A/N: thanks as always to all readers and reviewers and those following the story. Just a reminder to anyone who is artisticly minded feel free (only if your inspired to) to draw/paint art from any of my stories, not asking anyone to but just putting it out there.

Enjoy!

Chapter 7

When the part of them exit the police station there's a sleek black car waiting outside, the detective is not impressed but accepts the ride anyway. John insisted they head back to the hotel for now for a rest and regroup. Sherlock didn't complain, and this only served to send alarm bells ringing for the doctor.

In fact Sherlock remains mute the entire journey back to the Devonshire Fell, something which he is doing increasingly so for the past two days. The silence only proves to increase John's worry and the growing tension between them. But once reach their hotel room the silence finally cuts short.

"Are you okay?" The doctor asks.

"This is absurd John!" The detective throws his hands up when the door finally clicks closed behind them. "I am fine." He sat on the bed with a huff.

"Are you?" John's brows rise.

He wants to talk about the way Sherlock reacted in custody, about the clear fact he is suffering post traumatic stress from their original kidnapping, he really does. But right now there is only one thing on his mind and he needs to check, just to be sure. He quickly rummages in his medical bag wishing he hadn't when he comes out with half an empty blister pack of oromorph, confirming his worst nightmare. He held the packet out to his friend

"Fine enough to take an overdose of opioids overnight?!"

Sherlock didn't answer initially, he stared at the remaining drugs in the packet and rings his hands nervously, he can't lie this time, but tries anyway.

"I... I just saved them for later."

"No. You didn't," John scowled angrily, locking eyes with his friend's. "No wonder you were so chipper this morning, and even managed an entire cooked breakfast, why did I not see it. You were high as a bloody kite weren't you?" His voice raised up a couple of decibels.

"John, I can explain," Sherlock stuttered, "I didn't, I mean, I didn't mean to, you know, take them all."

The doctors face softened. "I know. But we should talk about this, any normal human being would be in a coma right now with that sort of dosage."

"We both know I'm not any normal human being." Sherlock breaks the gaze and looks at his shoes with an odd interest. "Honestly. It won't happen again."

"I care more about making sure you're ok right now." John puts the packet down and sits down beside his friend. "Exactly how much pain are you in?"

The detective pauses, hesitating. "I'm not sure," he finally whispers.

"I can work with that," the doctor smiles sadly. "Can I have a look at that shoulder again first?" he presses, "Please?"

Sherlock schools his face into indifference before lowering his coat from his shoulders slowly. He unbuttons his jacket and shrugs it off with a hiss this time, it's like a rerun of the night before.

"Easy." John stands up and begins to examine his friend's shoulder, he is certain the police have pulled the joint roughly and aggravated the thing, even if they didn't mean to.

Gently placing one hand on the joint he uses the other to manoeuvre the limb slowly in several different directions checking ligaments and tendons.

The detective winces and as his arm is forced over his body he lets out a short whimper of pain, face twisting in agony.

"Sorry," the doctor apologises leaving the examination. "It looks like you've torn the ligaments in there, but I'd need to consult an othopod to get it looked at by a specialist."

John remembers that the doctors had warned this could have been an issue if the detective didn't rest correctly, or just as importantly, eat properly.

"No need." Sherlock pulls his arm gingerly into himself with a wince and rests it on his lap, this is the first time John has seen him actually show any real signs of pain for weeks now, despite knowing the man had been suffering, physically and clearly mentally too.

"You should really have it in a sling, I've got one..."

"No"

"Sherlock?" the doctor warns, "for once will you just do as you are told?" He folds his arms in defiance.

"I'm nearly through with this case John, just one more day and I'll relent to your ridiculous mothering. Please?" He pulls his eyes up in a pleading gaze which John knows he cannot refuse no matter how much he tries.

"Fine," the doctor sighs. "Have it your way. But once this is over I'm arranging an appointment and we're going to get this sorted, I'm not sure a physiotherapist is going to work out for you this time I'm afraid."

"Whatever."

"Let's get your temperature." John knows he will soon begin to wear on his friend's patience so chooses his things to check in order of importance.

"Okay." Sherlock is unusually placid when it comes to the next few minutes of John's exam.

"You've got a low grade fever." He frowns finally, "either the first stages of withdrawal or an infection somewhere. John pulls the drug pack back into his hands and counts the tablets out, making a mental note. "When was the last time you took any because you should take more?" he asks sadly, "we need to make sure you're well analgesed until I can get you to a doctor."'

"You are my doctor."

"Yes, and your doctor is telling you take pain killers right now. I can't see you taking a break from this case to let me take you in for an X-ray and bloods so pain relief it is." John offers the pack.

"I don't need it," the detective mumbles.

"Why, have you kept some back?" John asks, there's not a shred of accusation in his voice. "It's ok if you have."

"No," Sherlock yawns twice before continuing, "I'm not disappointing you again."

"Don't be a cock, I know you're in pain, there is no point in hiding it. Just take a couple for now?" he offers again.

"No."

"Sherlock!" This time he does sound annoyed. "This is not how it works, I'm your doctor remember."

"Like I said, you can mother me when this is over." The doesn't even look at the blister pack.

John grinds his teeth together in concern. "I've seen withdrawal Sherlock, you really don't want to go there." He realises what he's said after the words come out of his mouth and then swallows back the awkward feeling.

This time the detective does look up and says matter of factly. "Yes, John, I am aware of the body's response to lack of opium."

"Sorry." Now the doctor looks at his feet.

There's a long and pregnant pause between the pair of them, and eventually John turns to the kettle for answers. Tea solves everything.

Minutes later he passes his best friend a steaming hot cup of earl grey. Sherlock accepts it and a frown deepens across John's face when he sees the mug tremor in the detective's hands. As he sips his own tea across the room the doctor in John runs off a list of symptoms which will develop in the next few hours to days: agitation, epiphora, cold sweats, tremors, muscular pain, diarrhoea, nausea, vomiting, insomnia and increased anxiety. All of which John did not want to see his friend endure, he wasn't even sure right now his emaciated body could actually take it either. It makes him feel sick to the stomach.

What the hell was the idiot thinking?

A series of strong emotions passes through him, anger at Sherlock, guilt at himself not seeing it coming and great sadness, for if that bastard hadn't kidnapped them two months ago none of this would have happened in the first place.

"Stop thinking John, its deafening." The detective looks up from his phone in his hand and sighs.

"Sorry," the doctor apologises for the second time.

Sherlock continues looking through his phone until his face lights up.

"Bingo," he smiles.

"Found the killer?" the doctor asks.

"Almost."

"And?" John gives in.

"An elderly male border collie was presented to an out of hours veterinary clinic in Doncaster for acute collapse, three days ago." The detective shows his friend the screen of his phone but it's too small for John to make out the text on it. How Sherlock is getting this information he doesn't want to know.

"So?" he asked finally. "Border collies are not exactly the rarest of breeds, especially up here in this part of the country, plenty of farmers with working dogs."

"No," Sherlock smirks, "but what's the likelihood of that same veterinary practice ordering in a large batch of injectable potassium, just the next day?"

John scowls. "Supplying someone?"

"Out of hours hospitals need large stocks for sick animals, I'd say they were missing that stock and had to replace it. It was stolen during that very dogs visit the day before, I'd have to visit to find out for sure but we don't have time for that."

"We can go tomorrow?" he offers, "Maybe we should take a nap for the rest of the day before a late dinner?"

Sherlock cocks his head, giving the doctor a look which can only be described as exacerbated. "Really now, a nap, I'm not a grandad. And besides I thought I already took one at the police station?"

"Doesn't mean you can't have another."

The detective fists his hands as to hide the light tremors running through them.

"I. Am. Fine," he grounds out. "Really John, if you want to nap then feel free but I have somewhere to be." He grapples with his large belstaff and pulls it on with a very visible wince and a stifled groan.

"Fine." John's had enough. "Where are we going?" He grabs for the cars keys.

Sherlock smiles from ear to ear, "We're going to catch a killer John."

Orthopod - stand word for orthopaedic specialist/surgeon

Epiphora - excessive tear production