He was always there. Whenever Sherlock woke up, he'd be there, usually slouched in the hospital chair next to the bed, asleep. Sometimes, he'd remain conscious, determined to see the moment the detective woke up. Either way, Sherlock never woke alone, no matter what he'd done.
It had been an extremely tiring day at work, and John was walking along the streets of London and back to Baker Street, having decided that the fresh air would hopefully help him focus. Clearly it wasn't working, for he didn't even notice the black car pull up alongside him, and it wasn't until a blinding pain flashed through his skull and he began to sink into darkness, that he knew something was wrong.
John awoke alone and groggily, a constant pounding in his head bringing him back to awareness. His eyes cracked open, and he immediately bolted upright when he saw his surroundings. Cabin, was the first word that came to mind. He was definitely in some sort of cabin. The wooded walls and wooded furniture certainly supported that statement, and the old-fashioned stove suggested somewhere simple and basic. John was sitting on a single bed in the corner of the room, and the wall-length windows let in floods of light. Outside, the only thing that could be viewed was a large expanse of forest. He had absolutely no idea where he was.
The ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts, and he rummaged in his pocket before drawing it out and moving over to the window.
"Hello?"
"Doctor, good to know you're awake." Mycroft. He should have known.
"What am I doing here? Wherever here is." he asked, looking out at the forest again.
"You are in the Black Forest, John. In Ger–"
"Yes, I know it's in Germany." John interrupted. "Why am I in Germany?"
There was a long pause on the line before Mycroft spoke again. "Sherlock has relapsed." he said solemnly.
John closed his eyes. "Shit." he muttered.
"Yes, quite." Mycroft answered.
"Then why aren't you here, Mycroft?" John hissed, anger seeping into his veins, though he wasn't sure who he was angry with. "You're his brother; shouldn't you be looking after him?"
"As much as I wish I could, do you really think he'll want me there?"
John sighed, trying to regain control of his emotions. "Sorry. You're right. I didn't mean to snap."
"It's not your fault, John." Mycroft said, apparently able to hear the doctor's thoughts.
"What happened?"
"I'm not sure. I received a call three nights ago from St. Bart's telling me that he'd been found lying unconscious in an alleyway."
"What did he take?"
Another pause. "Heroin."
John's heart plummeted. "Do you know why?" he whispered.
"Why he did it? No. It's up to you to find out. I've arranged for the two of you to remain there for six months."
"Six months? I can't do that, Mycroft. My work–"
"– has been told that instead of Sherlock, it's your cousin. They understand, and you will still have a job waiting for you when you return. Mrs Hudson has been informed of the situation – an honest account – and I have paid the six month's rent in advance."
"What about Lestrade? Does he know?"
"He's under the impression that Sherlock has been in a serious accident, and has taken some time away from Baker Street to recover. Besides your landlady, no one knows what has really happened."
"Right." John answered, not knowing what else there was to say.
It was Mycroft's turn to sigh. "I'm sorry, John. He needs you now more than ever."
Because that's why John was there. A shoulder for someone to cry on. A constant presence that calmed and soothed. Because that's all he was good for, apparently.
The phone call disconnected and John was left with a heavy silence.
As if being able to sense where the detective was, he moved across the room and out into the thin corridor. John walked left down the hallway and stopped outside the next door, pausing before entering. Knocking would be useless; the detective was probably still unconscious.
Poking his head around the door, John frowned when he saw the state Sherlock was in. He was hooked up to almost every machine in the room and was as pale as a sheet with dark circles hovering under his eyes. Never had he looked so vulnerable.
"Dear God, Sherlock." John murmured as he dropped into a chair by the bed, placing his head in his hands.
It was twenty-two hours later when Sherlock awoke. He felt drained, yet he was too curious to know where he was to let himself fall back to sleep.
Opening his eyes, his brows furrowed as he took in the unfamiliar setting of wooded walls, the faint aroma of pine and the bright light that seeped in through the windows to illuminate the room. A faint sound of trickling water could be heard from his left, and he stiffly moved his neck to find the source. He immediately wished he hadn't when he saw John stood at a small sink, his back to him, filling a glass with water. When the doctor turned, he started at the sight of Sherlock awake and watching him, before heading back to the bed and offering the cup to him.
Sherlock accepted it gratefully and began to sip at it, studying John as the doctor sat down. It was obvious that the ex-soldier was extremely stressed about the situation. The dark circles under his eyes suggested a long and sleepless night, and the ruffled hair revealed the amount of times John had ran his fingers through it.
"How do you feel?" John asked. His voice portrayed no emotion, and he watched Sherlock calmly.
"Rough." he croaked, lying back down against the pillow.
John nodded. "I would imagine so." he answered.
There was an uncomfortable silence left between the two, and the detective nervously cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry." he muttered.
The doctor nodded again. "I know." he replied.
"It was an accident."
"I know."
"I won't do it again, I promise."
This time there was hesitation before John answered, as if he didn't believe him. "I know, Sherlock." he said softly. "Get some more rest. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Where are we this time?"
"Germany." John answered, scrubbing a hand across his face wearily.
"Oh."
John pursed his lips and reached across to feel Sherlock's forehead, whilst also taking the empty glass from him. He reached for the side table and then placed a cool flannel over the detective.
"This should help cool you down a bit." he muttered. "Just call me if you want some more water, or anything to eat." he added.
"Thank you." Sherlock answered earnestly. John smiled slightly in response and headed back over to the sink with the glass, washing it out with water. Sherlock sighed, knowing that John would forgive him quickly for this, especially if he was already back to smiling at the detective. Perhaps this hadn't affected him as much as he'd originally thought.
However, one glance at the mirror above the sink with John's reflection in it quickly dispelled those thoughts. Seeing the look of hurt, betrayal and sheer exhaustion reflected upon John's face made his heart break piece by piece.
Soon enough John returned with the re-filled glass of water, those emotions now wiped from his face. He set down the glass then sank into the chair, watching Sherlock drink from it.
When the detective finished he looked across at John. "How long?" he asked.
"Six months." was the hoarse reply. A crack in the mask.
"John–"
"Go to sleep, Sherlock." John interrupted, standing up whilst avoiding eye contact. "I'll be back soon." He made his way across the room and walked out the door without a second glance at Sherlock.
Never had Sherlock felt guiltier than he did now. True, this had happened before, but never for six months, and never because of heroin. He would have much preferred the angry side of John, rather than this cold and emotionless side. With these thoughts in mind, he drifted off into a troubled sleep.
Upon awakening again, Sherlock wasn't surprised to notice the darkness that had enshrouded the room. He was surprised, though, to see John asleep in the chair next to him, a hand resting on the edge of the bed. He still looked exhausted, but the worry lines weren't as prominent now. Sherlock knew that the only communication to the outside world that they had was through John's phone, though that didn't include Wi-Fi. No television, no radio, no laptop... no blog. Yes, Sherlock was known for getting extremely bored within short periods, but what people didn't know was that it was John who really suffered from boredom.
Being a soldier meant he craved action, but now he could only rely on Sherlock for some excitement. He usually managed to distract himself with the TV or writing in his blog, but now that they were gone Sherlock didn't know how he would cope. He gave the doctor two weeks before things started to get tense, as if they weren't already.
A quiet groan from John caused Sherlock to look at him, and soon the smaller man was slowly waking. His hazel eyes opened, and he rolled his head across towards Sherlock automatically, jerking slightly at the ice-blue eyes that were scrutinising him intensely.
"How do you feel?" John asked.
"Fine." Sherlock answered. "What about you?" he added.
"Me? I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm not the one who... well." He coughed nervously, avoiding the rest of the sentence.
"No, you weren't." the detective said quietly, averting his gaze.
"Why did you do it?" John questioned. Why did you ignore my advice?
"I'm not sure..."
John scoffed. "Bullshit, Sherlock. Give me a proper answer."
"I needed a stimulant, John. You know how it is."
"I thought I did. But that's still no excuse."
"I know, and I intend to make it up to you. I won't do it again."
John put his head in his hands. "How do I know that? You promise me every time, and you always break it. You can't expect me to be able to trust you so quickly after this, Sherlock." he said quietly.
"John, it would be worrying if you still remained faithful after everything I've put you through." Sherlock said. "But this time I mean it when I promise you it won't happen again."
"Those words sound too rehearsed, Sherlock." John retorted, lifting up his head, "They're empty. You're going to have to do a lot more than that to convince me."
"Yes, and I will. You can do whatever you feel necessary regarding my health, and I'll find something else to do when I get bored. Something else to occupy my mind."
"You and me both, Sherlock" John muttered.
"I know I can rely on you to help me, John. And I'll help you, too. We'll both get through this. We're in the Black Forest, for crying out loud. There must be something out there to do." Sherlock said.
"Mmm. Maybe I'll teach you how to fish." John said.
"Dear God, anything but fishing."
"Bird watching?"
"Be serious."
"Foraging for mushrooms?"
"Honestly? What was your childhood like?"
"What about 'hide and seek'?"
"...I won't rule it out."
John smiled, and Sherlock returned it without hesitation, though he wondered how long it would be before the smiles disappeared.
