a/n: for jess as part of the gift-giving extravaganza 2014! :)

{drink the days of sorrow}

i.

Sherlock smells like blood and Earl Grey in the morning, and a million other things: formaldehyde, gasoline, milk, steel. John stares at him from across the laboratory, watching the fluid movement of his fingers, wielding a scalpel like he does a bow. The cadaver simply unfolds underneath his care, the observations made by the man meticulously recorded by a lip-chewing Molly, a styrofoam cup ensnared firmly in the grip of her elbow.

He is there, ready to hand a clamp or a bone saw, or simply to act as a backboard for Sherlock to bounce his theories off of. More than once, he catches Molly's eye, and she looks at him with an envy as bitter as black coffee. Her gaze reads, Who are you? Who are you, to disturb everything, to take your place there beside him? And a part of him understands the jealousy.

Sometimes, he looks at Sherlock and wonders what it would be like to open up that head, uncap the skull and see all the spools of the brain, shuttling thoughts like frantic centipedes. What are you thinking of now? he would ask. What's in that great big labyrinth of a mind of yours?

Hundreds upon hundreds of tells cling to the detective, but for the life of him, John simply cannot decipher Sherlock Holmes.

ii.

The refrigerator contains a dry rotisserie, still in the plastic grocery tub, and a few heads of curling lettuce. On the bottom shelf lies a severed head, remarkably fresh, but beginning to get a nasty smell. The blood has coagulated, looking more like a pool of jelly than anything else. John sighs, curses Sherlock's utter disregard for the social norms of storage spaces, and tosses the head in a cooler filled with ice cubes. Sherlock emerges from the bedroom shortly after, hair in disarray and puffy eyed. Pursing his lips, John shoves a few ledgers and textbooks off of the table, setting aside a few beakers and vials of blue liquid, and dropping a bag onto the now empty area. Sherlock eyes the 'Thank you! Please come again' with boredom.

"Breakfast," John says curtly.

"The head from the Kipling factory?"

"Cooler. Sherlock, we've talked about this, Mrs. Hudson has complained enough-"

Without preamble, Sherlock tears the bag open and unwraps a scone, taking a bite while muttering a garbled string of words that sounds like, "So you were saying?"

John sighs, because there truly is no point in arguing once his flatmate has chosen to gloss over a topic. He gets a paper plate and spoons out dollop of lumpy scrambled eggs, taking forkfuls and typing on his laptop as Sherlock stands inches away, wearing nothing but a bathroom towel and taking notes on the state of his lab specimen. At some point in their meal, Mrs. Hudson comes in, sets a fresh pot of tea atop an atlas, and makes a banal comment on the state of their domestic affairs.

"You're both like an old married couple; it's so sweet!" she remarks, and exits smiling.

John turns. "Are we?"

"An expansion," Sherlock replies.

John frowns, puzzled. "Sorry?"

"That was the answer you wanted to your earlier question, wasn't it? The lab is upgrading. There's been some faults with the storage facilities, and a replacement of the old systems had been commissioned months ago. So, for the moment, I've had to bring a few of my specimens home - Molly's taking care of the rest - and store them here. I thought you wouldn't mind, and it seems you don't." He nods at the cooler, sitting placidly underneath the table like a slumbering animal. "You've already begun to adjust."

Sherlock smiles, a pleasantly condescending display, and John grumbles and goes for more tea.

"Have your things ready exactly thirty minutes from now. I'd rather we not miss the train this time." Sherlock springs from his chair, ebullient about a case in his typical, measured fashion, while John mutters about his retreating shoulders, white and rounded. Hypocritical bastard.

In the kitchen, he nurses his cup and waits.

iii.

Sometimes when it gets too much, he goes out for a drink. When he returns to the flat, feeling warm and vaguely disoriented, he finds Sherlock sitting bolt upright on the couch, imperious as a headmaster in his jacket and trousers, black loafers propped up on a pillow. At first, he thinks Sherlock might still be awake, but a closer inspection reveals closed eyes and steady but slow breathing.

Asleep, his mind snickers, as though there might be something scandalous about Sherlock sleeping; the graceful reputation shattered by this little, intimate peek. Of that, there is little to be concerned about. His flatmate's cheekbones are still as severe in the dim lamplight, arms crossed like scissor blades, his mop of hair falling cleanly across a pale brow. John takes one of the cold hands in his own, feels the pulse running through it, and gives a tiny sigh of relief.

With remarkable focus in his inebriated stupor, he shambles back over to the hallway, where he picks up Sherlock's trenchcoat from the coatrack and pulls it back to the sofa. He clears away the messy papers, the remains of a chicken sandwich, and sits down heavily. His legs stretch out awkwardly next to the ramrod posture of his companion, and he drapes the coat over the both of them. He grasps for Sherlock's hand again, warming the fingers with the last of the beer buzz, and he thinks that he can feel his friend's grip tighten just before his eyes flutter and he drifts.

iv.

Occasionally, they break the lull. It will start off simple: coming back from a case, exhaustion, fear, and exultation over seeing what the police could not. One of them will make the silent invitation, the call lying only in the bitter coffee dregs, the catch of an eye, the sick fluorescent glow lengthening the shadows on their faces. It is desperate, sort of, and hungry, and they end up on the bed kissing madly, hands unbuttoning shirts and clawing at skin and Sherlock's lips are on top of his, fingers deftly extricating John from cumbersome layers of clothing. They touch, and it is wild.

In the morning, it is cold; the whole flat is hushed by the solemnity of the night before. John sleeps soundly for most of the night but wakes around 5:00 AM in the morning, eyes bleary and crusted. He checks the cracked alarm clock, groans, and falls back into bed, drawing the sheets around himself for warmth. Beside him, Sherlock barely stares, and John stills as he inadvertently skims against the other man's back. He turns and draws his eyelids shut, fighting away thoughts like Sherlock Holmes is in my bed. He does not move.

Two hours later, one of them will wake up fully and stumble out of the grip of the blankets. This time, it is Sherlock who rises while John pretends to be unconscious, ears cocked for sounds. He hears Sherlock's slipper-clad feet walking into their dining cum living room, hears Sherlock's voice speaking politely to an amiable Mrs. Hudson, and hears Sherlock returning with two chipped mugs. John wakes, really wakes now, and sits up, propping his head against the boards. Sherlock walks in looking a little lost, some of his previous composure gone, holding the mugs awkwardly in front of him like a tentative peace offering. Even in his rumpled shirt and slacks, the grimy sunlight scarcely illuminating the planes of his face, he looks beautiful. John gulps, cowed.

"Tea?" Sherlock asks, the slightest bit of apprehension in his tone as he extends the first cup. John accepts it, slurping down the hot brew greedily while peering at Sherlock over the rim. The detective seems peaceful, slouched over on the edge of the mattress, hair askew in gnarled nets all over the top of his scalp. He lingers over Sherlock for a bit longer and senses the patterns of normalcy restarting, repairing the damage done.

If he was more alert, it would not happen. There would not be this in-between after every time, the silence that ensues. But he is tired, and he needs the solace.

Getting up, he sits down next to Sherlock. They watch the sun rise.

v.

The circle begins anew - another morning, another case. Baker Street runs smoothly as it always does, a well-oiled machine. At the station, John stares at Sherlock across the mounds of paperwork as Lestrade explains their newest case. Sherlock returns the look with a smile, a hint of teeth and a curling of the lips that disappears almost as soon as it shows.

John stares at his hands, at the wrinkles in the skin, and feels lonely.