Chapter 7
It was a firm thwack in the side of the head that roused Sherlock from his slumber. He was still tangled in his duvet, draped over his chair, limbs hanging off every which way. Lestrade was in front of him, staring down.
"Oi, wake up," he said, prepared to gently hit the curly haired man once more.
"Stop that… What do you want?" Sherlock murmured, holding up a hand in a gesture of surrender.
"As long as you don't have anything else to admit to, we're done here. Other than what you already turned over and what we found in the bathroom, do you have anything more?"
Sherlock shook his head quickly, wincing with the movement. "Nothing, Gill. Are you going to lecture me or are you going to leave?" He asked.
"It's Gre- why do I even try?" Greg murmured to himself, stopping short when trying to correct his name. Sherlock was just being a pain in the arse, as per usual. "We're going to leave. And you're going to get sober, and stay clean if you want to work for me. I'll be in touch with John, and won't be giving you any cases let alone letting you come along unless you cooperate."
He couldn't have Sherlock dropping dead from something this stupid. Greg needed Sherlock. The whole city did, and the Consulting Detective's life was put on the line far too frequently. It seemed that Sherlock was already living on borrowed time, and they couldn't surrender any of it to his drug habit. He almost said something empathetic. Something emotional. He nearly said that he needed Sherlock. That he wanted him to come back to work as soon as possible. It could give him the incentive to get better. He thought better of it. While Sherlock was in this mindset, he'd just use it as leverage. He'd have to stay detached. And with that, the detective inspector strode out of the flat, following his colleagues.
"Enjoy your nap?"
John's voice came from behind his chair, the familiar weight of his hand soon landing on the detective's shoulder. A non-committal grunt was the only response that Sherlock provided. John couldn't help but chuckle.
"At least Greg was feeling kind enough to leave the flat somewhat in tact," he mentioned. This fact had helped to maintain the doctor's improved mood. "I hope that their little treasure hunt in here hasn't been in vain. Promise you have nothing else to hand over?" The doctor raised an eyebrow with a knowing glance at the detective. The brilliant bastard could withhold drugs if he wanted to.
"Promise." And it was the truth. It didn't mean he'd end up going to purchase more in the future. There could never be that sort of guarantee. But in that moment, 221B Baker Street was free from any and all illegal narcotics. John's hand moved to brush through Sherlock's curls. He retracted it quickly.
"Christ, you're sweating."
And he supposed he was. He'd been caught up in his exhausted and chilled state, and hadn't noticed the near rivulets of sweat pouring from his body. John stepped away, returning with another damp cloth. He wiped Sherlock's face, before resting it on his neck. The doctor tugged gently at the duvet, pulling it away from the detective. It was wet from sweat. He handed Sherlock his robe, which he'd had draped over his shoulder.
"I know you're cold, Sherlock, but you've got a fever. It'll go down soon enough." He explained. "Put on your robe. I'm going to throw this in the wash and get you some water—"
"No."
John carried on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Would you like some paracetamol to go with it? Are you nauseous? I can get you something for that too. May as well try to manage your symptoms. It's not as if you aren't familiar with the consequences. Making you live through them in ultimate discomfort won't change your mind about anything," he noted, gathering the duvet properly in his arms. The detective was silent as he slipped into the robe. John figured he'd give them to him anyway. Especially the water. He needed to stay hydrated.
John hummed and Sherlock shivered. John handed him the glass of water and Sherlock glowered into it. It was nearly their regular dynamic and daily rhythm. The two were either in a tug of war of opinions and ideas, or worked flawlessly as a pair able to read and respect each other at any given moment. Just as John was about to give up on getting Sherlock to take his medicine, the familiar clipping sound of shoes that belonged to none other than Mrs. Hudson were making their way up the stairs.
The woman let herself in the flat, singing softly to herself. She began to prepare tea, acting as if she had no care in the world.
"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, how are you?" John asked, setting the medication down beside Sherlock to pop his head into the kitchen to properly greet the landlady.
"I'm just fine dear. Go sit down. Tea'll be ready in a minute." She knew exactly how the two men liked their tea. She knew exactly how they felt about each other, during all those years when they insisted that they weren't a couple. Sherlock may have been the genius, but Mrs. Hudson was often more knowing than them all, and if you payed attention, you could often see it in her smile.
That exact smile that rested on her lips as she brought a teapot and some cups into the living room where the couple were seated.
