A/N: A rather short chapter in my opinion, but I ended up quite liking it. I hope you all do too! 3
Disclaimer: Not mine, come on, we've been through this.
John barely slept that night, his mind awake and waiting for the withdrawal symptoms to start up in his friend. He had been looking over article after article about cocaine withdrawal and the ways in which to combat it - in many cases the jitteriness and paranoia could last a lifetime. Thankfully Sherlock had only been using for a few weeks and it was still early enough to pull him out of the deep end, or so he had gathered from a forum.
It was almost late in the afternoon the next day before the harshest symptoms started to set in. John was making a pot of tea and considering texting Molly when he heard it. The sharp crack of something breaking and a gruff voice shouting, "John!"
He left the kettle and dashed to Sherlock's room. As he pushed through the door he took in the sight, the bedside table toppled to the floor with the debris spread out around it. Sherlock was doubled over on the floor, his face covered in a sheen of sweat and his hands gripping the carpet, "John!"
Dr. Watson jumped into action, "Come on Sherlock," he gripped him under the arms and pulled him into the bed again, "Just try and breath, I'll get you something,"
Sherlock's body was shuddering with cold as he gripped what used to be Molly's pillow and groaned, "I always hate this part," he shuddered.
John went to the kitchen and poured him a cup of tea and then wet a washcloth with warm water. When he returned to Sherlock with the necessary supplies he sat on the edge of his bed, "Relax, lie back,"
Sherlock rolled slightly, his teeth grinding together as he gripped the bedsheets, "You wouldn't happen to have any morphine, would you?" He groaned through his teeth.
"Sherlock," John warned, "this doesn't last long," he lied, "as long as you're strong enough to fight it off. It's a mental thing, you know that,"
Sherlock jerked his head in a nod, "This had better be worth it,"
"You know it will be," John placed the warm washcloth on his head.
Sherlock would have protested but it was honestly soothing so he bit his tongue and let his best friend try and care for him, "It's going to get worse before it gets better,"
"I know," John nodded, "Try and relax and think of Molly, it'll be over before you know it,"
Sherlock barked out a pained laugh, "Right,"
"Exactly," John picked up the cuppa, "Tea might help,"
"No," Sherlock shook his head, "I just... no,"
"Alright, alright," John nodded and dipped the washcloth back in hot water and rang out the excess fluid before returning it to his brow, "Do you need anything?"
Sherlock shook his head and hissed in discomfort.
John looked up, "I'll be right back, alright?"
Sherlock looked up at him and gave a small nod to which John smiled at him and quickly left the room. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his cell phone and sent a quick text to Molly.
The drugs are getting out of his system, he seems determined to get through it. He's okay for now and I'll update you later. - JW
He waited for a few moments and his phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down at the new text message and smiled.
If you need me to bring anything over let me know. Please let me know how he gets on - MH
He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and fixed himself a cup of tea, trying to prepare himself for the long night ahead. When he returned to Sherlock's bedside the washcloth was tossed on the floor and he was up to his neck in blankets, shivering underneath them.
Sherlock groaned and gripped his arms tighter together, "It feels like I'm being eaten alive, John,"
"It's all in your mind," John replied, putting his tea down and sitting on the bed with Sherlock.
"I know that!" he snapped, "And I know Molly is not sitting in the corner either, but I can still see her,"
John glanced to the empty chair in the corner and back to his friend. In his mind he checked off the withdrawal symptoms: Shaking & fever, check. Coke bugs, check. Hallucinations, check. "What is she doing?"
"Crying," Sherlock replied, "I don't like it, make it stop John."
"Close you eyes," he commanded, "She's not there and you know that. Logic it out, think it through,"
Sherlock did so, his body trembling as his eyes stayed glued shut. John moved further onto the bed and pulled Sherlock into his arms, tightly holding onto him to stop his unconcious scratching at the imaginary biting bugs, "Calm down,"
Sherlock's hands stilled and John held him by the wrists and now only his body trembled as he groaned every few moments, "John, I..." he hissed in pain, "thank you for everything,"
"I know, I know," John hushed him, "just relax and try and get through it, try and sleep,"
Sherlock scoffed but nodded and kept his eyes closed, honestly afraid of the sobbing Molly in the corner. He was starting to block out the sound of her make believe whimpers and focus on her serene face. The expression that he had appraised so long ago in the warm light of her apartment, makeupless and clean, just before he started to truly want her. His mind focused here and away from the insects who were subcutaneously niggling about his body. His mind was beginning to clear itself.
Several blocks away at St. Bart's Molly was packing up to leave for the day. She had begun to wear Sherlock's scarf again and relished in the familiar feeling of it around her neck, it was a safety net. As she locked up the lab and began to walk home her mind mulled over everything that was happening. She knew that Sherlock must have been in pain today, withdrawal was a difficult thing and part of her wished that she could be with him, but something held her back. Would he want her there? And even if he did, could she handle it?
As she walked she pulled her coat tighter around her and shivered. As long as he took some time to get properly clean she was sure she could have him back, she was almost dumbfounded at the idea of accepting Sherlock back and not the other way around. The whole situation was still baffling to her.
Climbing the steps to her flat she realized how long it had been since she had had a proper cup of coffee and internaly groaned, she would have killed for a bit of caffeine. After getting settled in the apartment she pulled on some slippers and a heavy jumper and fixed herself a pot of very weak mint tea. She groaned at the decaf label as she took a sip and started in the direction of her bedroom. Her back was aching and her whole body was fatigued from stress, crying, and the morning ritual retching. She needed a good book and a good sleep, she had the day off tomorrow and things would be looking up then.
As she passed by the guest bedroom door she paused, staring at the door handle for a moment and considering it. She hadn't opened the door in weeks, she was avoiding his drawer of things and avoiding the memories. She supposed that now, if he sucessfully got off the drugs and wanted her back like John had said, this room would have a tenant again.
She cracked the door open and let the light from the hall fill it before taking a few steps in and clicking on its own light. She looked about the room, exactly as he had left it with the exception of Sherlock's shirt in the corner that she had thrown in ages ago. She set her tea on top of the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. A pair of pants, two shirts, some trousers, black socks, and a belt. She ran her fingers along the edges of the dark shirts collar and remembered the last time she had seen him wear it.
He had cooked her dinner, the sleeves of the charcoal shirt were rolled up as he finished the coq au vin and instructed her to get settled at the table. She did as he asked and when she cut into the meal she knew he was a skilled cook. When she asked him how he knew how to make such delicious food he had smiled and replied, "Cooking is like chemistry, once you know each individual molecule you can combine them to make something new," It was this comment that had caused her to abruptly finish her wine and ravish him on the kitchen floor, not that he objected in the least. When they finished, lying there on the tile floor they were laughing at the wasted food, completely content to stay there all night. Sherlock had propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her, "Care for some dessert?" he said with a grin and the ravishing began again. When all was over she had slipped on his charcoal shirt and taken him to bed, leaving the half eaten coq au vin chilling on the table.
Waking out of the memory Molly smiled and began to shuck off her clothes, deciding to pull on the familiar shirt and savor it's comfort. She left her clothes lying there on the floor and took her cup of tea to the bedroom where she settled down in bed and opened a book on her lap. Though she tried to read the text wasn't distracting enough from the thoughts of Sherlock, only blocks away and going through something she could never have imagined.
Molly settled her hands around her small protruding belly and smiled, even if Sherlock couldn't make it back to her, at least she had a piece of him with her forever. It was this idea that comforted her enough to let her sleep.
Sherlock woke with his back to a snoozing John, his skin still feeling like it was vibrating, but his mind infinitely clearer. He sat up quietly and pulled himself from the bed, creeping out of the room silently and slipping into the bathroom. He studied his face for a moment and observed the obvious changes now that he was sober enough to do so - obvious signs of sleep deprivation. Red-rimmed eyes, slightly sunken cheeks, a pallid complection that was just beginning to regain some color. He flicked the shower on and didn't bother checking the temperature before stripping out of his clothes and diving into it.
The spray loosened his muscles and numbed his tingling flesh as he began to allow himself to think again.
Molly. Molly. Molly.
Yes, he did want her, badly. The thought became increasingly troubling to him - before the pregnancy Sherlock could want her all he wanted without much threat of becoming overly attached. Now things were complicated, he had never given much consideration to the idea of a child before. He was having a difficult time picturing himself with a toddler on his knee reading inane children's stories and taking them to their first day of pre-school. Could he really stick it out for eighteen years? - for life? He had no doubt in his mind that Molly would prove to be a wonderful mother, she was caring and gentle and would easily slip into the role of single working mother and caregiver. Though he frowned at the idea of Molly as a single mother, he had often heard this was a difficult job. After all, his own mother basically raised the two Holmes boys without much assistance from his philadering father.
Eventually Molly would find a father for their child, he was sure of that. She was pretty and when not stumbling over her words, quite charming, most men would jump at the chance. He thought back to the Christmas party months and months ago and the way Detective Inspector Lestrade had looked at her when she took off her coat and revealed a very grown-up Molly. He hadn't liked it then and didn't like it now.
The water turned cold on his back as he stayed lost in thought and he groaned, shutting the spray off and slipping on his towel and robe. He once again he stood in the bathroom in front of the mirror but instead of looking at himself he found himself looking at Molly's toothbrush that he couldn't bring himself to throw away. The shockingly pink brush was the only glaring reminder of her prescence in the flat besides a small drawer of clothes that he had kept closed since she left. He picked it up and held in in his palm, his thumb gently running over the soft bristles. Something in his chest ached, he was missing her. Now with his sober mind he was beginning to feel eveything all over again, the brush of her lips against his neck, her warm breath against his chest, the musical sound of her laugh. He put the toothbrush back in its place quickly and ran a hand across his face, there was no way of denying it anymore. He needed Molly Hooper, and he needed their child too. He couldn't quite think of anything more glorious than a beautiful, clever, smiling combination of the two of them.
There was a loud knock on the door, "Sherlock are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied and opened the door.
John studied him with narrowed eyes for a moment, "What's got you in a good mood?"
"I've made my decision, John," he announced with a small smile, "I'm going to be a father,"
John smiled and laughed, "Well that took you long enough,"
Sherlock scowled at his friend but clapped his hands, "This might just be the greatest game of all,"
A/N: So that's it! He's made his choice! thank god and finally. Now, just to preface the next chapter, he will not be running over to her flat and into her arms all of a sudden. He's not finished with getting over his cocaine addition and he needs time to do this. I just didn't want to get a ton of messages about hwo he's recovered too quickly. :)
Either way, things are finally looking less angsty (though I promise, I'm not quite done with the angst... I have a few more twists left up my sleeve if you want 'em) and they have both rediscovered their love / caring for each other. ;)
Drop me a review, I love you!
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