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The Red Snow	By : orceena Category: S through Z > Sherlock Holmes (2009) > Sherlock Holmes (2009) Views: 2450 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the characters within. I am not making any kind of profit from this story.

Chapter List
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John woke up some time in the night after finishing another bottle of whiskey in his old flat with Sherlock Holmes. He lay out on his companion’s bed holding the bottle close to his neck as if it would bring him back to life. He might as well be dead with her. He felt drained. Yet his eyes wouldn’t shut down with him. Sherlock sat smoking his pipe while addressing an old book. John yawned and sat up. It took him a minute to realize he was shirtless. He wasn’t cold. Sherlock looked up at the shuffling noise and smirked at him. John looked down and rubbed his eyes. They were burning. Too much crying, or not enough crying.
“You know I have the perfect solution to that,” Sherlock stated after closing his book and discarding his pipe.
“No thank you, Holmes. Whatever this ‘new solution’ you have to fixing emotions, you can keep it,” he almost spat.
“Such spite, my dear fellow. I only mean to help you. I promise.”
John snickered. “Your solutions aren’t human, Holmes. I’d rather deal with mine like a normal person would.” He lay back down and wrapped himself up in the sheets still hugging the bottle to him.
“I’m insulted, Watson. To think that an old friend could come to your aid in a time like this and be fully capable-”
“Stuff it, Holmes!” John nearly shouted. He needed to calm down. His blood was boiling and he was in no mood for Holmes’ speeches. He began crying again. From behind him he heard Sherlock walking towards the bed.
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered as he gripped the sheets in one hand till he was white knuckled. He scolded himself for blowing up at his best friend. He just wanted to die.
“I’m sorry too, old boy,” Sherlock said after a time. He settled himself on the bed next to his dear friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. John closed his eyes and turned into the pillow stifling a sob that wrecked his throat. “You can stay here as long as you need to, John. I’ve missed having you around. I’m sure Gladstone will be happy, too.” John didn’t respond. Sherlock leaned in over his still form before latching onto the whiskey bottle. John’s fingers formed a solid grip on the thing and he admitted a soft growl at Sherlock.
“Leave it,” John growled.
“Come now, John. There isn’t a drop left. Why do you insist on holding it?”
“I can’t h-hug you, can I,” John spit back with sarcasm. There was a pause and a crackle of the fire wood amongst the silence. Gladstone was snoring on the rug and somewhere a rat was dying. John wanted to die with it. Or, die by it. He imagined himself falling victim to surrounding rats chewing on him. Slowly they would be devouring his skin, muscle, and finally his bones. He smiled a little.
“Why not?” Sherlock tried back.
That got John to look at him. His eyes looked like they had been bleeding. Sherlock titled his head and leaned in closer. John shifted till he was sitting up staring Sherlock in eyes as if trying to find the real truth. Sherlock had sat back to give him some room, but kept his eyes on him the whole time. Neither of them moved for a minute or so until John lifted his hand and pointed at him, mouth ajar losing his whit.
“Y-you, Sherlock, would let me…hug…you,” John poked the man’s nose.
“If it would help, old boy, I would be more than happy to,” Sherlock shrugged.
John started laughing at that, wiping tears from his eyes. After his laughing fit ceased he stared at Sherlock. Time ticked a bit slowly as John searched for the man’s sincerity. Sherlock waited patiently, but readjusted himself ready for the onslaught of emotional collision that was to come. Without thinking much more about it, John leaned over and slumped against Sherlock’s chest. At first neither of them moved not sure of how to go about it. John has never actually hugged him before. He just simply closed his eyes and sighed, not caring what happened any more.
John started a little when he felt Sherlock encircle him, his right arm hugging John’s torso while his left slowly encased his shoulders. John sighed into the hug and returned it by wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s back. He gripped Sherlock’s robe and let out a sob despite himself. Then suddenly, he became a mess and started sobbing uncontrollably. His shoulders quivered and he became numb. John nearly screamed into the robe and almost collapsed onto the bed. Sherlock held him, though, not wanting to lose his friend. He held John for some time, not caring about his clothes being soaked by the incessant tears and snot. This wasn’t about his comfort any more. He was here for John, just as he always had been even if he didn’t show it enough. John meant so much to him. More than he would ever know. Carefully, Sherlock released him sitting back. John had his head hung as he sobbed, looking down at the sheets. He rubbed his cheeks viciously. After a minute he looked up at Sherlock who sat and studied him with concern.
"Sherlock, I-I'm sorry. I-"
Sherlock silenced him with another hug not wanting to hear another word. "Don't. It's alright. It'll be alright." Sherlock continued whispering in John's ear as they sank to the bed. Tears started falling from his eyes again. He slumped against Holmes' strong chest.
“Shh…I’m here, John. Shh…”
John had clamed down when he felt his hair being patted down and rested his head under the man’s chin. He was exhausted. Without meaning to, because he wanted to tell Sherlock something, he fell into a peaceful sleep.
****
The next morning, John woke with Sherlock’s arm around his waist and a massive head ache. He would’ve loved to stay like this all day, but his arm was numb and he needed to move. Slowly, he raised his body into a sitting position. Sherlock remained where he was and stretched a bit before opening his eyes. He watched as John carefully put his foot on the floor, not sure of his balance just yet. A wave of dizziness hit him and he slumped onto the mattress. Sherlock was quickly behind him putting his hands on the sides of his torso.
“Steady, old boy,” Sherlock cooed.
“Now who’s playing mother hen?” John allowed a small smile to cross his face. It was short lived, however, when he became sick again. Not caring about his shaky limbs, John lurched forward onto the hard wooden floor leaving Sherlock to lean on his own hands. He watched to his dismay as John emptied his stomach onto the floor along with wretched vocalizations. Sherlock sighed to himself as he carefully exited the bed avoiding the puddle. John heaved and gagged till his chest hurt leaving a long line of saliva attaching itself to the floor. He took as many breaths as he could, trying to avoid the horrible smell in his nostrils. Everything burned. His throat, his nose, his chest. He almost felt like crying again. He wanted to cry for making a mess, for feeling weak, for Mary. He couldn’t help it. He began to cry.
There was a sudden hand on his bare back and he tensed. Sherlock had returned with Mrs. Hudson. She couldn’t help herself as she started crying also bringing her hand to her mouth as if it would help. John sat on his knees wiping his nose on his wrist as he inhaled sharply hating the scent of his vomit. Sherlock kneeled down over his friend and gently wrapped his arm around John’s waist.
“Oh, you poor dear,” she sobbed. “I’ll start a hot bath for you.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty, nanny. Just please clean this up, will you?” Sherlock replied. “I’ll tend to him. Come, John. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He helped hoist John to his feet as he was still a sobbing mess. Sherlock didn’t mind when slobber and snot fell on his shirt as John leaned his head over onto him.
********
TBC
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The Red Snow