“Can’t make it go, John. S’you… S’all you, and I can’t… It’s not enough,” he croaked, waving a hand to indicate the whiskey bottle. “Not enough to get it… get it out. Can’t keep fighting it, John, and then—” He cut himself off with another great shuddering breath, and spoke the last words in a voice barely above a whisper. “Then you’ll leave and everything, everything will…” He trailed off, burying his face in John’s jumper as though he thought he would sink into it if he clung close enough. John stroked his hand gently over the trembling bundle in his arms, frowning down at the cloud of dark curls tickling his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. You of all people should have noticed by now that I—that this isn’t something I would give up willingly, toes in the freezer and all. God help me.” He lifted a hand up over the collar of the dressing gown, absentmindedly running his fingers through the endless inky curls. “And whatever it is that you’re trying to purge yourself of,” he added, “drowning yourself in whiskey is not the solution. You have to admit you’re human sometimes, Sherlock. If this is what it looks like, you thinking you can dismiss any emotion with the aid of drugs and careful repression, you’ve got to stop it. All right? Just stop, for once. The world won’t end, I promise.” Sherlock’s fingers tightened where they were gripping on to John’s jumper, as though fearful he would just stand up and walk away. He lifted his head, eyebrows furrowed as though the simple motion took a monumental effort; unsurprising, given his current state of inebriation. John’s hand dropped down to his shoulder as the grey eyes studied him, rather less focused than usual. From what Lestrade had told him, John had gathered that Sherlock was very good at acting as though nothing were amiss when he was high, but apparently he had less control over himself under the influence of alcohol. John was no stranger to the various ways in which alcohol affected people, but it was still unsettling to see Sherlock like this, utterly stripped of the cool, confident demeanor he normally possessed. Sherlock himself would undoubtedly be disgusted if he remembered anything the next morning. John felt his stomach twinge as he wondered what could possibly have driven the man to let himself go like this.
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“Can’t make it go, John. S’you… S’all you, and I can’t… It’s not enough,” he croaked, waving a hand to indicate the whiskey bottle. “Not enough to get it… get it out. Can’t keep fighting it, John, and then—” He cut himself off with another great shuddering breath, and spoke the last words in a voice barely above a whisper. “Then you’ll leave and everything, everything will…” He trailed off, burying his face in John’s jumper as though he thought he would sink into it if he clung close enough.
John stroked his hand gently over the trembling bundle in his arms, frowning down at the cloud of dark curls tickling his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. You of all people should have noticed by now that I—that this isn’t something I would give up willingly, toes in the freezer and all. God help me.” He lifted a hand up over the collar of the dressing gown, absentmindedly running his fingers through the endless inky curls. “And whatever it is that you’re trying to purge yourself of,” he added, “drowning yourself in whiskey is not the solution. You have to admit you’re human sometimes, Sherlock. If this is what it looks like, you thinking you can dismiss any emotion with the aid of drugs and careful repression, you’ve got to stop it. All right? Just stop, for once. The world won’t end, I promise.”
Sherlock’s fingers tightened where they were gripping on to John’s jumper, as though fearful he would just stand up and walk away. He lifted his head, eyebrows furrowed as though the simple motion took a monumental effort; unsurprising, given his current state of inebriation. John’s hand dropped down to his shoulder as the grey eyes studied him, rather less focused than usual. From what Lestrade had told him, John had gathered that Sherlock was very good at acting as though nothing were amiss when he was high, but apparently he had less control over himself under the influence of alcohol. John was no stranger to the various ways in which alcohol affected people, but it was still unsettling to see Sherlock like this, utterly stripped of the cool, confident demeanor he normally possessed. Sherlock himself would undoubtedly be disgusted if he remembered anything the next morning. John felt his stomach twinge as he wondered what could possibly have driven the man to let himself go like this.