One Snowy Day - For John Watson

[howdull]

[It was the worst blizzard that London had endured for three hundred years. That's what the news reports said before they all cut off, the power lines giving under the weight of the snow. It started as just inclement weather (everyone take care out on the roads!), and then escalated into proper warnings (the emergency services recommend you stay indoors), and had finally ended in full lockdown (up to 65% of Londoners are trapped in their homes today).

John had been in the flat, the familiar Baker Street flat, helping Sherlock to track down anyone who might be assisting in enacting Moriarty's from-beyond-the-grave comeback. It had just made sense to stay an extra hour or two until the snow let up. Big mistake, as it turned out. Now he was fully snowed in with an extremely bored and agitated Sherlock Holmes.

No radio. No internet. No TV. No electricity of any kind.

Sherlock hasn't said anything for fifty-seven minutes, probably a relief to the poor beleagured John, but that's because he's busy. He has to do something to occupy his mind, and he's chosen the fridge. Slightly manic movements have helped him get literally everything out from the fridge and freezer, distributing it all over the living room floor. There's everything from a glass jar of thumbs in formaldehyde, to three half eaten tubs of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough ice cream.

His treasure trove assembled, Sherlock crouches on the floor and begins to move things around, organising them and then reorganising them in an ever more frustrated manner. It takes only a further fourteen minutes before he stands up and shouts, explosively:]

DAMN IT!

[Before throwing a ceramic pot of left-over stew at the wall, where it shatters with a loud crash.]

Comments

[howdull]

[Door successfully closed, Sherlock starts up the stairs only to find that his way is impeded by a barrier by the name of John Watson. He shimmies to the left, but there just isn't quite enough room to pass.]

Would you mind getting out of the way?

[He's not going to answer that question.]

In case you didn't notice, it is snowing outside and I'd like to change into something warm.

[acclimatized]

[ john isn't making it easier by deliberately staying in the way. he leans in the direction sherlock tries to shimmy past and plants his hand out on the hand rail. he doesn't say anything and simply makes a quick grab for sherlock's wrist. the layers of damp clothing offer some resistance but it's not like john is genially peeling them back to confirm his suspicions. ]

Jesus Christ.

[ his eyes roam over the litter of freshly bruised track marks on his arm. his grip on sherlock's wrist tightens and his voice becomes very quiet. ]

What was it? Heroin? Cocaine?

[howdull]

How do you know that I did not slip and fall on the treacherous ice outside and bruise my arm in that manner?

[He pulls his arm back and tugs his sleeve down in a definite motion. Even high as a kite, he's still loquacious and capable of rational thought. Somewhat.]

Neither you or I wish to have this tired conversation, so why don't we skip it and just say that we've had it? Hm?

[acclimatized]

Nope, we're going to talk about this right now.

[ because if john has to sit through sherlock rattle through his deductions without a skip button, then sherlock does too. ]

Because one, there are snow drifts outside that are, what, one or two feet high? If you did slip on some ice, you would've fallen in the snow and that's usually classified as a low impact fall. Which means it wouldn't hurt as much. Secondly, the bruising would be spread over a large area, not just one or two little bruises that look suspiciously like puncture marks. Three, you pulled a stupid stunt like this when you went after Magnussen.

[ he inhales a sharp, calming breath and his fingers dance at his side. ]

Now for the last time, which one was it?

[howdull]

Urgh.

[It's a frustrated sort of noise as he sinks down to sit on the stairs, head spinning far too much to stand up if he's not actually going to get anywhere.]

Not either of them.

[That's technically true, if only be semantics. It's not either, because it's both.]

You see substance abuse everywhere, John, probably a relic of your issues with Harry. Perhaps we should talk about that?

[acclimatized]

[ as sherlock crumples into a heap, john only just manages to restrain himself from lashing out and kicking him down the stairs. his relationship with his sister has always been a fraught subject. both of them are addicts and neither of them approves of the other's lifestyle, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care about her. ]

Fuck off, Sherlock.

[ his voice is full of venom as he turns around, stomping up the stairs and slamming the door behind him ]

[howdull]

[He might feel bad about that in the morning. For now, he's just pleased to have got John out of the way so that he can go upstairs. It's what he intends to do, he really does, but his head is spinning so much now and his heart is racing.

This shouldn't be happening.

He always calculates his dosages to the milligram, he knows what his body can take and what he needs to feel a certain way. This particular batch of one, cocaine most likely, must have been more impure than he imagined. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.]

John.

[It's a rather feeble call of his friend's name. Not nearly loud enough to make it up the stairs, so he fumbles his phone out of his pocket with shaking hands. He nearly drops it, only just managing to keep hold and send a short message.]

Possible OD. On the stairs. Come when convenient. SH.

[acclimatized]

[ john is gulping down a lukewarm beer angrily when his phone goes off. he retrieves it from his pocket, expecting a text from mary concerning rosie, not an SOS from his selfish best friend. for one shameful second, john seriously considers leaving him on the stairs, before he goes to his aid.

he bends down and locks his arms under his armpits and in front of his chest, dragging sherlock up the stairs and onto the landing. just getting him there is enough to make john sweat from the exertion and he looks at his bedroom down the hall and the door to the living room, weighing his options. living room it is.

somehow, he manages to get sherlock onto the couch and removes his scarf. he performs all this in grudging silence, leaving only to retrieve his old medical kit from upstairs. a relic he left behind after the fall, when it was too painful to go back to the flat. ]

[howdull]

[The world seems to be moving around him in a most disorienting way, something he hasn't quite connected to the firm hold of hands around his waist and the distinctive smell of John's aftershave from behind him.

This is not good.

He retains enough detachment to analyse himself, and he can feel the thready nature of his pulse and the way his breathing has slowed down dramatically which, in turn, lowers the amount of needed oxygen in his body and brain. Everything is fuzzing at the edges. Where is John? He can't quite reca--Oh right, he moved out a long time ago, he lives with Mary and Rosie now. So he's alone. Right, very good. He should call an ambulance, John won't get here from his house in time.

Sherlock tries to get at his phone, but his fingers don't seem to be working too well. So he tilts his head towards the bookcase, glazed eyes fixing on the copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare, and addresses that.]

I know you're watching, Mycroft, such a pedestrian place to hide surveillance equipment, so be a good big brother for once and call an ambulance for me, will you?

[acclimatized]

[ upstairs in his old bedroom, john takes a quick inventory of his medical kit. miraculously, everything is still accounted for, despite residing in the same building with a man who has pilfered everything from two pence sweets to his laptop. john exhales a wordless thank you above before going back downstairs.

he comes back into the living room just as sherlock finishes addressing the complete works of shakespeare. he spares one vital second to squint at the anthology series with suspicion before pushing it to the back of his mind. if mycroft is spying on them and he heard that, then he is going to do whatever he can to keep sherlock alive before the ambulance gets here and who knows when that'll be.

he needs to get that ridiculous coat off. god. he did not predict he'd be stripping down his best friend when he first heard the weather forecast yesterday. tongue darting along his bottom lip, he leans over his friend. ]

Arms up, now.

[howdull]

[His coat is magnificent and not ridiculous!

He squints up at John, a little alarmed that the man now seems to have three eyes and two noses. That's not a normal amount of orifices for one face, he's relatively sure about that, and that means there's something very wrong with John. Or perhaps it's not even John. It might be something that's replaced him.

The drugs are twisting his thoughts, making him paranoid, and he pushes himself a little away from John on the sofa rather than lifting his arms up.]

Stay back.

[acclimatized]

[ john's face contorts in confusion when sherlock edges away until his medical knowledge catches up to him. oh, wonderful. he's exhibiting the symptoms of a drug-induced psychosis. obviously the great sherlock holmes and his famous brain can't handle the toxic levels of cocaine he shot up with earlier this evening. ]

Sherlock, it's me. John. I'm really not in the mood for this. [ his voice comes out as a growl; there wasn't even an attempt to soften his voice for his daft best friend. ] So you can either lift up your arms so I can take off your coat, or I can punch you in the face.

[ it's supposed to be an empty threat, but his comment about harry has upset him enough to make it very feasible. ]

Your choice. But we need to get you out of these clothes.

[ he sincerely hopes mycroft is the only one who has bugged the flat, otherwise the sun will have their front page tomorrow. ]

[howdull]

Why?

[His eyes are narrowed suspiciously. John has never asked him to take his clothes off before, why would he want that now? There's no logical reason that his married best friend would want to be getting him naked.]

Take off your own clothes if you're that insistent on it.

[Why does it have to be his clothes?]

[acclimatized]

Because you went outside in a blizzard to get high, you absolute cock!

[ and he can't keep his body temperature at a safe level until help arrives if he's lounging around in wet clothing. ]

I'm a doctor, so do what I say and take that bloody coat off. I'm going to fetch some dry clothes from your room.

[howdull]

[As soon as John has gone, disappeared between one blink and the next or so it seems to his fevered brain, Sherlock is trying to push himself up and off the sofa again. He makes it as far as John's chair before he topples over onto his back, simply lying there stunned.

He feels sick, nausea spiking through him, but he doesn't have the awareness to roll onto his side right now.

All of a sudden he's in a white room with padded walls, a man in a straight jacket beaming at him brightly. You've come to visit me again, Sherlock, I'm so pleased. We have to stop meeting like this, when you're dyyyyyying, it's so predictable. Sherlock frowns at Moriarty, fingers feeling for a doorway. Don't be ridiculous, I'm not dying. This is a trick.

Choking on your own vomit, Moriarty tuts, beaming. Not a very noble ending. Boring. Boring. Boring!]

[acclimatized]

[ john had only managed to grab a towel from his bedroom before he heard the unmistakable sound of a lumbering detective hitting the floor. his anger at sherlock evaporates instantly and fear takes hold instead. he's heard that sound too many times now and it haunts him. ]

Oh, God.

[ he runs back to the living room and kneels next to sherlock, rolling him onto his side. He aligns his palm between sherlock's shoulder blades and hits him, hard. after the fifth blow, he checks to see if sherlock is still choking. ]

[howdull]

[Somehow, somewhere, the pounding on his back in the real world mirrors his own fists pounding on the walls of the room he's in with Moriarty. He's exhausted by the third blow, he can feel himself weakening, so he throws his all into it.

The fourth blow sends him staggering out into his mind palace proper again, racing up the stairs even as the Sherlock in John's arms begins to cough and splutter.

It doesn't take long, a minute or so, before his eyes are blearily opening.]

S'that smell, J'hn?

[acclimatized]

[ john almost starts laughing hysterically with relief when sherlock starts breathing again. what comes out is a tense, broken noise instead. ]

That would be you, you git.

[ now's not the time to get upset,john scolds himself. he stretches his arm back to drag the blanket draped across his chair down to their level. after mopping some of the sick away from his mouth with the towel, he wraps the blanket around sherlock and pulls him up into his arms, keeping one steady hand on his back and letting sherlock's head flop against his shoulder. they are a picture of a concerned parent and their ridiculously overgrown, but poorly child. john doesn't care though. he grabs his wrist -- more gently, this time -- monitoring his pulse. ]

The ambulance will be here soon. You're not getting out of the christening that easily.

[howdull]

[His pulse is thready and a little irregular, but gaining strength with each passing minute. The danger of death has probably passed thanks to John's swift work.]

You called an ambu-- No, I asked Mycroft. Damn. I'll never live that down.

[He huffs, though he makes no attempt to move from his position next to John yet.]

If it isn't here now, it's not coming.

[acclimatized]

It'll come. Ambulances are always dead slow around this time of year. Winter pressures and all that. Plus, it's fairly treacherous outside.

[ it does worry john a little bit -- eight minutes have already passed and he can't hear the paramedics pounding up the stairs. if they don't come, he's confident he can take care of sherlock. an army doctor's office can be anything from tundra to a scabby flat. ]

You're such an idiot. Why would you do this?

[howdull]

It was hardly intentional, John.

[The more time passes, the more he's regaining his sense of self. Irritation biting in that sentence as he finally pushes himself off John and shakily back onto the sofa. The ambulance is already out of his mind, it's not coming. Mycroft didn't see the message or chose to ignore it, one of the two.]

I will simply know not to buy from that particular vendor again.

[acclimatized]

[ john remains knelt on the floor, staring dejectedly at the pool of vomit on the carpet. yet another stain to add to the collection. the smell is going to stick around for ages though, he thinks glumly and tosses the towel over it. cleaning it up can wait until it's actually light outside. ]

Nice to know you've got your priorities sorted.

[ his expression turns stony. his phone goes off and he sighs, fumbling it out of his pocket and reading the message. ]

It's from your brother. He saw all that. Says he's going to send someone over in a bit, unless I throttle you first. Then it'll be a hearse.

[ is that last bit an embellishment? who knows? ]

[howdull]

[Probably not, knowing Mycroft. He shoots an annoyed look at the complete works of Shakespeare.]

A bit late now, brother. I don't need anyone, I'm fine.

[He goes to stand up, sways, and promptly falls back over onto the sofa again. His expression to John clearly warns him not to say a word.]

You're making a much bigger fuss of this than it warrants.

[acclimatized]

[ john gets to his feet and crosses his arms over his chest. he turns his head and side-eyes the detective, watching him flail about on the sofa. he doesn’t say anything -- the look he gives him should be enough. ]

I came back from your bedroom and you were choking on your own vomit.

[howdull]

I knew you would be there to assist, I had it all under control.

[This is what's known as a big fat lie.]