The cabin was bigger than John had originally thought. It was two storeys, and the rooms were very spacious. The bathroom and the kitchen were the only rooms without a fireplace. It was all very clinical, with the kitchen being modern whilst other rooms were wooded but also with a touch of the twenty-first century – without the technology. It was almost... therapeutic. It was nice. John probably would have enjoyed his stay, if it wasn't for the reason he was here.
He hadn't returned to the bedroom he'd woken up in when he first arrived, instead he kipped on the leather couch in the corner of Sherlock's room, should the detective need anything. It was also to prevent his flatmate from escaping through the window, which he'd twice attempted to do, only to be stopped by the angry army doctor.
It was safe to say that tensions were running high by now. Three long weeks had passed and both occupants were feeling the strain and suffering from immense boredom.
"I want to know the truth." John said one night as he and Sherlock sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, both of them picking at their meals the doctor had prepared for them.
"The truth about what?" Sherlock asked, knowing full-well what he meant.
"Why you decided to take heroin."
"I've told you–"
"Yes, but it was vague and meagre, and I refuse to accept it as an answer. So tell me before I leave and let you suffer alone." he growled.
Sherlock looked up sharply. He knew John had been stressed, but the doctor had done well to restrain his anger up to now.
"I'm not suffering." he said quietly.
John sighed and carefully put his fork down. "Yes you are," he answered. "I can tell you're suffering from anxiety and because of that you're being bloody irritable as heck. You aren't sleeping and you've been sweating and shaking for the past few days. Withdrawal symptoms, as you full well know."
"Yes, I do know." Sherlock snapped. "I don't need you to tell me what's wrong with me, and I most certainly don't need you mollycoddling me 24/7."
"I haven't been mollycoddling you, Sherlock. No, I've been too busy clearing up your vomit, or preventing a fever from taking over you, or ensuring you don't suffer from a heart attack."
"I don't need your help." the detective leaned forward, his eyes flashing dangerously.
"And I won't give it if you're not going to take it." John also leaned forward, refusing to be cowed by Sherlock.
"Rest assured I most certainly will not take it, Doctor." he snarled.
"So be it." John answered, pushing himself up from the table and heading towards the door. "Good luck trying to find anyone else who'll help." he said as he strode out.
"I don't need help!" Sherlock yelled. "And I definitely don't need you!"
The footsteps paused for a moment, before they resumed again, marching at a quicker pace away from the kitchen.
"Goddammit!" Sherlock shouted, flinging his plate across the room until it hit the wall and shattered, leaving broken porcelain and vegetable scattered about on the floor.
"I don't need anyone!" he shouted to the air. "I am more than capable of looking after myself!"
Sherlock stormed out of the kitchen and back to his room. The machinery had long since been taken out by some of Mycroft's men, leaving just his bed, wardrobe and a set of drawers. He flopped down onto the bed and buried his face in the pillow, trying his best to calm down. He wasn't helpless. He wasn't someone who needed to be monitored all the time. He was able to cope perfectly well on his own.
He could hear someone walk by his door, and noticed how they hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to come in or keep going, and then Sherlock heard them sound back down the corridor, towards the room next to his. Good. He didn't need John, either. Most definitely.
Sherlock drifted to sleep still fully-clothed with those thoughts in mind, wondering if the pacing next door would ever stop.
He woke in the middle of the night with terrible stomach pains. Groaning softly, Sherlock curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his middle in a feeble attempt to lessen the pain. He gritted his teeth and levered himself up from the bed, staggering from his room and down the corridor until he was downstairs, past the kitchen and in the bathroom. Diarrhoea was a common withdrawal symptom, a symptom Sherlock was experiencing now. It didn't help to lessen the pain, and he continued to groan as he flushed the loo and washed his hands. It was unbearable. He felt as if his gut was twisting this way and that, clenching hard and refusing to let go. Sherlock could feel his legs weaken, and he lurched back through the kitchen, using the wall to keep him standing. His foot slipped on a piece of porcelain that he'd never gotten round to cleaning up, and Sherlock crashed to the floor. Wincing, he pushed himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the wall, and he hissed when his palm was sliced by another shard of porcelain.
Then he paused.
His mind had been briefly distracted by the sudden flash of pain that had shot through his hand so much so that the pain residing in his stomach had almost disappeared.
Hmm.
With a sense of caution, Sherlock reached for the shard and held it loosely in the palm of his hand. Then he slowly folded his fingers over it and squeezed, watching with disinterested eyes.
The pain was instantaneous and seared through his palm, a sharp, pointed sting that dominated his hand and made his fingers tingle. It wasn't particularly enjoyable, but it lessened the agony in his stomach. He began to feel nauseous and felt the beads of sweat around the top of his forehead, but he paid it no heed, too focused was he on the singular shard of porcelain in his hand. Blood began to ooze out of his clenched fingers, dribbling over his palm and running down his wrist. It was entrancing, and Sherlock gazed at it dully, squeezing harder for effect.
A foreign pair of hands suddenly enclosed around his and began to pry at his fingers, trying to open them.
"Stop it." A firm voice made Sherlock glance up to see a pyjama-clad John looking down at his hand and trying to extract the shard of porcelain from it. The detective frowned, and clenched harder to stop him, causing more blood to leak out.
"Sherlock, stop it. Look at me." John placed a hand against Sherlock's cheek and tried to get him to make eye contact. Reluctantly, he looked into those hazel irises.
"Let go. Now, Sherlock." His voice left no room for argument, and eventually Sherlock relaxed his fingers. John took advantage of this and opened up the detective's hand, snatching the piece of porcelain from his grip and casting it aside. John took a hold of Sherlock's arm and stood him up slowly. He guided him back towards the bathroom and made him sit atop the toilet whilst he fetched a towel and held it securely against Sherlock's hand.
"Hold that." he ordered, and the detective complied, flexing his fingers and holding on to the towel himself as John left the bathroom and then returned a few minutes later with a bucket and a glass of water in his grip. He placed the bucket on the floor and the water on the side, then took over the job of pressing the towel to Sherlock's hand.
"If you're going to vomit, you do it in that bucket, understood?"
Sherlock nodded dumbly and watched as John peeled back the towel and examined the single slice across his palm.
"That will probably need stitches." John muttered. "Come here." He led him over to the sink and held the detective's hand underneath the running cold water. As that happened, John looked Sherlock up and down, searching for any more injuries. Noticing the tremors and the pale complexion of his flatmate, John pressed a hand against his forehead to gauge a temperature. Sherlock flinched and tried to pull back, but one look at the firm expression on John's face and he remained still and let the doctor scrutinize him.
John turned off the taps and sat Sherlock back down on top of the toilet. He found a first aid box in a cupboard and opened it, seeking stitches and a pair of scissors. He rested Sherlock's hand on his knee and carefully began to stitch together his skin. Sherlock remained perfectly still throughout it until John finished and wrapped his hand in a bandage.
"Drink this." John offered the water along with two strong painkillers. Sherlock gratefully accepted them and downed them in one go.
"Stomach pains again?" the doctor asked. Sherlock nodded.
"Worse than before." he mumbled.
"Which is why you felt the need to slice open your palm." It wasn't a question, so Sherlock didn't grace it with an answer.
John sighed and tugged slightly on his flatmate's hand, making him stand up. His legs were still weak so John wound an arm around his waist to keep him upright. Together they made it back to Sherlock's room, and he was gently lowered onto the bed. Yawning, he crawled underneath the covers and closed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. He felt a cool hand press against his forehead again, and he peeled open an eye, watching as John placed another glass of water onto the bedside table.
"You look tired." Sherlock murmured.
"It's two in the morning, Sherlock."
"You always look tired." A mixture of exhaustion, blood loss and painkillers meant Sherlock was more loose-tongued than usual.
"Thanks." the doctor frowned.
"Is it because of me?"
John sighed. "Not just you." he said softly. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better." He turned to go, but Sherlock caught his arm.
"Stay, please." he whispered. John looked like he was going to argue, but thought against it and instead dropped into the chair next to his bed.
"I'm here." he leaned forward and patted the drowsy detective's arm. "I'll be here when you wake up, don't worry."
