bakerstreet | (no subject)

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ANGST MEME

Sometimes we all want to play some angst and see just how far our characters will fall.

- Post your characters, name and series in the subject along with any preferences.

- Go to random.org and roll.

- Play!

1. just depressed.

Things are tough, you're feeling worn out, or whatever the case, you're depressed. You need help or someone else thinks you do anyway.

2. abandoned.

You were left behind by everyone you hold dear and now you're forced to see how well they've adjusted, how happy they all are while you're screaming inside.

3. sick.

Cold, flu, or something even worse, all you can do is lay back and let someone take care of you.

4. fight.

You've been fighting nonstop with the other person and it just keep escalating.

5. break up.

You're being broken up with and they won't reconsider... Damn.

6. separated.

For some reason, you've been separated from the other person for a long time.

7. kidnapped.

You've been held captive for how long now? Maybe they've been torturing you even, using your blood to write ransom notes, threatening to cut off fingers to send next, etc. Rescue is on the way though, right?

8. beaten up.

Just because someone didn't like you or maybe they wanted something you had, whatever the case is, you're coming home sporting some nasty wounds and bruises.

9. jealousy.

You just have this undeniable jealousy suddenly and you need to let it out.

10. cheated on.This goes beyond just suspicion and you have full on proof of what your lover has done. How do you handle it?

11. apathetic.

You're not sad, you're not happy, you just... don't feel much anymore. The sparkle of life has gone right out of you and you're just going through the motions now.

12. addicted.

Drugs, alcohol, whatever your drug of choice is, you can't fight the draw and you can't draw yourself out of the hole, but the other person is going to try.

13. bad romance.

You know this isn't good for either of you, but you can't stop now.

14. fear.

Nightmares, the feeling someone is following you, etc. You can't shake the feeling.

15. insanity.

You're seeing things and hearing them, waking up only to realize you've done things you don't remember or you're in a place you weren't before. You're losing it and you don't know what to do.

16. guilt.

It's eating you up inside and you have to tell someone about it now. You want to be punished and you won't take no for an answer.

17. loss

You've lost something dear to you.

18. wild card.

Combine some options or make your own!

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((OOC: Where to start?))

((OOC: I can see almost all of these going on. Do you have any that you'd like to cross out or any requests you'd like to play out?

Like I mentioned to

formersurgeon up there, I am going to be AFK a bit for the afternoon.))

((OOC: That's fine, I'll not be around in earnest until later this evening myself. I'd rather play something post Sherlock's return. John being unable to trust him, constantly fearing he'll disappear again, or even going back to what life with Sherlock is and losing his other connections again. I like a haughty John.))

((OOC: I adore a haughty John. I think that sounds good. Having to win John's trust back would be something difficult for Sherlock to go through with his limited grasp on his own (and John's) emotional state. Would you like me to make the introduction (won't be until later) or would you prefer to do it?))

((OOC: I have some time now. Do you mind prose? I find it easier than brackets.))

((OOC: I'm 100% fine with both brackets and prose. :3))

The anger and the joy, the disbelief and the triumph, have all slowly vanished. It took much less time than John expected for their routines to align and even less time for it to become a burden. He'd lived for three years without Sherlock at Baker Street (against his therapist's wishes mind you) and though many of Sherlock's things had remained with him, many more had seen their time come, pass, and begin again housed in boxes down in the basement.

For the plethora of books and experimentation instruments to suddenly take over the flat again had been trying on John's nerves since their reemergence.

There had also been the issue with sleeping arrangements. John had moved into Sherlock's room on the second floor while he was gone. It hadn't been a problem until it was and, though he smiled the whole time and profusely thanked the powers that be that Sherlock managed to get out from Moriarty's plans alive and safe, he'd not appreciated being regulated to the attic again.

He'd forgotten the little things too. Sherlock mixed solutions in his favourite tea cup. He stored cremains in the freezer. He lamented his own genius on the floor in the middle of the living room while John had a date over.

All of these things might have been liveable if John's relationships didn't start to suffer. If his private medical practice wasn't suffering. Or if he could trust Sherlock not to leave him again. Every little thing has started to eat at John from shopping at Tesco's for milk to Sherlock's propensity to disappear for great lengths of time.

John really can't handle that last bit. The worry creeps in each time he returns home to find the flat empty and it keeps on growing as hours start to progress further and further around the clock. Eventually, a quarter of a bottle of scotch in him, John simply passes out. It's not the first time lately that Sherlock's come home to find John in this sad state.

And it likely will not be the last.

Sherlock, for the most part, is blind to John's introverted agitations. Every so often, John will speak up and sometimes they have a tiff right there in the main room or the kitchen or wherever it is that they both happened to be occupying at the same time. Stupid things, mostly. Things like leaving the milk out or running lab equipment through the dishwasher with food dishes. Okay, so there was one time that he'd ran a bleached femur through as well. Who cares? It was just a femur.

The fights and tiffs are familiar ground. They'd always had them, but Sherlock doesn't recall them being quite this frequent or this unpredictable.

He refuses to correct any behaviour John deems inappropriate on the principle that John had dealt with it when they lived together before so he could deal with it now. It's how he'd always been and how he would always be. Changing for someone else, even for the person he regards as his first and best friend, is completely out of the question as is apologising for being the person he is.

The level of tension between the two of them leaves him feeling edgy. Twitchy. Fidgety. Usually those moods are reserved for when he's bored or mentally unfocused (a side-effect of the boredom most of the time), but it's starting to leak into his work. At least, when he's working on non-life-threatening cases with John. That's why Sherlock stops bringing him along on those cases. Blackmail, con artistry, identity theft, property damage. All of those things aren't enough to pump enough adrenaline through their systems to distract from whatever unspoken thorn is working its way deeper between their friendship. If left untreated, it may fester, but Sherlock's not the type to broach the subject nor is he one to realise the danger of it.

He goes on one of those cases tonight. An odd little situation with a private client he'd found through hacking John's blog where a young woman named Violet Hunter is hired as a live-in nanny and tutor to a very strange and suspicious couple. He'd been asked to meet with her at a neutral location between London and the estate in Hampshire to discuss the updates in her situation privately. As it turns out, he may have to make one of those life-threatening trips over there in the next couple of days.

As soon as he arrives to Baker Street and lets himself in from downstairs, he calls up for John. No answer, but John's clearly home and in the main room judging by the light on upstairs. "John, didn't you hear me call?" He asks, frustrated as he goes through the landing doorway.

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees John slumped over on his armchair with a half-spilled bourbon class in one hand and a bottle of scotch on the table next to him. New bottle, he hadn't seen it before. Half finished, probably within the time frame of a couple of hours. A bourbon glass? Really, John? Was he already drunk when he forewent the scotch glasses or did he just not know the difference?

Seeing him like this reminds him of the dozen times he'd walked in on this exact situation over the last two months. He shuts and locks the landing door thinking it would probably be best not to worry Mrs. Hudson over his flatmate's unrivalled stupidity. His thoughts drift to Harry and her habits as he hangs his coat and scarf before making his way to the armchair. He kneels down, holding two fingers just a short ways from John's nose and then pressing them up under his chin to check his pulse. If he had to predict John's blood-alcohol level from the evidence in front of him, he would come up with a troubling 0.15%-0.17% possible range. At the peak of his intoxication, it must have been upwards of 0.25%.

If this were the first time, he wouldn't be so worried. Heck, if it were the third time, that wouldn't be so bad. No, this is the fourteenth time in two months. The pattern is evident. Whenever he's away for too long, in the evenings mostly. So, it's either bring John along and feel off, agitated, fidgety, distracted, and altogether unfocused on his work or leave him home and come back to find this.

He kneels there next to the armchair, hands steepling under his chin for almost half an hour before he picks up his friend and carries him over to the sofa to lie him down on his side.

Alcoholism is a danger. John's father had had a small problem with it. His sister managed to take that above and beyond expectations. While John had never shied away from it, pints with mates at the pub while watching rugby or catching up with army buddies passing through never an issue, he knew better than go for anything too hard.

Harry scared him one too many times. He'd seen first hand how it had driven people away from her. How it'd driven him away from her. And even now, when he might have needed her, especially after Sherlock's departure to the world of not so permanent death, he'd not thought of reaching out to her anyway and he very much doubted, after all this time, if she would even care what he was going through.

As Sherlock lifts him, John stirs. He's a solidly built man, no matter how small, and at a dead weight, certainly quite heavy. Sherlock's strength would likely amuse him.

Instead, the moment he's laying down, eyes that look brown from afar but are more like deep blue sapphire snap open.

"Sherlock--" John's face immediately sours. "What are you doing?"

It's not so much strength that allows Sherlock to lift John. Brute strength is just something he has in limited quantities. It's more the knowledge of how to hold his own weight and the weight of someone else in the most efficient way possible to maximise the effort of his strongest muscles and minimise the effort of his weaker ones. Weight, counterweight, and balance. All it is is the practical application to his knowledge of anatomy and physics.

Sherlock can feel John start to stir even before he lies him down on the sofa. He waits until his friend is safely down before moving back and looking him over. He can tell that John's not pleased to be handled like this. It doesn't matter to him, though. John can be displeased all he wants.

"I was moving you to a more comfortable position," he tells him plainly. If John hadn't woken up, he would have already been going to retrieve John's pillow and blanket for him.

Let's face it. John's initial draw to Sherlock was his impressive deductive skills but the second, and most important, was the ability to include him in on danger. John craves the rush of adrenaline. A new battlefield. Yes, he's grown a bit soft over the time he's spent watching chat shows or staring at Sherlock's grave. Three years of monotony is a long time for a man his age to jump right on back to the danger one Sherlock Holmes might offer.

Except, Sherlock doesn't include him any more. It's difficult for John to understand why they've grown apart. Surely, eighteen months joined at the hip -- when he'd not been accidentally or otherwise left behind -- is more than enough to overcome double that time apart?

"Where were you?" Once upon a time, John'd never thought to ask such a thing. He doesn't expect a response now either though. He smells like a pub. His eyes are still unfocused.

"Client," is Sherlock's only response to the question. He doesn't give the details because he knows that John's alcohol-addled mind wouldn't be able retain any of the information come morning when they would need to work together. Well, maybe afternoon. John's level of indulgence this evening will be more than ample to give him a hang over and as much as Sherlock is unsympathetic, it would only slow John down and make working conditions nearly unbearable.

John's not the only one that misses going on case after case together. Even the non-dangerous ones. He's the type of person that works best when he has a sounding board and John had been the best of the best in that regard. A true conductor of light and muse. But not so much now. There's some unspoken hostility that Sherlock can't understand because he doesn't think about things in the same way most people do.

The fact that Sherlock's staying at Baker Street with John and including him in at least some parts of his life is a testament to how much their friendship means to him.

Sherlock risking his own livelihood to protect John, Mrs. Hudson and even DI Lestrade had once been enough to keep John from hitting Sherlock the day he returned to his life after so many unanswered prayers. The fact that they can not connect again is a lapse in judgement on each of their parts. John knows Sherlock is inflexible on most things. Yes, he'd been all right making space for him once upon a time, he'd been all right more or less honouring the label system in the kitchen, and a fairly stand up bloke on granting John small stipends to allow him the chance to eat more than just half wilting lettuce and over date sandwiches in the discount basket at Tesco's. But neither of them really want things to return to how they'd been and John has yet to figure out that Sherlock is still making concessions for him now.

In his own way.

By once more keeping him safe. John himself isn't helping matters by proving just how much he can not be trusted with his own personal safety anyway. The alcohol is enough to turn even his stomach but like his father and his sister before him, it's a comfort to fill the spaces that can not be filled with anything else.

"A client," John bristles and swims his arms to find purchase against the back of the sofa. He wants to be up and standing and on equal footing with the insufferable flatmate he can't bring himself to leave go of now that he's back again. His vision is not quite up for the task and a wave of dizziness follows. "You don't know how to be careful. You keep going alone and one day you won't come back. Again!"

John's quick stab at the very heart of the problem is followed by a shove with his scarred shoulder passed Sherlock to head up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly by the way John says 'client.' He's upset, Sherlock decides, though he can't fathom why that would upset him. In his mind, it's the only natural thing for him to have been doing outside of being at Scotland Yard, Bart's, or visiting a crime scene. It's simply what he does. It's nearly the only thing he does when he's not sitting around the flat either working on experiments or complaining noisily about boredom.

He simply stands back as John tries to pull himself up from the sofa. He feels that if John falls flat on his face, it might help to sober him up some. He starts to reach for John when he sways too far to the left, but his hand doesn't reach its destination before his friend somehow rights himself.

So that's what this is about.

"As you can see, I'm perfectly sound," Sherlock tells him as he turns to face his retreating flatmate. He doesn't mind so much being pushed aside like that, but he does mind John wanting to go upstairs when he's clearly too drunk to be left alone. He'd still go up periodically through the next few hours to make sure John's lying with his face to the side, but it would be much easier to do it if John were to just stay on the sofa.

Sherlock has answers for everything, John thinks bitterly, despite the fact that it's exactly who Sherlock is to have those answers...or if not, to find them in short work. The man could quote a children's rhyme but not know the solar system and still predict tides and catalog ash types in his sleep. He's a book on legs. No. The internet on legs. And John use to find that fascinating. Now-- Well, it's still fascinating but he wants just a little consideration for the grief he was forced to endure for years. To have Sherlock settle so easily into routine is--

Typical. John, it's typical. You can't be mad at the man for going about his daily business now that his name is finally cleared, can you?

The answer is a resounding 'absolutely' and John misses the fifth step and slides down to the fourth before his hands reach out to put pressure on the walls of the narrow hallway leading up to his room. He takes the moment to climb to his feet to scowl over his shoulder. It's comical, really. The man with the most expressive face in the world comes up with some doozies sometimes.

"Perfectly sound! For now! You--" Jesus, just let him get up with some dignity will you? "You're going to get yourself in trouble and no one will be there. You can't just...deduce...your way out of everything."

Sherlock steps toward the stairs before John starts to fall. He can see it shortly before it happens in the way John's foot comes down. Not far enough forward. Heel will slip. Right foot will bend, slide, and then fall. Left leg will buckle from the weight. Hands will find nothing to grasp. And down John will go.

It plays out exactly as he expects, but Sherlock stops dead in his tracks by the look John gives him over his shoulder. The expression itself would be funny in any other situation, but right now it's just hard to look at. He's seen drunks before and he's dealt with addicts on a binge, but he'd never thought much about it. Seeing his only friend go through these sloppy motions and lose himself in the process is nauseating. He's not disgusted by John, but he's starting to feel revolted by some of his decisions. It's not his place or responsibility to be a caregiver.

"I can deduce my way through quite a lot. Right now, for instance, I can deduce that you're going to require assistance if you want any hope of getting to your bedroom. Once there, you'll likely pass out and wake up in two hours time in a puddle of your own sick," Sherlock tells him, avoiding addressing his friend's concern for his safety. Feeling like he's given a fair warning, Sherlock takes the next few steps and bends down to slip his hands under John's arms without waiting to be invited to do so.

Had John more foresight, he might have tried to shake Sherlock's hold off. John managed for nearly forty years before him, and three years since without him. He can get up the stairs on his own and fall asleep on his own and wake up in his sick on his own. That's a bit childish, even for John in his state, so he'll scowl instead.

There's silence on the upwards journey to his room, which takes his legs a lot longer than he'd like. Sherlock's patience in this is infuriating because he's never shown much patience before. No, that's not true. He's always been patient for his loyal sounding board. He's always mapped the way for John to try and keep up with him, physically and mentally. John just wants to dismiss that for the moment, thank you.

Once in his room, John's hand presses against old wallpaper. From the tiny window, he can see only darkness spotted with the lights of lampposts over the ridge of the town homes across the way.

John wets his lips and chances a glance up at Sherlock once more. "Why did you even come back?"

Sherlock doesn't let John fall even when he loses his balance the next two times. The smaller man's weight is unwieldy because of the odd ways his disoriented body tries to correct his inebriated stumbling, but for the most part, they work together until they're at the top of the stairs where Sherlock begrudgingly unhands John so he can make his own way into the upstairs bathroom or to his bed.

He plans to stand there at the doorway until John's settled and he doesn't expect his presence to be appreciated. It doesn't matter, since he's only doing what he wants to do in this. That's how it's always been and how it always will be.

He's just folded his arms and started leaning on the door frame when John turns to face him. Then he asks that.

'Why did you even come back?'

The question feels like a punch to his gut. Sudden, painful, and leaving him in a momentary state of not being able to answer in any meaningful way. He'd thought that hearing the question 'Why did you leave?' would have been the hardest thing but he'd been wrong on rare occasion before.

Because I wanted to. You. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly.

"The same reason I left in the first place," Sherlock tells him coolly. He hadn't ever addressed the answer to the other question in words, so this might be a way of cheating and getting out of putting things into words that he felt were better expressed in actions and unspoken assumptions.

John thought he understood why Sherlock left. It'd taken time, both before he'd returned and after, to piece it all together. Hoping for a miracle aside, John'd tried to attend to much of Sherlock's unfinished business. This had been more than simply sending off his microscope collection to various schools and packing up his books. John had been worried about the whole Moriarty affair, eagerly and easily covered up by a brother John listed as public enemy number one for quite a long time until the life of Mycroft Holmes, always and intentionally closed to him, faded to gray and then black.

Moriarty and his network had been obliterated, but John found mention here and there of people that had seen two men on the roof of Bart's. He knew Sherlock had killed himself to end the game. Knew it had to be the only way. And if Moriarty disappeared too?

Well that meant him dead as well.

John Watson has never once, in his life, believed Sherlock a liar or a fake. And he never would either.

Owlishly, he blinks now at his friend in his attempt to straighten up. Once a military man, always a military man. Drunken state notwithstanding.

Sherlock's answer makes very little sense to John's understanding of Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.

"You left to try to save us," John says bluntly, nose wrinkling. "You came back to torment us." Now that's just a mean speculation. "I've-- I've changed. You didn't save me. And you're not doing me any favours now either."

At least John has one of the facts right. Sherlock doesn't try to defend himself against John's very much incorrect notion of why he'd returned to London after finishing his business. He doesn't tell John that he'd come back so he could once again be with his only friend. The one person in the entire world that seemed, at least at the time, to be the patient and understanding one. The one constant in his life that had stuck with him even through his lack of understanding in terms of social niceties and even through his episodes of destructive boredom. The one man he had deemed more important than his work.

Over. Is that what it was? Everything they'd been through all amounting to nothing. It's enough to make him laugh. Just a cold bitter note, not a real laugh. He always knew sentiment was found on the losing side and he should have taken heed to the warning he'd given Irene Adler.

"Alright," he says evenly. He looks down and away from John, taking in a deep breath. "If... if that's how you feel, then I'll just... leave." Tonight while John's sleeping off his drink, because if John truly wants him to go out of his life, he doesn't want to waste another minute.

A drunken man's accusations are typically false but that hardly means it's not the raw core of what's going on inside of his chest at any given moment. Sherlock's lingering presence has never truly left, no matter how faded it might have gotten.

That doesn't stop John from feeling utterly alone now as he watches Sherlock turn to leave. He might have entertained the idea that having the dark haired man return to his smokey existence might be nice on nights where John had worried endlessly about him, but to have it quite possibly happen?

John's usually the sort to let things go. He's learned to stop trying to hold on to anything these days. And yet, the very thought of Sherlock being gone is too much for him to bear.

"Where?" Not a 'no, please stop.' "You can't just keep leaving." Not without him, Sherlock. He's been at your side for nearly those entire eighteen months. What he's really saying is that he wants it back the way it had been. None of these half arsed attempts to continue on in such a diluted level.

Of course, the words just keep coming, before Sherlock has the chance to answer.

"If you insist on-- No. No.. You're not leaving. You'll have no one at all to look after you." Or perhaps that was 'out for you'? Quite hard to tell.

Sherlock hesitates when he hears John's words again. He wants to hear that 'no, please stop' that doesn't come. Some kind of indication that he hadn't been deluding himself by trying to come back to London to patch things up like they'd never been broken in the first place. It was one of his weaknesses, wanting to run away from the responsibility of his actions. Ever since he was a child, he'd never been able to say the words 'it was my fault,' much to his brother's endless frustration.

He's confused. First John tells him that his presence is harmful to him and then he tells him that he can't leave. It's the drink situation, isn't it? Indulge and find comfort in the very poison that's hurting you most. He'd done the same thing years ago with cocaine and later morphine, both landing him in the hospital a handful of times in total with suspected overdose. Is that what he's become to John?

After a moment, he turns his head to look over his shoulder and regards his friend's state. The look in John's eyes, posture, everything. Drunk. Self-abusively drunk. That emotional blow from before leaves him slightly less able to compartmentalise and suppress his emotional state as well as he'd like. Concern. Worry. Frustration. Anger. Devastation. Hurt.

"Well, what is it then?" He asks, voice biting as he closes the space between him and John until he's standing just inches apart from him. "Do you want me to stay or do you want me to go? I can't do both, John."

"I want--" Oh, hello wall. His good friend, so lovely to have you prop him up. John presses his eyes shut tightly for a long moment before he manages to find some stability and purchase where he stands and in his stance as well. He sucks in a breath before focusing completely on Sherlock and the little halo of light that illuminates his curls from the doorway. "I want to be let in again," he says.

And isn't that the true heart of this whole problem? John could overlook and accept Sherlock's idiosyncrasies because those very things were providing him with fuel for his own sales. Human beings, no matter how good, are inherently selfish. John is as well.

Having only a part time Sherlock is like having just the edge pieces of the puzzle.

You can't get the full picture and you can't appreciate the finished work because there's no substance. What he has with Sherlock now is nothing.

Edited 2013-09-17 14:18 (UTC)

Sherlock follows John during his retreat right up until the point John's back finds the wall. It's better this way, anyway. John has more support against his back; therefore, he's less likely to fall because of his impaired motor control. One less thing to worry about with all of this mess and disarray going on.

He's frustrated when John closes his eyes like that. Looking away from him instead of standing his ground and facing him like the soldier he is. The drink, he reminds himself. Because, if not the drink, then it means something else is shaking the foundation of their friendship. As much as he scoffs at people grasping at certain evidence to find the outcome they want instead of the outcome that is, he's hypocritically doing the same thing with John in this moment.

"You want what," he coaxes during the pause between when John starts to speak and when he's ready to say it. He wants to be let in. It confuses him and it takes him several seconds to go through the various possible meanings of that phrase. He's already inside the flat, so that can't be it. It can't be a sexual euphemism because he used the word 'again' and contrary to what most people believed, they'd never taken their relationship to the physical. Metaphorical then. In on cases? In on him? Both are valid concerns.

"You're already in, John," Sherlock tells him, standing back just enough to give John room to breathe his own air. It's true on both accounts. Sure, he kept the low-stress cases to himself, but he could stop doing that. Maybe it would ease some of the tension between them to do it and he would certainly be able to focus if things were to start resembling what they had been before he'd jumped from Bart's rooftop. As for the emotional connection, there literally isn't anyone as in as John.

"No, no, I am not in." Lips pressed squarely together and cheeks puffed, for a long moment, it becomes hard to tell if John is going to continue on or just vomit over his shoes. Luckily, it's the first, though there's the waft of alcohol again on his breath as he invades the space between them Sherlock had been trying not to do. It is the alcohol giving him the agency to do this as a sober and right minded John often keeps most of his opinions to himself and simply makes faces at the wall during Sherlock's antics.

There is no such luck here. Inhibitions down, John has free reign to say all sorts of things... Nearly all of which he is destined to regret once he manages to come to his senses and sleep the ordeal off. It's not going to be pretty.

"I am out. I'm as out as Greg is!" He doesn't want to be a person to consult the consulting detective. Sherlock's need to protect him from the dangerous tasks is what's been allowing John to sit at home and go mad enough to wash his cares away with liquor. "You go out at all hours of the day and night and return the same way!" He gestures madly and has to catch himself again. "And I am tired of-- Of not being considered. Or protected. Or whatever it is you're doing. I'm bloody well better than that and you know it!"