Chapter Text
If he had to put a word on it, then John would say that he felt hollow.
Scooped and scraped clean until he was empty and very, very numb. It was a similar experience to the grief that had taken root inside him when Sherlock had stepped off a rooftop and made John watch it happen, and for two years John had thought it had been his stupid, callous words (you machine) that had made him fall.
For a long time, that grief, and that guilt, had been the worst he had ever felt in his life. His best friend had killed himself, and maybe John hadn't pushed him off the edge himself, maybe John would've spoken to him differently if he'd known, if he'd realised, if he'd listened, but the facts were that Sherlock had stepped off a rooftop and John was his best friend. John should've known. He should've--
Well, as it all turned out, it didn't matter what he should've done. Because Sherlock had still made the choice to hang up the phone and step off the rooftop, even with John begging him to stop. For two years, he'd at least had that. That he'd tried, in the end, to stop him. He'd done the right thing and it just hadn't been enough.
It was worse, this time.
This time, Sherlock's blood literally had been spilled over his hands.
This time, there was no part of him that even tried to argue back that it actually hadn't been his fault.
"So," he said finally, when he had gotten his voice back. He coughed and cleared his throat again, working his hands out as if they could beat the kinks out of his words and force them to comply. "To recap."
Ella sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap. She did not interrupt, watching without judgment, and instead let him proceed at his own glacier pace.
John squeezed his eyes shut, and dragged himself on.
"My best friend relapsed on a drug addiction, for the third time since I've known him. I'm pretty sure at least the first was my fault. But there's no question about this one. He relapsed so badly it almost killed him, and he did it for me. He did it because he knew I wouldn't listen to him any other way.
"He put himself in a serial killer's hands, again because of me. The only reason he went after Culverton Smith to begin with was because of me, and the only reason he ended up there alone with him is because I left him there. I looked at him in a hospital bed and I left him there alone, and I didn't mean to come back.
"And the only reason he was in that hospital bed in the first place is because of me. I put him there. I hit... I beat him. I hit him once because I thought he was going to hurt someone, but then I kept hitting him. I hit him until he was on the floor and someone had to pull me off of him and then I looked at him, and I told him he deserved it."
The clock ticked slowly by, grinding into his ears. The office was horribly quiet, just the ticking of the clock and the quiet rain outside and John's own incriminating confession, left to rot on the air.
His fingers curled into each other again, nails digging into the skin. He was disgusted enough with himself to throw up.
"That's it," he finished, when Ella did not speak. "That's everything."
Ella gave him a few moments more, as if he might suddenly remember something else that he had done. Which, John thought, was probably fair. He'd already said more than enough for a lifetime, but with Sherlock, it was never that simple. He wouldn't have been surprised if there was more to admit to, either. More for him to apologise for. More that he done wrong.
"All right," Ella at last began, when it finally became clear that John was not going to remember yet another confession of yet another worst thing that I've ever done in my life. She cleared her throat and sat forward as well, setting her notes aside. "That's a lot to go over. I think, one thing that I want to say first, though. John. We're both doctors. And your sister has been an alcoholic for many years, now. While I will admit this is possibly the most complicated story of a relapse I've ever been told," and she smiled, here, just a little, trying to coax one out of John himself. "I think you know very well that Sherlock's decision to return to drugs was his choice, and his alone."
He shook his head severely, back and forth, just once. Wet bile still hovered at the back of his throat. "I watched the video." Miss me? "I know that's how it normally is, but... this was not normal. I watched my... my wife! Tell him to do it!" John covered his mouth again, his fingers digging together just to stop himself from slamming a hand into the nearby table or wall. Because wasn't that how he'd gotten into this mess in the first place? Not being able to stop himself from hitting something?
"She told him to do it," he forced out, like he was dragging the words through a minefield of broken glass with his bare hands. The words felt distant and tiny, foreign, each one sick in his stomach that made him grind his teeth. He felt defeated. "For me."
"And Sherlock made the decision to listen to her."
"Because I wasn't around to tell him not to."
It was an odd feeling-- this new, smoldering resentment at Mary. Because he'd watched that DVD, all right. He'd watched the night Sherlock had nearly been strangled to death in his own hospital bed. And then he'd watched it again, the night after. He'd watched it again and again, his anger growing more and more each time, until he'd snapped the bloody thing over his knee and thrown the pieces into the fire.
Mary had loved him. He believed that. And she had liked Sherlock. He believed that, too. Sherlock was a very difficult person to love, but once you really got to know him, he was an impossible person to hate. Mary had not hated him. She hadn't even disliked him.
But that DVD was not the first time she had nearly gotten Sherlock killed. It wasn't even the first time Mary had intentionally tried to kill Sherlock, and that was what it was. Mary could dress it up in fancy words if she wanted, telling him to go to hell, but that was what she'd meant. How else had Sherlock been meant to interpret that? What else had he been supposed to do?
That DVD was not the first time that Sherlock had nearly died because Mary had made the decision that on the scale of all of their lives and happiness, Sherlock's was expendable.
Sherlock, to Mary, had always been expendable.
Mary had bloody shot his best friend, and it had taken him until he'd watched that goddamn video and heard her send Sherlock to hell to finally realise that he'd never actually forgiven her for it.
"John," Ella began again, her voice solemn. "I'm sure there are dozens upon dozens of reasons why Sherlock is an addict, and why he relapsed. The same is true for everyone. But, what it has to come down to, is that Sherlock made his choices. Mary did not take his autonomy from him. And you most certainly did not, either. You did not watch him use. You did not prepare the needle for him. You did not hold him down and forcibly inject it against his will." She paused to watch him closely, her words absolutely sincere and without a hint of doubt. "You know that Sherlock taking personal responsibility is very important, in him staying clean. Has he ever expressed that he blames you or Mary for his relapse?"
John's mouth tightened, another awful feeling sinking in his stomach. He shook his head once, unwilling to say it, but then the words just came out anyway. "He doesn't... we haven't even talked about it, actually. But I know he doesn't blame anyone. It wasn't even a relapse, to him. He'll say it was all just for a case."
Once again-- they were both doctors.
John wasn't stupid enough to believe that, and neither was Ella.
One of Sherlock's only friends had died, taking a bullet that was meant for him. Said friend had then left him a bloody message from beyond the grave, telling him he'd best kill himself to fix it, or die trying. And meanwhile, his best friend had excised him entirely out of his life, taking his goddaughter with him, and left him with nothing more than a letter spelling out in very explicit detail that all of it was his fault, and said best friend wished he'd stayed dead.
Sherlock had relapsed because he'd wanted to use. It had nothing to do with the damn case.
Ella cleared her throat. Not because John had made his point, but rather because they only had the hour, and sitting here having him stew to himself wasn't all that a productive use of their time. "Similarly," she started again, "the reason Sherlock was in that dangerous situation was not because you forced him into it. It was because he chose to put himself there."
"Blaming the victim?" He smiled weakly, staring back down at his exhausted hands. "Isn't that a bit against your creed?"
Ella tilted her head back, sharing with him a quietly amused look. "For any other patient that had been attacked by a serial killer, yes. And of course he didn't deserve what happened to him, and the blame only lies with Culverton Smith. But from everything you've said, it really sounds as if Sherlock intended to be attacked by that man. But John, you did not intend that. You did not leave him there alone, with any idea as to what was going to happen. You never would have left him there like that if you had known."
John swallowed back his own scoff, looking away. And wasn't that part of the problem, then? Sherlock, while on such a cocktail of psychotropic drugs he was lucky he hadn't offed himself on a fucking stroke, had not only predicted exactly how and when Culverton Smith would attack him. He had predicted that John would abandon him there to let him do it. He had known John was going to leave him there and if it hadn't been for Mary's DVD, he wouldn't have come back. Ever.
The seconds ticked by again, drilling periodically in the office's silence.
John waited wordlessly, his heart lodged into his throat for what he knew was to follow.
Stop!
Let him do what he wants!
He's entitled.
This was the most awful he'd ever felt in his life. It was below rock bottom; there was no bottom anymore. It just kept getting worse and worse and if it hadn't been for Rosie--
John stopped that line of thought before it could get off the ground.
Thinking things like that-- that he was a horrible person, had nothing left to live for, that the people he loved were really probably best off without him--
Those weren't good thoughts to think while in a therapy session.
Ella again cleared her throat. She was still carefully neutral, like a good therapist should be, but right now, the professionalism didn't help. He wanted someone to shout at him. He wanted to be blamed. He needed someone to tell him this was your fault.
"I also wanted to talk to you a little bit about Sherlock's plan," she said next.
His next words fell straight off the tip of his tongue.
What?
No, this-- this was supposed to be about what he'd done to Sherlock. This was supposed to be about everything that he'd done wrong, not... what was this?
Ella sat forward a bit, still almost painfully neutral, as if she was trying to keep him calm. "I understand the situation was genuinely very abnormal, for multiple reasons, and can't be compared to any other that easily. I also don't know Sherlock very well himself, so my impressions of him are only from what you've told me and his public persona, so shouldn't be mistaken as a clinical assessment of any kind."
"But?"
"But," she said. "You just described to me how your partner-- platonic or not, he's still your partner, John-- relapsed on a very serious drug addiction, put himself in an incredibly dangerous situation, and attempted suicide, all to stop you from leaving him. In a more ordinary situation, without the extenuating factors present here, I would consider that a serious red flag."
No. Absolutely not.
"...No," John gasped. He shook his head, squeezing his hands together so tightly his knuckles hurt. He felt almost ill. "That's not... what happened. I get that that's how it looks, okay. Like it was all a stunt for-- attention, or something. But that's not who Sherlock is. He didn't... god, Ella, he wasn't faking it!"
"I agree," she said easily. "I believe the danger was very real. That also doesn't change my assessment."
"That's not how it was! Sherlock wasn't, he--" This was not going to happen. No. He could not sit here and listen to this become Sherlock's fault. "He didn't do this for himself, he did it for me! He was trying to help me!"
"I agree," she assured again, nodding. "He was trying to help you. He was genuinely trying to help you, with only your welfare and happiness in mind... and now," she finished pointedly, looking at him. "As a direct result of those actions, you are unhappy, self-loathing, and guilt-ridden."
John's next protest caught in his throat.
It made sense. He absolutely hated it, but he could follow Ella's line of logic step by step through all the way to the end, and her conclusion made sense. Because it was true. He was miserable and it was because of the events that had happened during the Culverton Smith case.
But--
But it wasn't right. Ella's line of logic wasn't what had actually happened. It was a different interpretation, a different story; it wasn't Sherlock.
"It's not how it sounds," he said finally, his voice hoarse. Once again, it took him unforgivably long to find his words at all. "That's not Sherlock's fault. It wouldn't be like this if I hadn't..."
Abandoned him?
Hit him?
Hurt him?
He was such a piece of shit.
"It's not a question of fault, John. It's--"
"It is! It is a question of fault, and it's mine! Sherlock didn't do anything wrong! He was only ever trying to help me, that's all he's ever tried to do, and the only reason I've got anything to feel guilty over is because I keep messing it up! That is not his fault!"
Ella held her hands up in slight surrender, acquiescing to John just like that. "Let's put fault aside for a moment, then. We don't need to talk about who I think was right or wrong. But, at the very least, I am concerned about Sherlock. You said so yourself that this is his third serious relapse in less than a year. That doesn't sound like something that you're doing-- that sounds like he has underlying issues of his own." She paused again, her frown deepening. "I'm also concerned that his sense of self-worth is so heavily contingent upon you. You could make or break him with one word, John. That's not healthy."
"Well, it's fine," John muttered darkly. "Because I'm not going to mess it up again."
He wasn't. He was sure of at least that much. He was going to do right by Sherlock and Rosie because they were all he had left.
"But you can't promise that. Even if you do everything perfectly from here on out, John, you could still get hit by a car tomorrow." She hesitated, her eyes sympathetic, but it was clear that this was a point she was not going to back down on-- because she was right. "It's not healthy for you to have to worry that your friend will kill himself should something go wrong, and it's not healthy for Sherlock to have such a low view of himself that he thinks his own health, happiness, and life are nothing more than tools used to make you happy."
That was... that...
John sighed again, and slumped sideways to bury his face into his hands.
She was right. And she'd phrased it exactly in that way because she knew that was the only way he couldn't disagree with.
Whether it was something wrong wasn't the point. Sherlock still shouldn't have done it.
"What are you trying to suggest?" he snapped, just barely managing to drag his eyes back up to look at her. It was unnecessarily hostile, because it certainly wasn't her fault, but he couldn't help it anymore. He just couldn't. "That he see a therapist himself? Have a nice chat with one about loving yourself and positive thinking? Sherlock Holmes?"
"You've already said that he'd do anything for you, John. He's expressed as much to me himself. I'm simply suggesting that, instead of dangerous plans involving illicit substances and serial killers, he might try something a little more dull instead."
John kept his eyes turned away and his mouth shut, something uncomfortable throbbing in his chest. She was right. Once again. Sherlock would do quite literally anything for him, and if John asked him to see a therapist... he'd do it.
But ignoring how wrong that was, and how impossible it was that Sherlock would do anything for him even after everything John had done to him, it still wouldn't help. Sherlock would physically go to a therapist's office and make an appointment and stand up and walk inside, sure. But he wouldn't take it seriously, that wasn't something even Sherlock could force himself to do, and if he didn't take it seriously it'd be a waste of time. He'd sit there spending the hour deducing the therapist, then skip off and snag some Chinese on the way home.
"I'll think about it," he settled on at last, swallowing his protest down. No matter that he disagreed with what she was suggesting, the core off what Ella had said was still right. It needed something to fix it. Not a therapist, but something did have to be done. Sherlock couldn't keep doing this and John was going to put an end to it.
Ella was right. This was the third time Sherlock had used in a year and no matter how much John wanted to blame himself, no matter how much it was his fault-- it wouldn't keep happening if there wasn't something wrong with Sherlock, too. Someone happy and satisfied with their own life wouldn't just keep ending up at the other end of a needle, no matter what his best friend did or had to say about it.
He'd fix it.
Somehow.
If Sherlock could go to hell for him, the least John could do was figure out some way to just try and keep Sherlock happy, because right now, he wasn't.
John waited in the silence again, his fingers wound back together in his lap. He couldn't quite look at Ella again, the discomfort of it stuck in his throat. But he knew what was next. It had to be.
There was one thing that she hadn't yet talked about, and he knew that it was coming.
And Ella finally cleared her throat, and spoke up again.
"However, I think I can agree with you on one point, John. And that is that you should not have struck Sherlock. He did not deserve it, and you should not have done it. That was not merely unacceptable, that was abusive behavior that likely rises to the level of a crime." She paused, watching him still and entirely unreadable. "Have you spoken to Sherlock about what happened? I can see that you feel genuine regret. Have you apologised to him?"
"...no."
Ella's frown deepened.
John closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing in a deeper breath. He'd never felt more awful in his life. "I meant to," he rushed out, because it was true, god, at least he had this, at least he wasn't that bad. "I meant to, I talked to him, but... somehow we ended up talking about Mary, of all people. I told him it wasn't his fault, at least, what happened to her. Though I'm not sure how much he believed me. And then it--"
"Then?"
John swallowed again. He thought about Sherlock, unshaven and bloody-eyed in his chair, looking confused and small and insecure, a mug of tea in his hands as he looked anywhere but at John. Fuck. Fuck.
"I shouted at him to get a girlfriend," he finished, scratching his jeans into his fist. "Then we went out and got cake and I went home, and I haven't seen him since."
Ella blinked.
"That's... somewhat of a non-sequitur." She hesitated, searching for the right words, while John just turned away and returned to staring at his knees. "How did Sherlock's romantic life--"
"We were talking and he got a text message. From... a woman. The--" A woman. The Woman. The Woman Woman. "--someone he's had feelings for in the past, and someone I thought wasn't in the picture anymore, but apparently she is. And it came out of nowhere, and I just got angry at him again. I got angry at him for getting a text from a woman." He shook his head, again unable to look at her. Putting it in words like this he heard exactly how horrible it sounded aloud, how absolutely unforgivable it was. It was already unforgivable without this part to begin with, but this, too? On top of everything else?
There wasn't any lower to get. Rock bottom was somewhere on the floor of that fucking morgue. This was beneath it. This was even lower than that and John hated himself more than he had the words to express.
"And I still don't know..." The words were stuck in his throat, festering there, like an infected wound, and they didn't want to come out at all but he had to say them. He'd shouted at Sherlock to get a girlfriend, hadn't he? Told him he wasn't a complete human being without it? Told his probably asexual best friend that after everything he'd just done for John, he still needed to go out and get shagged to count as human?
If he could say that to Sherlock, then he had no excuse not to say this.
"I still don't know if I was angry at Sherlock, for having what I didn't, or..."
"It would be understandable if you were," Ella started gently. "You've just lost your wife, so for Sherlock to--"
"Or if I was angry at her for it."
There. The penny dropped. The other shoe fell.
John wanted Sherlock, and he was angry at Irene Adler for having what he didn't.
sent / 15:16
You ruin everything. -SH
The Woman / 15:20
Oh? Do tell
sent / 15:20
John was finally here. We were finally talking. And then your text alert went off, and now we're not anymore. -SH
The Woman / 15:21
Have you two finally got on with it, then
The Woman / 15:21
Don't lie to me and say you don't know what I mean
The Woman / 15:21
It's quite obvious you're smitten :)
sent / 15:21
It's not funny. -SH
sent / 15:25
It's not about that. John isn't gay. -SH
The Woman / 15:26
As ever, you remain observant to the insignificant, and blind to the most crucial
The Woman / 15:26
Have dinner with me?
sent / 15:26
No. -SH