What about them?

John speaks quite often in a series of silent whispers. Molly accompanies him but barely breaks breath at all.  Through the night, hour in and hour out, John speaks to Molly and she stares blankly at the ceiling and nods occasionally. 

It continues for a number of weeks. She stretches across the living roomsofa, John takes refuge in his arm chair and the evening begins. The cycle continues unbroken until John can no longer take the silence. 

In a fit of madness, or maybe desperation, John forcefully takes hold of Molly’s face and pulls it close to his. 

“Why,” he whispers, “Why don’t you speak!?”

She took a deep intake of breath and closed her eyes. 

“Why?” 

“W-will speaking make it better? Will speaking ease the hurt or grief?” She asked in response, “Will talking about it, or about anything, bring him back?” 

John slowly let go of the woman and moved back to his seat. He stretched his feet out in front of him and stared at the toes of his socks.

“No.”  

What about them?

A few small bruises.

 A case surrounding calling cards in the form of human entrails hardly seemed exciting after Moriarty's bombing epidemic. Even so John spared no time, only what was needed to encourage Sherlock to do the same.  That's why they were sat in the living room at one am on a Tuesday morning. They were in full swing of it, case files piled and John's scribbled notes messily spread upon the coffee table. However the conversation had wavered from the goal at hand.

"I'm buying Chinese food and you are going to eat."  John warned.

"I don't eat on a case." Sherlock answered.

"You don't eat at all!"

"I don't need to. Biscuits are as good as any meal."

"You can't survive on biscuits and the occasional packet of Wotsits."

"I have been doing it for years."

John growled, "Noticeable! You're completely emancipated, Sherlock."

"Sticks and stones, John."

The doctor jumped from his seat and stormed into the hallway. He began to shimmy into an overcoat and wrap a scarf around his neck, when the detective appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in only his usual bedroom attire so it was unlikely that he was going to join him for the walk.

"Noodles then." John stated.

"No, thank you." Sherlock answered somewhat wearily.

"You will destroy yourself, you know that? And I won't be here to help you stand up. I am not your lap dog." the doctor snapped, " Noodles it is then."

He turned heel and disappeared down the stairs.  Sherlock returned to the living room.His mind was whirling, his thoughts moving much too fast, it was too full of useless data, the previous argument included.  He migrated all of the information to the kitchen table, now clear of any microbial experiments, and prepared himself for the inevitable.From his room Sherlock took a small cigarette case filled with keen-edged razor blades. He brought up a promising looking article about the current murders, layed his right arm out flat alongside the laptop and began to read. For each time he felt his concentration slipping, Sherlock sliced a line in his skin.  With each cut, he went deeper. The pain registered for no longer than a moment, and the fizzled out until he cut again.
It was meant to clear his mind and aid his concentration and it always had. But now he felt dizzy, his ears began to ring and his vision blurred. It occurred to him not moments before he passed out that perhaps, just maybe, that those last few cut were too deep. 


**


John wandered into the flat some time later, still seething from Sherlock's protests and the extremely rude cashier in the take way. He called the detective's name as he bounded up the stairs.


Silence.


John cursed aloud. Sherlock was playing that game, the game in which he would rather hide than eat or talk or be generally sociable. He walked through into the kitchen and there was Sherlock, seemingly asleep beside his laptop. Except for the fact that he was bleeding. The medic in John's mind screamed at him to do something. He dropped the food to the floor, fetched the first aid kit (second drawer on the left of the stove) and calmly knelt by the man's blooded arm. He examined the damage before beginning to stitch up the deepest of the wounds. The appearance on the razor blade in Sherlock's other hand made John's stomach jump.


 The doctor had suspected for some weeks now that Sherlock may of indulged in other self - injury rather than just starving and the occasional drug induced high. He had considered the idea of the detective perhaps taking a blade to his flesh but had pushed it away, Sherlock just wasn't a cutter; obviously his deduction was wrong. 


His hands were caked in blood once the stitching was finished. John checked Sherlock's pulse and, finding it to be reasonably fine, fetched a tall glass of water and set about bringing the detective round.  


As he sat upon his knees by his flatmate John allowed himself to think. Sherlock may just be 'the-man-he-shared- rent-with', perhaps even a friend, but the thought of him doing this made John's stomach feel sick. He had treated a patient or two at the clinic who did the same, but they were just patients, once they left you could forget about it. But Sherlock was here, in this flat and living with him. He couldn't bare to think of seeing him like this again. It was scary. His skin was paler than usual, the flesh beneath his eyes was black and yellow and every shade of exhaustion you can think of. 


John continued to gently rouse the man as he stretched a cloth bandage around his scarred forearm. A weak groan caught his attention and he looked up just in time to witness the detectives eyes fluttering open. 


"John?" Came the small whisper.


John placed his hand on Sherlock's.


"W-what? W-where's the Chinese?" 


"Like it matters Sherlock." It came out harsher than John meant it to, "You need to move to the sofa." 


"S'okay." Sherlock answered, his eyes closing once again. 


"No. No I mean it! Come on." John gently hoisted him up and slung an arm around his back. He supported him to the leather couch and sat him up right, "You need fluids."


"Tea will be fine."


"No, water is better."


The detective nodded, eyes still closed. However when the water was presented he remained limp and lifeless until John forcefully made him drink. 


"Ew." Sherlock commented. 


"Your mouth will taste weird for a while. It's a passing out thing." 


Sherlock seemed to shake himself. His eyes flew open and his mouth made the shape of an 'O'. Finally, the coin had dropped.


"Oh my - I - I mustn't have been paying attention," with the other hand he gently beat at his skull, " Stupid, stupid." 


"What is this Sherlock?"


"What is what?"


"These!" He gestured to Sherlock's arm," Cuts? You aren't a cutter."


"No, I'm not." 


"But your arms."


"They are scratches. Experiment a while ago to help with concentration. It turned out well." 


"What?!"


"What-? Not this again. You aren't making any sense John!" 


John growled and buried his head in his hands. 


"This isn't right. You can't do this. Sherlock I'm telling you as your doctor and your friend; you need help." 


"Noted." 


"No! Don't give me that defensive bullshit! This," He gestured to the detective's arm," is not just for the sake of concentration! The starving is not just because 'everything is a vessel.' There is some underlying circumstance here. You know it and I know it. Stop fooling yourself, please!"


"I am of perfectly sound mind!" Sherlock snapped.


"You really don't realize what you are doing is hurting not just you but me as well." 


Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest, winching slightly as the stitches pulled.


"Stop with your pity. I am perfectly well and I don't need you or anyone else to tell me otherwise. So, please doctor, do what you're good for and make me some tea." 


John stared at him, opened mouthed and at a loss for words.


"Kill yourself if you want to," He jumped to his feet and made for the door, " You can slit your wrists or hang yourself from the ceiling for all I could care, Sherlock. I am done trying to fix you." 


"You and everyone else; So get in fucking line!" 

While bridges still burn : X

It was quite true that the previous evening's activity had, in fact, happened. It made no difference how many times Watson told him self it hadn't. He was still tangled within the arms of Holmes and the evidence was spread across their skin and the ill-fated sheets.

Neither of the men had slept but it made good to pretend. Holmes had lay with his arm draped around Watson's shoulders and Watson had his head nestled on the detective's chest. But no matter how wonderful the sensation was Watson couldn't sake his feeling of dread.

Holmes stroked at his hair, absent-mindedly staring at the wall and no doubt deducing the situation. But he was relaxed, his whole body falling against Watson's in an all to familiar way and it was the closest thing to bliss the detective had experienced since the man had left.

He deserves something after all of this, just a little of something.

“I need to use the lavatory.” Watson whispered struggling from the man's grasp.

He ignored the protests as he lifted a shirt, not caring whether it belonged to him or Holmes, and ducked into the small en- suite. Once the door was closed he slid against it and allowed every little thought to crowd him. What had happened shouldn't have, that was clear, but he hadn't exactly stopped it and Holmes certainly wouldn't have. The man was in distress and sex had been away to feel close to someone; especially if it was sex with the man he still loved.

Watson ran his fingers through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. He had taken advantage despite Holmes making him perfectly clear that it was okay. Quite frankly, it was not okay.

There was a steady knock on the door. Watson promptly bounced to his feet, stood before the mirror with a wash cloth and proceeded to wipe away the evidence of last night.

“Yes?”

Holmes poked his head around the door.

“Good morning, my love, would you care for breakfast?” The man grinned.

“No thank you, Holmes. You may eat with out me.” Watson answered.

“Oh come now,” Holmes strode into the bathroom, as naked as the day he was born, “Of course you'll eat with me.”

Watson blushed, “No, I assure you that I am fine,” he watched as Holmes leisurely draped himself against the door frame, “ You should get dressed before Mrs Hudson finds you flaunting yourself around like that.”

The detective smirked and suggestively ran a hand down his torso. It stopped just before his half hard cock. No matter how much Watson tried, he couldn't pry his eyes away.

“Holmes, must you?” he sighed.

“You clearly want it.”

Watson acknowledged his hardening member for just a moment before cursing beneath his breath.

“My bodies natural reaction is nothing to go by.”

“Oh, so you're say that last night's fornication was a mistake?” Holmes frowned.

“Yes. I am.”

The detective fell silent. He stared at Watson, doe eyed and crestfallen. Watson sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose; could he say nothing right?

“Holmes I - “

“No, it's quite alright mother hen. I understand.”

Holmes quickly retreated back into the bedroom and covered himself in his ratty dressing gown. Watson, now wearing only a shirt which clearly belonged to the detective, stood in the door way of the lavatory. He was torn between apologizing to the man or breaking his heart entirely and admitting that last night meant nothing to him. However, the latter wouldn't entirely be true.

“If that's how it is, perhaps you should leave.” Holmes stood with his back to the doctor, hands in pockets and head bowed,still Watson could tell he was close to weeping.

“It was not meant to come out like that, old cock, I assure you. I didn't mean -”

“You've made yourself clear. Now, please, leave.” he spoke as if the very words left a bad taste in his mouth.

“If that's what you want.”

“I don't have a choice.”

Watson reluctantly lifted the remainder of his clothing and shuffled from the room. He made a quick dash to his own quarters as to avoid an embarrassing encounter with his landlady. The room felt cold and much too big. His bed was still covered in a variety of case notes from their previous case and amongst them were some of Holmes own musings. Watson was tired, his head was throbbing and every limp in his body ached. He threw the garments upon a chair, pushed the papers carelessly onto the floor and decided the best plan of action was no plan.

**

“I know you're upset.”

Watson almost jumped from his bed. The presence was unexpected, especially in a darkened room. The doctor was usually a very light sleeper, which had been a delight in Afghanistan where if you didn't move fast you were dead, but it was a curse here in busy London. However, Sherlock Holmes was a lighter step than most.

“H-holmes?” Watson asked, trying to focus on the outline of the man sitting next to him upon the bed, “Good God man, you can't just barge in here and -”

“I can leave.”

“No.” Watson sat up, “No, don't. Please stay.”

Holmes rested his forehead on his knees.

“I haven't stopped thinking.”

“About what?”

“

“I never fail to be amazed by your deductions, old cock.” Watson sighed. He reached forward for the man's hand but was gently pushed away, “I'm sorry Holmes. I truly am.”

“And I am sorry to you also.”

“You have changed me in the last few weeks. I can not tell if I love you still as just a friend or if I am in love with you. It doesn't feel like it did before.”

“How so?”

“It feels slightly more mournful.”

Holmes looked at me but through the darkness his expression was hidden. The silence was heartbreaking in itself, never before had it felt so uneasy.

“I should of anticipated this. In my fragile state I had someone convinced myself that you would come back to me eventually. For that I am sorry.” Holmes whispered. It was obvious break in his voice that made Watson pull him into a vice like hug, “I do apologize again, my old friend, for my raw emotion.”

“You will do no such thing. Please, go on. I'm here to listen.”

Watson felt Holmes relax against his body and he cursed himself; once again he was taking advantage of the delicate situation.

“What is this? What are doing?” Holmes asked, “You don't want me, you don't love me like your used to and yet, here you are, holding me like some sort of damsel in distress.”

“I can barely tell one feeling from the next, thanks to you. I am all a mess.”

“That's just one more thing I have to apologize for. I not only have confused your mind, but I have ruined mine. If only I had seen the flaw -”

“We discussed this. It was a mistake anyone could have made.”

“I'm not anyone. I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I am the one the police go to when our of their depth, I am the relied upon to solve the most cunning of cases. With out that I am nothing.” He buried his head into the fabric of Watson's nightshirt, “ I can not just be another man. And last night you tried to take me away from that fact, and you were successful. With you I feel alive. With you I am never bored. The hardest of things in life suddenly become simple. But it can not be and why should it? After all I was a complete fool and chased away the one thing I ever would need.”

Watson rested his cheek atop of Holmes head and slowly rubbed circles into his back. The man was shaking with cold, after all the starvation had led to massive drop in muscle and body fat, his knees were drawn up against Watson's stomach and his arms were protectively clutched to his own chest.

There was nothing the doctor could say to retaliate. He had promised once to try and love the detective again and it wouldn't do to create more false hope.

“Don't do anything rash, old cock.” Watson kissed his forehead, “No matter what you think, London needs you.”

“I fear I will never find my way out of this, Watson. Despite what you think, I can no wish this depression away. I have tried.”

“I know. I should never have suggested such a thing. But, please know, that I am here to help you from it.”

“I don't understand you any more, my dear. This whole situation is confusing as hell but, I trust you entirely. I am certain of that if nothing else.”

Time Warp. (1/?)

Mrs Hudson did all but break the door in at 221B. It was Saturday and early, she knew that, but the two strange, yet finely dressed gentlemen, obviously did not. Of course they were here to see Sherlock Holmes and his champion, John Watson, and the landlady was in no mood to entertain for them.

Eventually, a very tired John answered the door glad only in a pair of boxers and Sherlock's ratty dressing gown.

“It's 7.15 am.” He yawned, wiping sleep from his eyes.

“You have guests.” Mrs Hudson snapped.

John gazed upon the two men standing being the landlady. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. They were not your ordinary morning callers and, in truth, he was expecting Lestrade and that bitch, Sally. The tallest one, whom featured an out-of-date blonde moustache, was by far the finest dressed in contrast to his short, scruffy champion. John raised an eyebrow.

“I've got this, Mrs Hudson. Thank you.” He answered.

She mumbled something about 'ungodly hours' and squeezed by the two gentlemen. John welcomed them into the flat, taking good care to observe each of them as they shuffled past. When safely inside, both stood motionless in the middle of the floor, staring at their host and keeping surprisingly little distance between them.

“It's 7 in the bloody morning. Does Moriarty have nothing better to do with himself? No girlfriend to shag? No buildings to blow up?” John muttered.

“Pardon?” The tallest asked.

“Well!?” John spat, “What is it he wants this time? I suppose it's that other git you want and not me?”

“I really have no idea what you are talking about.”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He gestured to the sofa and waited for both men to take a seat.

“We – I- don't have the energy or patience for this. Just tell me what he wants, or what he has done or is going to do, and kindly bugger off.”

“This is 221B Baker street, isn't it?” The shorter of the two asked raising an eyebrow.

John jumped, he didn't know what sound of voice he was expecting to emerge from the short man's throat but it certainly wasn't that.

“Er – yes. It is.”

The shorter stood, “Then this is our house. Get out!”

“Excuse me? This is mine and Sherlock's flat -”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I'm John Watson!” he wandered over to the mantle where the skull sat, “And this is Skull. And you two are accomplices of Moriarty.

The two men exchanged worried glances. The taller stood also.

“I am Doctor John Watson and this is Detective Sherlock Holmes.” He said.

“Well, that's excellent. Couldn't the devil be more inventive with his schemes rather than sending two dressed up, pantomime impersonators. Who, by the way, look nothing like me or Sherlock.”

“You must be mistaken, old boy, we are Watson and Holmes.” the taller said.

“And we are not dressed up, I'll have you know, I happen to like this waistcoat.” the shorter added.

“Actually, that's mine.”

“Barter system.”

John sat down upon his arm chair, the other pair retreated back to the couch at the same time. He stared at them, they returned the favour. After several moments of silence, and mental deduction from 'Sherlock Holmes', John broke the ice.

“So, where are you from?” he asked.

“London, 1891.” Holmes answered, “And the date now?”

“2010.”

“We've come forward over a century. Most fascinating!” Holmes grinned.

Watson held his head in his hands, “I knew that fiend was up to something!” he mumbled.

“Oh, pish posh, we can clear that up when we get back.”

“If we get back!”

“Ah.”

“I'm sorry,” John interrupted, “But whom?”

“Lord Blackwood. He's a supposed master of the dark arts. The bugger had risen from the grave and my self and Watson here were sent on his tail. But I do believe we are victims of one of his experiments.”

“Yeah, the mice are often saying that about Sherlock's.” John muttered.

The faint clicking of a door handle and the shuffle of bare feet could be heard in the hallway. Sherlock came into the living room, yawning and stretching like a Cheshire cat.

“Good morning.”

John blushed and hid his face behind his hand. Sherlock was stark naked, not a stitch of clothing covering his body; not even socks.

“Oh,” the consulting detective added, “People.”

“Yes Sherlock, people.”

“I do believe I need boxers.”

“No shit. Maybe a pair of jeans as well.”

The detective bounced off back to the bedroom. John studied the rather shocked expressions of the two gentlemen and prayed to god that they weren't offended.

“Well,” Holmes said, “He isn't disappointing.”

Watson promptly elbowed him in the ribs and shook his head, obviously embarrassed. He gave John a 'you were both thinking it' look.

“Yes, well, tea then?” John rose from his armchair to make tea in the kitchen.

He could hear the hushed bickering over the boiling of the kettle and he found himself trying not to giggle. The all to familiar baritones of Sherlock's voice hit his ears. He shuddered to think what the man was saying.

“Sherlock,” he called, “Help me with the tea.”

“I'm not your wife!”

“And I'm not yours!”

Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, clothed in just a pair of denim jeans. He gave John a nasty look.

“So, what's the story?” He asked while fetching four mugs from the 'only-for-drinking' shelf.

“Dark magic gone wrong. They were on a case following some bloke called Backwood. Apparently he's sent them from 1891. Funny thing? The the tallest, with the little blond mouth- eyebrow (Sherlock giggled at the reference) is called John Watson. The other is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “That is fascinating. And you believe it?”

“Well, of course I do.” John peered around the corner to see the two gentle men talking softly to each other, “It seems pretty legit.”

“Legit -? John, it's impossible. I won't have this. These are men of Moriarty, or another of my arch enemies. Perhaps Mycroft playing a joke. It's ridiculous.”

“No, no I have a feeling. I mean they seem generally confused by everything.”

“Acting, John.”

“How do you suppose we prove it?”

“Blood tests. Some sort of DNA test at least,” Sherlock paced the floor with his chin between his fingers, “ Questions, lots of questions.”

“Right.” John asked the two men about tea preference before turning back to his flatmate, “ Well I'll leave all that stuff to you then. I'm convinced but you go ahead and pick at every small detail like you always do. I mean we have -”

“I'll let you fuck me doggie style if you help.” Sherlock smiled.

“Done.”

Tea was distributed in the living room. Sherlock took the armchair opposite John's and pulled it in closer to the sofa. John followed suit. The consulting detective commenced his hawk like stare.

“Is he deducing us?!” Holmes snapped, “ Stop that!”

“No. This is our flat and I will deduce you if I so wish. You aren't with Moriarty. Who do you work for?”

“We-”Watson started.

“No. Never mind. How foolish of me to think you will actually answer truthfully. If you are not with Moriarty, and I doubt my brother would use a trick like this, you must be common lunatics. Case closed.” Sherlock sat back in the chair, looking please with himself.

“Mycroft would certainly have more taste than sending two goons in 'pantomime' clothing.” Holmes answered, “However, you sir could not be more incorrect. We are not common lunatics, we are who we say we are. Look, “He reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved an assortment of papers, “Betting papers, dated 1891, January 7^th. Doctor John Watson is the signature.” He passed them to John and sat back, “Deduce that!.”

“Could be a trick.” Sherlock answered.

“Ah, but it also could not.”

The two Sherlock's stared at each other, neither blinking. Watson gave John a worried glance, then nudged his friend between the ribs. He gave a small yelp.

“How do you propose we prove are selves?” Watson asked the younger Sherlock.

“Bloods, hair – anything that can match your DNA to ours. And questions.”

“And if we refuse?” Holmes snapped, earning another nudge.

“My flatmate here will make you.”

John shot a look at Sherlock; this was his idea of helping? Sherlock sat like any mastermind would, fingertips joined together in a tower, legs crossed at the knee, eyes focused on the 'enemy.'

The other Sherlock had one arm draped along the back of the sofa, and his legs spread wide. It occurred to John that both men contrasted each other in not only appearance but also presence. Holmes was shabby and very laid back, while Sherlock was up tight, clean cut and designer. In truth, John had to admit that Holmes was a stunning specimen, by which he meant he was incredibly arousing.

It wasn't until he felt Sherlock's hand nudge him gently on the shoulder that he realised he was staring. He glanced up to see a very unamused expression upon the consulting detective's face.

“Back with us, then?” he snapped, “Really, John. Do pay attention.”

“Yes, right. What am I meant to be paying attention to?”

“DNA tests, today at Bart's. I need your blood.” Sherlock snaked his hand into John's, sensing his disapproval at the mere mention of getting blood taken, “Only a pin prick. I promise.”

“So, is this a close friendship or should we expect something romantic?” Holmes asked.

“We are partners, yes. What of it?” Sherlock snapped back.

The detective raised both hands defensively.

“I was merely asking, old boy. It's nothing to me what you two gentle do behind closed doors, in bedrooms, on a bed.”

“Or table.” Sherlock added with a smirk. 

While bridges still burn : IX

“It was quite simple, “ Holmes exclaimed to both Lestrade and Watson, “ Five women, all murdered in the same horrendous manor, all of upper class and in the same district of the city. That narrows it down. However, what placed the icing upon the cake was this; they are all of five foot and seven inches, all have blonde curls and are all aged between twenty and twenty six.”

“Yes but Holmes, there are at least three more women of that description in that district.” Lestrade answered.

“Ah but you see, there is more.” Holmes snatched Watson's cane from him and began swinging it in circles as he paced, “One of those women is a scullery maid; our killer isn't after the lower classes. You say no possessions were taken from the bodies? I say there was. Money.” He reached for Lestrade's bowler cap but his hand was slapped away, “That leaves Madam Smithe and Madam Winchester. However, Madam Smithe is in fact twenty seven and six months.”

He sat upon a stool, placed the cane between his legs and leaned forward. His grin was manic with triumph.

“Gentlemen, our next victim is without our sights. Madam Winchester happens to be attending the theatre tonight, by her lonesome. Her husband is off pursuing his affair with the governess, no doubt.”

“How in bleedin' hell do you know that.” Lestrade spat, “You could be makin' this up for all we know.”

“Have I made it up before, Lestrade? Why should now be any different? I happen to know due to my massive intellect and observation skills. I also happen to have contacts in that area.”

“It's no secret that you've gone barmey, Holmes. I'm takin' a big risk lettin' you in on this.”

Watson cleared his throat.

“Inspector, Holmes is perfectly capable of this job. His condition is much better now, it was just a severe case of the flu.”

Holmes grinned up at Lestrade, “I have always been barmey, old boy.”

The inspector growled in frustration and pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“What time tonight?”

**

There was a flaw that Holmes had not seen coming. A small loophole in the plan that had eventually lead to the untimely death of another young woman.

Watson had the blanket wrapped around Holmes' small shoulders just moments after the body was carried away. The detective was staring at the spot where the young woman had lay, his mind whirring, deciphering the fact from the fiction and how it had all gone wrong. Watson was whispering, pulling him up by the elbow and he obeyed because what else could he do?

Holmes felt weak at the knees. Lestrade was speaking but the sound was muffled by the ringing in his ears. He was being tugged out into the darkness of the street, a carriage was flagged and he was shoved inside.

There, Watson fussed over him. His speech was coming in frantic waves, the vibrations jolting through Holmes like some sort of shock.

“Come on, old cock, breathe!”

Holmes was not aware that his heart had stopped. Or perhaps he was not breathing quite enough.

“Sherlock.” Watson tapped the side of his face lightly, “Focus.”

“I-I am here, Watson.”

“You need to lift your head up and take deep breaths. Your heart rates is much too slow.”

Holmes felt his head being lifted, his eyes met Watson's and he could feel the doctor's hand grasping his.

“It's alright, Holmes. You are alive.”

“Since when did being alive make everything alright?”

Watson studied the detectives eyes for any sign of his old friend, but he found none. They were empty, void of all emotion but pain and anger. The irises were pale in comparison to what they once were and, in all truth, he looked as if he might cry. Watson was at a loss for words.

“Sherlock-” Watson started, but he knew there was nothing he could say to counter that vacancy within Holmes.

He gently wrapped his arms around the detective's frame and rested one hand in his scruffy bonce. They sat in silence. Holmes' did not react to his ally's embrace, nor did he so much as blink when the carriage made an abrupt halt at 221B. He merely sat impossibly still with his eyes focused on the seat opposite and his arms crossed neatly on his lap.

Carefully, Watson helped Holmes from the carriage. He was still unsteady on his feet but made no attempt to seek Watson as a crutch.

“This case was certainly not one of my better ideas.” Watson muttered once in the safety of Holmes' chamber.

“Well now we have a firm grasp on the obvious.” Holmes answered.

Ignoring Holmes' ill-mannered response, Watson began checking his vitals. He pinched at his wrists and neck for a pulse and checked the flesh beneath his eyes for discolouration. To Holmes it was all a blur of muffled speech and unnecessary touching.

“Must you?” He mumbled.

“Must I check that you are remotely unharmed? Yes, of course!” Watson snapped, “If you are suffering from shock do you expect me to just let you be? Because I won't.”

“I am perfectly fine.” Holmes threw his jacket to the floor and sat upon one of the arm chairs.

“Physically, yes. But your mental state is deteriorating.”

“And how might you know that, Watson? Enlighten me.”

The doctor sighed. He placed both jackets, his and Holmes', upon the back of the other armchair before sitting. Once again, Holmes was staring vacantly at the fire. He had been pushed right back to where he had began and it was only a matter of time before his cravings picked up.

“It wasn't your fault, you know.” Watson whispered.

“Hmm.”

“I'm telling you the truth, old boy. You can't save everyone. We caught the fiend behind it all, concentrate on that.”

“But one more innocent died. We had the means to prevent it and we didn't - ” Holmes pinched at the bridge of his nose,” - forget it, Watson. I would like to be left alone now.”

“I will not leave you to brood along side the fire, you must pick yourself up and move on. I will not allow you to spiral any further - ” Watson's train of thought was broken by the tapping of Holmes' fingers along side the arm of the chair, “ And your craving again.”

“Again, enlighten me with how you have come to know this.”

“You're tapping your fingers in an irritated fashion. You're chewing on your lip, in fact it's bleeding -”

“I could just be irritated by your presence even after I asked you to leave.”

“This case has knocked you back quite a bit, it doesn't take a doctor to see that. If I were to leave you now there would be nothing to stop you going onto the streets and finding your precious opium, or cocaine, or any drug for that matter. In fact you -” He was abruptly interrupted by the gentle touch of Holmes' lips against his. He said rigidly still.

Eventually Holmes pulled away and instead wrapped his arms tightly around the doctor. He began to sob, his words hoarse and muffled by tears and his head buried in Watson's shoulder.

“I-I'm so sorry. I just needed you to stop. I -” Holmes whined.

“It's quite alright, old cock.” Watson answered gently rubbing at his back, “I'm here. It's all alright.”

“I failed, Watson. That young woman is dead because I failed to see the flaw in our plan. I would have this all sorted weeks ago if I were my old self -”

“You would still be on the drugs, I would not be here. You may even be dead. We caught the crook and , as I said before , it is not your job to save everyone.”

“Of course not. How could any one rely on me to save them when I can not even save myself.” He pulled Watson closer and nuzzled at his neck. Watson could feel the sobs shaking his entire body, “ I see no point to living if I have lost my ability to think.”

Watson wrapped both arms around the detective.

“There is always a reason to live, Holmes, a-and right now, in this moment, you are mine.”

Holmes softly kissed Watson neck and whispered something about loving him, he nipped a line along his jaw and gently pressed their lips together. When Watson didn't pull away he gently bit at his bottom lip, subtly asking for more. The doctor pulled Holmes on to his lap. He rested his hands on the man's lower back and parted his lips so their tongues touched. Holmes moaned.

“Old cock, we shouldn't do this.” Watson murmured between kisses.

“That is certainly not what your hands and mouth are telling me.” Holmes answered, “Why do you say such a thing?”

The detective dipped his head to kiss at Watson's collar bone.

“Y-you are fragile. I don't want to take advantage.”

“Nonsense.”

“I'm serious Holmes! I don't want to hurt you.”

The detective bit down hard on Watson's skin, earning himself a deep growl.

“I need you to help me feel human.”

Holmes ground his hips against Watson. His hand moved to undo the buttons of his waist coat and shirt while the doctor moved his hands to Holmes' backside. Gently Watson kissed at Holmes' neck, then his jaw.

“You are human,” he said breathlessly, “ You have never been more human to me.”

“Bed. Please, Watson.”

Holmes wrapped his legs around Watson’s waist and the good doctor carried him to the bed. He laid him upon the sheets, his hands entangled with his and they kissed. It was urgent yet sweet and unrushed. He could taste Holmes' tears and it made his heart melt slightly in his chest. He moved his hands to unbutton the detective's shirt.

“I love you.” Holmes brushed his fingers through Watson's hair, “I may never stop saying it and I never wish to.”

Watson gazed up into Holmes' hazel eyes, still raw from crying and threatening more tears. He felt his defences falling , all those months spent building walls and they were falling to ruin. But he couldn't reply, not yet.

He ripped Holmes' shirt from his body and then his own. Furiously he began to kiss at the detective's chest, he nipped and sucked and scratched at the skin. Above him Holmes' moaned and begged.

“You are so radiant, ” He commented, “ just much to thin.”

“J-just please kiss me, oh Christ , kiss me.”

And he did. He kissed him again and again, his tongue exploring every inch of Holmes' mouth and vice versa. His hands held his buttocks firmly while Holmes' was hovering above his waistband.

This was not the sexual energy they were used to. It wasn't rough and bare and ready, it was slow and sweet; almost sad. Like a swan song.

Watson rubbed himself against Holmes' leg, the friction sending threads of lightening to his cock. In his moment of weakness he was flipped to lay upon the bed, above him Holmes worked at the buckle of his belt. Once unfastened he slid the trousers from Watson’s' legs, ducked to untie his shoes and threw them to the other side of the bed. His own soon followed.

Once entirely naked, Holmes laid himself down upon Watson's body. Both shivered at the touch. He kissed the doctor, sliding his tongue in and out as if he were gently fucking his lips. As the kissed deepened, he slid a finger inside of him. Watson groaned loudly and Holmes drank in the sound, twisting his finger further inside him.

“You sound wonderful.” Holmes muttered.

Watson groaned as another finger was added. He dragged his nails along Holmes' back and brought his legs up to wrap around the detective's waist.

“Sherlock - “ Watson whispered with surprising dexterity for someone with two fingers inside him, stretching him and brushing his prostate , “Please, do get on with it.”

“If you are sure.”

Holmes began to kiss along Watson's jaw line and as he did, carefully slid into him. Watson tensed himself, after all if had been a few months.

“Relax, I won't hurt you.” Holmes whispered into his ear.

Watson nodded and the detective pushed further until he was entirely buried within the doctor. Slowly he began to thrust his hips. Watson moaned, his hands gripping onto the sheets. Holmes continued to kiss along his jaw, along his neck and he occasionally nipped and sucked at the man's nipples.

He took hold of Watson's neglected cock and stroked it in time with his own rhythm. Soon enough, Watson was a squirming mess below him.

“Sherlock, christ, I'm -”

Watson moaned loudly and released his seed over his stomach. Holmes' continued to thrust, the image of Watson arching his back and tilting his head back as he came burned into his skull. Shortly, in three short movements, Holmes' gave into the heat in his belly. He gripped the doctor's hips for support and cried out his Christian name.

Once spent, he collapsed beside his friend. He was breathless and, for the first time in weeks, exhausted.