Nov. 14th, 2016

howlingmary79: (Default)
 Ten minutes later, John allowed Sherlock to enter his bedroom unassisted.

It was a stressful situation; the detective was used to solving mysteries and facing murders and kidnappings, but it was Mycroft they were talking about now. Despite the fact that the younger man would never admit it, especially in front of the British Government officer, seeing his brother hurt had shocked him. 

John thought he should give Sherlock some time alone to regain his composure. Better not to push him on the subject when he was not ready to talk about it, but wait for him to process the events instead. 

The doctor prepared another cup of tea while waiting for his friend to come back to the living room in order to discuss what to do. Fifteen minutes later he started to worry. The detective hadn’t shown up yet. What if Sherlock was hurt? 

Stupid stupid doctor you are, you left him alone! What if he fainted, hit his head on the floor? Or worse? 

He marched to Sherlock’s door and called his mate’s name. He couldn’t hear any sound coming from inside the room. Putting aside his anxiety, he tried to maintain a neutral tone while calling for Sherlock once again.

 “Sherlock, are you ok? If you don’t answer me, I’m going to come in,” he stated. 

He waited for a few seconds but the detective didn’t reply. 

“Alright, I’m entering now, Sherlock. I swear if you did something stupid I’ll kick your arse for the rest of your life!” 

Gripping the door handle with more force than necessary, John pushed the door open; actually, he didn’t know what to expect, but what he saw made him angry and very worried.

The younger man was resting comfortably on the double bed, lying on his back; his chest rose and fell in synch with his breath, and at least that was comforting, but his eyes were open, glassy and unfocused and his lips partly open. He was high on something. 

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howlingmary79: (Default)
 Getting up and moving around happened to be a little too much at the moment for the detective. John had disappeared into the living room, making phone calls and leaving him alone, after Sherlock had assured the doctor that he was perfectly fine. Despite his stubbornness, though, Sherlock admitted to himself that he was feeling lightheaded and weak, the previous events of the day having taken their toll on him; in fact, he was feeling exhausted, but he didn’t have time to rest, time was a luxury Mycroft didn’t have at the moment. That meant Sherlock had to find him soon and then they all could have a break.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, holding onto the night table to regain his equilibrium as his vision clouded for a moment. 

“How do you feel?” John asked minutes later, when they were waiting for Lestrade outside the front door of 221B Baker Street. “Any symptoms yet?” 

Sherlock knew John was conscious he wasn’t alright, and the fact that he was still asking about it made him nervous. 

“I’m fine, stop fussing!” he snapped back, but the tone of his remark wasn’t as rude as he intended. 

He swayed a little and John was quick to steady him. Sherlock didn’t thank him, of course, but neither did he try to hold back. 

“I see, you’re fine. Let me know if things get worse, will you?” the doctor asked. 

Sherlock nodded and went silent. 

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 Life was flowing excitedly through London’s streets on that strangely warm November Saturday night, but in the flat on the first floor of 221B Baker Street there were no lights on. Its occupants were in fact sound asleep in their own bedroom, despite the fact it was only 11 p.m.

Sherlock and John had been busy with a case that had been revealed to be very interesting (from Sherlock’s point of view) but also very tiring (from John’s point of view), meaning both men had slept very little in the last four days. Finally that afternoon they were able to catch the criminal and Lestrade had arrested him. 

Once they got back home, after the usual cup of tea John insisted on having, both men were utterly spent and decided to go to sleep. 

Sherlock fell asleep the second he buried himself under two heavy comforters, his room being the colder in the flat in his opinion. He woke up from a nightmare a couple of hours later with a gasp, panting like he had just run a marathon; his subconscious played bad tricks on him sometimes, making him relive in his sleep his worst fears when he had no control over his emotions. It was 1.52 a.m.. 

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