Waking You Up

Wake You Up XII

Sherlock and John-bear are there within the hour. Pete shows up not too long after. He looks tired, eyes bloodshot, smells vaguely of alcohol. He's been drinking.

Pete looks him over. "You're Sherlock Holmes, right? Johnny's partner."

"Yes," Sherlock replies, because he is, though not in the way Pete's meaning. 

Pete nods. "I saw you at the funeral."

"I remember," Sherlock says. Pete had been one of the ones who was drunk, but not offensively. Kept saying, "Johnny was the best mate a guy could have," and "Doctor Johnny Watson: experience with women and men across three continents, took a bullet for England, out-drank everyone he met, avenged his own murder." 

Pete'd suggested putting that on John's grave marker eleven times. 

"Been meaning to call you," Pete says. "Me and the boys. Take you out for a few drinks. The way Johnny talked about you. Said you were hell to deal with and you'd be the death of him one day-"

Sherlock flinches, very visibly, but Pete doesn't even notice.

"But Christ, he thought the sun rose and set on you. Any idiot could see how much he loved you, even if he'd never tell us as much. You were the most important person in his life, you know? Seemed only fitting we at least meet you. Johnny would've liked it if we did right by you."

Sherlock is starting to regret coming. He doesn't want this, doesn't want John's friends to "look after him," because they miss John. Sherlock doesn't know these people, and he doesn't care. He's only here to collect data on –

On whether or not John is speaking to him in his dreams? Lovely.

"I shouldn't be using past tense with you, should I?" Pete asks. "Johnny – well, it's not the best thing to do, is it?"

Sherlock considers telling him that, no, what's not the best thing to do is tell your dead friend's partner that your friend said they'd be the death of them the last time you spoke to them. Past tense, while uncomfortable, is appropriate.

But he doesn't, because he was the death of John, and he deserves to hear things like that.

Instead, he holds up the bear. "Do you recognize this?"

Pete tugs on the sleeves of his jacket. "I don't know what I'm doing here. You don't even know me. How am I supposed to help? I'm just here for Johnny."

Sherlock squeezes the bear in frustration. "Yes. I know. The bear?"

Pete laughs. "Christ, I can't believe he actually gave you that. He was plastered when he bought it, you know. The rest of them mucked about, breaking crap they had to pay for and bitching to me about making them go in there. It was a weird shop, mate, couldn't find anything for my girl, but Johnny found that and said he had to get it for you. Spent most of the money he won off Mark in that drinking contest on it."

Sherlock stares at the bear. Dreams are not real. And yet – yet – He hadn't known any of the things John had told him, and they've all been true. He can't see another explanation, and he doesn't know if that's because there isn't one or because he doesn't wantthere to be one.

It terrifies him.

Pete leaves at some point, muttering something about keeping in touch, but Sherlock isn't paying attention.

Somehow, he gets home again. Collapses on the sofa, wills sleep to come. But it won't. He keeps going over everything, everything, the bear, the claws, the shop, Pete. The chase, the alleyway, the knife. John said wait. Sherlock said no.

The one person that'd meant – everything, John'd meant everything – taken away, and it's Sherlock's fault.

"My fault," Sherlock says aloud.

John-bear's claws dig into his arm, and he sits up.

"You're right," he tells it. "This isn't working. New strategy." 

He gets up, carrying John-bear with him, and goes to the kitchen. Under the floorboard, behind the fridge, there it is. Morphine. He doesn't normally take it – makes him sluggish, the opposite of what he wants when he's bored – but he keeps some on hand for experiments. 

It's perfect for what he needs right now. It'll slow his thoughts down, let his body take over and get what it needs, and it's sleep-starved, it'll –