It had been a week already, but it felt longer than the whole two whole years he'd spent dismantling a certain criminal network. Sherlock was one fake-smiling nurse away from ripping the IV line out of his arm and sneaking out the window into the inviting London air. 

That is why, when it was Gavin and not a doctor who entered the room, Sherlock's faith in humanity increased, just minimally. 

"Hey," said George. "How're you holding up? You don't need to answer that, it's a courtesy to ask."

Sherlock couldn't resist rolling his eyes. "Have the incompetent devils of existence given their verdict?"

"The people who saved your life," Graham chastised him, "said you're free to go."

"You can be useful." Sherlock's tone seemed to be torn between sarcasm, delight at being discharged and genuine appreciation for Giles' newfound purpose in life. 

"You'd think a brush with death would sober him up," said Gareth, almost to himself. 

Sherlock stretched as much as he could with the tubes in his arms and the cracks in his ribs. He hadn't died, evidently, but a rib had nearly punctured his right lung, and there were multiple fractures along his right arm and leg. 

"And John?" The words tumbled out like impatient men standing in a stagnant queue before he could reign them back in.

It didn't seem to register as anything significant with Geoff. The detective inspector tilted his head to the side and lifted a shoulder hesitantly. "Well, he's been better," he admitted. "Barely slept this past week."

Sherlock was nodding distractedly before he was done speaking. "And the girl, what happened to her?"

"Jessica?" said the D.I., recalling the night of the accident. "Haven't seen her, she hasn't been to. What, does she really matter?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He pressed his palms together and rested his chin on his steepled fingertips, and shut his eyes.

~

Sherlock had meant to meditate, not fall asleep. He had wasted so much time, the devils had said he could go back home, back to the comfort of shabby wallpaper and a shabbier living room.

When he woke up, John was sitting by his bedside, asleep in his chair. He looked utterly exhausted, the way a new parent looks when their troublesome toddler takes a two minute break from wrecking everything in the house.

No one was around. The heart in Sherlock Holmes grew till he felt like it would swallow him whole.

He allowed himself to drink in John's appearance. His evidently darkened frown lines seemed to smoothen out into a clear expanse, turning back time itself to show a younger John Watson. As Sherlock watched John snore ever so lightly, an uncontrollable smile graced his features. Sherlock's eyes in that moment captured the essence of endearment, shining with blatant adoration and endless gratitude for a friend who sacrificed time and sleep for him.

What had he ever done to deserve the friendship of John Watson?

~

Sherlock returning to Baker Street was uneventful. He sulked. He played the violin. He sipped tea.

Essentially, John felt things shift back to normal, like a puzzle piece fitting seamlessly into what appeared to be a disorganized mess.

That was the life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Order within chaos.

Although, admittedly, there was more chaos than order in that equation.

But John loved it. Every second.

He pretended to smile at something on his blog as Sherlock sent him a curious look, where in reality, the ex-army doctor was lost in a reverie of their time together. The two friends had known each other for a beautiful, turbulent period of time, and it was safe to say that it had changed them both for the better.

One thought pulsed at the back of his head.

What if I hadn't met Mike that day?

~

The fire roared to life, the embers crackling with energy. The flat soon resembled a warm, toasty cocoon from the harsh cold outside. It wasn't winter, it was just very, very cold.

John sat in his chair, reading. He tended to avoid emotional connections to inanimate objects, thanks to his gruelling army life, but this chair was an exception. It had been through hell and back with them, and apart from Sherlock, had been John's most reliable refuge. Now, in the impossibly comfortable embrace of the chair, he found himself genuinely content with his life. He was okay with this, he could work with this.

Sherlock, silent and lost as ever, gazed out of the window with glazed eyes. His violin was propped beneath his chin, ready to be played, but he coaxed no sound from it. Sherlock wasn't stupid, and he knew John wasn't entirely blind.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John gave up trying to read, closing the book and setting it on the table next to him. He crossed one leg over the other and tilted his head. "Sherlock?"

The detective gave John a microscopic head movement, acknowledging John's existence and purpose in that moment in time. He was always like this, it didn't feel spectacularly different to John. But something was off, like a pebble hanging above a stagnant, crystalline lake. It was then that it struck John - he was afraid of the ripples. What happened if Sherlock snapped?

"You've seemed a little different since we came back from the hospital," John began. "Don't tell me you miss the place, I thought you were going to break out of the window or something."

"It's frustrating," said Sherlock with a resigned sigh. He set down his violin and bow, seating himself in the armchair opposite John.

"What? What's frustrating?" John asking Sherlock to open up to him was like yelling into a well and expecting a response other than his own distorted echo. Hopeless.

Sherlock ran a restless hand through his unruly curls. Genuine distress splattered his usually emotionless face as clearly as the crimson blood at one of their gruesome crime scenes.

"Forgive me."

John looked at Sherlock like he was crazy.

"Sorry, what?"

"It was quite possibly the most foolish thing I could have done, and I did it," the detective seemed to be weighing himself down with every word that he forced out. "Forgive me."

John narrowed his eyes. "For what?"

Sherlock looked up at him and John's heart nearly stopped. Flames danced in Sherlock's ever-changing irises, his eyes glistening...glistening.

"It's addiction, John, you were right," he finally said. "I couldn't go any longer without them."

John's heart was the anchor of a ship, sinking lower, lower, irretrievably so. "What did you take?"

Sherlock composed himself, taking in a short inhale. "Morphine," he began listing. "It was the easiest to procure, Mrs. Hudson really does have it in her cupboard-"

"What else." John wasn't asking anymore. He was demanding it, because it was likely no one else would be able to get Sherlock to be honest like this.

"I took a case. Wasn't murder, but I was beyond bored."

"You went out on a case when you were high?" John was trying desperately not to yell at Sherlock, he wouldn't understand. "Christ, Sherlock, if you were so bored, you could have told me-"

"And make you leave your next girlfriend? I don't think so."

John wasn't the sharpest, but he knew venom when he heard it.

"Sherlock," John said, leaning in front. Sherlock had nowhere to look but his face; his eyes skittered desperately, scrabbling to fixate on anything. Anything but the look of disappointment and hurt on John's face.

"Sherlock."

"What, John?" snapped Sherlock. "What do you want to know?"

"The first time you took morphine, it was Redbeard," John trod on thin ice on this front, carefully examining Sherlock's reactions. "Since I met you, you've taken morphine in dangerous amounts twice. Once, when the news of Irene Adler's apparent death had you lying awake all night, and then when I was with Mary-" he ignored the sizzle of pain that shot through him, "-and you were onto Magnussen." John's gaze pierced through every barrier Sherlock was trying to put up, trying to avoid the next question.

"What was it this time?" John felt bad for drilling Sherlock like this, but he had to know.

It was so unbelievably soft, and tender, and everything John would advise not to describe Sherlock Holmes with. It was a broken plea for help, a wishful whisper into a well that had dried long ago.

"You," said Sherlock, defeat rolling off of him in nearly tangible waves.

John couldn't believe it. "Hang on, me? I'm the reason you shot up?"

Sherlock's posture suddenly turned defensive, like he was trying to shut the world out and just give himself a little room to breathe.

"As your moderately competent brain may or may not have perceived, addictions are something of a weakness to me, I can't resist them, they fuel me."

John hated it, downright hated  it when Sherlock talked like this. It made him feel worthless. So many years since he had known this brilliant, brilliant man, and he still hadn't been able to dent Sherlock's armour, hadn't managed to change Sherlock for the better, despite whatever Greg said.

Failure. On John's part. "Go on," he rasped resignedly, fighting to keep the pain in his heart out of his voice.

"Morphine, crime..." Sherlock's face returned to its placid mould.

"...and you."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and brought his cold eyes to John's shocked ones, his eyebrows raised as if challenging John to ask more annoying questions.

"I...I dunno what I'm supposed to say," John said truthfully. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged, standing and buttoning his blazer. "You don't have to say anything, I just thought you should know." He brushed imaginary lint off his jacket.

Sherlock turned to step towards his violin, when he felt fingers slip through his own, whirling him around to meet John. Sherlock scanned for the expected signs of disgust, rejection, anger, et cetera, but found nothing. John's eyes sparkled like a thousand suns through a cerulean filter of what could only be articulated as indefinite love.

And then John kissed him.

Sherlock knew it was a medically flawed statement, but he finally understood it. His heart did somersaults and everything else dissolved, leaving John Watson at the centre of the universe. Sherlock's universe.

John wound his arms tightly round Sherlock's neck, pulling Sherlock closer, if that was possible. Sherlock smiled into the moment of pure love, and not addiction, as he felt John break the kiss to grasp Sherlock in a never ending embrace. Sherlock tightened his arms around John, he never wanted to let go.

John nestled his chin comfortably on Sherlock's shoulder and brought his lips to the detective's ear, relishing the rapid thudding of Sherlock's heart against his own, the tightening of his detective's arms around his waist.

"I love you, Sherlock," John whispered.

Sherlock's heart stopped for the second time in the past five minutes. He stood there, pupils blown wide and a rosy bloom just laying beneath his skin, with absolutely no idea what to say.

"You don't have to say anything," said John, smiling unapologetically as he quoted Sherlock from a minute back. "I just thought you should know."

And now that you know what truly happened, dear reader, you are one of the people who won't question why there were two men swaying to an inaudible track by an invisible orchestra, in a scruffy flat on Baker Street.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

AND CUT

Ay doneeee :)

Such smol beans I love them

I hope y'all enjoyed that, it's the end of  this short story

And sorry it took so long for this update

Also, any other ideas for a short story?  I'd be glad to hear them

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Issokay :) thank you for reading all the same

ok peace

~A.M.