Sherlock was sitting in the midst of his Magnussen case file, looking for a solution other than the high treason he was planning, when John came down the stairs. He stopped when he saw him.
"Have you been up all night?"
Sherlock looked up and took note of the full daylight streaming through the windows for the first time. "Considering that London experiences a mere five hours or so of darkness this time of year, it's hardly a notable accomplishment."
"Sherlock…."
"What!"
"Forget it." John turned to the lockbox on the round bar table against the kitchen wall.
"I don't want them."
"What?"
Sherlock gathered the notes and clippings, pulling them towards himself in quick, jerky movements that actually scattered them farther. "I don't want the drugs." He lunged in one direction, then the next, collecting the papers at random. "I don't need them."
John came closer, turning on lights as he did so before squatting to look Sherlock directly in the face. Sherlock stared back but sniffed despite himself.
"How long since your last dose?" John said evenly.
"What time is it now?"
"What time do I normally get up for work?"
"Between six thirty-seven and six forty-four. You always hit snooze at least once." Sherlock crossed to his desk and began rifling through its contents, shifting books and folders, pushing items first to one side, then the other, looking for the notes Molly had given him. John wouldn't protest him working all night if it was for Molly, and she'd asked Sherlock's opinion on a stack of references she was considering for her research paper.
"Let's assume it's about that time, then," John said, having not moved from his position in the center of the room. "How long since your last dose?"
"Almost twenty-four hours."
"Sherlock!" There was the exasperation he knew John had been holding at bay. "You've been taking some form of narcotic round the clock for two months! What the hell?"
"Don't need them anymore. Pain's fine." Not exactly true, but close enough. He could handle it. He swiped his nose with the sleeve of his dressing gown and began shaking books by their covers. Molly's notes had to be here somewhere….
"All right, fine. You want to come off the drugs. We can do that—but slowly, Sherlock. You should be weaned to avoid withdrawal."
"I've done it before." He spun towards the bookshelves. Had he actually put them away?
"Yeah, in rehab. With monitoring and support. You don't just randomly decide to—"
"Would you shut up about the drugs! I don't need them, I don't want them, I'm not going to take them!"
John pressed his lips together, turned away, turned back. Sherlock tossed books off their shelf one at a time, hoping any loose papers would be freed by the force of gravity.
"Cold turkey," John said. "That's your plan. You're just magically not going to get high any more."
"Don't be stupid, John. I haven't been high in months."
"That's what you think now." He watched Sherlock ransack the room for a few moments before he spoke again. "Did Mr. Mudan clear you to return to work?"
"Yes." For all the good it did.
Sherlock abandoned the bookcase and avoided stepping on any books by climbing into his chair, onto the desk, and down onto the coffee table, where he knelt to search under the sofa cushions.
"What the hell are you looking for, anyway? Or are you just destroying the flat for fun?"
"Molly's notes. She wanted me to review some references for her since I read at three times the speed she does."
"So, if you've been given the green light to work cases again, why are you playing Molly's research assistant?"
Having determined the papers weren't underneath the sofa either, Sherlock straightened, then staggered as the room tilted on its axis. "Rush of blood away from the brain, compensatory mechanisms impaired by altered brain chemistry," he muttered.
"Yeah, jackass, it's called 'vertigo,' " John said, having made no attempt to steady him. "Sit down before you fall down."
Unlike the other rubbish John had spouted so far this morning, this was wise counsel, so Sherlock complied, gripping the sofa arm with one hand to make sure it didn't decide to float away too.
"Mr. Mudan cleared you to return to work but—ah. Greg didn't, did he? You went to Scotland Yard, and Greg said you had to pass a drugs test."
"An absolute waste of time," Sherlock said, letting go of the sofa since it seemed to be behaving as furniture now and staying in place. "Like I can't run circles around them in any capacity."
"That's not the point, though, is it? Really, what did you expect?"
Sherlock stood, slowly this time, then made his way to the coat rack and began digging in the Belstaff's pockets. He'd been at Barts when Molly gave him the papers; maybe he'd put them in a pocket and left them there. If he had a dose, he could probably remem—
No. No drugs. His brain might feel fuzzy now, but it would be better without the oxycodone. Eventually.
"Did Mudan give you a new script yesterday?"
"I shredded it." Before he even left the Yard. Dropped it in one of the police bins.
"Got anything stashed in the flat?"
"The usual places."
"Go get it."
Sherlock turned round, nearly pulling the coat rack over since he still had one hand in the inside pocket. He pulled and tugged, but the coat simply turned itself inside out without freeing his appendage.
"Dammit." He sniffed, then blinked several times as his vision blurred with tears from the excess lacrimation.
"Here." John crossed the room. "Hold still."
"I can do it myself!"
"If you mean flip the coat rack over and break a lamp, I know you can." John caught the arm Sherlock was still flailing around. "For god's sake, Sherlock, just—"
"I can't hold still! My skin feels like it's on inside out and this coat itches!"
John peeled the coat off Sherlock's arm, turned it right-side out, and returned it to the (pushed out of arm's reach) coat rack.
"Bring me the drugs. Oxy, morphine, coke—whatever you've got. Bring it to me, and I'll get rid of it."
Sherlock scrubbed his face with his collar. Damn his overreacting hypothalmus. "You'll help me?"
"Yes, of course I'll help. I've been weaning you for the last fortnight, anyway."
"I know," Sherlock said, walking towards his bedroom.
"I know you know," John said with a sigh.
()()()()
John ran one hand through his hair, mobile pressed to his ear, waiting for Molly to pick up.
"Hello?"
"Molly, I'm sorry to bother you this late." John kept his voice pitched low; Sherlock had sound sensitivity in spades.
"What's the matter? What's wrong with Sherlock?"
"He decided to go cold turkey."
"What! When?"
"As best I can determine, a little over forty hours ago."
Molly groaned.
"Yeah, it's pretty bad. He, er, he asked me to call you. I've tried to convince him you're not the only source of paracetamol in London, but he's insistent. Something about a magic headache cure?"
"Well, I doubt it will work for this, but I can try," she said. "Tell him I'm coming over."
"Don't even think about getting on the Tube," John said. "Call a taxi and text me when you get here. I'll come down and pay."
"Oh, you don't have—"
"Molly," John said sternly. "I insist. Besides, I need you to make a stop for me. Do you know a late night chemist between your flat and ours?"
()()()()
Leaving John to pay the cabbie, Molly went through the open door and climbed the stairs to Sherlock's flat. It was nearly pitch-black and absolutely stifling. The only light was a soft glow from the kitchen, and the heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. The air was unnaturally warm, not just stagnant, as if John had actually turned the heat on despite it being the middle of August. Underneath the earthy scent of sweat was the faint stench of vomit, and Molly stepped carefully, keen not to overturn whatever Sherlock was using as an emesis basin.
"You came." His voice was gravelly and unmistakably relieved.
"Of course I did." She set her bags on the desk since the coffee table was littered with the dark shapes of unidentifiable objects. "I have your meds. I need to turn a light on to read the labels, okay?" She reached for the desk lamp, keeping her body between the light source and Sherlock as she dug in the chemist bag.
"All right, we're going to start with sublingual ondansetron for the nausea. Open your mouth." She waited for Sherlock to lift his tongue and dropped the pill in place.
He looked dreadful. His curls were darkened with sweat and matted against his head, his face was wet and shiny with what Molly suspected was a combination of snot and tears as his body overcompensated in the absence of the drying effect of the opiods, his skin prickled with goosebumps even in the heat, and he lay curled into a fetal position, clutching the same blanket Molly had seen when he first came home from hospital.
"We're going to let that dissolve, and then hopefully you can keep down the clonidine and paracetamol and you're going to have a bath," she informed him.
"Too tired."
"Too bad."
"Okay."
Molly stood and turned the light off, doing what tidying she could in the darkness. John returned, closing the door to the landing that Molly had automatically left open.
"Sorry about the heat. I've been trying not to turn it on because it's harder to cool the flat than it is to warm him up, but he actually had rigors a couple hours ago that I couldn't stop."
"It's all right," Molly said, having already peeled off her jumper. "I gave him the ondansetron. The other meds are on the desk. I can see why the clonidine patches weren't working." There was hardly a dry square inch on him anywhere, despite his chills.
"Thanks, Molly. Really. You're a lifesaver."
"How are you holding up?"
Leaning against the door as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, John didn't look much better than Sherlock.
"I could use a couple hours of sleep," he admitted.
"Go. I'll take care of Sherlock."
He opened his mouth to protest, but Molly didn't give him a chance.
"Go," she repeated. "He's too sick to be much trouble right now."
"I'm worried about the headache," John said quietly, glancing in Sherlock's direction. "It's not typical for withdrawal. Do you think—"
"He's had bad headaches whenever he's physiologically stressed ever since he jumped," Molly said. "I know he was concussed after that."
John said nothing for a moment, considering.
"If it's still there in the morning, take him in. They don't usually last more than a day or so," Molly said.
"Go to bed, John. Molly and I will be fine."
John pushed himself away from the door to point a finger in Sherlock's direction. "Do not be an arse, do you hear me?"
"No more than usual. In fact, I'll even apologize in advance. I'm sorry for being an arse tonight, Molly."
"God. Are you sure we can't just put him under?"
Molly grinned. "I'll drown him in the bath if he gets too mouthy."
"Don't lie, Molly Hooper. Goodnight, John."
()()()()
Sherlock was able to keep the other meds down, and Molly half-dragged, half-bullied him into the bathroom, then entered his bedroom to find a change of clothes.
She'd never been in here before.
It was surprisingly tidy given the usual state of the rest of the flat, with a plain cream duvet wadded at the foot of the bed and a colorful rendering of the periodic table on the wall behind the door. Molly crossed to the dresser, taking an undershirt and pants from the top drawer and opening and closing the rest of them quickly until she found what she was looking for, pajama bottoms. Wrapping everything into a bundle, she knocked twice on the bathroom door before opening it with her eyes closed and setting the clothing beside the sink. Returning to the bedroom, she stripped the bed (not imagining Sherlock in it—not, not, not, Molly told herself firmly) and began the hunt for clean sheets. Finding them in the first place she looked, the well-organized linen cupboard between the bathroom and bedroom (Mrs. Hudson was so their housekeeper), Molly took a neatly folded, fresh-smelling set and remade the bed, giving the duvet a good shaking before spreading it in place.
Satisfied with her work in there, she returned to the sitting room, changing out the pillowcases Sherlock had been using on the sofa with clean ones and adding the rumpled and sweaty blanket to the pile of laundry. Scrounging up a scrap of paper at the desk without disturbing anything was more challenging, but Molly found the pack of journal articles she'd asked Sherlock to skim through and tore off a page of bibliography. She wrote a quick note to Mrs. Hudson saying she would take care of the washing in the morning and set the whole thing out on the landing. By the time she finished, Sherlock was making his way down the hall.
He still looked dreadful, but at least he no longer smelled that way.
"How do you feel?"
He glared at her, which Molly considered a distinct improvement from the exhausted and unnaturally compliant Sherlock when she'd first arrived.
"Like I need a fix."
"How's the headache?"
"Booming."
She hadn't expected paracetamol to work, not when his body was conditioned to much stronger medicine. He stretched out on the sofa, moving more carefully than he'd done in weeks.
"Muscle cramps?" she asked.
He nodded, covering his eyes with his arm despite the darkness of the room.
"Do you think you could eat something? A bit of toast, maybe? Or soup?"
He grunted a denial. "C'mere." Then added, "please."
A polite Sherlock was irresistible, so Molly picked up the bottle of lavender oil and squeezed into the space he allotted her on one end. Sherlock shifted to lay his head in her lap, and she took a moment to smooth back the shower-damp curls before placing a hand on each temple, rubbing in small circles.
"You'd feel better if you ate something," she said after a few minutes. "If your blood sugar is low, it will worsen your headache."
"No."
"Still nauseous?"
"No. And I'd like to keep it that way."
She conceded, planning to pick up the argument later. "Well, then, try to sleep."
"Can't."
But he was relaxing, his neck conforming to the curve of her thigh, his hands no longer fisted but lying open on his stomach, the little furrows between his brows smoothing out. Molly shifted her hands, sliding down to the masseter muscle. They'd discovered this technique quite by accident after the Fall, when Sherlock had had such a severe headache and enough dizziness to make him clumsy—Sherlock, with all that balletic grace—that Molly had nearly been in tears trying to convince him to go to hospital, and Sherlock had been desperate enough to try anything else.
"When's the last time you slept?"
"A few hours on Monday."
Two nights ago—or longer; knowing Sherlock, it could have been the early hours of Monday morning. Molly had seen him go without sleep longer than that when on a case, but this was different. Without something to occupy his mind, some activity to do, and with the added physical stress of the withdrawal, he needed sleep more than ever.
"What do you usually do when you can't sleep?" Molly asked, thinking she would try to replicate it for him.
"I go see you."
She froze, her fingers still framing his face, and stared down at the planes and angles of his bone structure, dramatically outlined in the semi-darkness. The lines between his eyebrows bunched together again as he frowned, opening both eyes to study her own expression.
"Not … good?"
"No! No, it's fine, more than fine, I—" Molly swallowed and resumed the massage, resisting the urge to tangle her fingers in his curls. "I just never knew that."
"Why did you think I always showed up at odd hours?"
"They weren't odd hours for you."
He smiled and closed his eyes again, settling himself more comfortably. "That's what I like about you, Molly Hooper. You're always thinking about everyone else."
"So, should I put on Glee and find some ice cream?" she teased.
"You can watch Glee. My laptop's on the desk. We don't have any ice cream."
Molly smiled. He never admitted to watching anything with her, always pretending to be absorbed in his phone or his mind palace, but she knew better. She changed her touch again, drawing slow lines up the center of his forehead and down either side.
"I changed your sheets and set everything out on the landing. I'll wash them in the morning after Mrs. Hudson is up."
"Is that where my blanket is?" He rolled over, putting his back to her.
Realizing he'd had enough, Molly dropped her hands. "Mm-hmm. Did your mum make it for you?" It was obviously designed just for Sherlock, with patchwork composed of blocks of rotational and mirror symmetry, various patterns of fractions as equal area divisions, and fractals.
He nodded, his stubble catching on the knit fabric of her leggings. "When I went to boarding school."
"That was nice, to have something from home."
He didn't answer but Molly smiled. Sherlock would not have kept the blanket all these years if it wasn't associated with good memories.
"Sherlock?"
"Mmm."
"Before you fall asleep, will you hand me the remote? I can't reach it."
He stretched one long arm out, and Molly knew by the way he fumbled on the coffee table, patting it in a wide arc, that he kept his eyes closed. He found it and passed it back to her. Molly pulled down the bright orange blanket she'd draped on the back of the sofa (which looked suspiciously like the ones used by ambulance services), spread it over Sherlock, and settled in for some late-night telly.
()()()()
John woke two hours later, slammed his alarm clock off, and forced himself up. He sat on the side of the bed for a minute, head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees, and reminded himself he'd done harder work on less sleep, but right now, he felt every one of his forty-two years. He staggered down the stairs with one eye cracked open, entered the sitting room—and opened both eyes wide.
Sherlock lay on the sofa with his head in Molly's lap. They were both asleep, Molly's head tipped back such that she'd have a sore neck later and one hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder. John felt a stab of envy so sharp it took his breath away.
He missed Mary. Missed the sex, sure, but more than that he missed the closeness, the friendship. Her snarky sense of humor, her gentleness, her smile. How she squeezed the toothpaste tube from the middle and sang off-key when she baked. The way she could read his moods, the way she lit up any room she walked into and made him remember what a lucky sod he actually was (despite other evidence to the contrary). She was nineteen weeks pregnant with their child, and they should have been anticipating the birth together. He should be watching his daughter grow day by day as her mother's body changed, but instead he was left wondering who his wife really was. Whether or not it mattered who she'd been or just who she was now with him, with their friends, with their daughter. Whether he could ever trust her again.
John looked back at the detective and the pathologist, lit only by the flickering light from the muted telly. Regardless of the nature of their relationship, whether friends or something more (and this looked a lot like "more"), Sherlock had someone he could trust implicitly.
John hoped he knew how valuable that was.