Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! Let's see where this is going, shall we?

I don't own anything.

John, while being more patient than Sherlock, who kept complaining that he was bored, found that the wait until the next day was a very long one indeed.

By the time they had eaten – dinner the doctor insisting that Sherlock had to have something too – it was dark outside. John looked at his watch. 8 pm.

Twenty-five more hours of waiting and he was already getting desperate.

Especially since he wouldn't be able to prevent Sherlock from slipping out and buying more drugs. And he didn't even want to know where the young man got the money from.

The boredom was accelerating Sherlock's withdrawal symptoms, as John knew from experience, and watching him becoming more and more desperate for his next fix was painful. He had seen his best friend on what they had called "danger nights", but it had never been like this; there had never been this hunger in Sherlock's eyes, this need for the drugs that eclipsed all others, and the doctor swore to himself that once he returned, he would tell the consulting detective that he trusted him and that he knew, just knew that he wasn't really in danger on danger nights. That he could simply do experiments in the kitchen or talk to John or play his violin if it made him feel better, but that he was certain Sherlock would never give in, would resist the cravings.

He knew it now, when he saw how he looked when he couldn't.

John tried to hide his worry that Sherlock would take too much simply because he couldn't bear the boredom, but didn't succeed. About ten pm, the young man snapped at him that he could take care of himself and left. John didn't doubt that he would come back, but he didn't want to imagine in which state. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed.

"I thought he wouldn't last that long" Shinwell's voice came from behind him, and John turned around.

The other man smiled. "I know you don't think so, but you've done a lot for him. More than I ever thought anyone could."

"I still wish..."

"You can't expect him to quit the drugs just like that."

And John almost laughed because even though he was young and homeless and unsure this was Sherlock and Sherlock Holmes always did what he wanted. He didn't want to quit the drugs, though.

Shinwell saw that he didn't want to talk about it and asked, "John... I was wondering... Could you help me out a little? You're a real doctor after all, and most of my patients don't seem to understand that I'm not."

John agreed because it was a better option than waiting for time to pass and Sherlock to come back.

He helped out Shinwell with one or two teenagers who thought they had taken too much but thankfully hadn't, as well as a guy who had a stab wound in his hand and wouldn't tell them how it had happened.

Shinwell didn't ask questions, and John understood that he never did. Not only was it the only way he could do his job – for lack of a better word – but it was the only way he could get his patients to trust him, as well. And he needed them to trust him because he needed to take care of them because no one else did.

And trust him they did. None of them questioned John's presence.

Shinwell would have made a good doctor under any circumstances, and he wasn't bad now. He might not have taught himself how to clean or stitch up a wound, but he had learned. Probably in the war. He wouldn't have needed John's help, but the doctor was thankful for the distraction.

After he had cleaned the stab victim's wound, just as Shinwell was preparing to clean it, they heard the door open and Sherlock coming in.

He shot the other man a look and left.

Sherlock was in the kitchen.

"I bought enough to last until tomorrow" he said and John nodded.

He didn't know what to say, to be honest, since he simply couldn't bring himself to answer "Good" or something like that and Sherlock wouldn't take kindly to reprimands.

So he decided not to comment on it and instead said, "Shinwell's taking care of a patient".

"He usually is at this time of the day".

John's curiosity finally got the best of him and he asked, "How did you meet?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A dealer decided he wanted more money than I was willing to pay. I was able to fight him off but wasn't sure if I had cracked a rib or not. I met Victor by accident. He suggested I went to Shinwell".

"I thought you said you barely knew each other?"

"We were both high at the time" Sherlock replied as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

John nodded.

"Why do you care so much?" Sherlock suddenly inquired and John looked at him, puzzled.

"I already told you that – "

Sherlock waved his hands in the air.

"I know. But you are going to return to your time, and you will prevent any of this from happening. And even before you knew you could – you were already aware I'd quit the drugs eventually. I must have been clean when we met, otherwise you wouldn't have moved in."

John didn't say the first thing that came to mind – the scary thought that he would have moved in with Sherlock whether he was on drugs or not because that was how things should be – and answered, "It doesn't work like that".

"Sentiment?"

"Sentiment" John confirmed, and Sherlock nodded.

He bit his lip and let his gaze sweep over the room before settling on John again.

"What is your plan?"

John was used to Sherlock quickly changing the subject, especially if he felt uncomfortable with the topic of the conversation to begin with, and replied, matter-of-factly, "To kill Moriarty."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. I meant whether you honestly believe that you can simply walk up to him and shoot him."

John had to admit that he hadn't thought much past this point, but of course Moriarty wasn't going to come alone. He would most likely have at least one sniper in the vicinity, if not Moran, then someone else, and the doctor would be dead before he came close enough to fire the shot.

Sherlock shook his head. "You are an idiot".

"Practically everyone is" John answered automatically and continued, "So what do you suggest?"

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. "We should check the meeting place so we know where Moriarty's back-up is most likely to hide. I presume you know enough of snipers to find the best places for them?"

John nodded. He suspected that Sherlock's determination to take a look at the meeting place was in part motivated by how bored he was becoming, but it was a good idea.

"It will be best to wait until daylight. I don't want to take any chances of us overlooking anything."

He wouldn't risk Sherlock's life more than he already had.

The young man didn't seem to be able to read his thoughts for once (because he wasn't used to someone caring for him, John figured) and frowned before sighing.

"Alright. You want to stay here?"

"Yes, we'll stay here."

It was still strange, telling Sherlock to do something and actually seeing him do it. It was so utterly weird, John being more of a father figure than a friend to this young drug addict, but, the doctor suddenly realized, he was getting used to it.

He had to return home as soon as possible. He didn't want to get used to it. They had met at a time when they had both been what the other needed, and now... Their dynamic was off.

He had to get back to where he was supposed to be.

After he had taken care of Moriarty, of course.

He left Sherlock with a cup of tea in the kitchen, pretending to himself that he wouldn't shoot up when the doctor didn't watch, and went to the room he'd slept in.

He carefully looked over the gun Shinwell had given him. It was clean and obviously hadn't been fired recently. John chose not to think about where Shinwell could have gotten it from.

He was sure that he could kill Moriarty if he got within shooting distance. He was a good shot, and the only thing he had to make certain was that the first bullet would kill the consulting criminal.

Part of him wished that he didn't enjoy the thought of committing murder so much, but another, bigger part of him was glad that it would be he who'd pull the trigger this time.

There was a knock on his door. John looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it was after one am.

Shinwell entered after he'd called out, and suddenly, the doctor was scared that Sherlock had taken off.

He hated himself for it in the next moment. There was no reason to think Sherlock would leave. Also, Shinwell wouldn't have knocked and waited patiently for him to answer if that had been the case.

He recognized his reaction as another symptom of his slowly returning depression and clenched his left hand into a fist before it could start shaking again.

Moriarty. He had to stop Moriarty. He had to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Quiet night. I was wondering if you'd like some tea".

John nodded thankfully and stood up, putting the gun in his pocket. "Where is Sherlock?"

"I just checked on him. He's sleeping off the drugs. He was lucid though when I talked to him an hour ago, so I'd say it won't take long".

Once they were sitting in the kitchen with steaming cups in front of them, Shinwell cleared his throat.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Sherlock mentioned something – before he went to bed..." the other man trailed off for a moment, obviously unsure if he should continue, and John gave him a half-smile.

"Once you are done with – what you have to do – you are going to leave?"

His gaze bored into John's and the doctor swallowed. How could he explain to Shinwell not only that he had to leave, but that it was all fine because they wouldn't remember John ever having been there to begin with?

"It's true, then". Shinwell looked in his cup. "I'm not saying I expected anything different – you obviously have a home to get back to – but..." he looked back up at John. "I'm – still – you are good for Sherlock. I didn't think he'd ever meet anyone he could trust, anyone he would like, even. And then suddenly you turned up. I didn't believe my eyes when he dragged you in. He was worried about you".

He sounded surprised, as if he still couldn't believe what he was saying, and John felt even guiltier than he already did because he would have to leave.

How utterly illogical it was, how utterly and incredibly illogical. But this was Sherlock, and he would leave him on the streets, and every instinct of John's screamed against it.

"Shinwell – I have to leave."

"I know. Like I said – you are not like us. You have a home".

John wondered whether he should tell the other man that Sherlock could have one too, if he decided to contact Mycroft and ask for his help (as unlikely as it was) but decided against it. If Sherlock wanted Shinwell to know, he'd tell him. John wouldn't gossip about his best friend's life.

So he didn't and simply sipped his tea, content for the moment to just keep Shinwell company and grateful for his.

Author's note: I am rather sure that something will happen in the next chapter, although I can't be certain.

I hope you liked it, please review.