Wrote this one very, very early in the morning, since that's when it seems I do my best writing.
Sherlock is the property of BBC, I just bend him to my will with the use of fiction :)
If anything I write is incorrect (since I'm not very familiar with how rehab centers work yet) feel free to let me know, and I will fix it or do more research accordingly.
Updates will probably be irregular since my schedule is a bit nuts, but rest assured they will come!

"That's it, just get it all out. Better out than in, eh?" said John Watson as he bent over to pick up the tray full of puke on the table. He handed his newest charge a damp towel and carefully carried the tray to the toilet, trying very hard not to look in it as he flushed it away. He walked back to the man with the mass of lank black hair, and set the tray back down in front of him. He sighed at the poor kid, who couldn't have been any older than himself, 19, that was emptying his stomach before him. He picked up the clipboard that the nurse had set on the counter, scanning it to see what was expected of him at the moment to check the patient in.

John glanced over, studying the man who was barely upright on the table. The dark haired boy was very pale, although that could have been an effect of the copious amounts of cocaine in his system. The man had a square face and sharp cheekbones. John thought that when the man had sobered up some he would be handsome, but only in the way that men with razor sharp cheekbones and large well shaped lips were handsome; and my were those lips divine, even sweaty and pale they could give anyone a bit of a hard-on. If the man was a woman and not overdosed, John thought, he would gladly make use of them. John shook his head, laughing a bit to himself for the absurd thought, since he was extremely straight and had absolutely no reason to be so fixated on the man's lips. John shook his head again, returning his thoughts to the chart.

The doctor in the corner, a 40 year old scrawny guy named Anderson, scoffed at the man on the bed. Anderson was observing John's work with his dark, almost beady eyes, since this patient's rehabilitation was his final project. If his charge didn't graduate from the program, John would fail his undergraduate thesis in rehab care. John hoped that if he did well he would be invited to work with this facility, the Sanctum Rehabilitation Center in Middlesex. The center happened to be the best rehab center in England.

John was violently tugged back to earth by the sound of the man retching beside him. Anderson got out of his chair and left the room with another scoff and a good luck. I'll need it, John thought as he waited for the man to finish. When he was, John grabbed the puke tray and headed to the bathroom once again. When he returned, his charge was laying back on the bed, passed out. John tsked at the man, lifting his long, equally pale and absurdly shaven legs gently onto the bed, covering him with a thin sheet on the paper covered table when he noticed the raven haired boy shivering.

John sat in the chair and rubbed his eyes until he could see white squares dancing across his vision, and looked up when he heard the door open and shut. Anderson was back to check on the man sweating on the bed, and to assign him to his room.

"We'll just put him up as soon as we get his vitals. He should be good; we had to pump his stomach and everything else he's gotten rid of already. His brother, a Mr. Holmes, is in the waiting room. Go reassure him of his brother's condition and direct him to the receptionist." said Anderson as he began manhandling the patient. John always wished he would be gentler with the patients, but was much too intimidated by his rude instructor to tell him that. He would probably be fired on the spot.

"Of course. Need anything else?" John asked.

"Yeah when you get back here, you get to give this chap a wash." said Anderson with a self satisfied grin. John sighed and headed to the waiting room to confront the brother. The only person in the waiting room now was a stately man in an expensive suit with a black umbrella resting on is knee. John wasn't quite sure why the man had an umbrella when it hadn't rained outside in a week, but he shrugged mentally.

As he made his way towards the man, Mr. Holmes stared him down. John swallowed hard. He didn't like the feeling of being studied like one would study an animal in an exhibit. Clearing his throat, he began to speak.

"Mr. Holmes, you-" John started, and he was cut off. The man stood, and offered John a hand. John took it, shaking. The man had a very firm handshake, and the eye contact was uncomfortable.

"I trust my little brother is doing fine. He seems to be in the utmost of care, as he should be with what I will be paying for this place. Although I do wonder, since you can hear his retching out here. Dreadful business. Anyway, I'll just make my way to the receptionist, and then I'll be on my way. Have a good day, Mr. Watson. You may also want to change your sweater; you've got a little excrement on your sleeve." The tall, but slightly heavy looking man said without missing a beat. He swung his umbrella before him and sauntered down the waiting room to the front desk. John was left there staring after the man in shock, until he realized his mouth was open. He shut it and turned around, heading back to the room where his patient and a sponge were awaiting him.

"Well you're awake then." John said as he walked into the stark white room, noticing the boy had sat up. It was hardly inviting, and he was glad the guest's rooms looked much better than this. He spotted the pile of fresh clothes on the chair, a pair of grey sweats and a worn looking T-shirt. There was no doubt the patient would have his own clothes transported to his room, especially considering what his brother was like. John walked over to the tub of lukewarm water on the counter and grabbed the sponge, squeezing it to get some of the water out. He circled around to his patient's back, who seemed to be unusually clear of mind and wary of his presence. He reminded John of a cornered animal for a moment. John took in the wide eyes and small pupils and he walked very carefully, so as not to spook the man on the table. You could never tell how people coming off a high like this would react to anything, so it was best to be as non-threatening as possible.

"We're just going to clean you up a bit and send you up to a much more comfortable place to rest your head, alright?" John said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. The man on the table grunted at him, and John thought it odd that this patient seemed to be recovering so quickly from a near overdose. It was possible for patients with high mental capabilities to recover faster, but it was seen very rarely. John touched the sponge to the patients back, and the man jumped slightly from the air-cooled sponge.

"There, there, Mr. Holmes, it'll only take a second." muttered John as he began wiping down the sweaty man. John heard him mutter something, and asked him to say it again.

"Just... Sherlock." said the man faintly.

"Alright Sherlock, we'll get you out of this dreary old room in no time. Lift your arms please." said John, as he continued wiping Sherlock clean.

John walked over to the other side of the room and grabbed the bundle of clothes. He heard paper crinkle, and something thud to the ground. He dropped the bundle in his hands and went over to help Sherlock off the floor.

"Well what did you go and do that for?" asked John, bending to haul the man to his unsteady feet and sit him up on the table.

"I can do it... myself," muttered the man in a hoarse voice as he started to stand up again, grabbing for the sponge. John rushed over to him and pushed him down by the shoulders firmly, making him sit back on the table. For a man who had recently nearly overdosed, Sherlock seemed determined to do things for himself. It looks like this won't be an easy one, thought John. He sighed internally as he fought with the weak man to put his clothes on while Sherlock tried in vain to stand on his own. When John finally gotten the pants on him, he had to call for help, since Sherlock was fighting as hard as his weak body could manage. It took two men to get his shirt on, and a third had to give Sherlock a sedative so he wouldn't hurt himself. Sherlock gave John a hard look as he passed out, and John sighed, this time aloud. This is going to be the longest project of my life.