Characters: Sherlock and James When: Thursday lunchtime. Location: 802 Warnings/Rating: Dark themes, drug use, talk of suicide and terminal illness Summary: Sherlock goes to find James and walks in on an emotional situation. Status: Closed. Narrative.
"I thought I'd find you in here."
James looked up from the bed, turning towards the man leaning in the doorway. "In the last place you saw me? I heard your powers of deduction were impressive, Mr. Holmes, but you blow my mind."
Sherlock snorted softly. "You look...why are you in here?"
James looked paler than he had the last time Sherlock had seen him. Dark circles made his eyes look more sunken, lines of pain etched over his face were deeper than before. He looked very small on the double bed. Sherlock's eyes moved from James' pallid complexion to the dozens upon dozens of pills lined up neatly on the duvet. The various painkillers John had prescribed as a temporary prescription. He frowned.
"James?"
"My morphine ran out the other day," James replied. "Sometimes I can barely move. I can't sleep. I haven't slept in days," he said softly, pained desperation in his voice. "I feel sick. Tired." Sherlock winced, looking away out of the window. "I've been taking more and more tablets to try and make up for the morphine. Higher doses. And I thought-"
Sherlock knew what James had thought. He didn't need to hear the rest of it. He'd been there and done that all before. But he let James continue without interruption.
"-why not take them all? I'm only going to get worse until I can't move. Until I'm just crippled and wasting away and people will have to take care of me. I don't want that. I never, ever wanted that. I was going to do it anyway, at home, before I arrived here. It was my last day with my friends at our beach and then I was going to die. I had it all planned out. It was perfect. But now, now I'm here. But why not, eh? Why not carry on?"
As he spoke James grew paler still, though whether it was from the unnecessary exertion or the very real prospect of ending his life Sherlock couldn't tell.
"Well, why not?" he asked, turning away from the window the man on the bed. God, he hadn't had problems. He hadn't been in this much of a state. "What's stopping you?"
James sobbed out a tiny, bitter laugh. "Because someone would have to find me. And then get rid of me. And there's no distractions on here. I'd bring everyone down and there's no escape. And, anyway, this isn't how I wanted to do it."
Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. What could he even offer this man? He could hardly offer up his own tales of drug overdoses, his experiences were worlds away from James'.
"Don't tell John," James whispered, leaning back against his pillows with a sigh. Perspiration beaded his forehead. "Please?" He attempted to sit up again, then, reaching for his pills to put them back in his medical bag. Sherlock jumped in to help, kneeling by the bed and scooping up the lines of pills, depositing them into the vacant segments. "About the morphine. About this. Anything. He'd bend over backwards to help, but he can't-"
Sherlock scooped up another line. "At least come back to the infirmary?"
"It hurts too much. I can't- I can't keep quiet," James replied. His voice was weaker by the moment and Sherlock reached out his hand, pressing it gently to James' chest to ease him back against the pillows. James acquiesced. "Keep a few of those out, will you? I'll need some in a minute."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said after a pause. "I'm sorry, I don't know what to say."
"I don't expect you to," James replied with a sad smile. "There really is nothing, Sherlock. Nothing can be said or done. It's nice that you want to try, though. Everyone's being so nice." He sighed. "Six of those, please?" Nearly 1200mg of pain relief. Dangerously high. "Thank you for coming to find me as well. I'm not your obligation."
"No, but I think it would destroy John if anything happened to you." Sherlock replied. Not that John had spoken to him about James. Not in great detail, but the brief mentions, the lost looks and John's unfathomably kind heart were enough evidence to know he was feeling a lot of things. "Do you need some water?"
"There's some tea left in the thermos," James indicated it on the table beside him. "Gwen made it for me."
"I'll make you some fresh when you're done," Sherlock said, undoing the thermos and helping James drink. Two pills at a time. The relief seemed almost immediate.
"I miss my friends, Sherlock," James murmured, turning his sad eyes up to look at the other man. "I want to be able to say goodbye to them."
"I know," Sherlock nodded, patting James' hand awkwardly. "I'll do everything I can to get you home. Just...hang on."
James let out a noise that was probably a soft laugh. "John's a lucky man."
"What?" Sherlock's eyebrows raised, but James seemed to be slipping into some happy sleep. Sherlock was hardly going to blame him for any wandering words.
"Having you as a best friend. Best friends are the best."
"You'll have to ask John about that," Sherlock said gently, his fingertips lingering on the back of James' hand. "I'll go and get you that tea."