BBC SH - Lost and Found

A man sat alone in a bar.

There was a neat little pyramid of glasses in front of him. Ten shot glasses in one pyramid. Five in a half-completed pyramid.  Three pint glasses.

His jacket sleeve had trailed in a puddle of something blue. He grabbed vaguely at the material and sucked the liquid away.

Glacier mint vodka. From a puddle left by an earlier patron.

The bar man came over.

He pushed a handful of coins towards him.

"Alone again?" He said, ignoring the money.

He nodded and tapped pointedly at the coins.

"I should cut you off." He said, despairingly.

"How much wood could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood." He said, his voice wooden. "I'm fine. Hit me."

He sighed and took the money, giving him another pint. "Mate, I have seen a lot of people in my time and believe me you are not fine."

"More fine than I would be without it." He mumbled into the pint.

The sick gyroscopic whirling in his head was a welcome companion now.

It meant he wouldn't dream tonight.

He put the half-finished pint down, his finger trailing vague nothing shapes in the condensation on the bar.

A man sat on the bar stool next to him, his woollen coat swinging with the movement.

The bar man noticed the new arrival and put down the glass he'd been drying. "Get you anything?"

"Scotch. Whatever's open." A deep voice murmured.

The man's finger paused in its artistic endeavours as he tensed.

Or maybe not . . .

The man's whisky arrived.

Violinist's fingers curled around the glass. The man turning his head slightly to look at the hunched figure beside him whose index finger was tracing imaginary lines in the water.

The man ignored him, his finger following the puddle of condensation up onto the half-full glass which was cold against his skin.

The man looked away, sipping his whisky briefly and flinching slightly.

He never was a huge drinker.

The man sighed and curled his finger into his palm, wiping the water away on his skin.

Another brief sip of Scottish spirit for courage.

Then the deep voice spoke hesitantly. "John?"

John Watson sagged. "Sherlock." He said, wearily.

" . . . Hello?"

"Hello."

They sat in silence.

John's fingers curled around his glass as he took another pull on his beer.

"You've gotten better at drinking." Sherlock observed, quietly.

"Practice." John muttered, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Lieutenant McIntyre would be proud."

"Mmm."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"You're not at 221B anymore."

"No."

" . . . W-Would you like to move back?"

"Can't."

" . . . Why?"

John sighed and downed his pint. Slipping from his stool.

The cool night air was welcome on his drink-scalded face.

He didn't even stagger anymore. He'd gotten so liquor-hardened that his steps were as steady as his marching had been all those years before.

There was a flutter of footsteps as his companion caught up.

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

" . . . Bu' . . . 221B is the other way."

"You already know I don't live there anymore."

The little voice was slightly heartbroken. "But, it's still home."

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

"Mrs Hudson wants you back too."

"I know, I saw her a few weeks ago."

One set of footsteps stopped. "John?"

He kept walking.

"I don't understand."

"No," John sighed. "You never did understand emotions, did you?"

"N-no . . . Although I thought I was getting better. I thought you'd taught me to get better."

Another flurry of footsteps as he hurried to catch up.

Worried mercury eyes desperately trying to make contact with John's.

"But I don't understand at all."

John's hands worried at a hole inside his jacket pocket. Tugging on a cotton thread.

"I was expecting relief. Happiness. Anger. Lots of anger. I expected you to hit me. Hard. Very hard. I've got painkillers and dressings for your cracked knuckles in my pocket ready." He tugged them out to show him.

"Mmm." The thread cut slightly into John's finger.

"I wasn't expecting . . . this."

"Mmm." The thread snapped and John carelessly threw it away.

"I . . . I . . . John, why aren't you reacting?" Sherlock's voice was desperate now. "Why aren't you shouting at me? Why aren't you trying to beat me senseless? Why aren't you angry at me? I deserve it!"

A muscle across John's back began to tense.

"John, please this moment is all that's kept me going for a year and a half."

John's shoulders hunched and he began to walk faster, determined to leave this irritant behind.

Sherlock stumbled, failing to keep up. "John!"

John's fingernails dug into his palm.

"John, please!"

Sherlock staggered to a halt, staring hopelessly at the army doctor's back.

A desolated little voice reached John's ears.

"John, why are you pretending I don't exist?"

Something inside him breaking, he wheeled around and bellowed the truth which was rendering him so uncommunicative. "BECAUSE I KNOW I'M GOING TO WAKE UP!"

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at John.

"Don't you think I have been here before, Sherlock Holmes!" He yelled. "Why do you insist on tormenting me? I've woken up from this a thousand times already!"

Sherlock was trembling.

"I've slapped you! I've punched you! I've shot you! I've hugged you! I've cried on you and I've grabbed onto you with the intention on never letting you go again and then every time I wake up and then I've lost you again!"

And then John was advancing on him, fists clenched and Sherlock realised he might get that punch after all.

"Why the hell are you here?" John growled, glaring at him. "I have drunk more than enough to make you leave me alone for one night or are you going to torment me even through the alcohol now? Because if you are I swear to God I'm finding a drug dealer and finding out what he's selling because I can't take this anymore!"

Sherlock stared down at him, eyes brimming. "John . . ." He croaked.

"No." John flailed away. "No, I've seen that face at least fifty times and those are the ones that hurt the most to wake up from."

Sherlock reached out tremulously but John flinched away.

"J-Just GO." He demanded, voice cracking. "I've been here often enough to know that begging for a miracle wasn't enough to make this real. Just go back into whatever dark little corner of my mind you hailed from and come back again another night because tonight I just can't take it anymore . . ."

John stumbled away, tears swelling in his eyes.

"Shit." He whispered, rubbing his eyes on the heel of his hand.

The skinny pale figure watched his friend go, trembling.

I did this . . .

And then he was surging forwards into a run and John Watson lurched forwards as Sherlock Holmes collided with his back, enveloping him in clinging woollen arms.

"I'm real." Sherlock whispered into the back of John's head. "I'm real. I promise I'm real," his voice cracked slightly. ". . . and I'm so sorry, John . . ."

John froze, hardly daring to believe it as Sherlock let out a small wet gasp and tightened his grip on his friend's shoulders.

"You're not going to wake up. I'm here. I'm here and please don't turn me away because you're all I have, all I've ever had and I'm real John, and I'm sorry and I promise I'm real . . ."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John Watson woke up.

He lay there for a moment, blinking before horror settled in his heart.

"No . . ." He whispered pleadingly to his dark ceiling.

Nothing.

It took only a few minutes before John managed to bite away the last of the tears and bury his miserable face in his blanket.

It was an almost daily routine now, he never let it last long anymore.

But oh, it was so hard. That one had felt so perfectly real . . .

But there was no such thing as a miracle.

"He's gone, John . . ." He whispered to the ceiling. "Just accept it."

The roof stared placidly back.

"He's never coming back . . ."

But then his hand brushed something and he flinched away.

What on earth had he brought back in the course of his drunkenness this time?

He raised his head to look.

And right then John Watson believed in miracles.

Sherlock Holmes was curled up sleeping on top of the blankets. Thinner and more worn than before but still there and his slender chest was rising and falling with wonderfully living rhythm.

He had attached a post-it note to the top of his curly head, stating in his bold scrawling hand the five words, the five tiny miracles, which John had been craving for every second of the past eighteen months.

I'm not leaving ever again.