night, not knowing how you were doing. I was pretty much planning on staying the night unless you didn't want me to." John admitted.
"I wouldn't turn you away, John. I was wondering, this jumper isn't mine. Why did you bring it?" Sherlock asked.
"It's mine, I thought you may find it-- oh, I dunno-- comforting or something." John rubbed the back of his neck, eyes avoiding Sherlock's.
"Thank you." Sherlock smiled a little, his thumb rubbing a circle in the soft knit of the jumper. "For everything you have done for me. You saved my life."
"I care about you Sherlock, I don't want you to end up hurt if I can help it." John smiled, reaching out and putting a hand over Sherlock's which touched the sweater. "Besides, who else would stay awake with a near stranger as they wound down from war nightmares?"
"You're fascinating, John Watson, an odd one indeed." Sherlock muttered, watching the hand that held his as he struggled to relax.
They went quiet, turning attention to the telly and only speaking to give commentary on the episodes. Time passed quickly between the checkups, IV removal, meals, and episodes of television.
...
After a while, Mycroft peeked his head in on the two, noting the time, "I must get on, I'll leave you in John's capable hands. I'll visit tomorrow, should you decide to tolerate me. Perhaps I will text you later, should I think of anything important to say. Good meeting you, Mr. Watson."
The door shut and they both in an unspoken agreement looked down at their fingers, which were now entwined, and chose not to acknowledge it aloud.
They fell asleep, watching TV together, John in his chair and Sherlock in his bed.
...
After a few hours, Sherlock woke up and noticed John asleep peacefully. He sighed painfully, feeling weighed down by everything he had done and all he had to face once he left. Things really had to change.
No longer tethered to the bed via IV, he slipped out of the hospital bed and slunk to the bathroom to relieve himself. After he had finished and was washing his hands, he hazarded a look in the mirror.
The hospital clothes washed him out, making his pale skin look nearly translucent. He pulled down his lower lids, looking at his eyes which were less red since his stay and recuperation of sleep. He slept more than usual here, but clearly he needed it. He felt better, looked better. Part of him could even see something resembling peace in his features. He was brought out of his daze by worried whispers.
"Sherlock?" John whispered in a hushed tone, wrapping his knuckles on the bathroom door.
"I'm here." Sherlock assured, opening the door. They quietly returned to their respective resting places, and John went quiet once they relaxed under their sheets.
"Sherlock?"
"Hm?" Sherlock hummed, turning to face John.
"I like you a lot. Despite my best judgment, I think you could be good for me." John's voice waivered, he cleared his throat in embarassment. "If you want to, once you get better, we could test the waters more... I want to meet your parents."
Sherlock breathed deep, glad the darkness of the room hid his face, "Sure, with time. We could. I need to get better first, though, as you said."
"Of course." John nodded, yawning. "Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Goodnight, John."
...
Morning came with a vengeance, light tearing through the blinds with sharp rays right into Sherlock's eyes. The nurse soon followed with the day's menu and a list of goals for the day. He was a different nurse than the morning before, much younger and at a glance seemed overall less jaded.
"Will you be having visitors today?" He asked, marking some nonsense on his clipboard.
"Yes, two--" Sherlock said, thinking of Molly and Greg but remembering John's praise of Mycroft yesterday, he begrudgingly changed his answer. "Actually, maybe three if Mycroft shows up."
"On your notes here it says a Mycroft, your brother, is barred from entering the room. Did you change your mind?" He asked, checking vitals in a light, but procedural drone.
"Yes, he is allowed in, barred if he starts to annoy me."
"No family drama on my shift, I won't answer the call button." He joked flatly, eyes betraying mirth in them, "Vitals are good, you seem to be doing well. You will still be held for observation, but other than that you're good to go. Maybe another day or two, maximum. Be around later with breakfast, call me when you decide what you want you have until ten."
Sherlock watched the nurse leave and looked back down at John, he felt so relieved to see John lying there asleep. His presence alone seemed to calm his nerves, made him believe in what he had said. He wasn't going to fall back again. He needed training wheels in the form of therapy, medication if they trusted him enough to not abuse it, amongst other things, but he would eventually be able to do it on his own. He just needed time, time and support. He was lucky enough to have both.