Chapter 4

"How's he getting on? Recovering from yesterday?"

John glanced over at Sherlock, furiously typing away on John's laptop. God forbid he actually use his own. It wasn't even like John's was closer – Sherlock's common excuse for confiscating it – it was across the room in John's chair while Sherlock's was on the table next to the sofa.

"Yeah… I'd say he's doing alright."

"How's the first day off and all?"

Sherlock groaned. "Tell Mycroft I'm f—" he lurched upright. "John, I think I'm going to be sick."

John rushed to get a waste bin and set it next to Sherlock. Despite clearly being able to vomit into the bin, the now detoxing detective shifted his head ever so slightly to puke all over his flatmate's feet. He wiped his mouth with a paper towel offered by John and looked up with a less-than-half-hearted "Sorry."

The corner of John's mouth twitched, resisting the urge to shout. Instead he replied to Mycroft through gritted teeth, "Well, he's just got sick, but he purposefully missed the bin and got it on my shoes. So I think he's doing alright."

Mycroft chuckled on the other end, furthering John's annoyance with those with the surname Holmes. "Best of luck, Doctor Watson," he said and clicked off.

-x-

John opened the fridge and grabbed the milk carton. He titled it over his glass, only to find nothing coming out. He bought it yesterday. There was no reason it should be empty unless…

"Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock called from his room.

"Get in here."

There was an audible huff from down the hall, followed by the sound of Sherlock's yanking the door open and storming to the kitchen. John still had the refrigerator door open. He emphatically pointed to the empty milk sitting on the shelf. "What is this?"

"An empty thing of milk, clearly. You really should throw that out and close the door – wasting electricity and whatnot."

"Why the fuck is it empty Sherlock?" John shouted, pulling the carton from the shelf and shoving it Sherlock's face. "I bought this yesterday!"

Sherlock pushed the milk away from his face and crossed his arms. "I got thirsty."

"So you drank an entire thing of milk?"

"Yes."

The carton clattered across the floor. Grabbing Sherlock by his dressing gown, John gestured to the sink. "Or you poured it all out like a child." He released Sherlock. "Get dressed. We're going to Tesco."

"What do you mean we?" Sherlock snarled.

"I'm not leaving you here alone and you're the one who wasted all the milk." John stared at Sherlock, refusing to let him get out of this. Sherlock straightened his back, as if he thought his height would intimidate John. His eyes narrowed, his lips turned to a scowl. John crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow.

Really, you think that will work?

"Go. Get dressed. Now."

Sherlock groaned and turned on his heel, stomping back into his room. He hadn't been in there too long when John saw pairs of socks flying down the hall.

"You ruined my sock index," Sherlock yelled before slamming the door.

"Oh and did I ruin your pants index too?" John mocked. He heard something clatter to the floor in Sherlock's room. The testy detective threw the door open again, handful of underpants in each fist. He flung them to the ground.

"As a matter of fact you did."

"Acting like a brat won't get you out of this."

-x-

"Why am I here?" Sherlock whined

John glared over his shoulder. "Why did you pour out all the milk?" he asked as he grabbed a new carton of milk. Turning from the cooler, he sighed. "While we're here we might as well pick up some food since there's going to be two of us eating now."

Sherlock threw his head back and groaned, loud enough for a few people around them to turn and look strangely at the man-child. "I don't care." He drew out care for three seconds, as if the longer he said it the higher chance he had of John letting him go back home.

"Well I'm sure you'll care when you decide you hate all the food in the house." John lowered his tone, "come on, we're getting groceries and you'll stop causing a scene like a toddler."

Sherlock watched as John started down the aisle. Reluctantly, he followed but not before muttering under his breath, "Make me."

-x-

"Fuck you," Sherlock muttered under his breath as John entered the flat. Mrs. Hudson had just gone back downstairs. John hung his coat and turned to Sherlock.

"What did you just say?

Flipping down the daily paper which had already been read and its puzzles solved, Sherlock looked John dead in the eye and repeated himself. "I said, fuck you."

"That's what I thought."

"Well I'm glad your hearing is fine. So, fuck you and your stupid ideas about what's good for me, and your stupid medical degree, and your stupid jumpers, and your stupid tea, and your stupid string of stupid girlfriends, and your stupid morals, your stupid sense of obligation, and your stupid little stupid brain! So yes, fuck you."

John's fist clenched. If Sherlock's goal for the day was piss him off as much as possible he was getting very close. "Okay, go ahead and tell that to one of the few people – and by few I mean I can count 'em on one hand – who care enough to put up with you. You're gonna tell that to the person who basically makes sure you don't end up killing yourself on a daily basis?"

"I didn't ask you to be my governess."

"You don't ask people to be your friends," he yelled, snatching the paper cover Sherlock's smug face. "And you asked me to move in with you, to be your assistant."

"I didn't ask you to keep me as a prisoner in my own flat!"

"This is what's best for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood and brushed past his flatmate. Just because he knew it was right didn't mean he wanted to hear it. "Piss off."

-x-

Manila folders scattered the floor, making a loose trail to Sherlock's chair where he was curled up and skimming over the file in his hand.

"Is the wife's sister five centimeters shorter than the victim and does she wear blue polish?"

"The height sounds about right but I'm not sure about—"

He tossed the file to the floor with a roll of his eyes. "Next."

Lestrade groaned. "There is no next, Sherlock. You've gone through all of them," he said, bending to gather the folders. "You finished off half of them before you even sat down."

"I know you've got plenty of unsolved cases tucked away in archives."

Dumping all the files into the box they came over in, Lestrade fell into the chair across from Sherlock. "I'll see if I can dig a few things out next time it's my turn to babysit."

"Babysit?" Sherlock spat the word. "I'm not a child."

Lestrade laughed. "Last time I was over you sulked in the corner for an hour which admittedly freaked me the hell out. Then when you were done with that you played your violin atrociously just to make me angry. If that's not childish I don't know what is." Sherlock said nothing. "He's doing the right thing you know."

Sherlock's lip twitched.

"Look, we both know this part is awful. But you come out for the better once it's through."

"I function just as well with cocaine as I do without."

"See, then there shouldn't be any need for you to use and worry all of us."

"I don't know why you all get worried. You aren't the ones injecting drugs."

"It's because we care, Sherlock. As difficult as that is for you to wrap your enormous brain around, when you care about someone you want them to be safe and healthy and not doing cocaine. Maybe when you get through this you'll manage a simple 'thank you' for John."

-x-

"Why do they always get the wrong person first? And then that same person is free to go ten minutes later only for the real convict to be caught between the thirty and forty minute mark if they're going to trial or within the last ten minutes with no trial? Can't they see they're always wrong? And there's always something pointing to the right person; they're just too idiotic to realize it."

Mrs. Hudson reached down and replaced the remote in Sherlock's hand with a cup of tea. "Too many crime shows for the day, dear." She settled herself on the couch. Flipping through channels, she stopped at an afternoon talk show. "She does a lot of easy home tips. Maybe you'll find a way to organize your things. Maybe brighten up the flat."

"Why would I need organization tips when I have you Mrs. Hudson."

"Because I'm not your housekeeper," she said, eying Sherlock over the rim of her teacup.

Sherlock was surprising quiet for most of the show. When Mrs. Hudson got up at the end to take their dirty cups to the kitchen, she smiled when she found out why he had been abnormally silent. Once she placed the dishes in the sink she returned to drape a blanket over Sherlock.

Part way through preparing supper she heard Sherlock stir in the other room. The fluorescent glow of the television shone as the only light in the room and illuminated his groggy face. He looked around the room like a lost toddler until his eyes finally found Mrs. Hudson standing in the kitchen. Comforted with the knowledge that she was still there he turned back to the television, one of those ridiculous 'reality' shows now on. Every so often he would interject with a loud sigh or a declaration of how wrong everyone was. "No, he's clearly not the father!" or "Of course he slept with someone else" with the occasional "For heaven's sake the two of you are related."

"Sherlock! Dinner's ready!"

He wandered into the kitchen, blanket hanging off his shoulders. "It smells good. Thank you," he said with a kiss to Mrs. Hudson's head.

"Not a problem dear."

-x-

John slammed his fist into the arm of his chair. "Goddammit Sherlock! I've had it! If you're just going to fight and fight and refuse to get better, I don't know what I can do."

"You can give me the cocaine back, make both of our lives easier," Sherlock suggested. "It'll take the edge off for me, I won't be as insufferable, and you won't have to deal with me."

"You know what, fine. Go and shoot up to your heart's content. I don't care anymore," John shouted, getting up from his chair and storming to the door. Grabbing his coat from the rack, he slung it over his shoulders and pointed at Sherlock. "I was just trying to do what's best for you but you've got your head so far up your arse you think you know everything and can't appreciate genuine help and concern. Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Glad to see you go," he sneered in response before rolling himself over in a huff.

He lay there glaring holes into the back of the sofa for a while. He honestly expected John to come back a few hours later, like usual. When his text tone eventually went off he was going to ask John to pick up Chinese on the way back. Instead, his phone fell from his hands and clattered across the floor.

You really should keep a better eye on your pets. It's a dangerous world out there – M

Attached was an image of a battered and bloodied John.

Sherlock ran to his bedroom to dress and go find his friend. Upon opening his closet door he screamed. Moriarty's lips turned to a snarl. "It's already too late."

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you alright?"

Sherlock startled, head jerking toward the sound. His eyes were wide and dark curls were matted to his forehead with sweat. Each breath was a heaving pant, chest rising and falling rapidly. "John?"

John left the doorway and approached his friend's bed. "I heard you scream. Is everything okay?"

Sitting up, Sherlock looked around the room, still trying to establish reality. He turned back to John. "You're fine."

"Yes, but are you?"

"You didn't leave?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I left earlier today for work but no, not since…"

Sherlock slowly nodded. "Good. Alright, good."

Stepping closer, John gently pushed Sherlock back into the bed. "Whatever it was, it was just a nightmare. Go back to sleep. I'll see you in the morning. Sleep well," he said, pulling the sheets back up and patting Sherlock on the shoulder before returning to his own room.