Chapter Two:

"The End (and the Beginning)"

Author's note: I almost wrote myself into a corner, but I think I found my way out. I'm still not as happy with this. It didn't turn out like I planned, but maybe it works okay. Again, this was an experiment for me (in present tense). It was tough in more ways than one.

He is surprisingly graceful, even when drunk. She hears the soft click of the lock, and his uneven footsteps in the hallway. Then she sees him. He stands there a moment and they take each other in. His clothes are rumpled and his hair stands up in wild swirls. He has a cut above his left eye and bruises on his cheek and jawline. His left hand is bandaged. He blinks several times, then leans back heavily against the wall, looking at her with an unwavering gaze.

He is afraid to speak. His mind is not thinking four, five or six moves ahead like normal—the alcohol has taken care of that for tonight, although he knows that tomorrow, he will be as acutely, painfully, crystal-sharp as always. She must be a phantasm of his brain, he thinks. His mouth works, but he doesn't know what to say.

"Sherlock." She is by his side in a moment. The hand holding his arm is warm and real. He blinks in astonishment; he hasn't counted on this—he had convinced himself that she was gone. Forever.

"Watson. . ." He lets her guide him over to the couch. He's shivering from walking too long in the cold outside. "Watson?" She begins to check him over. Her touch is warm and soothing on his face, and he tries to resist the comforting feeling. "Aren't you addict-sitting someone new?" He tries to play off his stunned expression with his old familiar dig at her.

Ignoring him, she is eyeing the cut above his eyebrow, realizing it must be a day or two old. In his typical fashion, he has not taken care of it well. She feels gently around each bruise, but no bones seem to be broken. In fact, he doesn't seem to notice her pressing fingers at all, he is just looking at her, his face expressionless. "What happened?" She asks.

"Apparently some people don't appreciate my sparkling personality." He replies, stumbling over his words a little. He holds up his hand and gestures to his face. "Bar fight." He shrugs as if it means nothing. But it means something to her. She is both upset and worried, but managing to watch him with that stern gaze of hers. The one that says he's doing something unacceptable—he's seen that look enough to know.

"I see you forgot to leave your key when you moved out." He says, then the world seems to tilt like he's on a giant see-saw and he sinks down further on the couch.

"Did I?" She asks innocently. "Wait here." She gets up to go for the first aid kit, but he catches her arm with his iron grip.

"No. Don't leave." He is holding her hard enough to bruise, but doesn't realize it. What if she left again? He sees all the days laid out before him, alone, and his resolve to be tough crumbles away. He has to say the things that he didn't say when she left. "Watson. . .You can't go. I need you."

"Sherlock, I'm not going." She says softly, not yet working her hand from his grip. "I'm just getting the first aid kit."

Her assurance is calming and he reluctantly lets her hand go and lays his head back on the sofa, watching the room spin around him. He hates her seeing him like this—he's weak and he knows it, but he also knows that no one else will understand the crushing wave of loneliness he feels. He is drowning in it. Needing her—it's a weakness, but he doesn't care anymore.

She touches his face softly, but it still stings. He smells alcohol, the antiseptic kind. "Don't lie to me." She begins slowly. Her face is stern again. "What's going on? Is it just drinking or are you using again? I mean the drinking's definitely not good, but if you are . . ."

His face registers swift pain, hating himself for making her doubt him. "No drugs." He murmurs looking down, knowing the alcohol is bad enough. He can't help but be truthful with her, however. "I thought about it, but I didn't."

His words make her sad. Working with so many addicts, she knows the claws of that obsession don't ever let go. She tilts his chin up, so she can look into his eyes. He was telling the truth as far as she could tell. She sighed in relief. "Okay. But I'm still going to drug test you later." When he had been her client, that phrase had become a refrain. Now it makes them both smile slightly.

She has so many questions to ask, but she holds them back, planning her strategy, as she examines the broken skin on his knuckles. She cleans the wounds again and applies a new bandage. "You can't continue to do this to yourself, but I have a feeling you already know that." She glances at him, then carries on packing the first aid kit back in the box.

"Sherlock, You have so many talents." She sits next to him so she can look into his eyes. "I . . .I have been in awe of you. I have seen that you can do things no one else can do. I hope you know I say that at the risk of making your head bigger than it already is." She smiles at him briefly, then continues. "I have missed watching you do what you do every day. Gregson says he's had a case for you, but you've been dodging him. That's not you. This—" she gestures at him, referring to his inebriated state, "I don't have to tell you how bad this is…how dangerous for you…"

As he listens to her, he can't hold back what he's about to say, like the walls of a crumbling vault spilling out its precious secret. "You're not being here…it's not the same." He shakes his head. "I need you here with me, Watson. I've never needed anyone before." He pauses and frowns intently. "I don't like it, needing someone. It's rather inconvenient."

She is floored by what he says. With other people, those words might not seem like much, but for him…she knows it's a monumental revelation. He looks embarrassed at her expression, so he quickly quips, "But most of all, it's the way you ask annoying questions, the way you tidy up around here, the grocery shopping, your interruptions while I read, those dreadful matches—I've found they make life a little less boring." He shrugged. "I get into trouble when I get bored."

She sits there, looking at him with wonder in her eyes. He was so complex, with one of the finest minds she had ever known. Dealing with him on a daily basis had been frustrating and infuriating. Yet sometimes, it was amazingly simple. "It's okay. Everyone needs someone. Companionship . . . friendship. . ."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "I can't promise you I know how to be a friend. I've never had many. I know I can be difficult, but I'll attempt to improve. For you."

"I think I'm going to like 'friend' a lot better than 'addict sitter'." Her smile for him is like summer sun on his face. He realizes he's been in the dark for a while.

He flashes her one of those little frownish-grins and looks down. "So. I guess we have a case for tomorrow, Watson?"

"If you're up to it. Come on." She gets up and then pulls him to his feet. They make their way through the living room, and she deposits him on his bed. "I may not be your 'addict sitter' anymore, but no more of this. Work. You said that's what you need. And I'm going to hold you to it. Now, though—go to sleep."

He nods, kicking off his shoes and curling up in the bed, knowing it is futile to argue.

"Good night, Sherlock." She goes to the door. "I'll be here in the morning."

He tries to reply, and manages to mumble something that vaguely resembles "'G'night, Joan," before sleep claims him. With a smile, she flips off the light and closes the door.

She sees hope rising like the sun of a new day.