"I'm requesting a patient transfer."
Sherlock's head immediately snapped up to stare his therapist right in the eyes.
John still couldn't bear to make eye contact, his gaze gravitating directly towards his own shoes.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock tried to apologize, but John held out his hands to stop him, indicating that he didn't want to hear any sort of apologies.
"I've decided that, because it was two am and you were probably tired and stressed out by the reduced dosage of your methadone, I'm not going to report you. I will, however, transfer you to another specialist for getting too personal and invading my privacy."
And perhaps a glimpse of panic flashed across Sherlock's eyes. "I'm sorry," he tried again. "It won't happen again. I was frustrated, that's all."
John shook his head. "Regardless, you broke our confidentiality agreement. You, without a second thought, used and violated me without my consent and for that, I'm afraid you can't go unpunished."
"But I-"
"No, Sherlock. You raped me. I should be reporting you to the police right now."
"You've been violated before by other patients."
"Yeah, the worse they've done is try to stick a hand down my trousers! Sneaking into my room is illegal in the first place, rutting up against me without my permission and coming in your pants took the cake!"
Sherlock's hands clenched into fists upon his lap. "If you transfer me, I promise you one thing. I'll get out of here. I'll pretend to sober up so well, they'll have to let me go, and once I make it to the outside world, I'll speedball so hard I'll probably die."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me!" Sherlock shouted, standing up abruptly. For the first time that day, John snapped his eyes to his patient's face, gazing up into Sherlock's irate eyes. "The only reason I'm trying to get clean is for you, John!"
Utterly surprised, John parted his lips as if meaning to say something.
"Because I don't want you to feel like you've failed again!"
John let out a deep puff of air and shook his head slowly. "All right, look, please just…sit down."
"But you already have," Sherlock continued without listening to John's command. "You've already failed because I've failed." And with that, he collapsed back into his chair with his face dropping into his hands. "Like you've failed with your sister. I'm just like her and you can't do anything about it. I'm never going to get clean. And now you're giving up on me."
"Sherlock…" John started to reach for Sherlock's hands but quickly retreated after sharp images of those hands violating his flesh flashed across his mind. He sighed deeply to regain his composure. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to not be angry. Sherlock was a sex addict. His actions were understandable, albeit not justifiable. John had been attacked by patients before. Sure, none of them had broken into his room to do so, but perhaps there was a first time for everything. This was his job. He got paid to fix people. To fix Sherlock. "I'm not…I'm not giving up on you. I'm just…" Another sigh. "You're right. You aren't going to get clean. Not with that mentality."
Sherlock raised his head from his hands to glance at his therapist.
"You can't get clean for someone else," John explained. "It just doesn't work that way. Ultimately, you have to want to be clean for yourself. So you can be happy, not anyone else. Understand? Don't you want to get clean? For your sake?"
"I…" Sherlock began, hesitating as if finding the question immensely difficult to answer. His eyes darted around the room as if the answer was hidden between the bookshelves or underneath Harry's letters to John. "Yes," he finally said. "I do. I want to be clean. I want to be able to think clearly. I want to stimulate my mind without hallucinating. I want to recover, John. But I want you to help me. It can't be anybody else."
John pressed his lips into a tight line. "Sherlock, you can't become dependent on me."
"But you're the only one who can help me."
"Boy, you're really stubborn, aren't you?" John crossed his arms over his chest.
Sherlock mimicked his movements. "My mum used to tell me that was my best redeeming quality."
John snorted. And then he sighed once more. He couldn't believe this. He should be throwing Sherlock into the streets by now, or at least a jail cell. He should be disgusted. And yet, when he looked into Sherlock's eyes, he couldn't believe the amount of remorse he saw. Sherlock, who had probably never apologized full-heartedly for anything in his life, showed regret. And if this wasn't progress, John didn't know what was. Sherlock was delicate right now. A wrong move could send him spiraling towards his destruction yet again. On the other hand, the right move could fix him once and for all. John had never been so conflicted.
"All right, fine. I…suppose…if, and only if you promise to keep your hands off from now on…I won't transfer you." The way Sherlock's eyes lit up like a child who had just been promised a treat was perhaps the most magical thing John had ever seen. This, it was very clear, was Sherlock's turning point. "But you have to actually act like you want to recover. Yes, that means being serious during group therapy."
And Sherlock groaned.
"And I swear to high hell if you so much as look at me inappropriately one more time I will not hesitate to report you."
"My name is Janice and I am addicted to hallucinogenics"
"My name is Charles and I am an alcoholic."
"My name is Stephen and I am addicted to pornography."
"My name is Sherlock and I am addicted to sniffing your mother's panties."
"Oh for God's sake!" Lestrade cried out in frustration.
"I thought you said you were going to play nicely in group therapy," John pointed out sternly.
"I was. I was being completely serious," Sherlock defended himself.
"Telling everyone that you're addicted to sniffing their mother's undergarments is extremely offensive and not in the least bit serious. Did you know one of the patients in that therapy session was sexually abused by his mother?"
"Oh of course," Sherlock said. "He burst into tears the moment I said it. I deduced his gynophobia when he flinched every time a female spoke or walked past him. Extremely subtle winces, nobody would have noticed it unless they were looking for it. Typically gynophobics are the product of abusive mothers."
"So you said it just to torture him."
"For god's sake, of course not! Well, yes. But I was also being completely serious."
"Sherlock," John warned.
Sherlock flashed him a mischievous grin. "Oh, I never told you? I happen to be quite fond of the smell of used pants. Fewer things turn me on than the essence of a woman. Or a man, though men don't tend to smell quite as nice."
"Oh god, Sherlock," John groaned. "You are absolutely insufferable."
Sherlock only smirked.