Hello there, I've been a bit busy with school and a birthday and I'm sure it's going to get worse before it gets better. This is just an obligatory warning to say I may be infrequent with updates over the next month or so. I will try desperately to keep up though. Also, thanks so much to those who've favorite and followed!

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The world started moving again and Sherlock pulled Eleanora down as quickly as he could. Keeping an arm around her, he led her away from the edge. One of the officers had pulled a blanket from a police car and gave it to Sherlock to stop her from shivering. The crowd was cheering. Reporters pushed forward and shouted their questions, trying to get a statement from either of them.

"Why were you going to jump?"

"How did you get her down?"

"Was this a plea for attention?"

Even with all the noise and cold, everything was surreal and muffled. Eleanora buried her face into his shoulder and kept walking. He needed to get her away from all the people.

"John!" He yelled. Hearing his cue, John pushed out of the mass next to them and started shouting to clear the path. With his help, they finally got though the crowd and found Lestrade.

"I can give you a ride." He opened the back of a police car and ushered them in. Sherlock got in first and Eleanora slid in beside him. John was the last to get in and he began looking her over as soon as the door was closed. Her eyes were brown and bloodshot and they gave away how exhausted she was. She was still shivering violently, despite the blanket and how closely she was pressed against Sherlock, and he worried instantly that she might be going into some kind of shock. John could see that she didn't appear to be injured, though he noticed that there were old and fading scars across much her exposed skin.

"Are you alright?" He asked Eleanora. "What's your name? My name's John Watson, I'm a friend of Sherlock's and I'm a doctor." She pulled the blanket tighter. Sherlock tugged off his scarf and wrapped it around her neck.

"Eleanora McIntyre, I'm fine, and I know who you are. Army doctor?" She turned to Sherlock and he nodded. "Soldier plus doctor equals army doctor. I consider that a grey area. Technically I was right." Sherlock made a noise of agreement and looked out the window. She pressed her palms to her eyes and let out a shaky breath. "God, so many people."

"Eleanora McIntyre?" Lestrade asked from the front of the car. They'd started moving and he was focused on the road, but he looked back at her in the mirror. "You're not the one-"

"Thank you Lestrade, but shouldn't you pay closer attention to your driving?" Sherlock met his eye in the mirror and Lestrade looked away. Something in the viciously protective way he'd stopped Lestrade's question had sent warning bells through John's head. The only other time he'd ever seen Sherlock so scarily protective was when he'd thrown a CIA agent out of a window for hurting Mrs. Hudson. The silence in the car lasted the whole way to Baker Street and when the three of them got out of the car, Sherlock still didn't say a word to Lestrade.

"Thanks, Greg," John mumbled.

"Keep an eye on both of them," he said as John shut the door. Before he had time to open it again and ask what Lestrade meant, the car was already driving down the street.

When he turned, he saw that Sherlock was leading Eleanora through the door with a hand on her back. Her shaking hadn't ceased and he was sure he'd watched her stumble on the step. He followed them up the stairs cautiously, watching for any signs that the woman in front of him might fall. Sherlock showed her into the apartment ahead of them and lead her to his chair in the living room. She sat down and Sherlock examined her for a moment before turning on his heel and disappearing into the kitchen.

For a few minutes, John stood in front of the sofa, watching Eleanora as she looked about the room. She appeared forcibly calm and observant. He could see her taking deep and measured breaths, clenching her hands into fists and carefully relaxing them. There was a dangerous atmosphere growing around her, like a tension that would soon come to an explosive result. As he finished that thought, she doubled over and began running her hands roughly through her hair. She was pulling hard at the long brown locks and then clawing at her face. Her breathing came in short gasps and Sherlock bounded immediately into the room, completely aware of what was going on.

"Eleanora, you need to calm down." He knelt in front of her, locking her legs against the chair with his own, and grabbed her wrists. She was struggling violently against him. His grip on her was dangerously tight and John knew that she could break one or both of her wrists if Sherlock didn't let go.

"Sherlock, you're going to hurt her!"

"If I let go, she'll hurt herself worse than I could," He said over the sound of Eleanora's enraged growls. And she was growling. She looked like a furious and terrified wild animal, fighting for her life. Sherlock looked at her, completely ignoring the fact that she was thrashing and crying, and spoke just as he would have to an unreasonable child. "Calm down. Breathe, Eleanora. You are here with me. Think. Just think about where you are. You know you're safe." She didn't stop. In fact, she began screaming with a sound that was almost painfully raw and inhuman. Sighing with frustration, Sherlock released one of her arms and slapped her across the face. The sound echoed eerily through the apartment as Eleanora fell silent and stopped struggling.

"What the hell was that for?" John screamed. Sherlock ignored John. He kept his hand on her left wrist and examined her arm as she sat hunched over in the chair and began to cry silently. Finding what he expected, he held her arm out for John to see. John was getting ready to scream at him again when he saw the mark on a vein inside her elbow; a small, red dot that was clearly from an injection. "She's on some kind of drugs?" John asked.

"Yes. She's always been keen on heroin," he said, sounding disappointed. "Relaxation and the possibility for euphoria. She does it to stop the chaos. You'd think that after all the fuss she made about wanting her mind back that she'd be less intent on killing it."

"She's a heroin addict?"

"Not anymore, though she could easily go back to it if she doesn't let it all out now and stay clean." He stood abruptly and walked off in the direction of his bedroom. John stayed and watched Eleanora as she cried. He wondered how she'd become so broken, though some deep part of him understood completely and was trying to deny it. Somehow, directly or not, he knew Sherlock had caused this. The man in question reappeared with a syringe in his hand.

"Whatever that is, you can't give it to her," John said firmly, his medical instincts kicking in again. "She's already experiencing the influence of something powerful and there's no telling what could happen if you give that to her. You could kill her!" Sherlock pushed past him.

"I've seen this happen before. And honestly, I think I know how to handle her a bit better than you, John." He bent and quickly injected her opposite arm with the contents of the syringe. There was a practiced nonchalance about the way he did it, like he'd done the same thing a hundred times before. The thought didn't comfort John at all. After a moment, Eleanora started leaning forward in the chair and Sherlock caught her. "Mild sedative," he said. "It will make her sleep while the drug works itself out of her system. That could take a while, so she'll most likely wake up before it's gone. Withdrawal could set in, but it won't be as harsh as for a routine addict because she's been off it for so long. Still, you might not want to bother her tomorrow. She's hell when she comes down." He lifted her easily into his arms and carried her to his room. John followed and watched quietly from the doorway as Sherlock set her on the bed. He was being unusually gentle, even though he'd slapped her in the face less than ten minutes ago. He unlaced her boots and set them together on the floor before pulling down the covers and tucking her in. John saw him pause, staring at her with an unreadable expression, and then adjust the pillows beneath her head. Then he turned and looked at John.

"You two were a couple, weren't you?" John asked.

"No. That's not the word I would use," Sherlock responded simply. He brushed past John as he walked out of the room.

"What word would you use then?" John's question was ignored.

"I'll stay awake in case she gets up in the night. If I need you, I'll call you down." He picked the empty syringe off the table by his chair and threw it into the biohazard bin in the kitchen. In any other home it would have seemed absurd to have a bin like that but considering that the fridge of 221B was at least half full of human body parts at all times, John knew the normal rules didn't apply.

"But-"

"It's getting late."

"No it isn't. It's only-" Sherlock cut him off again.

"It's getting late," he repeated. John understood. He wanted to be alone.

"Alright. I'll be just upstairs."

"Yes, obviously." He sat down in a kitchen chair in front of his microscope, picking up on whatever he'd left there hours or maybe days ago. John opened his mouth to say something else, but decided against it and made his way out of the flat and up to his own room, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.