That Ship Has Sailed

John & Sherlock I

Crashes and thuds could be heard above them. Mrs. Hudson shook and flinched with every crash as she sat across from John at her small, kitchen table. John took a sip of his tea, un-phased. A particularly loud crash caused Mrs. Hudson to screech and John reached across the table and held her hand.

"Don't worry. He'll get it out of his system and be back to normal soon."

"He's never normal, John. He's a menace! I want him out of this flat--I can't stand it any more!"

"I'll speak to him when he's calmed down."

Mrs. Hudson shook, but nodded, "I wish you would move back in here, John. He was always better with you around."

"You know I can't, Mrs. Hudson. Not after--"

Mrs. Hudson nodded, "I understand. You want to be around her things and remember her. Although, I will say, it does not do to dwell on the past. She's gone, but she'll always be in your heart, not in material things."

John nodded, pursing his lips in thought before letting go of Mrs. Hudson's hand and taking another bite of his dinner.

An hour later, the thumping had calmed and silence overtook the small building. Mrs. Hudson retired to bed, finally having the peace and quiet to do so and John stood at the bottom of the staircase for a long time, contemplating whether or not to go upstairs and see his old friend.

Finally, he decided to do so, but regretted it as soon as he opened the door. Tables and chairs were broken. There was blood on a few surfaces and Sherlock was slumped in a chair, a needle still sticking out of his arm. John rushed to his side and knelt before him, carefully pulling the needle out and examining his arm. Bruises from past injections covered his arm and Sherlock looked tired and sick, dark bags under his eyes from exhaustion.

"Sherlock, why?" John asked after a long silence.

"I just want it to stop," Sherlock slurred quietly, "Just for a few hours."

John held Sherlock's face, making him look him in the eye, "You are going to kill yourself for real this time if you don't stop what you're doing."

Sherlock's glassy eyes met John's and the two stared for a few moments before Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head and his eyes shut. John sighed.

He struggled to lift him, carrying him to the bathroom. He set him in the tub and pulled of his shoes, beginning to fill the tub. Sherlock's head fell back and he opened his eyes just a crack, "What are you doing?"

"You're filthy, covered in blood and sweat, and freezing from a fever. You need to get cleaned up."

Sherlock didn't fight John as he undressed and helped him clean up. Sherlock watched as John carefully cleaned around his bruised forearms and asked, "Where did you learn to do this?"

John glanced up for a half a second, then returned his attention to Sherlock's arms, "In the Military. Loads of men would come back from the fields bruised, beaten and bleeding. They'd be tended to and after a long day, a few of us would volunteer to help the nurses clean them up. Regrettably, I got quite good at it."

Sherlock watched John, sorrow filling his heart at the fact that he was making his friend re-live such a tragic part of his past. After he was clean, Sherlock was dressed and put into bed where he promptly fell into a dazed sort of sleep.

John sighed, watching him for a few minutes before leaving the room. He entered the living room and began to clean up the mess. He reset the tables, cleaned up the glass, cutting himself a few times in the process, and washed the blood from the surfaces. When he finished, it was long into the night, but the flat was back to it's former glory, for the most part.

He lay on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling worn out from the night and meaning to only rest a minute, but ended up falling asleep.