Notes: Set post John's marriage. Implies a past Sherlock/John relationship with regrets on Sherlock's side for it ending. Also contains medical situations and discussion of drug abuse.
John manages to restrain the vehement torrent of words far longer than Sherlock thought possible. A tongue-lashing at the hospital hadn't seemed likely, that would have been undignified, and John is careful with his professional reputation. His eyes had revealed his feelings though, just for a moment, as he regarded Sherlock in the open ward. There had been a flash of raw disappointment and harsh anger that he had sublimated quickly before turning his attention to superintending the nurse charged with removing the medical telemetry contacts and I.V. catheter. He was calm as he'd dropped the sheaf of post-release instructions into his valise; instructions he had no need of because he knew full well how to care for a patient who was undernourished, sleep deprived, and had loaded his body with toxic chemicals to keep going instead of admitting he had surpassed his physical limitations.
The relative privacy of the taxi cab had seemed more likely, but once again, John had held his peace, instructing the driver to take them to the Dorchester rather than to 221B, before sinking against the backrest and shutting his eyes.
"You look tired," Sherlock had commented, both as a general conversational opener and because fatigue was plain in the way the skin over John's cheekbones lacked elasticity, and his posture, as soon as they were clear of the nursing station, had slumped from military correctness into careless lines. "And I see you've been out of the country. Mostly somewhere hot. You're still not acclimated to England's more temperate climate."
Grudgingly, and quite curtly, John had replied. "Algeria, doing my bit for Doctors Without Borders. Then a day in Paris for the debriefing. Your call came in just as I was getting off the Eurostar at St. Pancras. So shut up, will you? This is the first peace I've had in ten days."
And thus the conversation had ended. Somewhat puzzled by John's reticence, Sherlock retreated to his own side of the taxi and fell almost immediately to sleep.
What should have been a short commute to Mayfair took an hour. According to the driver, in addition to the usual heavy peak time traffic, there had been two serious smash ups and a series of unexplained re-routings by the police. John had consulted his mobile, found the traffic conditions were just as hellish as their cabbie had described, and tipped double before shouldering his travel bag and wishing the driver a better night. Sherlock had a feeling he was making an effort to be polite, and knew instinctively that didn't bode well for his immediate future.
He was right. John maintained the same demeanour of enforced calm throughout the check-in process. A bag was waiting for him, which he declined to have a bellman assist with. He took the keys, signed the register, and thanked the clerk before retrieving Sherlock from the sofa where he'd been deposited to escort him to the lift.
"You," he said as soon as the doors closed, "are a total moron! Do you have any idea how out of whack your chem profile was? Glucose in the basement, liver enzymes all over the damn place. Do you have any idea of what the nicotine level was in your tox screen? How close you were to stroking out from elevating your blood pressure into the stratosphere? And if the patches weren't enough you used amphetamines?" He shot a sharp glance upward, piercing Sherlock with a look that reeked of disappointment. "What sort? What were you taking?"
"Adderall," Sherlock admits. He'd needed a boost, and the pills were comically easy to obtain. He'd bought his off of a sixth former who sold them on for a profit rather than take his prescribed dose.
The lift doors open and there are people in the hallway. John clamps his jaw shut, preventing himself from unleashing a further angry barrage, glances at the key folder in his hand and then at the guide on the wall and, taking Sherlock's elbow, marches them the rest of the way to their room.
The suite is done in cream and gold with a generous amount of polished wood that created a comfortable and relaxing atmosphere, despite the liberal use of genuine antiques and other design elements that would have been stultifying in the wrong hands. There are three open doorways that reveal glimpses of bedrooms and the bathroom. A bar has a microwave and mini-fridge, no doubt well stocked with an array of beverages to help the tired guest relax and unwind. The curtains are drawn back to reveal a resplendent view of Hyde Park. "Sit," John orders as he drops the bags next to the sofa. "I'm going to draw you a bath."
Sitting is the easy option. Sherlock had insisted on discharging himself against medical advise. The only reason the doctor had finally signed off on his decision was because John had agreed to look after him. He is, now that the artificial stimulation of chemicals and a case have been withdrawn, exhausted, and cold shivers are beginning to make his teeth chatter and his skin rise in goose flesh. The idea of a luxuriant bath is a welcome one. However, instead of resting as he'd been instructed, Sherlock follows into the en suite and watches as John pours bath gel under the roaring taps, creating a cascade of bubbles.
John shoots him a sour look and then shakes his head. "I thought I told you to wait for me. Wasn't passing out once enough for you?"
The reminder that he had fainted at a crime scene was a low blow and indicative of how angry and disappointed John was with him. "Sitting and then rising a second time would have expended unnecessary energy," Sherlock replies with a shrug, as if he hadn't heard the rebuke.
"Fine." John sticks his hand into the water to check the temperature, makes an adjustment, and then glances up again. "Then go ahead, strip off and get in."
The tremors are getting worse. Sherlock's hands shake freely as he struggles with his shirt buttons. He undoes the first three over his chest – he hadn't bothered with the ones at his cuffs at the hospital – and then pulls it over his head. John notices. He shuts off the bathwater and offers his arm as Sherlock toes off his shoes, peels off his socks, and strips out of his pants and trousers.
"Easy." John's grip is firm but gentle as he helps guide Sherlock into the marble tub. "Is the water all right?"
Sherlock nods. Normally he might object to the bubbles and the notion of aromatherapy, but he has the stink of hospital in his nose; sick and disinfectant and fear. The calming mixture of lavender and sage is a welcome change. He slips under the foam, shivering from thermal shock, but enjoying the heat surging into his bones all the same. All too soon, John hauls him, none too softly, out of the water. It's just as well, drowning in the bath would have been a rather pedestrian end to what had been a decent week, fainting in front of Lestrade and company not withstanding.
"Idiot," John mutters, but with less invective. He unrolls a cloth and begins to sluice warm water and bubbles over Sherlock's shoulders. "How did you get the bruises?"
Sherlock's back is mottled with purple and blue. It hurts when he moves too rapidly or breathes too deeply. The doctor had remarked upon it, and then brought in students. They had looked at his back, and at the X-rays, and then remarked upon the damage as well. "Garden shed." He leaves out that the shed had an accomplice. Fifteen stone of crazed muscle who wasn't willing to go down without a fight.
"Tricky things, those garden sheds. They're a lot quicker than they look." John prods carefully at the spot where Sherlock's left scapula had slammed into an iron drainpipe. "That must have hurt."
It had, but injury had brought with it a rush of adrenaline that had probably saved his life, allowing him to shake off the stunned feeling of having the air involuntarily expelled from his lungs so he could duck before a length of steel pipe had a chance to make contact with his head. Sherlock shrugs again and wonders what it would take to get John to wash his hair. A scalp massage wouldn't cure the raw feeling that was threatening to engulf him, but it would go a long ways towards holding it at bay.
Somebody knocks deferentially at the outer door.
"That's room service." John frowns, obviously concerned about leaving a vulnerable patient unattended. "Can you manage?"
Sherlock nods and then leans back again against the side of the tub. He closes his eyes and imagines John's fingers carding gently through his hair and rubbing tiny circles against his scalp.
"Hey." John's voice, completely absent of any chiding. "Let's get you into bed."
Reluctantly, Sherlock opens his eyes, notices parenthetically that the water is much cooler than a two minute absence would account for, and pulls the plug from the drain. When the water is nearly gone, John wraps a thick bath sheet around his shoulders. Sherlock smiles at it, the lush cotton evoking a happy memory. John blushes and then looks away. He remembers as well.
That John knows his body with such familiarity makes it easier to be helped from the tub, dried off as if he was an infant, and then steadied as he uses the toilet. By the time they are finished, Sherlock feels insubstantial from fatigue, and is forced to lean heavily against John as they make the short journey to the bedroom.
"In." The bedding has already been pulled back. Once Sherlock is ensconced in Egyptian cotton and eiderdown, John places a tray over his lap. Milk. A bowl of porridge dressed with walnuts, currants and sultanas, a generous spoonful of honey and melting butter. To please John, Sherlock dumps some of the milk over the porridge and eats a few mouthfuls.
John passes over a pair of tablets. "Vitamins. They'll help take the edge off."
Sherlock nods, swallows the tablets with the help of the remaining milk in his glass, and eats a few more spoonfuls of porridge. He's surprised to see that he's consumed nearly half the serving as he pushes it away.
"I'm tired." He sounds like a fussing child and knows it. But he doesn't care. In such comfortable surroundings, and cut off from the demands of those who would need his services, there is no reason to fight his body's need for rest. He closes his eyes, lets John deal with the breakfast tray, and fades out.
Pressure from his bladder forces Sherlock out of a troubled sleep. He feels hellish, sick and shaken. John is asleep next to him, under the duvet but not under the sheets. He had changed into his pyjamas, and a book rested against his chest.
As quietly as he can manage, Sherlock slips from the bed and into the bathroom. Though they tremble, his legs hold him well enough as he uses the toilet. His stomach is another story. It clutches at itself, empty and desperate. He needs to eat again. Fortunately, John has provided. A combination of moonlight flooding through the window and the subdued illumination of a reading lamp reveal a bowl of fruit on the coffee table; apples, oranges and bananas. There is also a plate of biscuits; lovely rich shortbread dipped in dark chocolate. He chews blissfully on a buttery star and is immediately thirsty. The usual contents of the mini-fridge have been replaced. Now it is stocked with fruit juice and single serving cartons of milk. He regards a box of Ribena with disdain and inspects a plate of finger sandwiches that would have looked right at home next to marzipan-iced fairy cakes and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam. He takes the plate and a container of milk with him to the sofa and with a sigh of contentment, digs in.
"I thought you might appreciate those."
Sherlock looks up in surprise. So immersed is he in filling his stomach, he hadn't heard John's soft footsteps across the carpet. John drops a hotel dressing gown, twin to the one he is wearing, over Sherlock's bare shoulders before settling onto the sofa and helping himself to the last smoked salmon and cucumber sandwich. "How do you feel?"
"I've been better," Sherlock admits. "Thank you. For this." He doesn't have to ask why John had brought him to the hotel instead of Baker Street, he knows. John was removing temptation by isolating him from potential clients. Cocooned as they were there would be no calls or emails. No desperate missives brought by special messenger. No policemen asking for a quiet word. For the first time, Sherlock notices that the suite held no television. He frowns. He was sure there had been one when they had first arrived. He is consigned to a gilded cage, sentenced to a regimen of rest, good food, and John's companionship until his body is mended and his mind has calmed.
"You really do need a minder," John gently chides. "Because you're your own worst enemy. You do know that."
"I need to work." Because you're not there to distract me, goes unsaid.
A look passes over John's face. Guilt and regret. Stricken, Sherlock replays the moment in his mind to make certain he'd not spoken aloud.
"You need to get out more. Cultivate a social life." John's lips stop moving but Sherlock hears the rest of the thought anyway – One where you're not dependent on me because I can't be there for you 24/7 any more. – and it stings.
It had been two months and fourteen days since John's marriage. Thirty-four days since the last time Sherlock had persuaded John to join him on a case, and eighteen days since they'd got together over drinks and a meal. Belatedly, Sherlock realises that John had mentioned his trip, but he'd not paid attention to the details because he'd been too busy trying to memorise John's passionate expression as he spoke about the upcoming mission.
Logically, he knows John is right, and he has tried filling his days with the company of others, enlisting their assistance on cases, and even engaging them in social situations. But a night at the theatre with Molly, or an evening in the pub with Stamford or Lestrade wasn't enough to completely obliterate the John-shaped shadow that cast a grey half-light over his life.
"I went to a concert with my brother a week ago."
"And foiled an assassination plot," John counters. "I got a Google alert." He peels a banana and hands the perfectly ripened fruit over. "It doesn't count."
"I enjoyed the music until the first interval." Sherlock regards the banana. Protein. Carbohydrate. Potassium. All things his body needs to replenish itself. He breaks off a piece and pops it into his mouth, chewing around it as he adds, "The strings during the Mozart concerto were in particularly good form."
"Good for the strings." John yawns. He watches pointedly as Sherlock finishes his snack and then he wipes his fingers over his eyes, brushing sleep from them. "We should be in bed." He pushes up off the sofa and then offers Sherlock his hand. "Come on, you."
John's palm is warm. His fingers, as they close over Sherlock's wrist, are strong and reassuring. They bring back memories, happy memories, of life at Baker Street. They walk arm in arm back to the bedroom. John tucks him in, hesitates, and then gets under the sheets next to him.
It means nothing. Only that he is sick and John is tired and willing to sacrifice propriety for the sake of convenience. The damnable shivering starts up again, his overstretched nerves protesting Sherlock's wakefulness. He whispers, "John."
It's a plaintive cry for help that is met with a soft, "I'm here."
John scoots closer and spoons against his back, putting one arm over his hips. The fingers of his free hand come to rest for a moment against Sherlock's cheek and then they slide along his temple, moving in slow concentric circles as John massages his scalp, soothing him back to sleep. The feeling of being held, safe and protected, even if it was from his own excesses, is better than any hit the street can offer. No high has ever been so sweet.
Over the next several days, John will help him detox from the excesses of caffeine and stimulants through the application of regular meals, regimented sleep and careful exercise, probably in the form of long walks through Hyde Park and Kensington Garden. When the black moods brought on by his brain chemistry recalibrating threatened to suck him down into a pit of churlish petulance, John will haul him out again through sheer obstinacy. Eventually they will find something to laugh about. His mood will stabilise, and John will deem him cured.
John's hand is splayed against Sherlock's bare stomach. He interlaces their fingers, sighs as he comes in contact with the gold band of John's wedding ring, and feels a pang of longing mar his pleasure as he nestles a little closer. This, he knows, is his true addiction. Better than cocaine. Better than amphetamines. Better than the adrenaline-fuelled thrill of a chase. John is in his blood, and despite his resolve to kick the habit, Sherlock knows he never will.
End