Archive of Our Own ^beta

The rain was relentless, falling in icy sheets that seemed determined to seep into every crevice of Sherlock’s coat. He stood at the edge of the gravesite, apart from the small gathering of mourners huddled under umbrellas. The weight of his soaked clothes was nothing compared to the suffocating pressure in his chest. Victor Trevor’s name was etched into the headstone, the freshly turned earth a stark contrast to the jagged, ancient grief that swirled through the air.

Sherlock had not wanted to come. Attending Victor’s funeral had felt like opening a door to a room he had long since locked away. But the invitation had arrived, scrawled in a hand he didn’t recognize but knew belonged to one of the Trevors. It was direct, not unkind. Victor’s family would like you to be there.

He had underestimated how much it would hurt.

The well. The bones. John’s frantic gasps as he was pulled out, filthy water streaming from his face. It had all come rushing back the moment Sherlock had stepped onto the grounds of his old childhood home. Standing there now, his polished adult self felt hollow, a brittle façade built over the terrified boy who had once played pirates with Victor, their wooden swords clashing with the abandon only children could muster.

Victor had called him “Blackbeard.” That, more than anything, was what had undone him. Sherlock could still hear the nickname echoing through his mind, Victor’s laugh as they raced through the overgrown fields, away from the suffocating silence of the Holmes estate. They had been inseparable. 

Until they weren’t. 

Until Eurus.

Sherlock’s eyes had moved to the Trevors, standing close to the grave, their faces etched with sorrow and an odd kind of peace. The family had waited decades for this moment. For answers. For closure. For their son to come home, even if only as a collection of bones wrapped in a shroud. Sherlock had been their best lead once, they had begged for anything he remembered, but he had failed them, too lost in his own haze of grief and repression to even admit what had happened.

Now, standing there, guilt gnawed at him with feral intensity. Eurus had killed Victor. His sister. His flesh and blood. And he had done nothing to stop her. He hadn’t understood her, hadn’t seen what she was capable of. He had been too young. Too naive. Too trusting. The guilt tasted bitter, like ash, as he swallowed against the rising bile.

The ceremony was brief, the mourners dispersing in a quiet shuffle of footsteps and murmured condolences. Sherlock stayed rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on the headstone. Victor Trevor. Beloved Son. Taken Too Soon.  

The words felt like accusations, each one more damning than the last.

He turned to leave, his eyes catching the Trevors one last time. They didn’t look at him. He couldn’t blame them. He had no right to their forgiveness, not when his very existence must be a reminder of what they had lost.

The train back to London passed in a haze.

Back at Baker Street, the silence of the flat felt oppressive, the walls too close, the air too heavy. He wandered from room to room, his mind spinning faster than he could keep up with. He saw Victor’s face in every reflective surface, heard his laugh in every creak of the floorboards. The guilt was relentless, a living thing. He was drowning, suffocating under the weight of everything he had never dealt with, everything he had spent a lifetime running from.

Victor’s face. The well. John’s hand reaching for him as he gasped for air.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, his movements frantic. The flat felt like it was closing in, and he needed air. He needed noise. He needed numbness. What did it matter what he did now? What did it matter what became of him?

Sherlock walked through the damp and desolate streets of London, his footsteps the only sound in the oppressive silence, each step echoing in his ears. The city had an unnatural stillness, a deadness that seemed to mirror the emptiness he carried inside. Everything was too much, too loud, too overwhelming, but the worst part was that none of it mattered. It didn’t matter because he’d already chosen the path that would destroy him.

John’s voice was faint in his mind, a distant plea that seemed unreal. "If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me," he'd said. But Sherlock had spent so much of his life running from everything—his emotions, his memories, himself—and this was the logical conclusion. All the anger, the frustration, the disappointment—it had to come out somewhere.

The craving hit again and he recognized it now, could name it, gnawing at him from the inside. His hands trembled at his sides, betraying him. It was getting worse. He was drowning in the need now. The drugs had been a way to silence the noise, to calm the swirling chaos in his head. But this time it felt different, final. He had always known this was coming—he had always known how it would feel to walk down this road to nowhere.

As he approached the familiar corner, Sherlock’s feet seemed to carry him on autopilot. He didn’t need to think anymore; his body moved knew the route to the closest dealer. But then, just as his mind wrapped itself around the inevitability of it all, something halted him. A sudden awareness, a shimmer on the edges of his vision, of something else—a crossroads. 

His gaze caught the dim glow of a lit building across the street to his right, a community center. The door of the hall stood slightly ajar, and there, on the sign out front, were the words that almost felt like an accusation. NA Meeting Tonight: Everyone Welcome.

Sherlock stood still, his chest tightening. His heart, already racing with the craving, began to pound harder, faster. He could hear the distant buzz in his ears, the pull of the dealer's address just streets away, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the sign. NA Meeting Tonight: Everyone Welcome.

NA Meeting Tonight: Everyone Welcome.

NA Meeting…

With a heavy, shuddering breath, Sherlock took a step forward, toward the door of the hall. His hands were cold, his body shaking as he forced himself to approach, each step a battle against his own instincts, against the hunger that tore at him from within. The dealer could wait. Sherlock’s lips pressed together. NA. Narcotics Anonymous. The thought of walking into that room, sitting in a circle with strangers who would know exactly what he was there for, felt like a betrayal he wasn’t sure he could endure. What if they saw through him? What if they recognized him? He wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t normal, fixable. He didn’t belong.

But then he thought of Victor. A little boy, a little pirate. He thought of Mycroft, away doing who-knows-what to avoid the funeral. He thought of John, and Rosie. 

The thought of that—losing them—made his stomach twist in a way the drugs never had. The craving didn’t feel nearly as strong as the fear, the overwhelming guilt of knowing he couldn’t do this again. Not to them. But he felt a sense of dread so deep it made his legs shake. The sign out front said Everyone Welcome, but that wasn’t true. Not for him. He wasn’t welcome. He couldn’t be. They’d see through him, and they’d send him away.

You don’t belong here, the dark part of his mind sang, and for a frightening moment, it sounded like Eurus. 

His feet felt like they were moving of their own accord. He didn’t want to go in there, didn’t want to face them, to confront what was happening to him. But he couldn’t shake the thought. The part of him that had always fought, that had always been so damn clever and invincible, was now reduced to someone weak. Someone needing help. He could still turn around. He could still walk away. But his feet kept moving, the door now only a few feet away, and for some reason, it was like his body was betraying him, pulling him inside when his mind screamed at him to leave.

He reached for the handle.

His hand hovered for a moment, and he exhaled shakily. This isn’t me, he told himself. This isn’t who I am. But somehow, without thinking, without even realizing what he was doing, Sherlock stepped inside.

The hall felt sterile and foreign, the walls pressing in on him. There were a handful of people scattered around the room in plastic chairs, their murmurs low and subdued. But the moment he entered, it was as though the whole room turned to watch him, their eyes boring into him - at least that’s what it felt like. His skin prickled, and  he wanted to turn and run. Run back to the familiar numbness of the high, back to the fleeting peace that came with losing himself in the fog of heroin, the buzz of cocaine. But the door was closing behind him now, and it felt too final. Too heavy.

He moved quickly to a seat near the back, as far from them as possible. His fingers tightened around the armrests, knuckles white with tension. He couldn’t breathe. He was shaking. The dark voice mocked him, called for him to get up, to walk out, reminded him that there was a much easier way to deal with all this, but instead, he just sat there, rigid, holding himself together with nothing more than sheer willpower. He shouldn’t be here. He was stronger than this. He shouldn’t need this. He was Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake. He was supposed to be above all of this, above the weakness that these people were wearing like badges of honor. He shouldn’t need a room full of strangers to tell him what he already knew. He shouldn’t need to rely on anyone but himself.

But you do need it. The thought burned through him like acid.

His mind was spiraling again, as it always did when he had time to think. He could feel the craving clawing at his insides, like a wild animal desperate to be freed. He could almost hear his dealer’s voice, feel the anticipation of the relief that would come with the needle, the weightlessness. The way it would all fade away, just for a few hours. His eyes darted to the phone in his hand—when did he take it out?—where his dealer’s number still sat, ready. The urge to text—to make it happen, to erase everything in a single motion—was overwhelming. But he kept his hand still. He didn’t select the number. Not yet. The meeting had started, and he could hear the murmur of voices, people speaking about their struggles, their pain, their failures.

It was too much like his own. Too familiar. The tightness in his chest, the words floating through the air like they had been pulled from his own mind. They were talking about the exact same things he had been hiding from for so long. The addiction. The cravings. The desperation to turn off life. He could hear the rawness in their voices, their admissions, and it felt like a punch to his gut. It was so human, so real, in a way he had never allowed himself to be.

John. Mycroft. They were out there. He could picture them in his mind, their faces, the way they looked at him, the way they cared. That was something Sherlock had never allowed himself to believe. That he was worth caring about. He wasn’t worth their love, their patience. But they did care. And that thought, that realization, was starting to eat at him.

Could he make it stop? Could he really stop this before it swallowed him whole? His hands twitched at his sides, itching to break the silence, to make contact with the familiar. He needed a fix. He wanted to leave. But something kept him there, something softer than he wanted to admit. Something about the faces around him, the rawness in their vulnerability, the desperation in their voices, made him stay. It made him want to try. He wasn’t ready to call it yet. He wasn’t ready to admit it aloud, but maybe—maybe—he didn’t want to die this way.

Maybe he didn’t have to be the wrecking ball he thought he was. Maybe he didn’t have to burn everyone around him down in the process of trying to stop feeling.

When the meeting ended, Sherlock stayed seated, his mind racing faster than his heart could keep up. He could feel the tremor increasing in his hands, despite his best efforts to keep it under control, his fingertips tapping on his thighs like a barely contained explosion. He wished he could disappear into the chair, hide from the weight of the room, the pressure. 

"Are you okay?"

The voice cut through his fog, low and kind, and Sherlock’s gaze snapped up to meet the man standing in front of him. He hadn’t noticed the older man earlier, but now, the way the man regarded him was almost comforting, in a strange, foreign way. The man’s face was weathered, tired eyes, but kind. His shoulders were relaxed, his posture warm in a way that Sherlock didn't know how to process. Sherlock wanted to lie, to tell him he was fine, that he didn’t need help. But the words stuck in his throat, turning into something poisonous, something painful.

“No,” Sherlock muttered, his voice rough. “No, I’m not.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the stranger said, sitting in front of Sherlock. "Do you want to talk about it? Or is there someone I can call for you?”

Sherlock knew immediately he could not talk, not right now. How would he even start? I just came back from a funeral… And as for the second question… He looked again at his phone, unlocked it, stopped. 

“I don’t know who to call.” To his horror, his throat closed even further and his eyes burned.

The man nodded, calm. "I know the feeling," he said, sitting down beside him. "I was in your place once. I remember sitting here, thinking the same thing. I didn’t want anyone to know how bad it had gotten. But sometimes, taking the first step is the hardest. You’re here. That’s something."

Sherlock flinched at the praise, instinctively pulling back. He couldn’t accept it. Couldn’t allow himself to believe that this, being here, in this room, was anything to celebrate. He was failing, not succeeding. And the thought of anyone acknowledging him for something so small made his skin crawl. 

“I’m not proud of this,” Sherlock muttered, staring at the floor, trying to fight the heat rising in his face. “This is a mistake. I shouldn’t even be here.”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “It’s okay. You’re doing something important. You’re here, and that’s already more than a lot of people can manage. It took me a long time to walk through that door.” His voice softened, a quiet, almost empathetic understanding in it. “You’re not alone in this.”

Sherlock’s stomach twisted. He wanted to tell the man to stop, to leave him alone, but the words wouldn’t come. He was alone, wasn’t he? He had pushed everyone away. He’d kept everyone at arm’s length. No one was supposed to care. Victor had cared, and look what had happened.

"Can I call someone for you?" the man asked gently. "I know it’s not easy, but it could help. Who can we reach out to?"

Sherlock’s heart pounded in his chest, the thought of calling Mycroft enough to make him want to vomit. No. He couldn’t. He had failed Mycroft so many times already—this would be the final straw. Mycroft would be so disappointed, so disgusted with him.

But there was someone else, wasn’t there? Someone who still cared, even if Sherlock hadn’t earned it. Even if Sherlock had never asked for it, tried to stop it. 

John.

His mind screamed at him, but his lips moved anyway. Barely above a whisper, a hum in the still air. “John Watson,” Sherlock said, the name slipping out before he could stop it, and the second it left his mouth, he regretted it. It felt like a betrayal, like he was admitting just how far gone he was, how much he needed someone. John will never forgive you for this.

The man smiled at him, warm and understanding. “Got it. I’ll call him for you, yeah?” He plucked the phone from Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s stomach churned as he found himself nodding. He heard the ringing of the phone, gripped the seat beneath him, his heart hammering in his chest, every part of him screaming to run, to take back what he had just done. He wanted to pull away, wanted to erase the moment, but it was too late. He was trapped in it, caught in his own desperation.

The ringing seemed to go on forever. He stared at the device in the man’s hand, fighting the urge to grab it and throw it across the room. You’ve done this to yourself, he thought. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to feel anything, and now that he was forced to confront it, the weight of everything crushed him. What the hell am I doing?

And then John’s voice broke through the stillness, as steady and reliable as it had always been. But there was already worry there. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”

I never call, Sherlock remembered belatedly. It was like he was having an out-of-body experience, all usual services suspended. 

“Hello, is this John Watson?” the stranger asked into the phone. This was wrong, wasn’t it? Needing someone else to talk to John for him?

“Who is this?” John’s voice was immediately suspicious, hard. 

“My name is Steven and I’m a member of Narcotics Anonymous. We’re having a meeting at Greenside Community Center. I have… Sherlock? Sherlock here with me. We asked who we should call and your name came up.”

“I want to talk to him,” John said, and Sherlock could tell he was still suspicious, still worried this was some kind of setup. 

“OK, here he is.” Steven tried to hand him the phone, but Sherlock felt frozen and didn’t move, couldn’t even take it. Steven merely held the phone up to his face. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you OK?”

Sherlock’s throat constricted, and for a moment, he could barely breathe. The words were stuck there, locked in his chest, a heavy lump of shame and self-loathing. “No,” he whispered, barely able to hear his own voice over the pounding in his head. “I… I need help.”

The silence on the other end felt like an eternity, and Sherlock could almost feel John’s confusion, the weight of the uncertainty stretching between them. He wanted to say more, to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. How could he explain what had happened? He wasn’t strong enough to face it, let alone make John understand.

But then John spoke, and for a moment, Sherlock almost thought he could hear the crack in it. John doesn’t deserve this, Sherlock thought bitterly, he deserves better. “I’m coming to get you. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in half an hour.” Sherlock couldn’t respond, and Steven removed the phone to give John directions. 

I don’t deserve this, Sherlock thought again. I don’t deserve him. 

His mind spiraled, the thoughts coming faster now, each one more damning than the last. He could already hear the disappointment in John’s voice, the quiet sorrow that would follow. He would see Sherlock as weak, as pathetic, as a failure. I’ve ruined everything. The life he had built, the front he had maintained, had all been a lie. And now here he was, asking for help, when he should have been the one holding it all together. What am I supposed to say to him?  

“I’ll just wait here with you, yeah?” Steven said to him from somewhere to side, phone call apparently over. “It’s OK, I’m not much of a talker either. We’ll just wait for John.”

Sherlock felt small, exposed, and utterly defeated. Time started to tick by, and he couldn’t even look up. He couldn’t stop thinking about John— What will he think of me? What if he’s angry? What if he’s disgusted with me? I can’t do this. I can’t talk to him. 

There were some other people still there too, but he tuned them all out. He couldn’t bring himself to face the reality of what was happening, the looming confrontation with John. He was terrified. Terrified of the judgment, terrified of disappointing him again. His entire body was locked in place, trembling, as though every part of him was paralyzed by the weight of his own failure. The minutes dragged on, each one more unbearable than the last. Every sound, every voice, every breath felt like a reminder of his inadequacy. He didn’t deserve John. He didn’t deserve anyone.

He barely registered when the door of the hall opened again, the familiar sound of footsteps slowly making their way toward him. John.

He still couldn’t bring himself to look up. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes, the confusion, the pity. All he could do was keep his head down, feeling the tears burning at the back of his eyes as the panic began to rise. 

“Sherlock?” 

The sound of his name made Sherlock’s heart race, but he couldn’t respond. He couldn’t say anything. He just stared down at the floor, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as he tried to hold it together. He didn’t want John to see him like this. John was standing in front of him now, his shoes in Sherlock’s eye line. But Sherlock still couldn’t look up, couldn’t make himself meet his eyes. He felt so small, so utterly pathetic.

The feet in front of him moved slightly, flexed, as John shifted his weight, crouched down in front of him, trying to catch his eye.

“Hey,” John said softly, his voice full of warmth, full of something Sherlock couldn’t even begin to understand. “It’s alright.”

But it didn’t feel alright. Sherlock felt like he was unraveling, like the very fabric of who he was was coming apart. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered, barely above a breath. “I’m sorry—I’ve let you down.”

John’s hands were on him then, gentle but firm, holding his forearms, still at a crouch. 

“Don’t apologize, Sherlock,” John said. “You haven’t let me down. You don’t need to apologize for needing help. I shouldn’t have left you alone today, I knew it…”

Sherlock closed his eyes, the tears threatening to fall. John sighed, and then to Sherlock’s utter shock, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock sat there, stunned, stiff in John’s embrace, his mind spinning, but he couldn’t escape the gnawing thought that kept surfacing— I don’t deserve this. John was always so kind, so patient, so human , and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel like he was nothing but a broken machine, beyond fixing. 

“I’m still sorry,” Sherlock muttered, his voice strained, thick with frustration and self-loathing. "You had to stay with Rosie. I shouldn’t have dragged you over here.”

“Then we’re both sorry, alright? And I’m proud of you, you know?” John’s voice was low but unwavering, warm and sincere. “I’m proud of you for being here, for asking for help. It’s… it’s huge. Really.”

Sherlock shook his head, his throat tight. “I don’t know how you can still say that after everything.”

John let out a long, quiet sigh, as though he was trying to hold back his own frustration. “Because I know you. I know you, Sherlock. You’re more than this. You’ve always been more than this. And I’m so proud of you. For asking for help. I can’t even imagine how hard it was to do.”

Sherlock tried to pull away, but John’s grip tightened, pulling him closer. “And,” John added with his voice returning to his more usual timbre, “if you think I’m proud of you now, wait until I see you actually accept the help you’re asking for. They’ll be able to see my smile from space, I swear.” Sherlock wished he could return the light banter, participate in something resembling normality between them, but his thoughts were too dark, too slow. He pulled back again, and this time John let him. 

“You should be angry with me, but you’re not. You should leave, but you won’t.”

“All part of the service,” John said, smiling. Sherlock just blinked at him, but it didn’t seem to put John off. 

"Alright," John said, his voice quiet but full of determination, "Let’s make sure we have a plan." He turned Steven and asked, “When are the meetings? I think Sherlock would benefit from coming back regularly.”

“We meet here every Tuesday and Thursday night. And if Sherlock ever wants to drop in during the day, there’s a group that meets on Sundays at noon.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a wave of embarrassment at the mention of regularly. He couldn’t even imagine going back here more than once, but the fear of rejection or judgment—whether real or imagined—kept him quiet.

John, sensing Sherlock’s hesitation, squeezed his shoulder gently. "Alright, we'll stick with Tuesday and Thursday," John said. "You’ll go with me, yeah? I’ll drop you off, collect you, drag you out for cake after?” 

Sherlock gave a tight nod, though it was more out of obligation than agreement. He didn’t feel ready for the kind of help they were offering, but he wasn’t in a position to argue. He could already hear John’s voice, so matter-of-fact, so trusting. 

“Good man,” John said, his tone light but undeniably relieved. 

Sherlock nodded again, still processing. He could feel the weight of the promise he’d just made, but a part of him—buried deep within—was grateful for John’s quiet insistence.

The meeting wrapped up a little while later, and John stood, helping Sherlock to his feet with a gentle nudge. “C’mon,” John said. “Let’s get you out of here. You’re staying at mine tonight. You need to be somewhere safe. You need a good night’s sleep.”

John somehow maneuvered them both into his car after Sherlock made some attempt at thanking Steven for his help. The drive to John’s house stretched on in silence, the rhythmic patter of rain on the windshield the only sound. He hated how small he felt, how utterly stripped of the veneer he had spent years perfecting. But John, ever the soldier, didn’t push. His hands gripped the steering wheel with practiced precision, his expression focused. Sherlock sat hunched in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed on the blurred lights outside, his reflection faint and ghostly in the glass. He could hear the sodden thud of mud on Victor’s coffin, could still see the tight, pale faces of the mourners as they turned away, the rain falling, always falling…

John’s voice finally broke the quiet. “We’re here.” The front door opened before they reached it, revealing a middle-aged man with a friendly face and a slightly nervous smile. “Evening, John. Everything alright?”

“Thanks, Peter. Sorry for the late return,” John said, shaking the neighbor’s hand briefly. “Rosie give you any trouble?”

“Not at all. She’s a lovely girl. Went to bed like a dream. She’s upstairs now.” Peter’s gaze flicked to Sherlock, his smile faltering slightly at the sight of the taller man’s disheveled state, but he said nothing.

John didn’t bother with introductions. “Appreciate it. Say hi to Louise for me.” With a quick nod, Peter stepped aside, and the two men entered the house. It was tidy, with small signs of Rosie scattered throughout—a pink backpack on the floor by the stairs, a stack of picture books on the coffee table. It was lived in, but there was something off about it, something that didn’t quite fit. The furniture was practical but impersonal, the walls bare.

“Shoes off,” John said over his shoulder, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a hook near the door. He didn’t wait to see if Sherlock complied, disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock stood in the entryway for a moment, taking in the strange dissonance of the house. It felt wrong, like John had stepped into someone else’s life and tried to make it work.

John returned a moment later with two mugs of tea, thrusting one into Sherlock’s hands without a word. He settled onto the couch, gesturing for Sherlock to take the armchair across from him.

For a while, neither spoke. Sherlock sipped his tea mechanically, his mind racing with fragmented memories—Victor’s laugh, the bright splash of his red jumper as they ran through the fields, the dark, still water of the well. He set the mug down abruptly, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

“You okay?” John asked, his voice quiet but not soft.

Sherlock frowned, unsure of how to answer. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, almost immediately regretting it.

John leaned back slightly, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “Yeah, you are,” he said approvingly. He did not seem at all annoyed. “Breaking one of your patterns. Not just breaking it—smashing it.”

Sherlock stared at his tea.

“Was it the funeral?” John asked after a moment, his voice gentler now. He wasn’t pressing, not exactly, but the question hovered between them.

Sherlock flinched, almost imperceptibly, before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.

“It does,” John countered. “Victor was your friend.”

Sherlock’s looked up for a brief second before darting his eyes away again. “It’s not—” He stopped himself, his fingers tightening around the mug.

John leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you don’t have to carry it on your own. You think you’ve got to solve everything yourself—even this—but that’s not how it works. Not with grief.”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately, his fingers still clenched around the mug as though it were anchoring him. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the ticking of a clock that Sherlock found inexplicably irritating. Finally, he set the mug down on the table with deliberate precision.

John watched him for a moment longer, then stood with a quiet sigh. “Right,” he said, his tone brisk. “This conversation’s on pause, for now.” He moved to the couch, tugging at the hidden mechanism to convert it into a bed. The faint scrape of metal against wood filled the room.

Sherlock observed this with detached curiosity. “You’re sending me to bed?” 

John straightened, tossing two cushions into place. “I’m sending us to bed,” he said with a shrug. He grabbed a blanket from a nearby chair, spreading it over the bed with a practiced motion before draping another one over his side of the couch. “I’m staying, and we’re watching something absolutely mindless. No arguments.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Mindless?”

“Yeah,” John replied, already reaching for the remote. “The kind of rubbish you can switch your brain off to. You could use it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John was already flipping through channels, settling on an old, over-the-top action movie with dramatic explosions and a plot that barely existed. The flickering light from the TV filled the room, casting faint shadows across the walls. John put his feet up then patted the space next to him, and Sherlock moved to sit there, though it seemed so strange a thing to do. 

He stretched out, his long frame awkwardly fitting onto the pull-out bed, regarded the TV. “This,” he said after a moment, “is objectively ridiculous.”

“Exactly,” John said with a grin, settling down with his blanket pulled around him. “That’s the point. No deductions, no puzzles. Just loud nonsense.”

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the exaggerated antics of the film providing a strange, almost surreal backdrop. Sherlock didn’t say much, but he felt himself relax slightly, the tightness in his jaw easing as the mindless distraction did its job.

“You’re a good doctor,” he said quietly. 

“And you’re a good friend,” John said. Sherlock flushed but didn’t respond. 

Midway through the film, John glanced over, his expression thoughtful. “What was he like?”

Sherlock blinked, caught off guard. “Victor?”

“Yeah,” John said, his gaze steady. “I was there when we found him—when I found him—but I don’t know who he really was. Just bits and pieces I heard at the time. I know what happened to him, Sherlock. I found him, but I don’t know what he meant to you.”

Sherlock stiffened slightly, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen. “You didn’t find him,” he said flatly. “You found bones in a well. That wasn’t Victor.”

“It was Victor,” John said, his tone firm but not unkind. “It was the boy you grew up with, your friend. I didn’t know him, but I saw what it did to you when we were there. And I want to know more about him—the part of him that wasn’t just tragedy.”

Sherlock hesitated, his fingers brushing over the edge of the blanket as though seeking something solid to hold onto. His voice, when it came, was soft, almost reluctant. “He was… brilliant. Not in the way you’d expect—he wasn’t clever in school or interested in books. But he had this… way of seeing the world. Everything was an adventure. A mystery to uncover.”

John watched him quietly, not interrupting.

“Victor wasn’t afraid of anything,” Sherlock continued, seeing the memories play out. “He was reckless, always pulling me into things I had no business doing. Sneaking away from the grown-ups, building rafts to float in the pond, daring each other to climb trees we shouldn’t have. He used to call me Blackbeard, said I was too serious to be a real pirate, but he made me his first mate anyway.”

He felt himself smile, even though it somehow felt wrong to be doing so. “He had this laugh. Loud, unrestrained, completely ridiculous. The kind of laugh that made you join in even when you didn’t want to.”

John leaned back slightly, smiling too. “Sounds like he had a way of bringing out the best in people.”

“He did,” Sherlock admitted, his voice quieter now. “He made everything feel lighter. Safer.”

The words hung in the air, raw and unguarded, before Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted slightly, suddenly aware of how much he had revealed. “But it doesn’t matter now. He’s gone.”

John straightened, his tone gentle but firm. “It does matter. What you had with him—it still matters. And you’re allowed to remember the good things, not just how it ended.”

For a moment, the movie filled the silence, its explosions and exaggerated dialogue a strange counterpoint to the gravity of the conversation.

“I never said this before,” John said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “But I was glad I found him. I hated what it meant, hated what it did to you, but I was glad I could… bring him back to you. Even like that.”

Sherlock turned his head, meeting John’s gaze for the first time since the conversation began. John’s eyes were shining, and he looked utterly at ease, laying there, so close, so alive.  

How had an evening that had started so terribly become… this?

“You did give him back to me,” Sherlock said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you gave his family the chance to say goodbye.”

John nodded once, his throat tight. “And you too,” he said softly.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he held John’s gaze a moment longer before turning back to the screen. The quiet between them shifted, becoming something softer, something that didn’t need words to fill it. The absurd explosions of the film filled the silence for a moment longer, but Sherlock’s focus had drifted entirely. He stared at the flickering screen, his mind far from the action playing out in front of him. John’s words echoed in his mind.

“You don’t have to carry it on your own,” John said again, more quietly this time, leaning back against the armrest, his voice carrying a mixture of patience and conviction.

Sherlock’s hand twitched against the blanket. “I’m not…” 

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, his voice firm but not harsh. “Don’t. You don’t have to defend yourself, and I’m not asking you to explain. But I think you know as well as I do that tonight wasn’t just about Victor.”

Sherlock said nothing, his gaze darting back to the television, though it was clear he wasn’t really watching. He continued toying with the edge of the blanket, pulling at a loose thread. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and halting. “He… Victor… he trusted me. He looked at me like I was someone worth… worth something. And I… I let him die.”

John sat up slightly, his brow furrowing. “You didn’t let him die, Sherlock. Eurus killed him. That’s on her, not you.”

“I should have known,” Sherlock said sharply, his voice rising. “I should have seen what she was capable of, what she was going to do. But I didn’t. I was too… too caught up in myself, too blind to—”

“You were a child,” John cut in, his voice firm but steady. “A brilliant one, sure, but still just a kid. You couldn’t have stopped her.”

“But I—”

“You were a child.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort again but faltered, the words catching in his throat. He looked away. “It doesn’t matter,” he said again. “The outcome is the same. He’s gone.”

“It does matter,” John repeated, his tone softening. “What you had with him mattered. You loved him, Sherlock. Even if you didn’t know it then.”

Sherlock flinched at the word, his gaze snapping back to John. “I didn’t—” He hesitated, his voice trailing off. “I didn’t understand… what that meant.”

“You didn’t need to,” John said gently. “You were a kid. Love doesn’t always need a name to exist. You cared about him. You trusted him. You let him in. That’s love.”

Sherlock’s expression hardened, his defenses rising instinctively. “Love is… illogical. It’s distracting. I didn’t—”

“You did,” John interrupted, his voice steady but kind. “And that’s okay. It doesn’t make you weak, Sherlock. It never did.”

Sherlock fought the urge to run away. He didn’t know how to talk like this. “If I did love him, it didn’t make a difference. It didn’t save him.”

“No,” John admitted, leaning forward slightly, his voice steady and sure. “But love isn’t about solving things, Sherlock. It’s not a formula or a deduction. It doesn’t erase pain or fix what’s broken. Love is about being there—being present. It’s about seeing someone, really seeing them, and saying, ‘I see you’.”

He paused, his gaze unwavering. “Victor loved you, Sherlock. Not because of what you could do, or how brilliant you were, but because of who you were to him. You didn’t have to earn it, or prove yourself. You were just… you. And that was enough. That’s what he gave you. Not just friendship, not just memories. He showed you that you could be loved. That you were worth loving. And you still are.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched, his jaw tightening as tried to process the words. He shook his head slightly, his voice a whisper. “I’m not—”

“You are,” John said firmly, cutting him off. “You were then, and you are now. You just don’t let yourself believe it.”

Sherlock suddenly felt like he could no longer participate in the conversation, didn’t know how to reply, how to interact with John like this. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, the words sharp and brittle. “For all of it. For… being like this. For—”

“Don’t,” John interrupted, his voice steady but not harsh. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking onto Sherlock’s. “Don’t apologize for being human. Not to me.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, his hands gripping the blanket as though it might steady him. “I don’t… I don’t feel things the way other people do,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I don’t know how to. Not like this.”

John tilted his head, studying him for a long moment. “You think you don’t,” he said softly, his voice unwavering. “But I’ve seen you. I’ve seen how you fight for the people you care about. How you protect them, even when it costs you. You feel, Sherlock. Maybe differently, maybe not in ways you even want to. But you feel.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know what to do with this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t… I don’t have the framework for it. This—what you’re saying—it doesn’t fit.”

“It doesn’t have to fit,” John said gently. “It just is. It doesn’t need to be worked-out or understood. It just… is.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched, his gaze darting to the television but not seeing it. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, trembling with something he couldn’t quite name. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

John didn’t reply immediately. Sherlock felt, rather than saw, the tension in him, the way his fingers pressed into the edge of the blanket, the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest. The silence between them stretched, film long since over, taut and electric, until John exhaled sharply, the sound almost a sigh.

“I don’t know if it’s the right time to say this,” John began, voice thick with something Sherlock couldn’t identify. “Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m making a mistake. But—”

He stopped, and Sherlock’s head turned, his eyes sharp and searching as they found John’s. There was vulnerability there, yes, but also desperation. John’s jaw tightened, and he pushed forward, his words falling heavy in the quiet.

“I don’t want this to be the thing I never said,” John admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “Not when it’s true. Not when I… I don’t want to regret not telling you.”

Sherlock’s throat tightened, his breath catching in his chest. He couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from John, whose face was now open in a way Sherlock had rarely seen. It was terrifying, that openness, that honesty, as if John were stepping out into the void without knowing if the ground would hold him.

“I love you,” John said, the words soft but clear. “I don’t expect you to know what to do with that, or even to feel the same way. But I need you to hear it. Because you need to hear it.”

Sherlock froze, his mind racing in a thousand directions at once. He wanted to protest, to refute the words, but they were out there between them, undeniable and unshakable. He searched John’s face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that this was some kind of cruel joke or mistake. But there was none.

“Why?” Sherlock managed at last, his voice breaking on the word. “Why would you…”

John leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but his voice trembling. “Because you matter to me, Sherlock. You always have. Not for what you can do, or how clever you are, but because of you. I see you—all of you. The parts you don’t think anyone notices, the things you try to hide even from yourself. And I still… I care. I always will.”

The words stole the air from his lungs. He wanted to argue, to push it away, to shield himself from what it all meant. But he couldn’t. Not this time. Something in John’s face, his voice, stopped him.

John shifted slightly, his voice softening, the desperation visibly receding. “Your Victor was your first friend,” he said gently, his words deliberate. “And you loved him, even if you didn’t know what that meant. He taught you that you could love, that you could trust, that someone could mean that much to you. And he showed you that you were worth loving, all those years ago.”

Sherlock’s chest tightened painfully. “And now?” he asked, his voice trembling, raw with uncertainty.

John’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Now you need to learn it again,” he said softly. “That you’re worth it. That you can be loved. That you are loved.”

Sherlock stared at John, the weight of his words pressing down on him in a way that felt both unbearable and healing. His chest ached with the sheer enormity of it. Loved. Worth loving. It felt like a foreign language—familiar in its shape, but incomprehensible in its meaning.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he said at last, the words slipping out unbidden, his voice wet and unsteady.

John’s gaze didn’t falter. He leaned back slightly, giving Sherlock the space he needed. “You don’t have to know how,” he said gently. “Not right away. This isn’t a case, Sherlock. It’s like… learning to trust a machine when it’s been broken for a long time. You’re not sure it’ll work again, but it can. With care, it can.”

Sherlock looked away then, unsettled and a little stung. “A machine,” he repeated “Well that’s more familiar. Cold. Mechanical.”

“No,” John said, and the word pulled at Sherlock until he looked back. “That’s just what you tell yourself. Machines aren’t cold, Sherlock. They’re warm. They’re so warm, they overheat sometimes, and they break down. They’re brilliant. Complex. And they work best when someone cares enough to put them back together.”

There was no condescension there, no pity. Just a steady, unshakable belief in him. It was maddening, humbling, terrifying.

“Why do you have faith in me? After everything?” Sherlock asked.

“Because I know you,” John replied simply. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, Sherlock. And not just because of your mind or your deductions. Because you don’t give up. You’ve faced things most people couldn’t even imagine, and you’re still here. Still fighting. If you can do that, you can do this.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he looked away, staring at the television. The flickering images seemed distant and irrelevant. He felt stripped bare, as though John had reached into some deep, uncharted part of him and started to map it.

“And if I can’t?” he murmured, the words barely audible.

John’s voice softened, but his conviction didn’t waver. “Then I’ll still be here. But I think you can. I think you will. I've learned never to underestimate you.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, his throat tight. He didn’t know what to say, how to push back against the steady conviction in John’s voice. The memories, the cravings, the guilt—they all clamored for his attention, overwhelming and relentless. But John didn’t look away, didn’t let him retreat.

“I don’t know how you can stand this,” Sherlock said finally, his voice low, rough. “I’m a mess. Worse than that, I’m... a wreckage. You’re setting yourself up for—”

“I know what I’m setting myself up for,” John interrupted, his voice steady and strong. “I’ve seen your highs and your lows and everything in between.”

Sherlock frowned, still resisting. “It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not,” John said, leaning forward slightly. “This is harder. For you. And for me. But I’m not walking away because it’s hard. That’s not who I am. And it’s not who you are, either.”

And then John shifted across the space between them, shifted until he was curled against Sherlock’s side, his head pressed against his shoulder, his breath ghosting over his collar. 

“I know you can do this,” he said quietly, like a confession. “I know you can face the memories, the cravings, all of it. You’ve survived worse. You just have to decide it’s what you want.”

Sherlock’s breath caught, his throat working as he swallowed against the tightness. John’s proximity, his warmth and steadiness, was both grounding and disarming. “I do want it,” Sherlock said finally, his voice breaking on the admission. “I want to… to try. But I don’t know how. I don’t know where to start.”

John stayed where he was, pressed close, his presence unyielding but not suffocating. “That’s enough,” he said quietly, his words sure and unwavering. “Knowing what you want—that’s the first step. The rest? You don’t have to work that out on your own.”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, glancing down at John. The familiar lines of his face, so ordinary to others, seemed impossibly steady to him now. Sherlock’s voice dropped to a murmur, almost hesitant. “What if I can’t do it?”

John lifted his head just enough to meet Sherlock’s gaze, his expression soft but firm. “You can. You will. And not because I’ll push you, or drag you there kicking and screaming. Because you’ll choose to, every day. And when you stumble—and you will—I’ll be here. To remind you why it’s worth it.”

Sherlock’s lips parted, but no words came. He was used to finding patterns, deducing motives, calculating outcomes. But this—this quiet, unending belief in him—was something he couldn’t quantify. He exhaled slowly, his breath trembling as he allowed the idea to settle.

“I don’t understand how you can…” Sherlock trailed off, his voice thick. “How you can hope like this.”

“Because it’s you,” John said simply, his voice steady but filled with quiet conviction. His hands curled up next to Sherlock’s arm, his head rested more fully on his shoulder, and even as he spoke his eyes slipped closed. “Because I see you, Sherlock. Not the detective, not the genius, not the addict. Just you. And I’ve been hoping for you since the day we met.”

The words were like a puzzle piece slotting into place after years of chaos. He stared at John, the force of those words settling somewhere deep inside him, unfamiliar yet undeniable. His mind, so often a storm of relentless thoughts, fell quiet for once. There was no deduction to make, no defense to raise. Just the truth of it, as simple and unshakable as John himself. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there were words that could even begin to respond. But John didn’t seem to need him to. He stayed there, close and calm, his breathing steady, his heart beating against Sherlock's side.

Sherlock stared at him—this man who refused to walk away, who dared to love him even when Sherlock didn’t understand how to love himself. He watched the faint lines of John’s face soften as he fell asleep, listened to the even rhythm of his breathing. For a fleeting moment, Sherlock wondered if he, too, could be as brave as the man beside him. If he could dare to hope for something more.

Because this was John. Not the blogger, not the doctor, not the war veteran. Just John. And he was everything.

Time passed, though Sherlock couldn’t say how long. He stayed awake for a while, letting the steady warmth of John’s presence soothe the jagged edges inside him. Eventually, his body gave in, sinking deeper into the couch, into the quiet safety of John’s orbit.

He thought of Victor—his laughter, the wild adventures, the trust he had placed in Sherlock so freely. For years, those memories had been locked away, suffocated by guilt and grief. But now, they felt different. The pain was still there, but so was something else. The love he had felt, the love he had been given, began to shine through, no longer overshadowed by loss.

Facing the past hadn’t broken him, though it had come close. Instead, it had left cracks where the light could filter in. It hadn’t made the way forward easy—far from it. Remembering how to be a person capable of love, of trust, of feeling so deeply, was going to be strange, unsettling, even embarrassing, somehow. But Sherlock found himself willing to try. He didn’t know what it would cost, only that he would give whatever he could to make it happen.

John shifted slightly in his sleep, and his arm snaked out to drape securely around Sherlock's chest, grounding him in the present. Sherlock let his head rest against John’s, the unfamiliar feeling of connection comforting despite its strangeness. As he finally allowed himself to drift toward sleep, he wondered what it was going to feel like, to wake up next to John, and knew that he wouldn't miss that moment—that feeling—for anything.