As he fixed up a cup of tea, John felt supremely stupid. Sherlock could tell the difference between two different brands of tobacco by sight but John was about to try to sneak an entire crushed Valium into a cup of Earl Grey. A four year old would be able to tell that something was off. He pulled the kettle off the stove and backed away from his plan. Sherlock needed something to help him cope but this wasn't the way to do it.
From what he gleamed from Lestrade, Sherlock's drug habits in the past were bordering on out of control. When they first met about eight years back Sherlock would show up to crime scenes high on what he figured were pain pills or cocaine. He would be frantic and manic as he jumped from spot to spot around the area. If he hadn't been so brilliant then he'd have been kicked out of the game long before. Anderson had been charged with controlling the young Sherlock and grew tired of his constant comments and unreliable behavior.
Every instinct from medical school told him to not give in to Sherlock's tendencies. He'd been around former addicts who had simply focused their obsession from getting coke to working out or eating junk food. Sherlock took all his willpower and focus from drugs to his work but, without work, he'd have a void. John knew that he could take advantage of that void. There is no addict that was so strong that they couldn't be tempted back to their old ways. With a heavy heart he left the tea on the counter and stuck the full bottle of pills in his pocket.
Sherlock was still on his bed with his eyes wide open, staring at a old dusty reference book that he'd pulled off his wall. His pupils didn't move. John could tell he was just looking forward and giving the illusion of reading. His mind was a hundred miles away.
"You awake?" John asked as he opened the door.
Sherlock didn't say a word.
"I was at work today and I thought I could get you something."
"I told you, I don't need anything." Sherlock's voice was laden with lack of sleep and mental exhaustion. His usual bite was lost but the stubborn sense of purpose was still there.
"I don't want to talk, not if you don't want to. I thought you might want to take something."
Sherlock's eye twitched and John knew that he was going down the right track.
"Sarah wrote me a note for—"
"Sarah?" he asked.
He regretted dragging another person into this story. "Well, I was late and she wondered…" he let the story trail off.
Sherlock's eyes shut for a moment. "Why did you tell Sarah?"
"That's not the point," John said.
The book came down and Sherlock looked over and, with the light hitting his face, John could see the sallow look in his eyes and cheeks.
"What is the point?"
John pulled out the orange bottle and set it on the table between the two of them. "It's Valium."
Sherlock peeked over at the bottle. "I see that."
"You should eat something before you take one."
"What makes you think that I'll take one?"
John nods over the pills. "At the very least you need to sleep. It'll help with that. It helped me after—"
Sherlock didn't need to press the issue. They hadn't had a heart-to-heart about John's war experiences but he knew the aftermath. Even after John moved in, the nightmares hadn't gone away completely. For the first month or so John would wake up screaming and race into the living room like the flat was on fire. Sherlock would be in there already reading or researching and did his best to calm his new flatmate down.
"I'm not tired," he said.
John looked at the clock. It was almost nine and at least forty-eight hours since Sherlock had slept, if not longer. "Take one of those. You need to rest."
John left the room with the open pill bottle and a small stack of crackers on a plate next to it. He put his ear to the door and listened for a sign of movement on Sherlock's part. For a full minute there was nothing but silence. Then he heard the muffled creak of the bed's springs and the pop of the pill bottle top open. A wave of relief fell over him as he heard the crunch of a cracker.
If all he got were a few hours sleep, then that would go a long way for a man like Sherlock. John walked from the door and awaited either the silence of sleep or the whimper of realization. Whatever it took, he would get his friend back from the dark depths of the pain he was feeling.
