Soon, Sherlock begins having symptoms of withdrawals. At first it's nothing he hasn't handled before, a bit of shakiness, a headache. But as the hours drag on and he hasn't reached a fix of any kind, he finds himself in excruciating pain, fighting back nausea. In a series of scheduling errors that seem irritatingly orchestrated, John Watson-he'd finally given his name up to Sherlock during their second meeting-ends up at his side through all of it. Maybe that is for the best though; Sherlock seems to have taken a liking to him. Unwittingly, John had begun to reciprocate that liking, though he categorized it more as a fascination with him.
Not just because of his brains, thought that in itself was sufficiently interesting, but because, in the act of taking Sherlock's pulse, he'd noticed he could not read him like he did other people. It was like a blocked signal, and it worried him slightly. After all, this had never happened before. He wondered what it meant about the man's gift, about his own, if it had anything to do with their relationship or it was just a coincidence.
The second night of Sherlock's purge, it gets particularly bad. He starts hallucinating terrors, screams at demons only he can see. Of course John knows how important detox is. That doesn't make it any less difficult to watch a genius fall apart, and he wishes he could do more than watch and administer small doses of painkiller that don't seem to make a dent in the suffering. The worst part of it is the crying, he thinks. Whatever Sherlock is haunted about, it's hurting him with all it has right now, because his entire body shakes with those sobs. He wishes he could treat him like he does other people, just touch him once and know, know how to make it stop.
In the midst of his fit, Sherlock locks his hand onto John's.
Almost immediately, his breathing slows, he stops twisting. He jerks his head to the side and his eyes meet John's full of confusion, fear, and...wonder. He doesn't seem to be able to speak yet, but he's also stopped crying out. Eventually he falls asleep, still clutching John's palm.
It occurs to John that this is the first time Sherlock has touched him first.
The next morning, Sherlock wakes up slowly. Every muscle in his body is aching as if he'd been beaten for hours, and a vague nausea is still clinging to him. It's over though. Any traces of the drug were sweated and screamed out last night, though he doesn't know how much of it was imagined. He lies with his eyes closed until he hears John enter. He looks as tired as Sherlock feels.
"How're we feeling today?" he asks, seeing that Sherlock is awake.
"Less frantic, I'd say that's improvement."
He nods. "Definitely." he runs through a checklist of symptoms. When Sherlock denies suffering from any of them, he allows himself to relax. "I wanted to ask you something about last night." he says, sitting down next to the bed. "What do you remember about it?"
Sherlock's throat constricts a small amount. He swallows. "You're referring to when I stopped hallucinating."
"You grabbed my hand. Seemed to calm you down." No response. "Do you think you know why that is?"
"What exactly do you see when you touch me? What part of my past comes up?"
For some reason that irritates John. "This isn't about me."
"Oh, I think it is." he snaps back. "Because I saw things when I touched you that I've only ever seen in contact with a human skull, John, I saw memories. Presumably yours. So what happens when you touch me? Anything abnormal?"
He swallows, hard. "Sherlock, I can't see anything from you."
"And yet I can see you." It's more to himself, thinking out loud, than it is directed at John. "You're the only one, John, the only person my gift can connect to. Possibly the only person I can connect to." he says with a small smirk. There is a long silence as this seems to sink in for them both.
"Sherlock, I'd like to suggest something." his heart pounds, this is taking more courage than he expected it to.
"Hm?"
"What if-" he inhales, "What if I moved in with you?"
Sherlock's head snaps towards him so fast he can hear the bones in his neck pop. "When did Mycroft put you up to that?"
He surprises himself by being honest. "When you came in. I didn't say yes to him though, you know."
There is some kind of record John is breaking for how often he can get Sherlock Holmes' face to contort into confusion. "Then why-"
"It'll mean waiting a year to ship out. It'll mean dealing with a room mate who apparently likes cocaine and can be a right prick. So I wasn't going to hop in for money. Only if I really wanted to help you."
"That doesn't answer the question I had. Why is it you 'really want to help' me?"
Oh dear, that too is a difficult thing to say. "I dunno, really. I think you're a better person than you let on. And I'll be honest, I've never had the oppurtunity to get to know somebody the traditional way. On their terms. Might be interesting." It isn't what he means, not really. He means That Sherlock is a break in the monotony he notices but isn't supposed to. After all, athlete, soldier in training, promising career as a doctor when he gets back, he isn't supposed to be bored or discontent with his life. But maybe what he's said is sufficient.
"You expect me to believe you're willing to put off your grand military career to look after a potentially suicidal cocaine addict free of charge because you can't see anything when you touch me." it sounds like a demand.
His mouth surprises his brain for the second time in ten minutes. "Yeah, I do. I think I can help you."
Sherlock takes a moment, searching John's face, assessing him. "Fine." he says at last, "We'll give it a trial run. Can't hurt to have a doctor around. And anyone's better than that damn fool I lived with before."
