Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plot.
John Watson first met Sherlock Holmes when he stepped outside and saw the thin man vomiting on his front steps. At first, he recoiled, covering his nose and mouth with his palm. Then, with a shake of his head, he reached out a hand.
"Hey," he breathed out, wiggling his fingers. "Pop inside. I'll help you."
The man lifted his head and waved a hand. "Fuck off," he grumbled. He slowly straightened up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite the objection, John went a step down and touched his arm, starting to pull him inside.
"No, no, you need some rest. Come on."
He was pushed away again, and he stepped back, watching the man grimace. "John Watson," he started, pointing a finger at him, "I can take care of myself." And with that, he spun on his heel, stumbling a bit, and walked down the sidewalk, leaving John wondering how the man knew his name.
He stayed on top of the steps and raked his mind for any prior information about the other. This was the first time he had seen him. He was sure of it. Maybe they had crossed paths before and John couldn't remember. He finally let out a long sigh before dodging the vomit and going to work.
Throughout the day, John kept his eyes peeled for the man. Perhaps he stopped at the clinic frequently. But after going through his patient records and checking with a few other doctors, John wasn't feeling very confident. He couldn't have imagined the man. Everything was very real—to the vomit on the ground to the spit he wiped from his mouth.
John left that evening in a bad mood.
The next couple days passed without anything unusual happening, and the man seemed to slip out of John's mind, until he went to work on Thursday. Several police cars were parked out front, lights flashing. Uncertain but also very curious, John pushed his way inside.
Officers were scattered throughout the clinic, it seemed, talking to a number of doctors. John hovered around the entrance before spotting Sarah out of the corner of his eye. Before any officer could approach her, he made his way over. She waved and gave him a small smile. "Hello, John." She looked around the room and pressed her fingers to her lips, fighting the urge to giggle. "Sort of exciting, isn't it?"
He furrowed his brow and crossed his arms over his chest. "What exactly is happening?"
Sarah pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and sighed. "You know Doctor Marsh?" John nodded and shifted his weight onto his other leg. "Well, apparently, he's been taking medication and selling it. One of his buyers ended up dead. Bad batch, overdose, you know the sort. So, they're checking to see if anyone else was involved."
"Jesus Christ, nothing is sacred," he breathed out, shaking his head and looking around. "Hopefully we're safe, right?" He laughed and nudged her.
Sarah giggled. "Oh, I steal oxycodone for personal use all the time," she muttered, smiling. She looked over and nudged John this time. "Looks like they're taking Doctor Briar."
John turned and watched as the doctor in question was being lead out in handcuffs. Two police officers trailed behind him, and, soon, a tall man with waxy skin followed. He was shouting accusations and gesturing wildly. John narrowed his eyes and glanced at Sarah. "Who's that? Do you know?"
She scratched her head and nodded. "I think that's Sherlock Holmes. He hangs around with the Yard." She shrugged and looked away. "I'm going to check on Marie." Without waiting for a reply, she went off to her friend, leaving John to watch the man. He cleared his throat and straightened up, seeing the other linger in the back of the group. John narrowed his eyes when he stuffed his hands into his pockets, seeming to wrap his fingers around something cylindrical. He widened his eyes and shook his head.
John marched over to the tall man and grabbed his arm, pulling him back. He began to speak, but John held up a finger. "It's Sherlock, isn't it? We need to talk." He looked off to the side and pointed. "Oh, look, my office." He pulled on the other's coat and led him into the room, pushing him inside. John shut the door behind them and spun around, crossing his arms over his chest.
The dark-head stumbled and threw John a look. "You can't do this." He straightened up and, narrowing his eyes, wiped his mouth.
Oh, what a familiar sight, John thought, grimacing. He nodded towards the man. "Turn out your pockets."
He paused for a second before raising an eyebrow. "You noticed," he stated. He smirked before reaching into his pocket and removing a prescription bottle. He set it on John's desk and looked over, watching him. "Better?"
John studied him before swiping the bottle off his desk and holding it up. "Opana oxymorphone," he read, narrowing his eyes, too. "I don't even think we provide this. Just oxycodone."
"Doctor Briar had a hefty supply in his desk."
"So, you just thought you'd take this? Why?"
"I ran out of cocaine."
John froze, then, and took a deep breath. "What?" he asked, examining him. It all made sense, though. Waxy skin, cheekbones prominent, bags under his eyes. He slowly began to nod. "Oh." He looked down and gripped the pill bottle. "Oh, right."
No one spoke for the next few minutes. John cleared his throat and shook his head, walking past the taller and placing the bottle into his desk drawer. He carefully shut it, keeping his gaze down.
"It is Sherlock." John looked up and stared at the other. "You asked before."
He nodded again. "Ah, yes. I did." He scratched his neck. "How did you know where I lived? My name?"
Sherlock looked ahead and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I found your house by chance. I had no intention to get sick on your front steps." He hesitated, looking off to the side. "Actually, I think Lestrade will be wondering where I am. Goodbye, John." And without another look, Sherlock left the room. John followed behind him and stood by the doorway. He looked over, seeing Sarah approach him.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "What was all that about? I saw you yank him in there." She nodded towards the office.
John pursed his lips and shrugged a shoulder. "I thought he was someone else." He nodded, as if to validate his point, and looked over, offering her a small smile.
That night, after divulging in take-away, John sat in front of his computer and typed 'Sherlock Holmes' into Google. He found himself on Sherlock's blog, and, before he knew it, it was three-thirty. He stared at the digital clock and didn't feel tired in the least.
After forcing down a breakfast a few hours later, John made his way out of his flat and to Scotland Yard. He felt out of place as he stood in the middle of the station, looking around for the tall man with the curly-hair.
"Excuse me? Can I help you?"
John looked over, seeing a young female officer beside him. He gave a weak smile before turning towards her. "Uh, I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. I heard he… hangs around here."
The woman wrinkled her nose. "What do you want with him?" She shook her head. "Don't answer that." She gave one glance around the station before looking back at John. "Haven't seen him today. Probably at his flat." Pausing, she watched John. "Who are you?"
He smiled a bit and shrugged his shoulders. "Someone who's concerned."
The woman slowly nodded and leaned in. "Look, don't tell anyone I told you, but it's 221B. Baker Street. His address." She studied John before giving him a reassuring smile "Good luck with… whatever."
John nodded and waved a hand. "Yeah, thanks." He recited the address and walked out of the station. Now, he had a place, but… what would he even say when he got there? Hey, it's John. You tried to steal drugs, and you vomited in front of my flat. This woman at Scotland Yard gave me your address when I told her I was concerned. Looks like I'm not the only one. Can I come in?
He hailed a cab as he laughed to himself.
The ride was only a few short minutes, and, as John passed his fare to the cabbie, he was beginning to feel nervous. But as he stood in front of 221B, he knew he shouldn't turn back. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
John was watching the passing pedestrians as the door opened. He turned and began to speak, but froze when he was greeted by a short old woman instead of the thin man. He furrowed his brow and looked around. "Hello, um, does Sherlock Holmes live here?"
The woman smiled and nodded. "Yes, come in, right upstairs." She motioned up and turned her head. "Sherlock, you've got a visitor!" She looked back at John. "I'd wait before knocking, dear."
John slowly nodded and started upstairs. "Thanks," he said, glancing over his shoulder. He paused once on the landing and stared at the door. He hesitated before knocking.
Movement came from within the room. "Who is it?" The approaching sounds of footsteps stopped once they reached the door.
John cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back. "John." He shook his head. "John Watson… Doctor John Watson." He shut his eyes.
Nothing happened for approximately twenty seconds before the door opened, revealing Sherlock. He was wearing a threadbare t-shirt, inside out, and pajama bottoms. A blue bath-robe was hanging off his shoulders. He looked even worse than yesterday. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice a low growl.
"I wanted to check on you." John examined him. "May I come in?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and fixed his robe. "I can take care of myself."
John sighed and moved past Sherlock, stepping inside. "I've heard that before." He glanced behind him before looking around the flat. Books and papers were scattered everywhere. Pillows were stacked on the floor along with a sheet. John frowned, then. "Taking a nap?"
Sherlock glared. "I don't like you imposing yourself on me. Who put you up to this? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? I bet it was Mycroft. He said he was threatening me."
"No," John started. He turned and looked at Sherlock. "No one sent me. I came here on my own free will." He shook his head and looked around again. "I just couldn't help thinking what would have happened if I just let you walk out with those pills." He began to make his way across the room, Sherlock's eyes burning a hole into his skull.
"You may have come here out of your own free will, but I won't be made an obligation."
"I read your blog."
"What?"
John slowly turned around and carefully watched Sherlock. "I read your blog. Impressive stuff." The other straightened up, then, tilting his head. "And I think I'm not the only one, judging by the list of names you gave me, that's worried your brilliance would go to waste if you screwed up and died."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He looked at the wall and clenched his jaw. "You don't even know me," he said childishly.
"Yes, but you obviously know me. Oh, and your stomach contents were left on my steps, so I think I know you well enough, Sherlock. Now, let me help."
Sherlock didn't protest much after that.
The rest of the day went by smoothly. When John asked Sherlock to pick up the books and papers in the room, he walked throughout the flat. He soon found himself in what he believed to be Sherlock's bedroom. He hesitated before shaking his head and searching the room. He dropped to his knees and glanced under the bed.
"Did you have work today?"
John quickly raised up, banging his head against the bed frame. He cursed and pulled back, sitting up to see Sherlock in the doorway. "No, not today." He slowly stood up, sighing as he rubbed his head. "Did you?"
Sherlock walked into the room and went over to the dresser. "I'm a consultant. The Work comes to me." He opened the drawer and pulled out a small box. He ran his thumb along the edge and looked over at John. "You're looking for this. Nothing's in here. Well, nothing I can use."
John walked over and stood beside him. "Open it." The other pried open the lid without protest. Inside were a clean needle, a tourniquet, and a few alcohol swabs. John studied the items before looking up. "You're doing well for going this long without cocaine. How long do you usually go before you relapse? Well, considering if you tried to stop before."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose and pushed the box into the drawer. "A week."
"When was the last time you actually used? You said you ran out."
"Four days."
He lowered his gaze and nodded. "We'll be ready for the worst of the withdrawal."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You'll be with me then?"
John scanned him before smiling. "I told you I was going to help."
The other hummed and dropped his gaze back to the box. He pushed it to the farthest corner of the drawer. John bit his lip. "Maybe I should keep that." He stretched out a hand, wiggling his fingers. "For safe keeping."
Expecting some opposition, John was surprised as he watched Sherlock remove the box again. He held it out, studying John. "Good call, Doctor."
He took the box and tucked it under his arm. "I hope that wasn't meaning to sound condescending."
Sherlock smirked and shut the drawer with a flick of his wrists. "Of course not." He turned and started out of the bedroom, leaving John to poke around some more.
Several minutes later, John emerged from the room. He stood in the middle of the kitchen. "Have you eaten today?"
"Are you sure you're not being paid?" John turned his head, watching as Sherlock walked across the room to straighten some books. He narrowed his eyes and touched the spine of a volume, running his fingers down it. "My brother can be oddly persistent if it concerns 'my little problem'." He grimaced, then. "Funny enough, that's the only time he cares."
John kept his eyes on him and frowned. He glanced at the cabinets, chewing on his lip. "You want to talk about it? Your brother?" Receiving a scoff, he sighed. "Don't answer, then. Have you eaten today?"
"No, I haven't. Mrs. Hudson doesn't cook for me anymore, so I go a day or two without food."
"The lady downstairs?" John pointed towards the door.
Sherlock nodded and walked into the kitchen, brushing past John. He began to open cabinets, wrinkling his nose. "When she's in a good mood, she doesn't mind to help me out. Lately, however, she's been most cross."
John furrowed his brow and walked towards the table, spying science equipment on the surface. "She seemed very nice."
"Well, of course, you're a guest." Sherlock shut the cabinets and breathed out a huff of air.
Scanning the area, John pursed his lips. "I'll go shopping. Stop by tomorrow." He nodded and looked over. "Are you busy tomorrow?"
The other slowly turned and studied John. "No." He stayed quiet and kept his eyes on the doctor before dropping his gaze to the floor. "I think you're making a huge mistake, John. I don't advise you to continue this charade."
John narrowed his eyes, adjusting his grip on the box. "It's not a charade. And I think I'll be the judge of my own mistakes. Thank you." He glanced at Sherlock once more and started across the room. "Goodbye. Be… safe." Biting his lip, he left the flat. He lingered around the door, clutching the box, before leaving.
Staying true to his word, the next day John went shopping. He wasn't sure what Sherlock liked, so he grabbed anything that was healthy and looked appetizing. After his little shopping spree, he stopped by the clinic, having the time to help a few patients.
When five o'clock came rolling around, John found himself hurrying to get to Sherlock's flat. He was reminded these visits shouldn't be taken lightly when he spotted Sherlock's box sitting on top of his dresser. He took a minute or two to fix his state of mind before packing up all of the food he bought and heading over.
Mrs. Hudson answered the door again and seemed surprised at the bundles in John's arms. "Oh, dear. What's all this?"
John walked past her and started up the stairs. "For Sherlock," he called. He reached the door and passed his bag to his other arm, quickly reaching up and knocking. "It's John." He dropped his hand and readjusted the bags.
The door opened six seconds later. Sherlock stood in the doorway, cautiously narrowing his eyes. "What's all this?" He looked the same as yesterday.
John scanned him. "Didn't leave the flat today?" he asked, nudging past him. "And all this is for you. I told you I was going to go shopping. Got to eat, Sherlock." He walked into the kitchen, placing the bags on a free spot on the table. Clearing his throat, he glanced at Sherlock as he slowly walked in. "Want to help?" He gestured to the bags.
The other sighed and walked over, unloading a bag and staring at a jar of peanut butter. "I didn't think you would actually go shopping."
John went over to a cupboard and started to slide in jars and cans. "You shouldn't underestimate me, then."
Sherlock turned, slowly narrowing his eyes. He tilted his head, studying John and taking note that, having to stand on the tips of his toes to reach the cupboard, the jumper he wore rode up. Sherlock pursed his lips and nudged John. "Out of the way."
The remainder of the evening passed by fairly well. John had managed to make Sherlock eat. Even though it was just a couple biscuits, he still considered it a victory. While Sherlock ate, he looked around the sitting room. After lifting up a few papers, he had found a violin lying on the desk. As if the other could sense John had discovered something, he appeared behind him. He stretched out a hand and lightly touched the instrument.
"You play?'
"Yes."
"Show me."
Sherlock gave John a look, then, but picked up the violin regardless. He pushed some papers aside to fetch the bow. He placed his chin on the plate and kept his eyes on John as he slid the bow along the strings.
With a smile on his face, John sat in the armchair and watched as Sherlock's fingers danced against the instrument. He shut his eyes and seemed to lose himself in the music, because, before he knew it, Sherlock had stopped. John opened his eyes and looked over, seeing the other had bowed his head and was avoiding his gaze. "I must apologize, John. I. I haven't played in a while, and." He paused and set the instrument back on the desk. "The strain, unfortunately, hurts." He started across the room. "I think you should leave. I need to rest."
John straightened up in his seat. "Do you need any help?" he asked, turning to watch Sherlock as he went towards his bedroom.
"No," he stated, not bothering to glance back.
Frowning, John stood up and made sure Sherlock was safely in his room before making his way to the door. As he slipped out, he had a feeling when he popped back in tomorrow, the place would be in ruins.
He fell asleep quite easily, despite the impending disaster he sensed. His concerns seemed to make themselves known around three that morning, his mobile vibrating against the bedside table.
John stayed frozen, hoping he had imagined a noise. He, soon, cursed and sat up, reaching over and picking up the phone. He had one new text message from an unknown number. He cleared his throat and opened it, rubbing his face.
Come over at once.
SH
John paused and studied the message. How did Sherlock get his number? He sighed and yanked the phone off the charger as he quickly typed back a reply.
How'd you get my number? I'm on my way.
He debated whether or not to wait for a reply, but considering the possible situation, he decided against it. He got out of bed and stepped into a pair of shoes. Grabbing his phone after slipping on a jacket, he saw a new message waiting. He clicked it as he hurried out.
I've had it.
SH
John shook his head and shoved his phone into his pocket, walking down the sidewalk to somehow hail a cab.
About fifteen minutes later, John arrived at Baker Street. Not bothering to knock, he walked into 221B, taking a deep breath and preparing for the worst.
Upon opening the door, he was greeted with the sitting room in shambles. Papers, books, and other objects were strewn across the room, seeming to be tossed in a fit of rage. He stayed frozen in the doorway, lips parted. "Shit," he breathed out.
A thud sounded from the other side of the flat, then. "John? Is that you?"
He bit his lip and marched through the kitchen, stepping aside when he saw a lone jar on the floor. He glanced over, seeing the bedroom light on. Waving a hand, he walked into the room. "I'm here." His eyes widened. "Oh, God."
Sherlock had scattered all of the bed covers and pillows across the floor. His bedside table and lamp had fallen over, which John suspected was what caused the thud. The periodic table he had on the wall was crooked, as if something had run into it. Sherlock, himself, was seated on the bed, on top of the sheet less mattress. His hair and eyes looked wild as he studied John. "I had a nightmare."
"You done all this because of a nightmare?" He furrowed his brow and carefully walked over. "Do you know what time it is?" He reached out a hand and gently touched Sherlock's cheek. Clammy. He took a deep breath and scrapped his thumb across the bone before dropping it.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Three-twenty in the morning. You came. You shouldn't complain."
John smiled a bit and turned, sitting beside him. "You're right." He rubbed his thigh and studied him. "Want to tell me why it looks like a tornado whipped through here?"
The other bowed his head. "I was angry. Restless. The dream made no sense. I ate some peanut butter. It didn't help."
"Do you feel nauseous?"
"Yes."
John watched him and reached out a hand, touching the sweat-drenched curls. "You're going to go back to sleep. You'll feel better when you get some sleep." Sherlock wrinkled his nose and turned his head, looking at the wall. John sighed and shook his head. "Fine. Act like that." He slid off the bed. "Just lie down. I'll go and straighten up your mess." With that, he started out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
He began in the kitchen. He picked up the peanut butter jar Sherlock must have eaten from. Sighing, he placed it back in the cupboard. The cleaning took up most of John's attention. He had managed to put the majority of the books back on the shelf when he heard Sherlock call his name. He paused and listened for a few moments. Movement came from the back rooms and, for a split second, John heard a crash. His eyes widened, and he shoved a book on the shelf as he hurried across the flat. "Sherlock?"
He found the other on the bathroom floor, forehead pressed against the toilet. He looked at John, shaking his head. "It was worse."
John frowned and dropped to his knees, pushing Sherlock's hair back. "It's okay. I'm here. It'll be fine."
He sat beside the shaking man, running his fingers through his hair and muttering words of comfort.
Sometime during the night, John had fallen asleep. When, he didn't know, but he woke up, leaning against the wall. He grimaced and rolled his shoulders. "Sherlock," he said quietly, looking over. He frowned, realizing he was alone.
He cursed and stood up. He scratched his head as he walked out of the room. "Sherlock?" He checked in the bedroom, noticing the bedcovers were still in disarray. The periodic table was face down on the floor. Crouching down and turning it over, John saw a large crack in the glass. The crashing sound must have come from this. He could see Sherlock waking from a nightmare and running into the display as he struggled to leave.
He propped it against the wall before making his way out of the room. John found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table. He studied him from his spot at the doorway. "How are—?"
"—I made coffee." He looked over at John and watched him.
"Oh, um, thanks." He gave the other a small smile before walking over and fetching a cup from the cabinet. He filled it and carefully took a drink. Nodding, he went over to the table, standing across from Sherlock.
The two stared at each other before opening their mouths and spouting out "look".
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You first."
John took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I didn't stay with you. I shouldn't have left to… clean." He looked down, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him.
"I'm sorry I dragged you into this." He looked away and pressed his fingertips against the tabletop. "I should have stopped you."
John chuckled and lifted his cup. "If you stopped me, I would still come back." He took a drink as Sherlock raised his head, the corners of his mouth twitching.
After making sure Sherlock was safe in the shower, John left. He told the other he would stop by later, some time after work.
"You don't have to," Sherlock had said, his voice a low rumble behind the bathroom door.
Hesitating for just a second, John cleared his throat and looked down at his feet. "I know."
The shower water started, and he took that as his cue to leave.
Work that day was mundane, and nothing could prevent John's mind from slipping back to Sherlock's flat. He managed to squash the fleeting thoughts to the corner of his mind by midday.
He stopped by his flat to freshen up and check to see if Sherlock's box was still there. Then, he started to Baker Street.
The ride seemed to be getting shorter and shorter. John couldn't explain it, but he wasn't complaining. He walked into the flat with a smile on his face.
Even though the messes were still abundant, John couldn't complain either. He was greeted by a clean-shaven Sherlock, who had ditched the clothes he had adorned for the past couple days for a white button-up with black bottoms to match. He was starting to look healthy.
He smiled and stepped aside. "Good evening, John."
John playfully narrowed his eyes and started inside, smiling, too.
The two went around the flat that evening, straightening up and stashing things away. Sherlock told John he noticed a rise in appetite since he woke up. He also expressed a concern for the unusual dreams he had earlier, but, other than that, he felt he was doing okay. As John watched Sherlock dart his eyes around the flat and tap his fingers against various surfaces, he said he felt the same way, too.
Sherlock shoveled down the meal John placed in front of him a few hours later. He was worried about the quality of the food, but Sherlock's satisfied moan as he leaned back and patted his stomach prevented any insecurities.
They sat in the living room after the meal, John examining Sherlock as he began to tap his foot along to the beat of his fingers. He settled against the armchair and touched his lips. "You're jittery this evening."
Sherlock shot John a look. "Just bored."
"You haven't been to work?"
"Of course not. What type of question is that?"
"Hey, now, no need to bite my head off."
"Well, it's your fault I'm cooped up in this place!" Sherlock spat out, waving an arm.
John narrowed his eyes and looked down. "You could have gone out today. I'm not stopping you." He shook his head. "No idea where you're getting that."
Sherlock's reply was a big jumble of sounds and hand gestures. He jumped up and marched across the room, heading down the hallway. John watched as his hands seemed to rip the shirt flaps apart before slipping the garment off his shoulders. The bedroom door slammed shut as John dropped his gaze, staring hard at the floor. He waited for a few seconds before sighing and shutting his eyes. "Do you want me to stay the night?"
Expecting no reply, Sherlock's voice came as a bit of a surprise. "The bedroom upstairs is free."
John tried not to smile as he climbed the stairs.
That night, he wasn't woken up by exclamations of nightmares.
Throughout the next few days, John took note of the increased agitation and restless behavior in Sherlock. Some of his actions were beginning to even look like a sign of paranoia—constantly checking the time and staring at doors. John really didn't know what Sherlock had to be paranoid about, and he didn't intend to ask. He wouldn't get an answer anyway.
Nearly a week and a half later, Sherlock seemed to change. John had stopped by, as it was becoming a daily activity, only to find out that the man was no where to be found. It was a bit strange, but John didn't want to think too much into it. He fixed himself a snack before grabbing a book from the shelf and sitting down in his usual armchair.
Twenty-three minutes later, Sherlock walked into the flat, a bag in his arms. He stopped in the middle of the room and stared at John, who set his book aside when he saw the other.
"I have Thai."
John stood up and walked over. The taller looked tired, and the dark circles were back under his eyes. He didn't say anything, only nodded. He took the bag from Sherlock's arms, which, then, dropped awkwardly by his sides. John turned his back to him as he sniffed and shook his head. "I'll set the table. Go wash up."
There was no usual chit-chat during the meal. John spent most of the time hoping to not find track marks. Sherlock went to the bedroom right after the meal, while John stayed back, trying to find a reason to stay the night. When he couldn't, he left Sherlock a note before leaving.
As he went to sleep that night, he hardly noticed the absence of the box on his dresser.
It was seven o'clock when John walked into 221B. To his disappointment, work had held him up, and he couldn't help but wonder how Sherlock was. He was betting the other wasn't doing too well, considering the state of his last visit. So, he braced himself as he entered and found the flat silent.
John stood in the middle of the room and paused. He furrowed his brow and took a careful step forward, the floor creaking. Still, there were no other sounds. John pursed his lips and tilted his head, noticing Sherlock's bedroom door was shut. He bit his lip and started towards it, his feet thudding against the floor. "Sherlock," he began as he pushed open the door and peered inside. His eyes widened, and face drained of color.
Sherlock was stretched on top of the bed covers, fingers steepled against his lips. He turned his head and smiled. "Oh, John. I was beginning to worry that you weren't going to come."
His mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out. He shook his head and started towards him, pointing. "Take that bloody thing off." John narrowed his eyes at the tourniquet that was wrapped around his left arm. "You better." He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, yanking his arm. "Fuck," he breathed out, shutting his eyes to the pinpricks on the skin. John turned away and walked towards the wall, rubbing his eyes.
"Yes, thank you, John."
He took a deep breath and spun around, narrowing his eyes at the other. "Don't say my name, and don't you dare thank me." He scanned him and shook his head. "How did you even—?" He paused and looked at the bedside table, at the open box that was supposed to be sitting in his bedroom. "No, no. Damn it, Sherlock. Did you break into my flat?" He raised up a hand when Sherlock started to answer. "No, don't you fucking speak. You've done enough with… going into my flat and finding a sodding dealer to get cocaine." John pressed his hands to his eyes again. "How can. No, why can." He blew out a stream of air and dropped his hands. "After all we been through?" he asked quietly, frowning. He pressed his lips together and looked away. "I should have seen this coming. It's my entire fault."
Sherlock looked down and untied the tourniquet, placing it beside him. "You mustn't blame yourself, John."
"No, Sherlock, just. Shut up." He turned and stared, eyes wide. He tried to find answers in the other's bloodshot eyes, but his efforts proved to be futile. He shook his head again and looked away, staring at a point on the wall. "Just shut up. I don't want to. Hear you. Hear you speak." Biting his lip, he held his head in his hands and let out a shaky breath. "Don't say anything," he muttered.
The dark-haired surveyed John before slowly standing up and walking over. He stumbled only once, and he quickly gathered himself as he stood in front of John. Sherlock wet his lips and stretched out a hand, pressing his fingertips to the shorter's cheek. He instantly recoiled and narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips. Sherlock dropped his hand and studied him. "You have every right to be angry."
"Do I? That's good."
"Let me finish." John turned his head and looked at Sherlock, then, eyebrows raised in wait. "You have every right to be angry. This seems like a betrayal of sorts to you. Unfortunately, the." He paused and looked at the wall. "The dreams and the paranoia and." He stopped and bowed his head. "My head was bursting. Nothing and everything was happening all at once. The walls were closing in, and there was always that one spot in my mind that I couldn't reach. Clouds hung over my head, and chains were wrapped around my ankles. Every movement, every breath, was a struggle that I didn't want to deal with." Sherlock tilted his head and examined John, then. "Perhaps this is your entire fault. You shouldn't have meddled into business that wasn't yours."
John turned away and walked towards the bed. He grabbed the tourniquet, tugging. "You should have talked to me about it. I could have helped you. No, I would have. You knew I would have." He glanced over his shoulder before twisting and picking up the box. He slipped the rubber object inside and snapped it shut. "We'll try again." He nodded. "We'll just try again." He set the box back on the bedside table.
"John, I—"
"—no!" He spun around and stared at the other, at his wild hair and wild eyes. "Don't say anything. We'll try again."
Sherlock kept quiet as he began to shake his head, taking a step towards John. "I would prefer if you would just—"
"—I said no… Sherlock. I just can't. Stop." John shook his head and looked down. "I can't stop. I can't leave. I just have to try again."
"I understand," Sherlock softly said, studying John.
"Do you, now?" He looked up and met Sherlock's blue eyes. John smirked and began to shake his head. "Of course you understand, you giant idiot," he breathed out, reaching out a hand and grabbing the front of Sherlock's shirt. He pulled him down and roughly kissed him, eyes squeezed shut. For half a second, John's heart raced with the realization that this was a huge mistake, but he soon felt Sherlock's fingers spread against his neck, and he let himself be pulled in. With negative thoughts being put at ease, John fell against the bed as Sherlock crawled on top, cradling his head close.
"How are you feeling?"
Sherlock flicked on the lighter and held it up to his cigarette. He breathed in and set the lighter aside. Glancing over at John, he slipped the cigarette between his fingers. "Little too late for that question, now, don't you think?" He fixed the bed sheet around his waist and took a quick drag before answering. "Headache, nausea, all the usual things."
John turned over onto his stomach and propped himself up on his forearms. "I'm flushing your stuff down the toilet." Sherlock smirked and breathed out smoke from his nostrils. He reached over and grabbed the ashtray, setting it on top of his thigh. John watched him before looking down and rubbing his hands. "You were going to use everything you got, weren't you?"
Smiling again, Sherlock placed his cigarette in the ashtray and setting the item aside before sliding out of bed. He snatched the box and carefully held it. "I'll do it." He started towards the bathroom, John immediately crawling out of bed and following. They turned into the bathroom, and Sherlock stood in front of the toilet. He opened up the box and took out the plastic bag. John watched as Sherlock's gaze lingered on the drug for a second longer than he would have liked before emptying the contents into the water. Pushing the box into John's hands, he reached out and flushed it, studying the water as it swirled down.
"Well, that's that," John said, tapping the box. "I'll hide this better next time. Dispose of everything else properly."
Sherlock hummed and turned, examining them in the mirror. He glanced at John. "I would like to try sex again when my mind is in proper order."
"We have all the time in the world for that." John patted Sherlock's backside before starting out of the room. "Come on. Big day tomorrow." He sighed and watched as Sherlock moved in front of him. "Back to square one."
Only three days had passed before Sherlock and John were having sex again. Despite Sherlock's want of experiencing it when he was in the right mind, he had found himself incapacitated under the shorter man's biting kisses. This time, however, he did remember everything, even with the thudding of his head.
He gripped John's shoulders and held out against the quivers.
"You never did tell me how you knew my name, or had my phone number, for that matter." John looked over at Sherlock as he ran his hand against his jaw line, feeling the rough stubble.
The other pressed his fingers against his lips and shot John a look before shutting his eyes. "As I've explained before, Mycroft only provides concern when my drug use is involved. He had expressed the thought of hiring a doctor to help me. I declined, of course, as I believed I didn't need any assistance."
John furrowed his brow. "Your brother suggested I could help you? I'm not a specialist in substance abuse."
"Nevertheless, your name was on the list he provided, and I dabbled in some research." He shrugged, closing his eyes. "I didn't take it seriously. I didn't need any help."
"Yeah, yeah," John huffed, turning over in bed. He pulled the blankets to his chin and shut his eyes. Soon, John opened his eyes again and looked over. "Did Mycroft give you my number?"
Sherlock smiled and turned on his side, scooting close to John. "I researched you quite a bit." He pressed his fingertips to the other's tan skin. "May I have some paracetamol?"
John sat up in bed and looked over. "Headache?" As he received a nod, he tossed the covers away and walked out of the room. "I'm glad you're telling me when you're feeling ill, now." Sherlock turned and studied John. He looked down at the sheets and pinched the material. He frowned. "Maybe we'll be able to finally beat this thing." John walked in, medicine and glass of water in hand. "What do you think?"
Raising his head, Sherlock gave him a smile. "Yes." He took the items from John and quickly swallowed the pill, draining the water after. He placed it on the bedside table as John crawled back under the covers. Sherlock nestled down and shut his eyes, feeling the other's lips against his hair.
"Tell me when you're feeling those chains again."
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over, watching John begin to sleep beside him. He turned back on his side and leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his shoulder before curling in close.
Before John knew it, two weeks had passed. Sherlock was back working for Scotland Yard, and he seemed to be as healthy as ever. The first week had been tough, and the restless behavior was almost mind-numbing, but Sherlock moved past it extraordinarily well. Daily visits were no longer a requirement, but that didn't stop John from doing so. He only stayed at his flat for two days out of the week, and those days were mostly to check the mail and see if the box was still in its new hiding place.
The sex was great, too.
Everything seemed to be going great. But as the clouds rolled in on a Tuesday morning, John had a funny feeling in his chest.
From his first step in the clinic, he was swamped. It seemed as if every patient he had booked an appointment for that day. Trying to appear in the best mood possible, John forced a smile with each patient, but by ten o'clock, he was beginning to feel like his façade was becoming transparent.
He received a text around noon. Being too busy to set time aside, he ignored it. Figuring it was Sherlock, he assumed the other would understand the importance of work.
As his shift drew to an end, John was glad to leave. Feeling his mobile vibrate again when he stepped out of the building, John patted his pocket, acknowledging it. "I know, I know," he mumbled, starting down the sidewalk, in the direction of his flat.
The walk was only a few minutes, and, soon, John was emptying his pockets and putting leftovers in the microwave. He hummed as he watched the plastic container turn in the device. John reached over, grabbing his phone and spinning on the spot. He swiped his thumb across the screen and stared at the two messages waiting for him, each spread several hours apart.
I'm feeling them again, John.
S
Come over at once.
S
Hearing his meal finish behind him, John slowly breathed in and rubbed his eyes.
He sent a reply before going over to the microwave.