Who:John Watson What: Some feels When:Today Where:His flat. Not going anywhere this time-nope Rating: mediumish, mention of drugs but no actual using.
The last 24 hours since John had spoken to Roses new friend were spent sleeping a dreamless sleep thanks to Epiphany's potion. Some might say it was wrong to toy with nature, but John said fuck nature. He'd been awake too long and found himself losing his patience more often then not on those who did not deserve it. Possibly like Roses friend. Sure he'd asked about Sherlock, who wouldn't when faced with the idea that John Watson was lurking about. But Jack Harkness was wrong about one major thing, Sherlock Holmes was the one who made a difference not him. He was just the assistant, Sherlock's partner.
His room was dark, a ceiling fan the only sound as it pushed cool air about. John lie in bed, unable to bring himself to move. The puppy was still at Roses and he felt somewhat bad about it, but he really wasn't capable of giving it the attention it deserved at the moment. Not when he couldn't even give himself any. He didn't shower, he didn't eat, he hadn't even touched the tea Rose had prepared for him the day before, he just stared into the darkness of his room and remembered. If he had phone calls he didn't accept them, and texts went unanswered. He wanted to be alone.
You shouldn't have chased after him John, you had to know it was a trap. He hadn't known, but Sherlock always assumed he was just as smart as he was. Sometimes it was wonderful, it meant Sherlock accepted him and respected him as a partner and friend. Othertimes it made him so confused he didn't even know how to process Sherlock's train of thought. Now he got it though, now he understood. If he hadn't chased Moriarty the first time, Sherlock would still have been alive. They both would have.
Finally John got up out of bed and went for Sherlock's room. For a moment he stood there just looking, if he squinted hard enough he could still see his friend putting on his scarf as he called for John to assist him on a case. John picked up Sherlock's favorite scarf that was folded on his dresser drawer and just looked at it. For the longest time he looked at every little fiber of fabric woven into it and then brought it close. John stared at Sherlock's room. It didn't have as much in it as their rooms back in London, at home but it was still Sherlock's. It still felt like him. John couldn't stay in it long. He put down the scarf and made his way into Sherlock's dresser where he shifted through socks and other items in attempt to find Sherlock's journal. Instead he found a small black bag. Raising an eyebrow he undid the string and looked over the items inside. He knew Sherlock had a stash, but he hadn't imagined ever finding it. He'd thrown the first one away, Sherlock became increasingly more paranoid about John touching his things after that. He figured his friend had replaced it, but he never thought it would have been hidden someplace so obvious. Inside he found a syringe and a white substance-cocaine John presumed, a clear vial of liquid morphine, and cigarettes.
He set down the bag with a sigh. "..Sherlock you idiot." It was almost wrong to be going through Sherlock's things, he knew the detective didn't like them being touched but John wanted to be close to him, and things were all he had. He sat at the edge of his partners bed and just stared at it. Cocaine he hated, Sherlock new that. Leaving the small kit out, John laid back on Sherlock's bed and just sighed. He could try them and try to sooth the pain for a while. What would really be the harm there? The harm was that thousands of braincells would die or you could die and then what? You would dishonor him John Watson. Don't you fucking dare. Internal battles were tiring. John closed his eyes and curled up on Sherlock's bed, drifting off into a fitful sleep.