As It Should Be

Chapter 5: Dinner Dates and Disasters

Sherlock was immediately fascinated by the latest case. Obsessed with the meticulousness of everything. How the murders were all so different, but all so interesting. "Fascinating" he'd mutter under his breath, inspecting the crime scene where a beloved television host had been found dead.
"Sherlock. Crime scene" John shook his head.
"Oh. Not good?"
"Bit not good."John said, smiling fondly. Despite the disregard for normal human social skills, John did enjoy watching Sherlock on a case, especially one he was excited about. John had watched Sherlock lose himself a lot over the years, he'd collapse into himself, become a quiet shell of a person. The only times he ever truly seemed himself, was on a case. So, of course he was happy to see Sherlock happy. That shouldn't be a crime, even at a crime scene.
But, like most things he did, Sherlock took it too far.
***

A few weeks prior, John, Mary, Sherlock and James had gone out on a double date. It felt weird and unnatural to John. Mary said that probably meant something she didn't really want to know. John told her to stop being ridiculous. They laughed. They paused. They changed the subject.
Tensions were high before they'd even got to the appetizers. Despite Mary's best effort the three boys she'd chosen to spend her evening with were not the most loquatious on a good day. And it seemed for all of them to be a bad day. She could tell James was trying his best to be friendly, asking John and her questions about the baby, when its due, whats the gender, whether they need help painting the nursery. Honestly it was mostly Mary and James even having any conversation, whilst John barely looked up from his dinner, whilst Sherlock sat in silence, never even touching his food. In the cab on their way home Mary found that John hadn't even noticed the tension originally, and only commented that he just 'had bad vibes about James'. But there was no way anyone would be able to not notice what happened after dessert.
John pardoned himself from the table "excuse me, just popping to the loo." He noted as he stood. "Oh, I'll join you, I'm bursting" James added. John frowned slightly in reaction but forced a smile to seem polite.
"What happened Sherl?" Mary asked, as soon as she knew their boys were out of earshot.
Sherlock sighed. "What do you mean?"
Mary just looked at him, giving him a hard knowing stare that forced him to come clean. He liked that about her, that she didn't believe his bullshit.
"We had a fight."
"Well," Mary laughed. "You are a couple, and two of the most stubborn and opinionated people I've ever met. I'd be surprised if you told me you'd never had a fight."
"Of course we've had fights." Sherlock sighed. "But this one...its ..." He sighed. "I'm going for a cigarette." Mary just rolled her eyes and he left her alone at the table. Maybe she shouldnt have asked. John returned moments later, alone. "Where's James?" Mary asked, at the exact same time John asked "Where's Sherlock?"
"Smoking" They both replied at the same time. They laughed. "I guess they are pretty compatible then" Mary added.

Sherlock rushed through the restaurant to their table, James walking slowly behind him. Sherlock picked up James' coat and shoved it into his arms before putting his own on.
"Sherlock. What's wrong?" Mary started, whilst John just looked around bewildered.
"You're bleeding." John interrupted. Sherlock lifted his hand to his face, and felt the blood dripping from his nose. Then he suddenly became very stern and turned James, his military poise betraying him he spoke "Did you do this?" But neither men replied, Sherlock instead, interrupted the awkward silence but shaking his head and quietly saying "We're going home. Sorry." His eyes seemed sad, Mary noted, broken.

***
Sherlock didn't talk about James anymore, John had noticed, but he didn't tell him anything about it either. So John felt sort of clueless. But he knew one thing, Sherlock was sober for the first time in months, and he was actually enjoying a case. But it didn't last long.

Rosie was born a few weeks later, and from then, John rarely even left the house. And so it was months before he saw Sherlock again, in person. He received the occasional text and even sent one too. But their friendship grew apart, a space grew between them that didn't seem possible to break back into. And Sherlock was, quite honestly, spiralling. And Mrs Hudson had started to worry.

Sherlock, she found, was always yelling. When John said that Sherlock and James had broken up she struggled to hide her surprise. She thought it best to stay out of it, because if Sherlock was keeping something from John there was probably a reason, and it definitely wasn't her business, but she knew, for sure, he was still talking to someone.

It was a while before she dared even go and check on him. Despite really, truly, caring about Sherlock as if he were her own son. She knew there were some times in a man's life when they need some space. They need to figure things out on their own. But there is a line that must be drawn. And for Mrs Hudson that came when he shot a hole straight through her front window.
She was coming home from the shop when she saw the bullet flying through the upstairs window, the sound of classical music roaring, as Sherlock yelled in latin. Concerned and scared she rushed up the stairs and upon entering she saw the state of the flat. She knew things were bad with Sherlock. She had let herself believe it was better than she had imagined, gave him the benefit of the doubt. But it was awful. There were books newspapers and police files spread across the floor. Old plates and cups, dirty piled all over the flat. And the needles. Old dirty needles and spoons left discarded everywhere, and Sherlock just stood in the middle of it all, staring at the hole he'd just put in the window. It brought tears to her eyes and a lump in her throat.

But Sherlock was barely aware of Mrs Hudson entering. He was so lost in his mind, he felt he'd never escape the sharp criticism of his own psyche, the claws of his own existence, something he's been attempting to evade since he first became aware he even had thoughts of his own.
He felt as if he was always running from himself. Escaping something he couldn't name. Something he couldn't but into words. But this time it wasn't sadness, it wasn't darkness, it wasn't emptiness he felt himself running from, like it had been many times before. It was fear, it was anger, it was chaos. But he couldn't escape it. It had him in his grasps so firmly he felt as if his mind would implode and take him down with it.

James was concerned. Irritated even. His presence was uncomfortable at best. He barely spoke and when he did Sherlock could tell he was baiting for an argument, and honestly, most of the time Sherlock took the bait. In fact, most of the time, he wanted to fight. And it hurt him, to admit he often spurred James on. To admit he often caused the argument and provoked the anger. When things got thrown and doors got slammed, and both men, men who had loved each other so completely, were hanging on now only by a thread. It hurt that the sting of tears against his cheeks occurred more frequently than a gentle kiss to wake a lover. It hurts when the warmth of an embrace is replaced by a cold emptiness. A distance, a silence, an echo of a past love. When two bodies share one space but the walls are still carved with loneliness. The paint on the ceiling cracking, the click of a broken radiator and the drips from the kitchen tap, filled the silence more frequently than the sound of laughter.

Together they fell apart. But they couldn't stand to leave each other, despite it all, hope lingers. It clings on for dear life. And Sherlock just decided to keep it quiet. As if silence could fix a broken record. He knew, after the incident at the restaurant, John would disapprove. He knew he'd be concerned. But really it wasn't a problem. They were growing apart, there were growing resentments. But what happened, that night, hadn't become a habit. Sherlock didn't even like to think about that night, let alone say it out loud. He couldn't admit it. But it wasn't a common occurrence, not really, not normally.

But as he turned away from the window, he noticed Mrs Hudson stood in the door frame. James had gone out. Sherlock wasn't sure where, sometimes he forgot to listen, sometimes he wouldn't notice that the person he was talking to wasn't even in the room.
Sherlock had been chain smoking all morning, talking to himself, just trying to work things out. He was jumping around the place, newspaper clippings all over the wall, his mind racing a million miles an hour as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Everything was beginning to make sense. "I know who it was, Mrs Hudson!!" he exclaimed suddenly.
"oh" she jumped in shock, but tried to keep herself together. "Who is it?"
Sherlock smiled, grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. "Moriarty" He said, then headed off toward the bathroom to take the first shower he'd taken in days.