Chapter Ten

.o.o.

.o.

"Come on, Sherlock. You need to eat something…"

The young man poked distractedly at his noodles, looking towards the wall of the small kitchen. "I am eating."

John looked disapprovingly at him before scooping up his own noodles with the chopsticks before eating it. When he swallowed, the doctor nodded at Sherlock's still full plate. "No, you're not. You're letting it get cold."

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled, his mind still somewhere else but half listening to John.

"Do you want to talk, about something? You seem distracted…"

The detective chewed on his lower lip before he looked down at his plate of Chinese noodles with rice. He had felt hungry when he was in the shower but something took over and he no longer felt hungry. He felt conflicted and he had realized that it had been awhile before he had used. Almost a full day now, and his body was making sure that he was aware of this fact.

"I suppose it's because I am distracted, John."

The doctor nodded now and looked at Sherlock's trembling hands and the perspiration that was still matting his forehead. "Is it because of the withdrawal?"

Sherlock looked up at him now and nodded once, feeling almost ashamed of himself.

John set his chopsticks down, wanting to give his friend his full attention now. He folded his hands and looked at him. "This is good that you're withdrawing from the drugs, Sherlock. You need to. It's your body's way of fighting off the crap that's in your system right now."

"I don't care. I know what my body's trying to do. I just want them, John. I want the morphine so badly. It hurts," Sherlock replied, running his fingers through his damp hair.

John watched as Sherlock started rapping his fingers against the table. "I know you're in pain right now but you're doing really well, Sherlock! Don't mess this up for yourself now. It'll get easier in time…"

"No, John! It won't!" He hit the table with now with a closed fist. "I would appreciate it if you stop lying to me! It's only going to get more difficult!"

John sighed now and took a deep breath. "Yes, it is going to be difficult but you've made it this far. You've made it a lot further than a lot of other junkies have. You should be proud of yourself."

Sherlock took a shaky breath and then swallowed hard. "Are you proud of me, John?"

The doctor nodded instantly and straightened up. "Yes. Yes, Sherlock. I am proud of you."

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip nervously and looked down at his now cold noodles before he took a sip of his tea. He leaned back in his chair and nodded in acknowledgement to John's approval. He was quiet for a while before he glanced over at his bag that held the bottles of morphine inside.

No. You can't take it again. You can't. You'll let John down.

But I'll feel better, Sherlock argued with himself.

But you'll upset him. You'll disappoint him if you give in.

But I can stop feeling this pain. I can stop embarrassing myself in front of him. I can have a cooler head. I can act rationally again.

Rationally? Do you think you're acting rationally by shooting up with morphine? Sherlock argued again.

His hands trembled and Sherlock accidentally spilled some of the warm tea on his pants. He cried out and sighed before he grabbed his napkin and started dabbing at the dark stain on the leg of his pants. "Damn it all!"

John watched him and stood up before he moved over to him, placing a soft hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Go find another pair of pajama bottoms in my drawers and take these off so I can throw them in the wash before the stain sets in, okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spill it, John."

The doctor looked surprised when he apologized but he shook his head. "No, I know you didn't. Of course you didn't. It's okay, mate. Just take them off and put dry ones on, eh?"

The young man avoided all eye contact with him as he nodded and then quickly moved into John's room and removed the wet pajama bottoms before putting a dry pair on. It fit a bit snug on him but it would do.

He grabbed the damp pair and handed it off to John who was waiting outside the door. Sherlock moved back to the table as John walked off into the washer and dryer room. He grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped up the last of the evidence of spilled tea on the table before he put his face in his hands, groaning.

This is what you get for withdrawing. This is what you deserve. You deserve all this embarrassment, Sherlock Holmes.

The detective dug his nails into his arms now and then took a deep breath before stopping and placing his hands on either side of his plate of uneaten noodles. John came back in with a smile on his face.

"There, it's in the wash now. You can wear it tomorrow if you want," the doctor replied calmly as he sat down across from Sherlock.

He felt awkward, unsure what to say to him so he just said what he figured was expected of him. "T-Thanks. I'm… sorry again, John."

The doctor wet his lips and folded his hands in front of him, looking at his friend. "Sherlock, there's really no need to be sorry. It was an accident, that's all. It's all fixed. I can't tell you how many times I've spilled tea on myself," the doctor chuckled now before pausing and eyeing Sherlock's noodles. "Do you… want me to throw it into the microwave, to reheat it up for you?"

Sherlock shook his head and stood up. "That's unnecessary, John, but feel free to do it if you'd like to eat it. I'm feeling rather tired, I think. I believe I'll just retire to the couch for the night."

John watched him and stood up as well. "Please, take the bed. You're a guest in this house and you've had a difficult day."

Pity. Charity. That's all this is, the cruel voice in his head told Sherlock.

He shook his head and cleared his throat. "Really, it's fine. I prefer the company of the couch anyway."

John seemed too tired to argue with Sherlock right now so the doctor just nodded curtly. "All right then, if you insist. I'll be in the bedroom. Wake me if you need anything at all."

Sherlock watched as he put the leftovers into the fridge and then left Sherlock alone in the living room. He knelt by his backpack for almost an hour until he heard the soft snoring of John in his room, sleeping soundly.

He swallowed hard, hearing his heart pounding away in his head and hard against his ribcage. He was inches away from the morphine in his bag. He could pluck out a clean syringe, tap his vein, and shoot himself with the pure ecstasy; it seemed so easy. Plus, it would help him sleep. He caressed the zipper with his fingers, taking shaky breaths.

Do it.

No.

Do it, Sherlock. Prove your brother right. Show him how worthless you are. Show him how much of a junkie you actually are. Show him how weak you are.

No…

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip anxiously before he stood up and started to pace the room, glancing at the bag. He couldn't take it. He couldn't shoot up in John's house.

But the temptation was too strong to resist any longer. He needed his shaking to go away. He needed not to act like an absolute idiot in front of the doctor. He needed to be able to keep his cool. Sherlock unzipped the pack as quietly as he could and went through with his plan.

Rolled up his sleeve.

Tied his belt around his forearm.

Tapped his forearm for a vein.

Plunged a clean needle into the morphine bottle, and then into the vein.

He pushed down on the plunger and gasped as he felt it enter his system. He felt the utter release of everything that had been building up inside of him. He felt the agony and suffering give way to a newfound heaven.

And then Sherlock realized something too late.

He had taken too much. He had shot too much into the syringe and then pushed it into his body. It was too much in his current withdrawing state. He had overdrawn himself.

Sherlock felt nauseous, drowsy, intense pain in his stomach. He felt his heartbeat slowing.

No.

No…. this wasn't right at all.

He didn't want this.

No…

No.

John, his mouth tried to yell out. John, help me! Please… I made a mistake!

His eyes suddenly rolled back in his head, and he was still half conscious, but he could feel himself fading fast.

How long had it been already? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?

No. Not hours. He would already be long dead.

Sherlock felt himself vomit and then tried to gasp for air but then realized that he was choking on his own sick.

Fuck. This was just fucking wonderful. He would die a terrible mess for John to clean up. Another mess for him to clean.

Then, he faintly heard a voice echo somewhere off in the distance and felt his airway clear a bit and his body turn to the side, but Sherlock felt empty.

A shell of himself. He felt like his soul had left his body and he was light as air.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Yes. But only just.

I'm sorry, John.

I'm so sorry.

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock opened his eyes and was blinded by angry, fluorescent lighting. He instantly closed his eyes and started to slowly open them again. When he did, he saw John asleep in a nearby chair.

His throat felt rough, like sandpaper.

And tasted like charcoal.

He coughed weakly and watched the doctor wake up abruptly before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and moving closer to Sherlock's bed. The two men stared at each other for a long time before John spoke first, looking uneasy and pale.

"You all right, then?"

Sherlock deserved the coldness. John never asked to be his lifesaver. "Y-Yes… I believe I am," he replied hoarsely.

John nodded and ran a hand through his hair. "Good. It's… lucky that I had come out at that time to tell you something. If I had come out any later, you'd probably be dead."

Sherlock was quiet, uncomfortably quiet. He knew that John was right. He might've died if the timing hadn't been so perfect. He looked down at his fingers and sighed. "John, I – "

The doctor cut across him. "If the next words out of your mouth aren't 'John, I'm so sorry for doing this to both of us,' then I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes… I will leave right now."

He wasn't going to say that at all but he just nodded, finding it easier to go along with John than to argue with him. "You're right. I deserve that. Please, do imagine that I just said that to you."

"I will… Sherlock, did… did you do that on purpose?"

The younger man found the question almost ridiculous and he couldn't stop the scoff that escaped his lips in time. "Of course I did, John. I mean, I can't honestly say that I tripped and fell on a full syringe of morphine…"

"No," John shook his head, leaning forward now. "I mean… did you purposely overdose, Sherlock? Did you want to kill yourself?"

The detective shook his head and cleared his pained throat. "No, I did not purposely overdose. It was an accident, I promise."

John rubbed his obvious sleep-deprived eyes in relief and put his face in his hands again. "Jesus, Sherlock… that… seeing you like that scared the shit out of me. Do you realize that?"

Sherlock felt surprised by this but decided to change the subject, feeling uncomfortable again. "How long have I been sleeping for?"

John looked at his watch now. "A few days. The nurses and doctors have been giving you Naloxone to reverse the effects of the morphine since Wednesday. It's Saturday morning, Sherlock."

He looked over at John in surprise. He hadn't expected it to have been longer than a day. They had filled him day in and day out with fluids to counter the poison in his system. He looked at the window and watched the raindrops fall outside as the clouds greyed in the distance.

As if he couldn't feel worse enough, Sherlock heard the familiar drawl of his brother's voice as the figure entered the room.

"John, would you mind terribly if I had a few minutes alone with my brother? There are things we need to discuss and would like to do so in private."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Oh please, Mycroft. Really, now isn't the time to pretend to take on the role of a father figure. If it please you, John, don't leave me alone with him."

The doctor looked from Mycroft back to Sherlock and then sighed. "No, I'm sorry but maybe this is what you need. He's your family and sometimes the truth can hurt, but perhaps it'd be good for you, Sherlock."

"Oh believe me, John. It won't," the younger man almost whispered in his deteriorated voice.

John gave him an almost apologetic look. "I'll be right outside. It'll only be a few minutes and then I'll come back in, okay?"

Sherlock just nodded and waved him out half-hazardly. If Mycroft was kicking him out, the least he could do was make the process go a bit faster. His brother waited until the doctor clicked shut and then he turned on his younger brother.

"Oh Sherlock, I would say how the mighty have fallen but you've never really been very mighty, have you?"

He tongued his cheek disdainfully at his brother. "Please, Mycroft. Do try to contain your sympathy for me. It's rather too much for me to take right now. Really, you need to calm yourself."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and stepped closer. "Sympathy? Is that what you expect me to give you right now, Sherlock? If so, then you have severely overestimated me."

Sherlock leaned back in the bed, wishing he could have morphine for the pain in his throat. It felt so raw. "No, of course I don't expect sympathy from you. You've never given me any in our entire lives, even when our parents died. You did everything you could to avoid ever discussing the matter with me."

"Sherlock, this isn't about our parents or what I did or didn't do with you. This is about you and what you've done. Look at yourself, dear brother. Are you proud that you're here, that you're finally the center of attention?"

Sherlock clutched the arms of the bed angrily now. "For God's sake, Mycroft… if all you're going to do is lecture me then please just leave. I don't need to hear it. I know what I've done and it's bad enough it feels like I now have three guardians trying to watch over me. I don't need your lecturing and disapproval right now!"

His brother just clucked his teeth and smirked. "Lestrade is downstairs awaiting his turn to see you. Shall I call him and send him in since you've had enough of me?"

The consulting detective looked up at Mycroft. "Do me one better and send him away with yourself when you leave. Go back to manning the country again and leave me in peace. Oh, and send John back in."

"Very well, dear brother, I'll leave. Just answer me a question. Should I be worried about you?"

"Are you ever?" Sherlock bitterly asked.

There was a slight pause as his older sibling cleared his throat. "Whether you believe it or not, I do worry about your well-being, Sherlock. We may not talk very often but the same blood runs through our veins. Of course I worry about you, nearly constantly, indeed. Your loss would break my heart."

Sherlock looked back up at his brother, almost in shock. He had never heard Mycroft talk to gently and intimately to him like this. It was nice to hear the confession since it clearly embarrassed his brother, but it also made it awkward for himself as well.

"Well, thank you, Mycroft. That is surprising to hear but I believe I do hear the British government attempting to ring you."

His brother took the cue now and just nodded his head once, smiling ever so slightly. "Take care, Sherlock, for both of our sakes."

With that, his brother left the room, only the hint of his sharp alpine musk leaving any trace that he had been in the room at all. It wasn't long until John entered the room, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"Did everything go okay between you and your brother, then?"

Sherlock shrugged and turned to look at him. "I suppose as well as can be expected between us. Did he say anything to you on his way out?"

It would be just like Mycroft to threaten John. Take care of my younger brother, or else. It was his way.

There was a slight hesitation with John but the doctor shook his head. "No, of course not."

"He did," Sherlock corrected, groaning now. "Damn my brother. What did he say to you? Exact words…"

John scratched his forehead now and bit his lip. "He told me to keep an eye on you and that he would never forgive me if something worse were to happen and then he told me that if it did happen, he knew several people who could discreetly dispose of my body in the Thames."

Sherlock smirked now and sighed. "Don't let my brother intimidate you. He's good on his word but he's mostly just about coercion and threats. That's basically what his job requires him to do, and he does it well. What do you deduce about my brother?"

John thought for a minute and shrugged. "Well, it's obvious how much he cares for you. He loves you. I mean, you're family and he wouldn't threaten me to watch over you if he didn't love you."

Sherlock nodded now as he took this in. He needed an outside source to tell him what he already knew, to convince him that his brother actually did give a shit about him. He was quiet for several moments but the silence was quickly broken when he heard the door open and shut and footsteps run towards his bed. He looked up to see a distressed and stressed out Lestrade.

"Oh thank God, you're all right…. Christ, Sherlock! Do you have any idea how sick out of my mind I've been these past few days with worry?" The DI exclaimed harshly, but also was visibly relieved.

"I suppose I could chance a guess. Clearly I'm fine, Geoff. However I do appreciate your concern, even if it is misguided," Sherlock replied calmly.

"What… what did you just call him?"

"Geoff. That's his name, John," Sherlock answered as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

Lestrade looked at him in disbelief but this time he just chuckled and leaned over before playfully ruffling his ward's shaggy black hair. "I'm just glad you're alive, Sherlock."

The young man just sighed and rolled his eyes before he tried to fix his hair. He swallowed hard and soon heard the DI gently pat John's back gratefully before he left the room, leaving the two of them alone again.

They sat together in a strange silence that made the room thick with tension. Sherlock looked up to face John again, fighting the urge to look back down. "Obviously there is something else on your mind, John. Perhaps we should talk about it."

John looked at him and nodded now. "Yes, you're right, Sherlock; I believe we should talk about this. I'm… I'm just worried about you. Do you think it's still a good idea for us to get a flat together? I mean, maybe you should take some time to yourself to… sort yourself out?"

Sherlock knew that the doctor hadn't meant for this to sound so cold but that's the way it came out and when he searched his eyes, he could already see the realization and apology in them. He could feel his stomach twist now but it wasn't from the nausea.

Panic tightened in his chest now and he hated himself for feeling tears well in his eyes. He took a deep breath and gripped the arms of the bed again. "No… no, I'll be different. I-I'll be better. Please don't leave me… please, John. I p-promise I'll try a-again…"

John's eyes widened with concern when he saw the panic in his friend's. "It's okay, Sherlock. I won't leave you… I promise. Try and catch your breath, all right, mate? You'll be okay. We'll figure something out together when we can check you out. I'm… I'm sorry for bringing it up. I shouldn't have mentioned it when you're just trying to recover."

Sherlock tried to calm back down and he took several relaxing breaths but not before hot tears escaped and slid down his pale cheeks. He quickly wiped them away and turned his body away from John so the doctor couldn't see the other tears that were falling, the ones he didn't wipe away.

He didn't want to lose John. He hadn't anticipated John not wanting to live with him anymore if he used again. Now that he had nearly died, it occurred to Sherlock that it'd be smart for John to kick him out. He curled his body tighter into himself and now he was grateful that his back was facing the doctor. He couldn't let John see his fear.

Mycroft always told him that fear was weakness.

As was vulnerability.

As was love.

And right now, Sherlock was feeling all three of these things at once.