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It’s been six days in total. His father isn’t here. At least not yet.
He’s been here on the rooftop for six days in total. Six before Watson came to see him.
The bees go about their business, but Euglassia Watsonia is unnaturally silent. He knows he will never have the courage to face them or her. He will never have the courage to explain to her that yes he could have walked away and yes he could have called her and yes he could have not been there in the first place and yes he didn’t have a reason to relapse. Alfredo had been found and Oscar was just an obstacle in the way.
Sherlock Holmes used because he knew Oscar was his last straw and walked into the hellhole with full consent. He didn’t have to follow Oscar and his demands and no he certainly didn’t have to continue on the path that he had decided for himself.
All he remembers is Watson’s face and the desolating euphoria of the drugs entering his system before-
He doesn’t remember much.
Click. Click. Click.
But he remembers opening his eyes at the hospital with the doctor checking his vitals, a resolute expression on his face. He remembers Gregson, Bell and Mrs Hudson and even Alfredo but no Watson.
No Watson until the day he is being released. She doesn’t come in. Just stares absently through the window with no hint of disappointment, anger, fear or worry.
Funny enough, he recognises that face easily. It's one of the faces he used to have after Irene’s demise.
She is coming undone.
Sherlock knows that Watson doesn’t want to meet him because he's already done enough.
He particularly remembers the day she finally comes on the rooftop, after days of muteness encompassing the Brownstone. He is deliberately facing away. The bees have seen enough, and he doesn’t want to show more.
Her voice is strangely held together.
“Just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“It’s been three days. I thought you might be ready to talk.”
“There’s something you need to know. I don’t know how, but he found about what happened.”
There’s not even one hitch in her voice even when she says the words. It’s really the wrong time to admire her.
And then there’s the silence again. Those moments of perfect clarity before she leaves, a decision made and secrets kept.
But.
It’s the click of her heels that give her away.
It’s the seventh day and his father will be here in an hour.
It’s the seventh day and he needs to talk.
The footsteps are heavy but Sherlock manages to drag himself to her room and knock. There’s that maniacal silence again.
He knows she is in there.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
There’s still no answer.
The next moment he pushes the door open and takes five steps back until his back crashes with the railing.
The howl of the wind sweeps by and lifts the sheet to a Watson who is surrounded by bottles of alcohol.
Multiple bottles.
Rat’s nest hair.
Dark circles.
Torn up pieces of paper.
Broken bottles.
Empty bottles.
Full bottles.
He takes an unstable step inside and it’s then he notices the tear stained cheeks and the continual trembling of her hand.
A controlled descent is still falling.
Joan Watson, the detective, the partner, the friend, the support system, the person he loves most in the world.
The drip, drip, drip of existence.
Stray tears cascade down his cheeks and it is only moments later before the choking sobs ensue.
It wasn’t only him. It never was only him. There wasn’t one recovering addict in this house.
Turns out there’s two.