By the third time Sherlock had relapsed, they had fallen into a sort of routine. Sherlock would show up at his door after he had come down from the high, and Lestrade would make tea. They would drink it silently. Sherlock would pull the inflatable mattress out of the closet, and Lestrade would grab the bedding. After everything was made up, Sherlock would collapse into bed and fall asleep as soon as head hit pillow. Most of the time.

On the days where he tossed and turned, Lestrade would take up his post in the nearby recliner and stay with him until his body was calm and his breathing evened out. Anna would find them on these nights and claim that she had a nightmare. Lestrade knew she had come because she heard him answer the door and he hadn't gone back to his room within the allotted amount of time, but he let her climb up on his lap anyway. She would keep watch as well, looking at Sherlock with worried eyes and unerring concentration.

One night, Anna was sick. She had a fever and Lestrade was up with her well into the night with a bottle of Motrin and a cold compress. She had finally succumbed to sleep around three in the morning and Lestrade dragged himself to bed soon after. Just as he was slipping into unconsciousness, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock.

If it had been anyone else, he would have slammed the door in his or her face and gone back to bed. As it was, he had promised himself that he would do whatever he could to help him. So he opened the door and started the dance they had both perfected so long ago. When Sherlock started fidgeting under the covers, Lestrade resigned himself to a night of no sleep and fell into the recliner with a sigh.

Anna padded down the hallway soon after, and he picked her up and set her on his lap. Worried that Anna wouldn't get the sleep she needed, Lestrade started rocking back and forth, hoping the motion would lull her back to sleep. She snuggled into his chest but kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock. Determined that one of them would get to sleep that night, he started to hum a lullaby. A few minutes later, Anna was down for the count. He looked across the room to Sherlock and found that he was asleep as well. He filed that one away for future use and finally went to bed for the night.

Today marked the twelfth relapse since the incident in front of the Tesco. Sherlock had bolted out of 221B as soon as he had relinquished the empty syringe, leaving Lestrade to make his excuses. Lestrade simply told John that Sherlock went out and not to expect him back until tomorrow at the earliest. The chances of him actually coming back tomorrow were slim, unless he could convince Sherlock to let John help him through withdrawal, but John didn't need to know that.

John took this news with the unflappability that the Detective Inspector had come to expect from him. And after the swelling went down, Lestrade left with his daughter and drove home to wait. When a couple of hours had passed and there was still no sign of Sherlock, Lestrade had two options considering his whereabouts. Either Sherlock had found another hit somewhere, or he had gone back and told John what happened. He sincerely hoped it was the latter. Midnight rolled around and Lestrade's eyes were closing of their own accord despite his fighting to stay awake. Convincing himself that Sherlock had confided in John, he stumbled toward his room and collapsed into bed. Seconds later there was a knock at the door. He groaned loudly and considered leaving Sherlock out there. The idea was banished almost as soon as it entered his mind, and he pushed himself out of bed.

Upon seeing his friend standing in the doorway with near-vacant eyes, Lestrade's petty unwillingness vanished. He opened the door and went to put the kettle on.

A/N: Thanks for sticking with me through this story. I hoped you enjoyed it. I would appreciate if you would leave a review on your way out. I'm dying to know your thoughts on it. Have a great day!