Fic: No Matter (How much you’ve changed I’ll still love you)

Title: No Matter (How much you’ve changed I’ll still love you)
Author: Altezio
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock w/ side pairings along the way
Rating: Pg-13 – NC-17
Chapters: 1/15
Chapter word count: 3,140
Disclaimer: I won nothing but the plot. I am just playing in the wonderfully provided sandbox with the wonderful characters.
Warnings: Post S2E3, mentions of drug use, mentions of abuse, swearing, eventual m/m relationship, sex, and slash. More warnings as the story goes along.
Summary: It had been five months since Sherlock had walked off the roof, and John was trying to move on with his life. But then he finds Sherlock laying nearly dead in the gutter on night, and takes him home. But Sherlock isn’t the same, and its Johns job to find him again and bring him back.

Chapter One
Let the Rain Fall

John didn’t mind the rain. In fact he found he rather enjoyed it. So when it started after his date with a pretty brunette he had met while at work, he helped her hail a cab, and bid her good night, politely declining her invitation back to her place. He watched the black cab as it drove away before turning and heading back towards Baker Street. Smiling to himself he looked up at the darkened sky loving the feeling of the cool rain hitting his face. He released a soft sigh before turning back to the task at hand.

Despite his love of the rain he wanted to get home quicker. He could feel the rain starting to soak into his clothes and touch his skin. Shrugging his shoulders to get some of the rain off, he made a quick turn and started down a long alley. Before he had met Sherlock he hadn’t even thought about using the allies, but Sherlock had a love of running around the city and dragging Sherlock along so naturally John had a pretty good map of all of London’s. It was handy in situations such as these when the rain was pouring and he wanted to get home fast.

Before he got too far down the alley, John made sure to make a mental note of any and all homeless people that had decided to make this long stretch their home until the rain had stopped. Their weren’t to many so it made getting through easier and faster—less people to beg for money. He was almost through the alley when his foot caught and he tumbled to the ground. Groaning in pain, he pushing himself up on his forearms and looks back, only to see a body stretched out of the cold ground.  Letting out a breath, he sat up, quickly adjusting himself so he could get a better look at the figure.

At first glance it didn’t look like they were breathing, but when John reached out to touch them the person drew in a deep breath—one you would hear if you were surfacing water for the first time—and then let out a watery sounding cough. The person curled into themself, trying to fill their lungs with as much air as they could.

He didn’t know why he did, but something inside John told him not to just leave this person without at least checking to make sure they were really okay. Reaching down he cradled the persons head and let out a shocked breath. The man’s eyes were screwed shut in what John could only guess was pain, but he could clearly make out the facial structure of Sherlock Holmes. There was also a bone deep feeling that made John even surer of the person’s identity. There was nobody in London that could even compare to the way Sherlock looked, and how he made John feel.

Never mind Sherlock was supposes to be dead—he would worry about that later—he needed to make sure the man was alright. The way Sherlock was breathing had the doctor worry. Reaching up with his free hand, John pushed a lock of muddy black hair out of Sherlock’s face, and ran a wet hand over his face. The younger man moaned softly and moved away from the touch. Just from looking at him, John could tell Sherlock was sick. The younger man was feverish, his skin was pale, and his eyes were slightly sunken in with dark circles around them. Just looking at him made John worry what he would find under the younger man’s clothes.

Swallowing hard John glanced around. He knew what he needed to do, but having Sherlock in his arms was making everything just blur together. He finally snapped out of it when Sherlock shivered violently making John look down at him. The rain was doing nothing to improve the younger man’s condition, so as gently as he could he lifted Sherlock and headed in the direction of Baker Street.

He tried to push the worry out of his mind at how light Sherlock was now. He had been jumped on plenty of times by Sherlock and while he was by no means heavy, he wasn’t light either. He knew he was going to have his work cut out for him the moment he got home. He was already making a mental note of what he would have to do. Despite all of that though, John couldn’t push the feeling of elation he was having at having Sherlock back in his life.

He had tried to stomp the feelings of attachment, and then love when he had realized what they had been, but it hadn’t done him any good. Sherlock was something else and John was like a moth to his brilliant flame. Almost everything Sherlock did had John secretly smiling even if it was the most insane thing in the world. It didn’t matter because it was Sherlock.

It had nearly killed him when he had seen Sherlock standing on the edge of the roof. He had felt his heart in his throat on a number of occasions, but never as strongly as he had felt it then. The phone call had been the worst of his life when Sherlock had said his goodbye, and then he had walked off. There had been no explanation, not grand magic trick, just the solid crunch of Sherlock’s body hitting the ground. John didn’t believe in magic, but he found himself wishing Sherlock would jump up and smile at John the way he did when he was making a point, and then they would walk back to Baker Street and laugh about it. But as the seconds ticked by, and Sherlock didn’t jump but the sinking feeling in his stomach grew more and more, and then the desperation set in. Sherlock was really dead. He wasn’t coming back. John was alone again…but Sherlock wasn’t dead. He was in his arms right now and he looked like shit.

Pushing the thoughts out of his head John picked up his pace, wanting to get Sherlock back home as quickly as he could. It didn’t take him any time at all before he was emerging onto the empty road of Baker Street. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, John dashed to the door, and pushed it open. Once inside he took a moment to catch his breath before starting towards the stairs.

Before he could get their though Mrs. Hudson hurried out of her flat, the smile falling from her face the moment she saw John with a mud covered figure in his arms. Looking up at him in shock she spoke, “John what have you done?”

He didn’t grace her with an answer—knowing she would follow him anyways—he just dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He pushed open the door to his flat, and made a B-line to the bathroom. As gently as he could he set Sherlock against the wall, making sure he wouldn’t fall over and turned to the bathtub. He was grateful Sherlock had fallen back into unconsciousness during his trip back home, it made maneuvering him that much easier.

“John Wats—oh!” Mrs. Hudson stopped the moment she stepped into the bathroom as saw Sherlock leaning against the wall. Falling to her knee’s in front of him she gingerly reached out and touched his face before looking at John. The doctor was watching her, his expression unreadable as she gently touched Sherlock, “Where did you find him?” she questioned softly.

John laughed humorlessly, “I quite literally fell over him.” He said flinging water off his hands when he was sure it was warm enough.

The woman moaned sadly and scooted away as John reached over to start stripping him. She watched as John gently pulled off the wet scraps of cloth, and discarded them in a small pile, before gently scooping him up and setting him in the water. Picking up the cloth she watched John for a moment longer before turning and leaving.

John listened to Mrs. Hudson leave before he started the task of cleaning off the younger man. Just like he had suspected the damage was much worse under the clothes. John could see what seemed like every bone in Sherlock’s body, bruises littered his pale skin, and there were scars in every phase of healing all over his body. The worst though was the cut that started at his right hip, and ended just below his rib cage. The cut was red and puffy and looked extremely painful. He would have to make sure Sherlock got tested soon. Out in the streets of London you never knew what the knife that had stabbed you had been used for before.

As soon as he was finished washing the dirt, and who knows what else of Sherlock’s body, John emptied out the water and refilled it. He wanted to make sure he got everything. As soon as the tub was filled again, John sat back and looked at Sherlock. Really looked at him. He was still the beautiful and mysterious creature he had fallen in love with, but now he could see the cracks. At first he had wondered if there even were any, but now he could really see them. John released a shaky breath, and ran his hand over Sherlock’s now clean face.

Tears he had refused to shed when he realized Sherlock wasn’t coming back now feel in long slow lines down his face. He had gone back to counseling a month after Sherlock had jumped—a suggestion by Lestrade—and the woman had been surprised at Johns lack of tears. As the sessions went on, she started to question why he was acting as if he had lost a long time love. She suggested to him on numerous occasions that he get back into the dating scene and forget about Sherlock because it made no logical sense as to why he was acting like this.

As soon as he could John stopped going to see her again. But he did take one of her suggestions. He started dating in an attempt to fill the whole Sherlock had left in his heart. None of them ever amounted to anything, and soon they all became Johns attempt to forget about the pain.

He had been so concerned about all the other damage that had been done to Sherlock that he didn’t notice the tiny bruises that littered Sherlock’s arms. Wiping the tears away he reached into the water and lifted his arms hoping to god he wasn’t going to find what he thought he would. Lining his arms, along the blue veins where tiny little needle marks. John released a breath and looked up at Sherlock’s face. The man had fallen back into his old habits again. The habit he had promised he had kicked.

Cursing softly to himself he rubbed the bridge of his nose with the palm of his hand. He had been prepared to deal with the fallout of whatever abuse Sherlock had suffered while out on the streets, but now he had to deal with this! Cocaine addiction was something completely different. It was harder and more painful. Sherlock had been a pain when he hadn’t had a smoke, John couldn’t even imagine what cocaine withdrawal was going to be like.

Breathing in aggravation, he tried to hold in the angry tears, but they fell regardless. “Why’d you have to do this Sherlock?” he whispered his voice hoarse, “Why? Why’d you have to go walk of a roof and not tell anyone why? Obviously you’re alive so it was some magic trick wasn’t it…or was it just to prove a point?” John stared at the unconscious man for a long moment before speaking again, this time his voice soft, and broken, “I wouldn’t have told anyone if that’s what you wanted. I would have done anything for you…why didn’t you come home Sherlock?”

Mrs. Hudson watched John from the doorway, a set of new clothes in hand. She listened to him as he spoke softly to Sherlock, asking him why he had done what he had done. You’d have to be a fool to miss the look of complete adoration on Johns face as he looked down at Sherlock. John hadn’t told her how he felt about Sherlock, but she had known. He was happier when Sherlock was around. And she couldn’t help but notice the way John watched him, and how he smiled when he entered the room. John was absolutely besotted with Sherlock.

So when Sherlock had jumped it hadn’t surprised her how badly it had affected John. He had stopped living at 221B for a long while. He continued to pay the rent, but he was never there. When he did finally come back he wasn’t the same. She would listen to him scream at night, and it broke her heart every time. She also started noticing the strange new look in his eye. At first she couldn’t place it, but then one of her friends husbands died, and she saw it again. It was the look of someone who missed their lover so much they wanted nothing more than to go and see them again, regardless of the people they would be leaving behind. The look concerned her greatly. She didn’t want to lose another person she cared about.

She had thought when he started dating again everything would be better, but the look was still there. Eventually the screaming had stopped, but then the sleepless nights started. She would watch as John would sit by one of the windows and just stare at the sky. He had looked so sad, and she wished there was something she could do to help him.

The older woman was just glad Sherlock was back again. Broken or not, he was still back and that meant John could start healing. Setting the extra set of clothes down on the toilet seat, she put a comforting hand on Johns shoulder before turning and heading downstairs. She would come back up and check on them in the morning.

-x-

“Mycroft Holmes speaking.”

“I found him Mycroft. I found Sherlock.”

-x-

John sat the phone down on the bed side table and sat down on the chair he had placed beside the bed. Mycroft had hung up the phone immediately so he was sure he was on his way by now. Releasing a breath, John leaned back into his chair and stared at Sherlock. His breathing was still off, but he was resting comfortably now, not lying somewhere in the gutter. He had stitched up the gash on his stomach as best he could, with his set of tools he had kept at him in case of situations such as these, and bandaged him up. He hadn’t given him anything for the pain, due to the fact that he didn’t know what all Sherlock had in his system at the moment, and didn’t want to risk him killing Sherlock. So at the moment Sherlock was doing pretty well.

He had only woken up once since Sherlock had brought him into the house, and that was right after he had finished sewing him up. Sherlock had opened his eyes, looking around frantically and in a total panic. John had rested a hand on his chest and spoke softly to him. Sherlock had looked at him for a moment before recognition had struck and a small smile had flashed across his features. “John,” he had said before quickly passing out again.

It had been probably the happiest moment of John’s life. Sherlock remembered him. He knew he probably would, but there was always that chance. He didn’t know what Sherlock had been through, but he was sure it was enough that it probably would have made a sane person go insane, and Sherlock was far from sane. At this point he wasn’t going to try and get anything from him until he was sure Sherlock was well and truly on the road to recovery. He didn’t want to risk any sort of relapse.

Before he let Mycroft near Sherlock, he would have to make sure the older Holmes understood this. He didn’t want any sort of fighting going on. His main concern was getting Sherlock better and if that meant Mycroft not being around until later then so be it.

John ran a wet cloth over Sherlock’s forehead just as the doorbell rang downstairs. He struggled with himself not knowing if he wanted to go and greet Mycroft himself or stay with Sherlock. Eventually he chose the second, wanting to make sure Sherlock was still really there, and wasn’t going to disappear the moment he looked away. He listened as Mrs. Hudson let Mycroft up the stairs before standing and walking to the entrance of Sherlock’s room.

Mycroft walked in, a dangerous look on his face, “Mr. Watson I advise you cease whatever game you are trying to play before you regret it.”

John stared at Mycroft for a long moment before speaking, “You wouldn’t be here though if you didn’t think it might be true. You would have told me that over the phone rather than making your way all the way over here.”

The older Holmes glared at John for a moment before glancing over his shoulder, “Well, where is he then?”

John glanced back, almost wanting to tell the other man that he was really just joking so he could have Sherlock all to himself. But he couldn’t do that to him. They had both been wrecks when he Sherlock had jumped. So he took a deep breath and gestured for Mycroft to follow. He was about to tell Mycroft not to do anything that would affect Sherlock when the man rushed past him, and fell to his knee’s beside the bed.

He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and rubbed at the cool skin of his knuckles, “Sherlock?” he whispered against his skin, “Sherly? Oh Sherlock…what have you done to yourself?”

TBC…

A/N: So did you like it? I hope you liked it, cuz I actually really like it. I needed to write something sad, and something long so I decided that I would write this. This is my first Sherlock fic of any kind, but I fell in love with the bbc characterization and had to do something. So I hope you like. All mistakes are mine and will be fixed as soon as I see them—or they are pointed out to me. Feedback is loved and appreciated, so have at the and tell me what you think. Thank you for reading 😀 too.