The aftermath

As soon as John opened his eyes, he wished he hadn't.

There was pain everywhere as the ceiling of the living room of 221b, Baker Street swam into views, its cracks dancing in front of his eyes. He lay there, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think as he closed his eyes and waited for the pain to subside enough for him to even consider attempting any of those things.

He became very aware of the sound of someone's erratic breathing and he took a small, measured breath of his own and held it. He exhaled slowly, counting to ten, before starting again, breathing in a little deeper this time. The pain didn't exactly lessen, per se, but it did help take the edge off.

"Please," he heard a broken voice say, before the gasping breaths resumed, "Wake up, wake up, wake up…"

John couldn't help but wonder if that voice was actually talking to someone else or to themselves. The voice didn't seem to be too sure either.

Determined to find out who the voice belong to and help them in any way he could, John took a couple of steadying breaths before cracking his eyes open again, fighting the wave of nausea that accompanied the effort. He waited for his sight to right itself somewhat before slowly, tentatively turning his head in the direction of the laboured breaths.

A tall, lanky figure was kneeling next to him, its head bowed and his empty hands resting on its knees. Its shoulders were shaking, and John finally understood that they were crying. The doctor blinked a couple of times in order to bring the figure into focus, and when he finally did, he recognized the figure immediately. Good, concussion isn't that bad, then, his medical mind supplied. He opened his mouth to call Sherlock's name, but only a weak croak made it past his lips.

Sherlock's sobs came to an abrupt stop, but the detective raised his head painstakingly slowly, too afraid to look up and find out that he had imagined John's voice. When finally he met his friend's open, alive eyes, he felt as though the invisible hand that had been crushing his ribcage had finally let go. "John!" he exclaimed, his voice anything but steady.

John tried to swallow but then his throat rebelled, reminding him of the abuse it had just taken. So the doctor settled for a nod, indicating that he was indeed conscious. Sherlock made a strangled sound and scooted forward, his hands shooting out toward John but then they froze in mid-air, Sherlock's face twisting in remorse. Flashes of what he had just done to his best friend froze him in place, too scared to touch John. Sherlock felt like he should never try to touch anyone again.

"I'm sorry," he told John, giving way to a fresh wave of tears, "I didn't mean… I thought you were…"

But he didn't finish his sentence. He bowed his head again, the burden of his actions weighing him down. It didn't matter what he'd thought, he realised. There was no excuse for what he had done. What kind of excuse was there to find, anyway? I'm sorry I didn't recognize you because I was stoned off my head? I'm sorry I thought you were the crazed psychopath I've made an enemy of and who almost blew you up because of me once?

Besides, John had urged him countless of times to quit using entirely. How many times had he reminded him that drug use, no matter how in control you thought you were, was dangerous? What Sherlock had failed to realise was that John meant that it wasn't just dangerous for Sherlock.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes hadn't listened. Sherlock Holmes had it all under control. Sherlock Holmes knew what he was doing. And now, sitting helplessly on the floor of the living room, Sherlock Holmes was left to regret risking the life of the best friend he'd ever had. He had finally driven away the only person who had always stuck around. "God, John," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

A shaky hand touched his knee and Sherlock looked up only to see John was giving him a sad smile. The doctor didn't seem like he was able to talk, but his face spoke volume. It's okay, Sherlock.

Only it wasn't. It wasn't okay, and if Sherlock hadn't still been processing both the shock of his actions and the relief to find out that John was still there, he would probably have shouted at him. When your supposed best friend got high enough to beat you within an inch of your life, you don't reassure them. You get angry, you insult them, you vow to leave and never come back.

"I know it comes too late," Sherlock said, trying to sound calm and in control but he only sounded sad and defeated, "But I'm done. I'll give you the entirety of my stash and you'll dispose of it however you see fit. I'll never take any kind of drugs again."

John gave him an encouraging smile and nodded again.

"I won't ask you to forgive me," Sherlock went on resolutely, "And I'll understand it if you never want to see me again. I just…" he swallowed pas the lump in his throat, "I just want you to know how very sorry I am. I—

- Sherlock," John rasped as he slid his elbows up to brace himself before making his slow, painful way to a semi-sitting position.

He slipped slightly and Sherlock automatically reached out to support him, one hand resting between his shoulder blades. "You probably shouldn't move," he advised hesitantly. "Your ribs…"

But John waved him off. "Cracked, not broken," he managed to croak out, his voice sounding like somebody had sandpapered his throat.

"You probably shouldn't talk either," Sherlock mumbled.

"Remind me if you will…" John paused to catch his breath, "Who has the medical degree."

Sherlock smirked despite himself. "Actually, I do." When John raised an eyebrow at him, he shrugged innocently, only too thankful for that second of levity. "I nicked it ages ago. I intended on giving it back when you noticed it was gone, but you never did."

John shook his head and chuckled, two actions that concussions and crushed throat didn't particularly agree with. He coughed, screwing his eyes shut in pain as his skull felt like it was ripping apart. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock propping him up gingerly, and John's hand reached out to hang onto the front of Sherlock's shirt for support.

"Now listen," John rasped once he got his breath back, "Cause I'm not saying it twice." Pause for breath. "I'm utterly pissed at you and you've got a major lecture coming." Pause for breath. "But… I forgive you."

Sherlock blinked once, twice, swallowed, cocked his head, blinked again. John had the mental image of a golden retriever sitting in his friend's place but had to refrain from laughing, as it would only have upset his ribs, throat and head more. "W-why?" Sherlock stammered at last, and for a second John honestly had no answer to give.

So instead he sat up completely, using Sherlock for support as the detective gingerly followed his movements. "Because, Sherlock," John started slowly as the room started spinning a little bit faster, "For one thing, I'm still there to forgive you, so I might as well make something of it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John held up a finger to silence him and was obeyed immediately. "Secondly," he went on, massaging his temple and trying his best to be understood despite his broken voice, "Because if at least it was incentive enough to make you quit, it wasn't a complete disaster—

- Not worth it," Sherlock mumbled automatically, but John silenced him again.

"And finally," he said with a sigh as he realised his voice was getting away from him for good, "Because you've obviously been punished enough."

That, at least, Sherlock didn't try to deny.

Unwilling to keep torturing his own throat and having finally made his point anyway, John gestured at Sherlock to help him off the floor and into his armchair, then made the universal gesture for "drink". The detective hurried wordlessly to comply, filling a glass at the tap in the kitchen as John carefully removed his jacket and started feeling around his own ribs to assess the damage.

When John had given himself as thorough a check-up as possible, Sherlock checked him for a concussion and both men decided that it was only a mild one. In his drugged stupor, Sherlock hadn't applied nearly as much force as he had meant to. Thank God for that, John couldn't help but think, Because he was certainly set on ending me.

Sherlock, for his part, was fidgeting nervously and kept suggesting they go to hospital just in case, but John was adamant. "I'm a doctor, remember, I can tell if a case needs the hospital or not.

- But what if—

- No, Sherlock," John replied firmly. "Besides, my wife's a nurse, what's the worst that could happen?"

Later, when John came home to find Mary sitting in their living room with a book and a glass of wine, he was welcomed with a gasp and wide eyes. Mary got up as fast as she could – which wasn't much, pregnant belly and all that – and went up to him, asking him worried questions. "Just an old enemy Sherlock got in a fight with," the doctor said soothingly, the effect slightly ruined by the state of his vocal chords, "I just got caught in the middle of it."

Of course, Mary had more questions. Did the guy get caught? Yes, it was safe to say they probably would never hear of him again. Did John need to go to the hospital? No, he would be fine with the supply they had at home. Was Sherlock okay? Well, he blames himself, but yes, he would be.

Some part of John felt guilty about the story he had just fed his wife, but John figured that he hadn't actually lied altogether. And really, he was a bit worried of what her reaction would be if she learned the truth. The last thing he needed was to have his wife and his best friend engage in a death match. Again.

Besides, he reasoned, it's not like she gets to moan about being lied to.

It took days before Sherlock was able to look John in the eye again, and his apologetic demeanour lasted as long as John's bruises did. The detective kept his promise and never used again. Everyone needs an incentive, it's true. He just wished his hadn't almost cost him his best friend.

Then came the inevitable day when his racing mind had nothing to focus on, when he would feel the familiar itch start under his skin. Even though he had, true to his word, given John his stash, he had every confidence he could get some more very quickly. He knew his way around.

It would be so easy to satisfy his need. John didn't need to know, did he? It wouldn't be a relapse, it would just be… Taking the edge off. He was in control. He went so far as to get up off the couch and trade his dressing gown for his Belstaff but then, as he bent to pull on his shoes, his eyes fell on the hardwood floor.

There, visible only to those who knew what to look for, was a dent. A small depression in the wood, split in the middle by an extremely fine crack. He hadn't noticed it before but there it was, and he didn't need to wonder what it was either. It was the exact place he had almost succeeded in bashing John's skull in.

He lost track of time, staring at what felt like a glaring evidence of his weakness, but he felt the ache slowly drain from his body as he stared the consequences in the face. Letting his shoe drop to the floor, he pulled off his coat, hung it neatly on the rack and put his dressing gown back on, allowing himself to wrap it close around his body.

"Not worth it," he murmured to himself.

He walked to the windowsill, opened the case that was lying there and carefully picked up his violin and bow. Tucking the instrument under his chin, he smiled to himself. Not as satisfying as the drugs, perhaps, but creating definitely beats destroying any day. Sherlock took a breath and brought the bow down on the strings.

The end