Part 1: [link]He was so clever. So good, so kind. He got a special placement, a university course in London, far away from the quiet country streets where his home was, the Holmes mansion. A free university course, to become a doctor.
His ribs were healing, almost better. He’d been given painkillers, spent a week in hospital and a week at John’s before returning home. His father had abstained for a while. Almost a month, in fact, and everything had been nice. Slowly he was being weaned off the powerful painkillers, the morphine, and he was happy.
Then John left.
He had the letter and the next week he was gone…
That was when Sherlock fell inside.
John found him. It had been two months he’d been at university and the first weekend he’d had the opportunity to come home. In the rush, the joy, the celebration, he hadn’t noticed the fifteen year old drifting away from him. He’d missed the boy’s birthday - but Sherlock hadn’t told him, of course. He’d intended to surprise the boy coming out of school but 3pm went, then 4pm. He wasn’t there. Worried, John turned to walk to his house, cutting through the park, and what he saw almost stopped his heart.
It could’ve been any bum at first. But the shape was unmistakable. His lips felt like they’d gone numb as he ran toward the form sitting on the bench. “Sherlock?” he shouted, terror making him almost stumble as he reached his friend, crouching, grabbing his wrist. The boy’s eyes flickered open and focused on John, the pupils tiny. He wore a school shirt, tie undone, no blazer, in the freezing weather. “John?” he was speaking slowly, his eyebrows pulling together. “Shit, Sherlock. Shit.” his friend whispered, helping him up, “Did you give you concussion?!” Sherlock was shocked - but it took so long to register…
The boy didn’t talk as John forced him to walk to his parent’s house, letting them both in. The boy sat on the sofa, staring numbly. “Sherlock.” John stared at him, “Speak to me. Please speak to me.”
“I’m fine, John.” his speech was slow, controlled. “Everything’s fine.” John bit his lip hard. At least his friend was a little more lucid now. His eyes flickered over John’s appearance, the pale cream jumper, the worried eyes. “Have you been going to school?”
Sherlock shook his head, “I just need the toilet.” he said quietly and John let him go, closing his eyes to get a grip. This was wrong. Strange, and wrong. What the hell had he done, abandoning his friend like that?! He hated himself for his selfishness at that moment, for making Sherlock cope alone. Something occurred to him as he listened to the noises of the bathroom, then silence. He rubbed his eyes again, what was it, what had he seen out of the corner of his eye- blood. Blood had been on Sherlock’s shirt. He whirled out of the room and to the bathroom, the door open.
Sherlock had his back to his friend, staring into the mirror. It was clear, a bloody splash on his right shoulder. “Sherlock, what happened to y-” he broke off as he heard a crackle of foil, seeing Sherlock throw his head back, swallowing two tablets. That packet looked familiar, it wasn’t paracetamol - John grabbed it, staring at the labelling. “Sherlock!” worry sparked his voice and he turned to stare at his friend. “Sherlock, how long have you been taking these? Talk to me, please! Please!” Sherlock slowly blinked, as if every thought was an effort.
“I thought you abandoned me.” he whispered, staring at John. “You left me. Again.” and he trembled. John felt everything inside him in a vice grip. “You gave up on me.” Sherlock looked down and John felt rage crashing through him. He grabbed Sherlock and tugged him into a tight hug, clenching his jaw. “I’m going to help you, Sherlock.” he promised, lowly. “I’ll never give up faith in you, ever. I promise. I promise.” he stared at the silvery packet of morphine in his hand as he clutched his friend. “I won’t let you take the fall for me, I promise.” he mumbled, and closed his eyes.
As usual, written by the marvellous
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