Rating: Mature (smut, drug use, language)
Summary: Sherlock can't turn his mind off, all it wants to do is think about John in a way that he isn't sure he can handle, so he turns to drugs. But when John finds out and Sherlock's past comes back to haunt him will the two be able to navigate the minefield of detoxing, Sherlock's history, and their blossoming love without falling apart at the seams?
Authors: CayCullen and HollyGlow (please go check out her amazing work on this site, she's also on tumblr).
AN: We thought this story would be short but little did we know it turned into this beautiful, angsty, smutty mess that we're still writing. Enjoy!
Mycroft sat stone faced at the desk in the office he was going to be meeting Lestrade and John in. He had his fingers steepled in front of his chin, a folder sitting on the desk in front of him. He seemed even more angular than usual, concern evident in his eyes as he waited in perfect stillness. He knew he could trust them to get to the bottom of it, but he worried what it meant. Why had this happened? Why had Sherlock suddenly done this? If the pictures he'd acquired were true... He heard a door click open down the hall and the footfall that meant John Watson was on his way to the room. He looked up to survey John and sighed. John's face was tight with emotion; if Mycroft was calling him something was wrong. Sherlock had been acting strange for several weeks now and no one seemed to know why. Sherlock kept telling him he was going out but never where and each time he prompted the detective for more information or offered to accompany him, he was turned away. His behavior was more erratic and just this morning they'd had a fierce row over a coffee cup.
"Mycroft." John snapped by way of a greeting. He was tense already and the look on Mycroft's face didn't help.
"John," Mycroft barely inclined his head. "All we need is Lestrade and we'll be able to begin."
"Lestrade?" John paled. "Oh hell..." Mycroft's face shifted slightly as his concern became more evident when coupled with John's reactions. It seemed now that his conclusion was likely to be true.
"It is very serious, but please do try to remain calm."
"Right Mycroft, how very easy for you to say." John crossed his arms as he took a seat bouncing his leg impatiently.
Greg Lestrade was on his way to Mycroft's office, fully aware that whenever he gets a call from Mycroft Holmes it is never good. Every time he has been called something awful was happening with Sherlock, the last time he'd gotten a call from the man was when Sherlock had relapsed into his drug habit not long after they had gotten him clean. So when he stepped into the elder's Holmes office and he saw John he groaned. Clearly this was worse than he'd originally expected.
"What's happened?" Greg asked quickly as he moved to take a seat beside John who looked just as worried. "What's happened to Sherlock?" He was asking John just as much as Mycroft but John was silent and tight with emotion.
"That's what I was hoping you two could tell me." Mycroft sighed and opened the case file, showing them fuzzy surveillance images of what looked like Sherlock and another man. Each picture was labeled with the location and time of the picture, each correlating with his absence from Baker Street and the neighborhoods that were traditionally considered to be drug related areas. "He's been even more erratic in his contact with me than usual and he failed to complete a case I asked for his assistance on last week." Mycroft's mouth tightened more.
"He's been acting odd," John offered softly, disappointment and hurt in his voice as he looked over the images. Lestrade was taken aback by the tone, the emotion of it clearly visible even though John was usually so careful in Mycroft's presence. "Not coming home when he should be, leaving in the middle of the night, sleeping less than usual. I've tried to get him to talk to me about it but he refuses. Are you saying he's relapsed?" John's voice betrayed him as it cracked and he slowly raised his eyes to analyze the elder Holmes.
"I'm saying it's a strong possibility." Mycroft's voice was tight with emotion, which only served to confuse John.
"Christ..." John ran his hand over his face, a sudden wave of panic shooting through him. Sherlock might still be at the flat, he could do something about this. "I should get back; he was home when I left. Maybe..." John jumped up and the eyes of the other two men followed him.
"Maybe what? You'll talk to him and suddenly this will all go away?" Mycroft said mockingly. "I highly doubt that approach will work John. If we don't stop him, he could ruin himself."
"And you think that I don't know that?!" John raged, his body tightening. Greg turned his attention away from John unable to watch that much emotion and studied the case files for a moment. He stayed silent during their bickering but was ready to contribute now.
"Hell, I bust people here all the time. Lots of cops do. If he's not careful he's going to get himself arrested." Greg ran a hair through his hair, his heart sinking low. It was starting all over again. "Why would he relapse? I mean, what's been so bloody awful that he felt the need to turn back to drugs? I thought he was happy." He sat the file back down on Mycroft's desk with a sigh. John looked even more upset at the question and Greg immediately felt bad for asking it out loud. Something in John's entire body was wound so tightly it looked like it might snap. He guessed that the boys still hadn't had 'the talk' yet. "It was damn near impossible to get him off the stuff last time, I can't even imagine how hard it's going to be this time." Greg knew he probably should have more faith in Sherlock, but the evidence in front of him was clear. The proof was right here and Greg couldn't deny it no matter how much he wished he could. "He'll need rehab again."
"No." John forced out suddenly, his throat seemingly stuck. It was gravelly and full of emotion. His jaw tightened and he clenched his fists. "I can help him with this, I know I can. We have to keep it quiet."
"It's going to be almost impossible to do that if he gets himself arrested." Mycroft's voice was stern. Crossing his hands on the desk and his mouth fixing itself into a thin line.
"I'll go find him right now; I don't care if I have to search all of London..." John's voice was low, still so full of emotion. "He'll think we're against him if we just round him up and ship him off. Let me try first... Please?" Greg couldn't hide his expression, John was practically begging. Shite those two would be the death of each other.
"John, if you didn't know he was doing this already how can we be sure he trusts even you?" Every single fiber of John's being tensed more and he looked at Mycroft with a dark look. Mycroft for his part realized what he had said and sighed. "I didn't mean it like that, stop being so dramatic."
"Just give me a few days, please..." A muscle twitched in John's jaw as he asked, no begged the Elder brother to let him have a chance, begged a second time for what? For someone to finally convince Sherlock to open up to him? Mycroft couldn't do that. No, John needed to go to Sherlock alone. He could fix this.
"So far the cameras suggest he is still at Baker Street." Mycroft's glare darkened. "But if he leaves and you don't tell me why - I will have Lestrade find him and take him to rehab."
"Just let me talk to him first." John was pacing, anger and betrayal coursed through him. "If you want him better then let me go to him."
"The door is and has been open." Mycroft motioned and John turned to storm out.
"This won't play out well," Greg mumbled as he looked at Mycroft. Mycroft stood and moved to the window to watch John's exit. "He's never seen Sherlock when he's high. He's never seen him on edge like we have. There's no talking to him. There's no reasoning with him. All that matters to him is the high. When's he's using he doesn't care about anything." Greg stood; walking over to the window and joining Mycroft in watching John get in a taxi. He found himself wondering what had made to Sherlock go back to drugs? "He had been doing so well, what made him relapse?"
"Honestly, I'm at a loss as to why he would have done this. You've been around him more than I have. Has anything happened between them?" Mycroft paced slightly, watching Lestrade. He seemed to come to some sort of conclusion and he stopped pacing. "The last time this happened we didn't have John. We both know John affects my brother differently than either of us can. Perhaps the rage brewing inside of the soldier is just what we need in this situation." He confided in Greg what he would never directly say to John. John was good for Sherlock.
"I don't know of anything happening between them," Greg sighed, looking over at Mycroft. "He won't be able to deal with Sherlock. You remember what happened last time, took three of my men just to get him pinned down before we took him to rehab." Greg seemed to be more concerned about John being crushed by the situation than anything else. Mycroft smiled softly.
"I think you may underestimate John Watson, Greg." He tentatively put his hand on his shoulder. "Either way if we don't let John at least think we gave him the benefit of the doubt, we may lose them both to this darkness. I want your eyes on the ground though; we have to cut him off."
John hailed a cab back to Baker Street and barreled through the door of the flat unceremoniously, slamming the doors to downstairs shut and locking them as he entered determined to build a wall between Sherlock and the outside world. He moved angrily around the flat trying to find Sherlock and doing his best to hide his feelings. There was a light on in Sherlock's room so he moved towards the door, pausing outside it to catch his breath and still his nerves.
Sherlock was sure John wasn't home and he was sure he wouldn't be back for a good two hours. That's how long John always stayed out whenever he left the flat, it was like clockwork. He didn't like to shoot up in the flat because the danger of John finding out was so much higher that way, but he was desperate for a fix. He hadn't been able to go out of the flat for long enough in two days because John had been growing steadily more suspicious of what Sherlock was getting up to. John couldn't know about this, he couldn't find out. No one could know he was using again or his world would come crumbling down around him. He'd taken two doses this time, usually one would have been enough but the withdrawal had been so bad he'd been almost shaking. He needed two.
Now blissfully peaceful in his drug induced state he lay on his bed completely still, once again his mind was quiet. No thoughts, no deductions, just pure blissful nothingness. Which was all jarred away when he heard the doors slam. His eyes flew open and his heart began to pound as he realized the angry thudding footfall could only belong to John.
Oh shit… Shit, John was home.
Sherlock, in panic threw the three doses he had left and the bag they were contained in under his bed along with the two empty syringes he had just gotten into his system. He strained his ears, listening as the footsteps approached his door and then stopped. He quickly shut his eyes, pretending to be sleeping. He determined that would be his safest option. John didn't knock; he just opened the door and sort of charged into the room, his breath heavy in his chest. Sherlock could hear it almost as if his eyes were open, he could feel John's emotion bleeding off of him. John had heard Sherlock throw something under the bed as he approached the door and listened to determine whether or not the detective was actually sleeping. He paused in the doorway, and instantly he knew he wasn't. He could see how his chest moved, how his body was tight, he could see every detail as if it were under a spotlight.
Fuck...
He'd seen it before at the clinic. He'd seen people like this, but this was Sherlock and it wrecked him.
"You awake?" He asked softly, biting back his anger but knowing Sherlock could hear it in his tone. Sherlock understood then that he knew. Just by the tone of John's voice, Sherlock could tell he knew. A stone sank in his stomach. His blissfully quiet mind couldn't provide him with the details of how John knew but it was glaringly obvious that he did. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, trying to affect his normal demeanor as he stared at the ceiling.
"You really should knock before you enter people's rooms, John." He said, trying to act calm, but inside he wasn't calm anymore. He was terrified.
John was so angry and so very hurt that he didn't check his movements, his usual softness gone. Instead he rush into the room and turned the lights on brighter before he strode over to Sherlock, grabbing his arms roughly and making him sit up. Sherlock let out a gasp as John pulled him up. That was one hell of a head rush he did not enjoy. Nor did he like it when John turned him to shine the light in each of his eyes as he looked at his pupils, doing a quick check over them. John then threw Sherlock's arm away from himself in fitful anger as he stood. He panted with anger as he moved back some crossing his arms and watching Sherlock closely.
This wasn't going to happen. This wasn't fucking going to happen!
"What did you take?" He asked in a low, dark voice plagued by the angry tears he was ignoring. He would give Sherlock one chance to own his mistake, if he did then John would comfort him. If he didn't... then he was going to see a side of John he would never forget.
He shut his eyes for a moment before turning and looking at John properly. He was furious. Sherlock could read that much in his demeanor even though his mind was still mostly quiet from the drugs. When John demanded his answer he swallowed hard, John couldn't possibly know he'd just taken something. Maybe he knew he was using again but there was no way he could know about the stash of drugs now hiding under the bed. He'd thrown it before John had entered. He considered just telling John the truth, finding it odd that the desire just rolled easily through him, before deciding that wouldn't end well. John would just get more angry and maybe leave. So it would be better to lie and make him think he was fine. Perfectly fine. Which wasn't really a lie, he felt fine.
"I haven't taken anything. What's gotten into you? Have you been talking to my brother? He's just annoyed that I would finish his boring case." Sherlock laid back down and closed his eyes, trying to act like he would normally: calm and collected. John let out a huffed breath.
"Your pupils are all wrong, your movements are slowed like you're moving through something thick instead of air, your words and reactions are slowed." John spat the words out like venom, ticking off each assessment as if it was some sort of hateful list. "Fuck Mycroft." He growled. "And fuck you," He felt like he was going to snap, how the hell could he do this to him? Tears came more rapidly but John was completely disconnected from them. "After everything you're going to do this AND you're going to lie to me about it?!" He was torn between a violent fit and a panic attack, his chest heaving rapidly as he clenched and unclenched his fists. "You selfish son of a bitch." John didn't check his words, far too angry to. He moved over and grabbed Sherlock again, by the front of his shirt - shaking him slightly. Sherlock's eyes met John's and his breath was sucked out of his chest by the entire host of emotion swirling around in them. "What the hell did you take Sherlock?!" He shouted at him, his grip firm on Sherlock's shirt.
Shit.
He had been caught. This was it. This was the part he'd been terrified of.
"I don't have to fucking tell you anything, John!" Sherlock shouted right back at him. Enraged by the language his friend was using on him. He pushed John away, making him stumble, as he himself stood on shaking legs to leave. He needed to leave, to go far away and never come back. He didn't deserve to come back. He had disappointed John, upset him, maybe even hurt him. He should never come back, never hurt him like this again. He tried to solidify his mind as he stumbled into the living room and grabbed his jacket and scarf off his chair. Just as he moved to pull them on he was suddenly slammed into the wall. "Get off me, John!" He shouted angrily. "Let me go!"
"You're not fucking leaving." John growled darkly in his ear. He pinned Sherlock's arms behind his back, pinning him in a sort of reverse bear hug. John grunted as he was shoved back and his leg caught on the chair and he fell, but he jumped back up and tackled Sherlock, wrapping himself around him. "You're not running away from this! I THOUGHT YOU TRUSTED ME!" He screamed it, he didn't care that Mrs. Hudson was downstairs. His rage and hurt feelings getting the better of him. "You damned fool! What did you take?!" He growled as he demanded an answer, his chest now moving rapidly but his hands completely steady as he clung to Sherlock, ripping the jacket out of his hands and tossing it across the room. Sherlock snorted, he wasn't a fool. He knew what he was doing. He had control over his drug use, despite what everyone tended to think.
"Let me go, John." He hissed angrily. It was almost like he was in a straight jacket. "I am not going to tell you a damn thing unless you fucking let me go, you ridiculous idiot!" He shouted. Sherlock knew he was speaking without thinking. That's what drugs did to him, they made him stop thinking. "I took heroin. There I told you, now let me go!" He commanded as he struggled in John's arms.
"I'm the idiot?!" John yelled and it took all he had not to punch Sherlock in the face. "Why in the hell would you take that?! Why would you go back to drugs?!" A few tears splashed down over them as John returned his grip to Sherlock's shirt and pulled him up. He threw him hard on the couch, making himself an angry wall between Sherlock and the doors. They were both heaving for breath, anger overriding their thoughts and forcing down the overwhelming sensation of the other feelings coursing through their minds and bodies. "And I already said you're not fucking leaving. You colossal prick!" He was ready for war and angry enough to forget how he felt for the person on the other side. For Sherlock as he was tossed into the couch the room spun violently, keening around him in a flurry of colors. He grabbed his forehead and shut his eyes. This was John's fault. John was ruining his high.
"I am not a prick! I haven't done anything to you!" He insisted through gritted teeth. He opened his eyes and glared at John, not caring that the man was crying at the moment. "It's none of your business and I'm not going to tell you so you might as well let me leave!" He stood slowly only to be pushed back down again by John's angry hands, "STOP FUCKING PUSHING ME AROUND JUST BECAUSE I CAN'T PROPERLY DEFEND MYSELF!"
"It's none of my business?" John growled, leaning down so his face close to Sherlock's. His arms pinning the detective on the couch. "Are you really going to say that to me? This is OUR house. You are my friend! I care about you! I've given up everything over and over again to support you and this is how you fucking thank me?!" His breath was short and shallow, threatening to overwhelm him with a panic attack but he ignored it. "I'm not pushing you around because you can't defend yourself, I'm stopping you from hurting yourself more! If you leave this flat you lose EVERYTHING AND THAT INCLUDES ME!" He screamed his words at him, pure emotion spilling free but he didn't care. His hands still tightly gripping Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock looked away from John, away from that sentiment in his eyes. Because it was clear to see how much he cared. That was no question but he refused to talk about this. He had his reasons for using and he wasn't about to tell John what they were. It would ruin things more than it already had. He shook his head and tried to push John away again.
"Let me go." He mumbled, nowhere near as angry or as loud as before. The sentiment in John's eyes had cracked his anger and he felt it bleed away, along with the blissful nothingness. It was a quiet and pleading tone. "I'm not fucking going anywhere. Let me go so I can lay on the damn couch John or am I not allowed to do that either?" He asked, some bitterness in his voice. He finally slid out of John's grasp and laid down on the couch, curling up and putting his back to John. John let him go, shaking hard as he turned on his heels and stormed into the kitchen. He made an inordinate amount of noise before returning with tea for both of them and then stormed off into his room, returning with a medical kit.
"You fucking insensitive prick." He forced out. "How much did you take?" His rage was not calmed by Sherlock's actions, in fact it was more prominent. He rummaged through his medical kit, clearly looking for something. "Could have talked to me," He muttered under his breath, only bits of it clear, "No, I'm Sherlock Holmes I don't rely on anyone," A pause as he lowered his breath, "No who cares what anyone else feels..." His hands were shaking, he almost couldn't believe it. He'd faced down killers, bombers, Moriarty, and Mycroft without trembling hands but now he was a mess. Sherlock just barely inclined his head to watch and even he noticed that tremor, but it confused him. "What are you feeling?" Sherlock heard the softness that crept into John's tone, but Sherlock knew he couldn't have come to John. He couldn't go to anyone about his problems, how could he? No one understood his mind. No understood what it was like in his head. He kept his eyes closed as he listened to John rummage around his medical kit. The question of how he was feeling elicited a low chuckle.
"I was feeling wonderful until you came along and ruined my buzz," Now he had this god awful headache. His heart was pounding and he felt like he was going to be sick. He clutched his stomach as he shut his eyes tighter. "I'm fine." He insisted, his back still to John. He heard John's sigh, that same sigh that always said: 'Why do you even bother to lie to me, I know better.'
"If you were feeling fine you wouldn't have done this." John's throat was tight, his words catching as he tried to force them out. "I'm going to give you something to take the edge off. I'll have to go to the clinic tomorrow to get more as you'll need it while you detox. This stops now Sherlock." He pulled a needle out and filled it with the medication, forcing himself into doctor mode. "I... I can't believe you can't talk to me." His voice betrayed how deeply hurt he was. "And I can't believe you think this is funny." He wiped Sherlock's arm with an alcohol wipe and gave him the medication whether he wanted it or not. He then stood and moved away from the couch. "I..." He paced, not knowing what else to do. "You're the most brilliant mind I have ever met, always racing around and trying to figure out everything about everyone, but when someone wants to help you... You just don't care. You push them away. Why do you even want me here if you can't talk to me?" He wrung his hands together. He pulled out his phone and started to type up a text message.
Sherlock took heroine. I gave him a dose of some medication to help relax him and ease him into the detox period. I am done. I'm going to leave Baker Street once he's clean again, he doesn't want me. JW
He didn't click send, the message was to go to Mycroft. Instead he stood there, hesitating on the edge of his resolve. He didn't want to leave, but he honestly didn't believe Sherlock wanted him to stay anymore.
Fuck that thought hurt.
"Who exactly told you I didn't want you here because I'd like to punch them many times for ever saying something like that to you." Sherlock hissed as he still faced the couch. His stomach was turning and the shot John had given him was making his arm sour. His head was throbbing as his mind began to starting to work properly again. Deduction was slowly starting to come back which was the part he dreaded. Deduction wasn't a choice, it was an instinct. He had no control over it, he simply did it. He made deductions even when he didn't want to. "Fuck," he mumbled when he made the deduction that he was giving John the impression he didn't want him. Giving him the idea that he didn't want him around because he didn't talk to him the way a friend would have. "I can't talk to you, because you wouldn't understand." That wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. "I'm not saying that to anger you, I mean it. You wouldn't understand. No one ever does."
"You didn't even give me a chance to try." There were definitely still tears in his voice. Something that seemed to confuse both of them. He set his phone down without sending the message. Silence falling for a moment as he raced back and forth in his mind between his emotion and his quick thinking medical instinct. "When did you eat last?" He asked but he was already in the kitchen doing something. He returned a few minutes later with some crackers which he set down near Sherlock. He then strode off to the bedroom, grabbing a blanket. All of his movements becoming the sharp and angular movements of a military man. He was pushing his feelings away, trying to hide his emotion. His face contorted by the effort and the pain he was feeling. "I need you to incline yourself slightly, here are some pillows." He grabbed the pillows from his arm chair. "You are going to have to tell me how you are feeling Sherlock, or I won't be able to help you." He stood there offering the pillows and trying hard to strip himself of the very deep betrayal and hurt he was feeling. Sherlock didn't move. He kept his eyes fixed on the wall as John insisted on helping him. He didn't deserve his help. He had hurt him. Betrayed him even and yet John thought he needed his help? No. He should just lay here and suffer as he came down from his high.
"I don't deserve your help, John. Therefore, I'll keep how I am feeling to myself, Thanks." He groaned when John forced the pillows underneath him, his stomach turning and his head giving several painful throbs. "Just stop, John." He pleaded, his voice annoyed and desperate at the same time.
"You know already I won't." John sighed and rummaged through his case, tossing things on the floor as he did. "Damn it, where is it?" He sighed. The tremors were gone, doctor mode fully engaged. He wouldn't let Sherlock see how much he hurt. No. Sherlock obviously didn't care. "And you can either tell me how you feel or Mycroft can waltz in here with his perfect fucking surveillance and whisk you off to rehab. So you tell me, Sherlock Holmes, whose going to be worse?" His tone betrayed him and it shook with grief, anger, and a deep sorrow.
And to think I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me...
He shook his head as the thought flitted through his mind.
"So, since you won't tell me I will have to guess. Heroine, to blank your mind. Likely stashed somewhere in your room as it is the only place I don't know top to bottom, probably whatever you threw before I opened the door. I'm guessing you are pissed as hell at me for giving you that injection but whatever symptoms you are feeling are only going to get worse." He sighed and ran his hand over his face. "I will get you back to health and then..." His voice cracked. "Eat some crackers, it will settle your stomach."
Sherlock's face looked fear stricken at the mention of rehab.
No. Not that God awful place again. No.
But before he could even properly speak, John was telling him how he felt. He was right on some counts, but mostly wrong in consideration of his health. He grabbed one cracker and ate it, mostly to show John that he was at least going to try to accept his help, but for same reason it tasted like dirt and it made his stomach turn even more. He put the cracker down and curled up on the couch into an even smaller ball.
"My head is killing me, I feel very cold even though I'm hot enough to sweat, I feel like I'm going to throw up and if I make a sudden movement the rooms spins." There. That was how he felt. He had told John because he had no other choice. He couldn't be taken to rehab, that was a terrible place. Somewhere inside his chest he felt guilt, he knew he was being petty and childish but he couldn't help it.
"Well at least you think I'm better than rehab..." John said softly, but his tone was disappointed. Another stab of guilt bit at Sherlock. John sighed, okay so the crackers wouldn't work. He stormed off into the bathroom, loudly going through the medicine cabinet before returning. Sherlock utterly confused by what John was stomping around doing. "You are going to have to listen to me Sherlock, otherwise..." He paused and bit back 'or we won't make it through this' and added, "You will feel worse. I need answers." He found his heated blanket and plugged it in next to the couch, draping it over Sherlock. He then very gently, his touch betraying how much he actually was worried and concerned, slid an ice pack under Sherlock's neck. "I have some Dramamine which might help with the room spinning but you can't take it for a bit yet. It will also make you sleepy. I need to know how long this relapse has been going on for, when you last ate, and how recent your last dose was." He sat down in his chair, not looking directly at Sherlock as he waited for answers. He would need to eat himself soon. He sipped his tea. "That tea might help but if the cracker didn't I won't blame you for ignoring it."
He motioned to the cuppa near Sherlock. He was fighting the waves of emotion trying to break free. The chief of which was more tears, but this time tears he was utterly connected to and deeply terrified of. Sherlock would never appreciate what he had done to John, the sentiment of it. Tears would just make everything harder. Sherlock still couldn't understand why John was doing any of this. Even with most of his mind working again and he couldn't understand why John was willing to help him when he didn't deserve it. His shivering eased a bit when the heated blanket was wrapped around him, but he still laid curled up like a child. The only change he gave was to roll over so his back was facing the couch but he kept his eyes lowered to the floor. He didn't want to look at John, to see all of those unspoken things that were flying around the room, around them.
"I ate yesterday, my last dose was an hour ago... And I started using three months ago." He confessed through gritted teeth, knowing that the result was not going to be good. "I don't want drink it, but thank you." He mumbled as he shut his eyes. The floor was spinning and he felt like he was about to fall off the couch. He heard John's breath catch in his chest and it forced him to open his eyes again.
"Three months... Christ." John couldn't stop the sob that broke free, for one moment his entire heart was open and vulnerable before he again tried to shove the emotion away. Sherlock felt the guilt again, John was holding in all his emotion because he'd never given him reason to believe it would matter to him. But the sob conveyed so much in so short a time, Sherlock's addled brain grasping desperately onto every detail. He was hurting the only person that mattered to him. "In about a half hour you can take the Dramamine. I will ask Mycroft to get me the medical supplies I need." John continued as he stood and moved over, testing Sherlock's temperature with the back of his hand before sweeping through the flat. He closed all the curtains and dimmed all the lights.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered. It may not have even been audible but he tried to say it. With the lights dimmed Sherlock's eyes suddenly didn't feel like they were burning, he blinked slowly a few times before allowing his gaze to fully settle on and observe John. He'd wiped away those tears that were still staining his cheeks. He was rigid, trying to pretend he hadn't been crying or showing any emotion at all. He was trying to be clinical and distant because he thought that was what Sherlock would want. He tried to apologize again but the sound wouldn't come out. His mouth opened but the words refused to be spoken.
"Did you say something?" John asked quietly as he returned from the kitchen and set down a glass of water near Sherlock. His face was tight as the rage started to wear off replaced by all of the feelings he was trying to keep out of his mind and off his face. All the things that threatened to destroy what little sanity he felt he had left. "I cannot believe that you trust me to shoot people who might harm you but you can't be arsed to tell me what's going on with you. There are plenty of other ways to distract your mind that don't end up with you in jail, a morgue, or dead in a ditch somewhere." He snapped, but much more gently as he checked to be sure that the doors were still locked and adjusted the temperature on the blanket. He gently removed the ice pack and a few minutes later replaced it with a kitchen towel soaked in ice water and rung out, which he placed over Sherlock's forehead and eyes. He knelt down and took Sherlock's wrist between his fingers, checking his pulse. "You're lucky I'm not someone else, Sherlock. Lucky I don't just run away."His voice was soft, but clear. "But if you intend to keep using, tell me now so I can leave before..." He listened to John speak, too ashamed to even defended himself anymore. He was the idiot. He saw that now. But he was only an idiot because he never considered how much this would hurt, John. He always thought he wouldn't get caught. He thought if he was careful enough John would never have to know and they could continue their life. He was wrong and now John wanted to leave. Just like everyone else he met.
"If you want to go. Go." He whispered, his eyes closed. "I apologize for disappointing you." That part was a bit easier to get out now because he was sure John was leaving. "Everyone leaves," he mumbled to himself almost missing the shakily inhaled breath John took next.
"I don't want to leave, you idiot." The tears fell again and he didn't try to stop them. "But if you can't trust me to help you with whatever made you go out and buy drugs, then how can I believe you want me to stay?" His grip tightened around Sherlock's wrist, without thinking. He didn't consider how desperately he clutched Sherlock's arm or how needy the move would seem, he only wanted Sherlock to feel his touch. "I don't ever want to leave you." The words just fell from his mouth before he realized it and his eyes went wide. "I..." He didn't want to take it back because it was true, but he was terrified of what Sherlock would think. "I'm disappointed in your choices, yea. I'm mad that you didn't rely on me or trust me. I feel betrayed, but I'm not leaving."
"You should want to leave," Sherlock said, his tone flat and emotionless. He tried to pull his wrist away from John only because his grip was starting to hurt. "I betrayed you. I lied to you countless times. You should want to leave and never come back, John." His voice was strained as he tried to pull his hand back. "John," he almost whimpered, looking at his friend with pleading eyes. "You're hurting my hand." Once he finally had his hand back he winced and rubbed at his wrist slowly. "You should go, that's what I deserve for all this." Their eyes were irrevocably locked however and Sherlock wasn't sure he could stomach the amount of emotion that seemed to be passing between them.
"You're logic is infallible as always." John sighed softly, extracting his hand but letting it rest on the couch beside Sherlock. "I'm sorry I hurt you." He whispered, looking down. "People who lo... care about each other don't just leave when things get rough, Sherlock. They come back and fight. Try to prove to the other person that stupid things happen but they're still worth effort." His voice caught in his throat. "That's what you taught me. You could have left me here to sit, thinking my leg was useless... Feeling like I was useless. But you came back for me." Tears were falling again, damn it... "I'm only going to leave if you're going to keep using, and only because I don't want to watch you disappear." He looked at John with sad eyes. He was crying, John never cried. Never in all the time they had known each other had he cried, and now he was a sobbing mess, because of him. He had done this to John.
What have we done to each other?
"There was nothing wrong with your leg, of course I had to show you that you weren't useless." He said simply. He looked away from John and back at the ground, breaking his mind away from the words banging around in his chest. What if he couldn't? He felt like he wouldn't be able to stop using this time. He relied on the drugs so much. They were like water and oxygen to him now. "I-I don't know if I can stop, John." He whispered, his voice cracking a bit because he feared he was going to lose John forever because of his addiction. Terror flooded John and he didn't try to hide it. This was his chance, he could cut and run - who would blame him? But there was fear in that voice. In that normally unaffected, unattached voice. John tentatively put his hand on Sherlock's arm very gently.
"Why do you do it? What do the drugs give you?" He asked softly before his heart got the better of him, "And do you even want to try?" There was a sort of hopefulness in John's words, like the desire to want to meant more than whether or not he was able to. He didn't let the hope fill his chest, because inside he was convinced this was it. The man he desperately loved and needed more than anything in this world was going to turn his back on him for chemicals. Sherlock, subconsciously leaned into John's touch. He needed the comfort. No one had been willing to show him comfort when he was like this, but John was. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to start crying as well. He could stay strong. He had to.
"They...They make everything quiet." He whispered. "It all goes away. I don't think. It simple just fades away. I can't deduce when I'm high and I know that sounds like a bad thing but it's not. It's a wonderful thing because my mind makes deductions constantly. It's an instinct, like breathing or blinking. I do it without thinking. It simply occurs. But when I'm high, that all goes away. I can just relax and not think about anything or deduce my feelings." He bit his lip when the last part came out. Did he really just admit that out loud?
"There's other ways to quiet your mind, Sherlock." John's voice was almost breathless. He hadn't answered the question but his words tried to give John hope. He started panting a bit again, on the edge of a breakdown. "So..." He tried to make his voice even, tried and failed spectacularly. John bit his lip, another sob trying to claw its way out of his chest.
I love you, you bloody idiot!
The words wanted to be screamed, but he wouldn't let them. He wouldn't admit it if Sherlock wasn't willing to try something other than drugs. If he wasn't going to even try to rely on John to help.
"So, does that mean you don't want to try something different?"
"There's nothing," Sherlock said in a broken voice he pushed all the blankets and ice packets away and stood on shaking legs. "There's nothing to make my mind shut up. It wants to think. All the time. And I can't stop it. It will just keep building things in my palace without me even trying!" He was almost crying with frustration now. He started to move toward his bedroom again, almost falling flat on his face. "You have a wing in my mind palace, and it keeps getting bigger and bigger because I learn something about you, everyday!" He was headed for his bedroom to throw himself in bed, but his stomach turned again.
He ran to the bathroom and dry heaved into the toilet. Nothing would come out but stomach acid and it was utterly disgusting. His throat was on fire and he crying now simply because of the pain. John followed him and rubbed his back softly, trying to comfort him. He sat Sherlock on the edge of the tub and taking a wash cloth gently cleaned his face. He stood there and without thinking about what he was doing pulled Sherlock so he leaned against him, Sherlock's face level with John's stomach and ran his hands through Sherlock's hair very gently massage his scalp.
"You can go to sleep when I'm near you, you told me that. Which means your mind goes quiet sometimes when I'm close to you." John was still panting and still very terrified of what would happen if he couldn't get Sherlock to accept his help. He dropped to his knees, holding Sherlock's face in his hands and making Sherlock look him in the eyes. "You focus on me when you need silence, when you need space... Don't think I haven't seen it..." His voice was almost pleading. "Doesn't that mean that maybe I can?" His face betrayed his emotion clearly. It screamed I love you, we can do this, I can do this. But his fear was heavy around them, making him feel like he couldn't breathe.
Sherlock kept his eyes closed as he panted. His stomach still felt awful but he leaned into John's touched as he massaged his scalp. His mother used to do this for him when he was sick and it was the only thing that ever helped. But Sherlock couldn't read the emotion on John's face, he couldn't read it simply because it was one he had never seen before. No one had ever looked at him with such adoration.
"I...I don't know." He whimpered, shaking his head a little. "I don't know, John. You don't understand what my mind is like. Sometimes it never stops. For days. It's awful and usually I can handle it but now...it's just too much. It won't stop." He let out a small sob and hid his face in John's neck.
"You think I don't see it?" He whispered, returning his hands to run through Sherlock's hair, tears falling again. "You think I don't see how you want your mind to stop? How you start snapping at all of us around you, deducting everything to make others suffer with you?" He trembled but he didn't pull away. "Why do you think I ask you to come sleep in my room when you're like that? My nightmares haven't been that bad for six months Sherlock. Why do you think I try to remind you about the little stuff like eating or bathing?" John's shoulders rose and fell with his heavy breath, as he tried to find some sort of hope in this situation. He could be brave enough couldn't he? Brave enough to try to show Sherlock Holmes that emotion was necessary? "I've been trying to help and you just don't open up to me." He wanted to shout, to scream, to do something anything to shake this man from this moment. But he couldn't, he didn't know what to say or do, so instead he felt like his heart was breaking. "I don't want to lose you..." He barely breathed the words. Sherlock stared at John with confusion in his eyes. He honestly didn't know the answers to any of those questions. He could give one but it would be a very poor guess stated out of something similar to hope. He shook his head, swallowing hard.
"I don't know why you do any of that for me, I've always tried to understand but I can never place it." He felt his stomach give another painful flip and he gave a groan. "I want to go lay down." He whispered, trying to move out of John's arms and failing. "Please, you can lay down with me." He offered, hoping that would make the doctor change his mind about leaving. John effortlessly hoisted Sherlock up as he had done so many times before and moving as slowly as he could steered him towards his bed. He moved cautiously, bracing almost all of Sherlock's weight on himself but letting him keep his feet on the floor to stabilize himself. He set Sherlock gently in bed, hovering between the decision to lay down or to go. Maybe if he... If he said the one thing he was most terrified of, Sherlock would listen. Sherlock let out a groan once he was actually on the bed. It felt better to be laying down but his head still throbbed and his stomach still felt as if was going to explode.
"Sherlock, I..." His breath hitched again, making him pant. He sat down softly on the bed before cradling the detective's chin with two fingers. Sherlock's eyes were clearly reading him as he searched his eyes for a long time, trying to steel himself to do what he needed to do. "I will lay here with you." He whispered, but his hand didn't leave Sherlock's chin making him keep his eyes fixed on John's. Sherlock watched completely transfixed as John's face changed moment by moment as he fixed his resolve to do something that Sherlock couldn't make out. "There's something I want to say to you, but I'm scared it will upset you. I'm scared of what it will mean especially because I don't know if I can let myself feel it if you're going to keep using, but it's killing me to keep it bottled inside my heart." With those two words all of his focus was on John. The man he had been struggling to place in his mind palace. Friend or lover? That's why he had returned to drugs, he couldn't understand his feelings for John, and not thinking about them were just so much easier.
"John, you can tell me anything. I promise I won't do anything rash." He rubbed John's knee, that being the only comfort he could give in his state. He wanted to try to comfort John though, it was almost a desperate need to comfort him. He knew that he was the one hurting him and he wanted to fix that. He wanted to help him.
"I love you." John forced out, almost wincing with the quickness he'd said it, at how easy it had been to admit it. "That's why this hurts so much." The tears again, damn it he was not used to feeling this much all at once. His breath was pronounced, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. His eyes looked wild but afraid as he bore his heart, his whole truth, to Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock would regret all of this when he was sober again, maybe he'd run away or tease John; but whatever happened then he had to get it out of himself now or he was going to explode. He watched as the words burned trails through Sherlock's mind, igniting the fuses of thousands of thoughts. But he was convinced that he could make Sherlock stop, that he could replace what the drugs gave Sherlock. And he had to know if he was right. "Stop thinking." He commanded and he pressed his mouth to Sherlock's, letting their lips meet for the first time.
Sherlock was about to say he couldn't, he couldn't stop thinking. That was impossible. He was now very confused and he was trying to understand exactly what love was. He's never been in love. He's seen in. Read about it but he's never experienced it. What was it? Were the feelings he felt for John love or was it just fondness-
But suddenly, all of his thinking stopped. His mind simply went blank as John kissed him. His heart pounded in his chest and it was amazing he was even breathing properly. He wrapped an arm around John, desperate for him to stay exactly where he was. His mind was blank. No deduction. No worrying no mind palace, just pure bliss. A sob choked and died in John's throat as Sherlock wrapped around him. Tears falling still as he deepened the kiss and kept kissing Sherlock until he had to stop to breathe. He panted for breath, his eyes burning into Sherlock's while his hand moved so his fingers shyly traced over Sherlock's mouth.
"I can... Please..." He begged, throwing his pride out the window as he shamelessly begged Sherlock to give up the drugs and choose him instead. "Please, Sherlock..." He shuddered as a sob wracked him but the sound didn't come, it sputtered and died in his throat. Sherlock stared back into John's eyes. He was completely in awe, he had broken the strongest man he knew and he hadn't even mean to. John should never cry this much because of him. That wasn't right. Something in Sherlock's heart ached at the sight and he just nodded.
How can he feel this much for...me?
"Whatever you want," he whispered unsure of what exactly John wanted but he was willing to give it to him. "Anything, just stop crying. Please." He brought a hand to John's cheek and wiped a few of the tears away.
"I'm trying." He whispered, burying his head against Sherlock's chest. He was shaking slightly, his hands dropping down to Sherlock's shoulders and resting there as he completely surrendered to his emotion and the moment. "You don't need the drugs, you need me." His voice was still soft and though it was a statement it was also a question, a question he didn't expect to be answered. "I'll do whatever it takes, Sherlock. Anything at all if it will keep you sober." He shuddered again, trying to even out his breath. "I'll quit the clinic, I'll stay home all day, you can tie me to the bed, I don't care. Just... No more heroin." Sherlock eyebrows knitted together in confusion wondering why on earth he would have to tie John to a bed. He began to stroke the doctor's back, unsure if that was even the proper thing to do. He knew some people did that in order to comfort someone.
"I-I'll try. That's all I promise you, John. I want to stop. I do but I can't promise that I'll be successful." He hated admitting that he was so weak but John needed to know the truth. "My stash is under the bed." He whispered.
"Trying is all I can ask for." He whispered, shivering as his breath slowed. "Thank you." His arms relaxed slightly but he was still very tense. "I felt your mind clear when our lips met. I could feel it in how you relaxed. That's what the drugs do for you?"
"No," Sherlock shook his head. "I've never been that...blank before. Even when I'm high I still can think about some things but when you kissed me...it was like everything went away." He blushed a bit, he sounded so sentimental. He coughed, trying to clear his throat and sound somewhat normal. "Thank you, for..um..that."
"That's what feeling does." He whispered and looked up, pressing his mouth back to Sherlock's again. Taking the chance that Sherlock actually liked it. "Don't thank me, just enjoy it." He smiled softly. "Gods you can be an incredible idiot, but I love you so much it kills me. How are you feeling?"
When their lips met he went blank again. Sherlock closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the feeling of not thinking about anything, well one thing. Just John and it wasn't like when he normally thought about John. It was just about what John was doing to him. How John made him feel. When he pulled away Sherlock blinked a few times, unsure why they kept separating. He blushed at the sentiment but there was soft smile on his face.
"Still feel sick to my stomach, but my head doesn't hurt anymore." He said, sounding relieved.
"It's going to get worse as you come down. Whatever you need me to do, however I can help... Please let me." He was so close to Sherlock and his body was desperate to feel him, but he didn't want to push too far. He still wore the look of confusion as to why John pulled away from their kiss and John couldn't stop his smile. "That look is precious, what's wrong?" He licked his lips, his tongue flicking over Sherlock's as he did. John didn't need to tell him, he knew how awful it was going to get. He had come down a lot these past three months. His headache was gone which was where most of his pain was so he was grateful, now all that remained was the cold feeling and the nausea. He shivered when their tongues touched, he had honestly never done that before. He had kissed people, but never with tongue and never did it cause his body to react in such a way.
"I-I-I just keep wondering why we keep stopping," Sherlock said without thinking.
"To breathe." John grinned and kissed him again, pressing his body against Sherlock's. He wrapped one hand gently in those dark curls, pressing their mouths together eagerly.
AN: Please Review!