A/N: Hi guys! Here's some things to know about the story:

I'm going to include a little flower blurb at the beginning of each chapter, because most of this story takes place in a garden and I think flower symbolism is super cute. Plus, it'll give a hint of what the chapter will be about :)

Trigger warnings: Mentions of drug use (Cocaine) and suicidal thoughts (mostly present in chapter one, and referenced in later chapters).

Sherlock is in his twenties and John is in his thirties, so the age difference is about ten years. (They'll have a conversation about this in a later chapter)

I'd love to hear what you all think, so please don't hesitate to leave your opinions in the comments :)

Enjoy!

The Rain Lily only blooms after a rain shower, reflecting spiritual awakening after a storm in life. It symbolizes the peace and clarity that comes after one's lowest point.

...

Sherlock Holmes was lying on his couch at two in the morning, high as a kite, staring at the ceiling in search of shapes in the uneven paintwork, when he realized, with no small amount of wonder, that he was going to die.

For some reason, the thought made him giddy. Of course, he'd always known logically that there was a clear end to this dull, insipid torture, but it was only just dawning on him that that elusive finish line was much closer than he'd imagined. His one-way ticket to oblivion was merely two inches to his right, all packaged up in a clear syringe and an elastic arm band. Why wait until he was old and useless? Why not go out with a hiss and a bang? Twenty five years was plenty of time to have seen all life had to offer, wasn't it? No use sticking around longer than necessary.

Sherlock tipped his head back and bared his throat to the mottled ceiling, the skin-warmed needle ghosting over his arm like a kiss. Aside from the actual high, this moment of pure anticipation was what he loved the most. He shivered as the metal tip scraped against his flesh and slowly penetrated the spider web of veins spanning through his forearm. He groaned as the drug shot through his bloodstream, hot and fast and burning with life.

This was love, this was chemical sex, this was gravity and oxygen and—

Fuck, this was lovely.

His head lolled to the side and he stared blearily at the broken telly in the corner. Just last Thursday, the damn thing short-circuited and burned a dark purple scar into the side of his thumb. Not that it mattered anymore, of course. A broken television was the least of his worries, now. He'd decided his fate several minutes ago, and as new as the decision was, he planned to stick to it. Sherlock folded his hands atop his chest, posed in the mockery of a corpse in a coffin, and waited for the end with bated breath.

His last conscious thought was something along the lines of Finally.

...

Sherlock couldn't remember much of what happened next, except the flashing ambulance lights and his brother's face staring down at him like a statue.

"Never again, Sherlock," Mycroft promised quietly. "Never again."

The rehabilitation center was a squat, white building on the corner of Lancaster and Catalan. It was surrounded by pink and yellow flowers, and its name was New Beginnings.

"Mycroft," Sherlock began in protest. "This is—"

"Your new home," Mycroft finished flatly. "And it would behoove you to get used to it."

Inside wasn't much better. The waiting room smelled like lavender air freshener, acrid floor cleaner, and the receptionist's cheap perfume. Every staff member looked half-dead with boredom.

"I hate this," Sherlock said between gritted teeth.

Mycroft's reply was dispassionate and unmoved. "Welcome to the world of consequences, Sherlock."

To his further annoyance, the woman at the front desk was chewing her gum far too loudly.

She stared at him from beneath her fake lashes. "Name?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft supplied.

She continued chewing her gum in loud, obnoxious smacks and flipped to a fresh page on her clipboard. "If you'll just sign here, Mr. Holmes, Jenifer would be happy to show you to your room."

"I'd rather not."

Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat. "Shall we revisit the alternatives I mentioned on the ride over?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "I am not living with Mummy nor am I living with you."

"That's what I thought. Here," he said firmly, sliding the clipboard his way. "It appears they have provided a pen."

If Sherlock weren't still hungover, he might've had a decent chance of ripping his arm out of Mycroft's grasp and sprinting to freedom. At the very least, he'd be able to reach the park across the street before his brother's goons stopped him, and from there he could stoop behind the blueberry bushes and hide until everyone stopped looking and retreated.

Unfortunately, as it stood, merely nodding his head roused a deathly wave of nausea and his legs were about as fit to run as his brother's—which was to say, not at all. Attempting a daring escape in his current state would only serve to irk Mycroft and give him even more incentive to make Sherlock's life a living hell.

"Where do I sign?" he muttered at last. The receptionist tapped an acrylic nail against the dotted line and continued boredly smacking her gum.

"Right here, Mr. Holmes. Welcome to New Beginnings."

...

That evening, a grey-faced nurse waddled into his room, dumped a plastic tray of supper on the table, and handed him a paper cup full of white pills.

"They help with the withdrawal," she croaked at him, even though he hadn't asked.

For the next two days, he refused to take his pills purely out of spite. He also refused to attend his therapy sessions. And since all good things came in threes, he decided to skip meals too.

During the day he did nothing. He closed off his mind palace, afraid of tarnishing it with the dullness of his surroundings, and simply stared at the white stucco ceiling for hours on end. His thoughts drifted lazily like smoke, evaporating just as soon as they occurred to him.

For the first night, the headaches and frayed nerves were manageable. He found he had no appetite and that made ignoring his tray of food much easier.

However, by the next afternoon, he began to sense a decline in his health. The headaches that had once been faint and infrequent now exploded through his skull like atomic bombs. Nausea tore through him like a whip, and he found he could no longer stand upright without seeing stars.

His mental state was no better. Unease and fear scuttled in the back of his mind like cockroaches, making him see monsters where there were shadows, and danger where there was nothing. Paranoia clawed at his teeth and sat sourly on his tongue. Sleep twisted out of his grasp like smoke. Anxiety buzzed beneath his skin like wasps.

Sherlock was wise enough to realize that unless he wished to revisit the hospital sometime soon, he needed to take better care of himself. Though he was still quite comfortable with the thought of dying, he had no intention of suffering through days of self-inflicted torture.

With this in mind, he took all of his pills and licked his plate clean when suppertime came on the third night.

"Glad to see you've come around, Mr. Holmes," the nurse rasped as she collected the empty dishes from his table that evening. "Who knows, maybe the staff was wrong about you."

He draped a forearm over his eyes and ignored her.

"Well, either way, my money's on you, kid," she said, and then shut the door.

At last, with the room awash in lovely, dark silence, Sherlock swallowed the pill under his tongue and let himself slip away on the sweet wave of narcotics.

Therapy involved a lot of dull questions and thoughtful hums from a woman called Dr. Sheppard.

"Where did you grow up, Sherlock?"

He stared at the loose thread on her collar. "London."

She spent two minutes scribbling in her notebook. "Describe your parents, Sherlock."

"Divorced."

More scribbling. "What is your relationship with your brother like, Sherlock?"

"Tiresome."

She started writing again and then stopped, lifting her gaze to meet his. She adjusted her pink plastic glasses with an index finger. "This will only be effective if you give me more than one word answers, Sherlock."

He moved his gaze away from the loose string and fixed her with the full force of his stare. "I have a better idea. May I pose a question for you, Dr. Sheppard?"

She blinked several times. "Er—I suppose."

"How did it feel when you discovered your sister's affair with your husband last month? Not too good, I would imagine."

Her cherry-glossed mouth fell into the shape of an O.

"And what was it like losing ten pounds on that six week diet, only to gain back twenty?"

"I—"

"While I'm at it, what were you feeling when you found out your credit cards had been stolen and maxed out by your youngest brother? I'm truly quite curious."

"I…I—"

Sherlock tilted his head and offered a saccharine smile. "More than one word answers, please."

…

His new therapist was Dr. Mabelle Ford. She was tall, tan, and built like a broad-shouldered rugby player. During their first session, she cut him off before he could even begin with his deductions.

"I can make your stay quite unpleasant if I choose to, Sherlock," she said evenly. "Perhaps it would be wise if we focused on your personal life instead of mine."

"Well—"

"That doesn't sound like agreement."

"If you'd let me—"

She tapped her pen sharply against her notepad. "Neither did that. Shall I contact your brother and inform him that you are not being cooperative? He's told me that there are other alternatives available should you find yourself dissatisfied with New Beginnings."

Sherlock clenched his jaw so hard he could hear his molars grinding. "I'll behave."

"Good," she said with a dry smile. "Then let's begin."

When Sherlock found himself with free time—which was often—he pondered what he would do when he got out. Continuing his detective work seemed to be the only option, but he wasn't sure if that would be enough. There was a gaping hole in his life, and now that he no longer had the sweet embrace of drugs to fall back on, he wasn't sure what was left.

This feeling of dissatisfaction was by no means new. From a young age, Sherlock's life had always been lacking something. As a child, he'd been ignored by his busy parents and genius older brother, which left him lonely and starved for affection. The only creature that ever showed him unconditional love and companionship was Redbeard, his Irish Setter, but he too abandoned Sherlock, albeit by the inevitable force of death.

After that, Sherlock had been more careful with his heart. Instead of relying on people or animals or things, he'd relied on the cold, clinical kiss of a needle. Because despite all the drawbacks, drugs never abandoned him, hated him, or judged him. They never hurt him or left him or broke his heart.

What drugs did do, was bring him to a towering peak where euphoria was sharp and sticky-sweet, and joy shivered through his veins like champagne. When he was high, when he had magic in his blood, the world was lovely and people liked him. Men bought him drinks, women smiled and laughed, crowds were warm and pulsating rather than congested and loud. The sky was a sea of blue, the sun beamed down on him like a smile, and the smell of London felt sharp enough to cut into his lungs and infuse the essence of the city into the spaces where his blood ran. On drugs, he was a different person—a better person. He wasn't odd or pitiful or out of place. He was something spectacular. He was something special.

And without it, he was—lost. Empty. A faceless, passionless nobody with blurred ambitions and a heavy heart.

"Tell me something about yourself, Sherlock."

Boredom clawed at his skin. "My mother is the queen of England and my father is the lost prince of Monaco."

Dr. Ford tapped her pen against her notepad, unimpressed. "Answer truthfully, Sherlock."

"Why?" he asked sardonically. "Will I get a prize?"

She smiled drily and pointed to a jar of lollies on her desk. "If you're really good, I'll give you one."

Sherlock scowled and sank lower in his seat. "Wonderful."

A few weeks into his stay, Mycroft began phoning him. And each time, without fail, Sherlock would gnash his teeth and refuse to take his call.

"Mr. Holmes," the nurse croaked, holding the phone out to him for the third time that week. "Your brother says he'd like to speak with you."

"Good for him."

"Mr. Holmes, patients only get phone privileges when they've showed improvement," she reminded him. "You've earned this."

Briefly, Sherlock considered binning his meds again just for the sake of revoking that 'privilege', before deciding it wasn't worth the trouble. Simply rejecting Mycroft's call would have to suffice for now.

"I have no desire to speak to my brother and he knows that. Tell Mycroft to bugger off."

"Language, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm done discussing this."

"Mr.—"

"Done."

Their session started as it usually did. Dr. Ford took a long sip of her black coffee, flipped to a fresh page of her notebook, and asked Sherlock, "Tell me something about yourself."

And, also as usual, Sherlock lied. "My middle name is Nietzsche and my dear, personal hobby is wood carving."

"No."

"I can speak two hundred and twenty-three languages fluently."

"No."

"My favorite color is yellow."

She narrowed her eyes at him. After a moment, she leaned back and pronounced: "No."

He scowled at the ceiling. She was right, it was blue.

With nothing better to do, Sherlock began to revert back to his childhood habit of making lists. His walls used to be covered in bits of paper filled with everything from procedures for his experiments, to idly-written notes cataloguing his surroundings.

He sat in bed with a napkin and a ballpoint pen and began aimlessly writing.

Cons of New Beginnings

Odd smells such as: cheap perfume, floor cleaner, incense, candles, cafeteria food, medicine, antiseptic, D-grade hand soap, etc

Bored bored bored bored bored bored BORED

No cases

No music

No drugs

Annoying questions from patronizing therapists

Annoying calls from self-righteous brothers

Nightmares

Someone is always watching, controlling, directing, demanding

Bored bored BORED.

It's too quiet at night—no cars/city sounds

Pros of New Beginnings

I'm alive.

"Sherlock, what brought you here?"

He glared at the carpet. "My brother."

"What event, I mean."

"Drugs. I was addicted to drugs. Are you really so simple that you can't read the information on my file?"

She ignored his surliness and remained even-toned. "I've read your file, Sherlock."

"Then you know the answer to your question."

"Yes, but I would like you to say it."

"Ah, so I may accept responsibility for my actions, yes? Now, which psychobabbling third-rate textbook did you read that from, Mabelle?"

"You'll address me as Dr. Ford, thank you."

They stared at each other in stony silence for a long time, before Sherlock finally gave in.

"Fine. I'll say it." He made a point of looking her in the eyes. "I'm here because I tried to off myself."

"And why did you want to do that, Sherlock?"

"Oh, I don't know," he sneered. "Why do most people attempt suicide? Clearly, because of my great zest for life."

She tapped her pen for a moment, then adjusted her question. "Why did you want to die, Sherlock?"

"Because I have nothing here," he replied flatly.

The sound of her pen was like a steady, maddening metronome. "What about your family?"

"What about them."

"Hobbies? Passions?"

"Dull. Hateful. Insipid."

"Loved ones?"

"Non-existent."

"Surely there's something."

"No."

She pursed her lips. "You know what I think, Sherlock? I think you haven't come to terms with the real reason behind why you attempted suicide. I think, if you sat down and really thought about it, then perhaps—"

"We're done here."

"Sherlock—"

"No."

And with that, he got up off the couch and left the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that the hinges rattled.
…

Two days later, he found himself pondering Dr. Ford's question.

Why did you want to die?

To be fair to himself, it hadn't been a bona fide suicide attempt. It had been a normal Thursday night for Sherlock, up until that earth-shattering moment when he realized how easy it would be to just disappear: to fade from existence with a needle in his arm and his heart pumped full of poison.

That was, of course, the moment that Dr. Ford was referring to when she'd asked, Why did you want to die?

It wasn't that he'd hated himself or felt terribly alone—though, both of those things were certainly true. It was because the periods between the highs had become shorter and shorter. Life began looking duller and blander every time he came down. His ambitions and drive and very own soul melted down to one simple desire, and that was: get more.

He tried to kill himself because he no longer wanted to return to the real world. He never wanted to come down from his glorious, beautiful high.

Reality was far too disappointing.

"Have you ever written anything, Sherlock?" Dr. Ford asked him later that week.

"Music, yes," he answered tonelessly, his gaze fixated on the dusty, drawn curtains hanging before the window. "And laboratory data."

She began rooting around for something in her bag, but he didn't bother looking up. After a minute of shuffling through papers, he saw her outstretched hand offering something in his peripheral. "It's a journal," she explained, once he reluctantly accepted it. "I'd like you to write in it."

"What am I to write?"

"Anything. Some of my patients choose to write short stories or poetry, and some just like writing down random phrases or names. It's entirely up to you."

He stared skeptically at the leather bound journal. "I assume you'll be checking it?"

"No," Dr. Ford answered succinctly. "I will not. At no point during your stay will I know what you've written."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Then for all you know, I could leave the entire thing blank."

"You could," she admitted with a nod. Her eyes carried a knowing look that frustrated Sherlock to no end. "But I have a feeling you won't."

…

For three days, he stubbornly refused to write anything simply on principle—she'd seemed so smug back there, as if she knew he was going to cave. Refusing to prove her right, he kept the journal in the far corner of his desk and used it for everything but writing: a coaster for his drinks, a doorstop, a flyswatter. For a while, Sherlock felt quite satisfied with himself.

On day four, however, it occurred to him that she would never know either way, so what difference did it make? Whether he wrote anything or not, she would just assume he had. Besides, life at New Beginnings was extremely boring and he actually did find comfort in the mindless, easy activity of making lists.

Resigned, Sherlock sat down at his desk and starting jotting things down.

Good things in life

Classical music

Cocaine

Murder cases

Running through London at night

Bees, all sorts

Dogs, all sorts

Chocolate biscuits

Coats and scarves

The violin

Playing in the rain with Mummy when I was six

Bad things in life

Love ballads

Rehab

Boredom

Wasting precious mental space

Cats, all sorts

People, all sorts

Most food

Heat waves

Disappointment

Redbeard dying when I was twelve

Sherlock hated recreation hour because he found all of the possible destinations—the entertainment center, garden, and gym—deplorable. Usually, he spent his sixty minutes of freedom holed up in his room, staring at the ceiling and listing off the ionic charges of the periodic elements.

Today, however, the director of activities, Sheila May, insisted that he do something.

"Come along, Mr. Holmes! Healthy bodies equal healthy minds!" she chirped, pulling him out of bed.

After a lot of choice words and idle threats, he resigned himself to the nature walk, simply because it seemed slightly less horrific than reality telly or treadmills.

"The nature walk?" Shelia repeated, raising her eyebrows at him like that was the last response she'd been expecting. "Can't say it's a popular choice around here, but to each his own. Off you go, Mr. Holmes!"

…

The moment Sherlock stepped into the deserted garden, he realized the extent of its unpopularity. No wonder Sheila had been surprised. Apparently, most recovering addicts preferred to sit before the television like vegetables or exercise as if they were training for the Olympics. Sherlock didn't mind it, though; he liked the solitude.

The garden itself was rather nice and had ample flowers, which meant it also had ample bees, and that pleased him greatly. Sherlock liked bees. They were complex, hardworking creatures that didn't bother with human folly, like emotion or sentiment. Bees were steadfast in their work and always had a clear objective. He understood them and felt connected to them, which was infinitely more than he could say about people.

Entranced, Sherlock watched a trio of honeybees swoop and dive amongst bushels of purple hyacinths and yellow buttercups. After a moment, he remembered Sheila saying there was a bench at the center of the garden that provided a lovely view.

Unhurriedly, Sherlock made his way down the narrow flagstone path, his mind pleasantly blank as he passed cluster after cluster of colorful, fragrant roses.

…

To his surprise, a man was already sitting on the bench. He wasn't reading a book or napping, and he lacked the twitchy, nervous disposition of most New Beginnings residents. Overall, he seemed quite calm, sitting there with his hands in his lap and his gaze resting at middle distance. Sherlock almost envied how easily the man carried himself.

"You're not a patient," Sherlock said without preamble, stepping into his line of sight.

The man raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's and Sherlock was stunned by how blue they were. "Yes, that's correct," he said agreeably.

"Who are you visiting?"

"My sister, Harriet."

"Ah." For some reason, Sherlock could not summon the words to further the conversation. He wasn't sure what to say next, but he didn't want to stop talking to the man. Something about him grabbed Sherlock's attention, and being that it wasn't often that Sherlock found people striking, he was in no rush to move on.

Thankfully, the man ignored his unease and simply patted the empty spot beside him. "Would you like to sit with me?"

"I suppose."

"Name's John," the man said, sticking out his hand and squaring his shoulders. His perfect posture and steady eye contact immediately struck Sherlock as the behavior of a soldier, and when he shook John's hand and discovered the gun callouses on his palm, his suspicions were confirmed.

"Sherlock," he said in return.

"I like that name," John declared, and for some reason, Sherlock felt himself flush. "Would you like to join me on my walk, Sherlock?"

"Where are you walking?"

"Around."

Sherlock's heart made an odd leap in his chest. "Yes, I'll join you."

…

"I'm not like everyone else here, you know," Sherlock said somewhat haltingly, as they walked side by side down the path. John glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "I'm not crazy, I mean," Sherlock clarified. "Or desperate."

"Desperate?"

"For a fix. I'm not. I'm—normal." As silly as it was, Sherlock could not resist the urge to separate himself from the hollow-eyed, twitchy people around him. John seemed to be a relatively nice bloke and the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was scare him off.

John nodded thoughtfully and pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. "I suppose I'd call myself normal, too." He paused and considered something, then amended, "Normal-ish."

"Ish?"

"Yeah." John smiled wryly. "I'm a discharged war vet with a busted shoulder, an alcoholic sister, and a useless blog—not the most ordinary of lives, is it?"

Sherlock found himself liking John more and more by the minute. There was something incredibly refreshing about his dark humor and sharp wit. "Well, I'm a former addict thrust into rehab by my righteous older brother, so I suppose I'm not exactly normal either."

"We all have our crosses to bear," said John. "Besides, I've always found normal quite boring."

Sherlock caught his eye and felt the beginnings of a smile form on his lips. "Well, that's good. I find it quite boring as well."

A beat of comfortable silence passed as they continued making their way down the path.

"Out of curiosity, what is an example something you don't find boring, Sherlock?"

"You," Sherlock answered without thinking. As soon as the words left his lips, he felt himself go tense with apprehension, worried that John would be put off by his earnestness.

Instead of looking disturbed, however, John grinned. "Splendid. Because you're easily the most exciting person I've encountered this year."

…

"Really, John? Of all things, you'd choose strawberry pie?" Sherlock complained an hour later, as they made their fourth lap around the small garden. "It's so syrupy and sweet, how can you stand it?"

John laughed. "That's kind of the point of desserts. Besides—" He stopped as his mobile chimed in his pocket. "Better check that, one mo." As John scanned the text, a frown began to form on his face.

"Who is it?"

John sighed and pocketed his phone. "It's Harry, my sister. She said I better get back. Visiting hours are apparently over."

Sherlock licked his bottom lip anxiously, one of the many annoying ticks he'd developed in his time here. "When will you be back?"

"I work tomorrow but I'll pop by on Wednesday at around noon, depending on how busy it is at the clinic."

"Oh, alright. I'll see you Wednesday then," Sherlock replied, endeavoring quite valiantly to sound nonchalant.

"It was good to meet you, Sherlock," John said warmly, taking his hand in a shake. His mouth was neutral but his eyes looked like they were smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you, too, John," Sherlock replied.

"Ta, Sherlock."

After John left, Sherlock lingered in the garden and thought about the way John had said his name. The vowels seemed to spill from his lips, effortlessly, easily, as if they were born to rest on his tongue. As if he'd always been destined to speak Sherlock's name and smile at him and playfully joke around…

Sherlock sounded quite nice from John's mouth.

When Dr. Ford asked him her usual question the next morning, he found himself ready to tell the truth for once.

"I met someone yesterday," he said casually, his eyes trained on the toes of his shoes. "His name is John Watson and his sister is here for her alcoholism."

Dr. Ford stopped tapping her pen and looked at him. "Would you like to tell me about John Watson?"

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice; the words spilled from his mouth like a flood. "He just left the army a few months ago. He served for three and a half years as an army doctor before he was wounded in battle and shipped home. He hates talk shows on telly, he can speak fragments of French that he remembers from Uni, his middle name is a secret because he hates it, his favorite dessert is pecan pie—but strawberry pie is a close second—and he has a 'love-hate' relationship with technology because he loves his laptop, but he hates the Chip and Pin machines at Tesco."

For once, Dr. Ford didn't write anything down, she merely watched him. For a moment, he thought he saw something in her gaze soften. "Do you like John Watson, Sherlock?"

As Sherlock thought back on John's engulfing blue eyes, strong hands, and sharp wit, something warm and lovely unfurled in his chest.

"Yes," he answered confidently. "I do."

A/N: Thanks for reading, darlings! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter in the comments, your feedback is incredibly helpful! The next chapter will be up by Friday or Saturday, so make sure to sub/follow!

Until next time!