Sherlock and John's experiences in rehab.

InvisibleBlade: Sherlock, random nursing staff

Me: John, John's doctor, Greg

Warnings for this chapter: drug withdrawal, Coke bugs, verbal abuse, starvation, depression, anger issues, and lots of angst but John tries to fix that.

Chapter 34 - Rehabilitation

Sherlock hated everything about the rehab facility his brother had all but dragged him into over a week ago. He hated his room. It felt painfully empty and dull in comparison to his room at Baker Street. He presumed that was because there was no John to share the room with.

He hated the nurses too. On the first night, a young blond haired man had come to check on him. His appearance had been so akin to John that Sherlock had flipped out. In the end, they had had to inject him with a sedative to calm him down. Since then he hadn't seen the blonde haired man. Instead, they sent him middle aged women who had a habit to chat far too much. He would spit insults at them like wildfire. A part of him wished John would run into his room when he did to scold him, just so he could see his lover once more. Though he did and Sherlock knew deep down that he never would either. John had to get better and he could only do that in a separate rehab facility that specifically catered to his needs.

Sherlock's cravings and withdrawal symptoms were becoming unbearable. He was quite surprised he hadn't gouged out his own eyeballs in frustration because of them. He was having a particularly bad day when a nurse came and knocked on his door. He groaned and muttered a 'Go away.'

'Oh, so you don't want a phone call from a Mr John Watson then?'

Sherlock rolled out of his bed and stood on shaky legs. His withdrawal symptoms had left him feeling utterly washed out and he was surprised that his legs even carried his weight anymore.

'Lead me to the phone, now,' he huffed.

The nurse smiled patiently at him. 'This way, sweetheart. Just follow me.'

The nurse led him to a white phone and held it out to him. Sherlock took it and swallowed down hard.

'Hello?' It almost sounded like a question.

'Hey Sherlock!' John smiled. He was sitting on the floor by his own facility's phone, his doctor watching over him from across the hallway. 'It's good to hear your voice. How has your first week been? Are you managing your withdrawal symptoms?'

'Hello!' Sherlock grinned to himself. 'It's been alright,' he lied. It had been bloody awful. 'And my withdrawal symptoms are as terrible as to be expected I suppose. Enough about me. How have you been doing? Are they taking care of you down there?'

'I'm doing pretty good,' John sighed. 'They've got me on a special diet. I've never eaten so much food in one sitting before. It's almost sickening.'

Sherlock hummed down the phone. 'The more you eat the more weight you'll put on. And it is likely that if you increase your weight they shall allow you back outside, as long as your mental state is seen as stable. I'll meet you there, hey?'

'Yeah. I'm working on the mental part. Learning how to deal with the voice and the cutting. I... Don't hate me for saying this, but I really need a fucking cigarette. I've been twitching since I got here.'

'That's cigarettes for you. The cravings should ease up soon enough. Just be glad that you don't have to deal with the withdrawal symptoms of cocaine.'

'I wish I could be there for you. Especially when the coke bugs start. Just hug my jumper tight when they do. And I know it's only been a week but I miss you so much. I was sobbing before day one even started.'

'I forgot about those,' Sherlock grumbled. 'Nasty little buggers.' He paused before admitting, 'I cry myself to sleep most nights, clutching to that jumper of yours, you know? My therapist seems to think I'm far too dependent on you. I told him to fuck off.'

'My doctor says the same about me. I sleep in your shirt. And I cry every day. Sometimes more than once. I really miss you, love. With every fibre of my being.'

'I miss you too, dear. It's a terrible place. It's just how I remember it. Except the nurses seem even more annoying. And my therapist is a down right pain in the arse. Keeps on trying to get me to open up about my childhood. I wish you were here to punch him for me.'

'Me too baby.' John paused and looked up. His doctor was tapping his watch. 'They want me to hurry up and finish. Please try to listen to your therapist. I want you to get better, not worse.'

'Yes, I know,' Sherlock breathed out. 'It's just – he's bringing up a lot of memories that I wanted to stay buried.' He swallowed down hard. These phone calls were harder than he thought they'd be. 'I don't want to have to say goodbye so soon, John.'

'I know, love. I don't either. But I'll call you again next week. Same time, ok? And maybe it would do you some good working through your childhood. Maybe you wouldn't have so many nightmares about that or your dream world.'

'Ok,' Sherlock said in a small voice. 'Maybe it will help me a little.' Or maybe it will make the nightmares twice as brutal, he thought to himself. 'I'll hear from you in a weeks time. In the meanwhile, please eat what is given to you.'

'I will. And please listen to your therapist. He's there to help you.' John's doctor approached and motioned him to stand. 'I gotta go. I'll call you next week. I love you, Sherlock.'

'I love you too,' Sherlock said, sounding as tired and defeated as he felt inside.

'Listen to your therapist,' John reiterated. 'And be good.'

'When am I ever anything but?' Sherlock retorted.

'True. You're always good. Same time next week. I love you.'

'Yeah, same time next week,' Sherlock mumbled and the line crackled, signalling the end of the call.

…::-::…

The next week went by excruciatingly slow for John. He wanted to call Sherlock every day, wanted Mycroft to tell them to make an exception for him and Sherlock, but he knew Mycroft never would. He had called them codependent. Maybe this would show them that they could survive without the other. But it was painful as hell.

Finally, the week was up. John fidgeted on his bed as he waited for his doctor to escort him to the phone. As soon as the door opened he was out of the room like a shot, hopping from foot to foot by the phone. His doctor sighed but smiled, handing him the receiver as he dialled the number to Sherlock's facility.

'John Watson for Sherlock Holmes,' John said before the receptionist could answer.

Over the week that had passed Sherlock's coke bugs had started. They were nasty bastards, little invisible things that crawled underneath your skin until it became so unbearable that you had no other choice than to scratch. Sherlock's scratching had become so persistent that the nurses had restrained him to a bed so that he wouldn't damage himself.

When the day of John's phone call came around Sherlock begged to be allowed to take it. The nurses simply shook their heads sadly, telling him that he wasn't in a well enough state to do so. His heart plummeted in his chest and he began to cry silently. He only hoped John wouldn't be too devastated. Oh, who was he kidding? This was John. Of course he would devastated.

The phone was silent on the other end of the line. John hopped anxiously from foot to foot, waiting to hear Sherlock's deep baritone. But it wasn't Sherlock who answered.

'I'm afraid Mr Holmes is unavailable to answer the phone at this time. His withdrawal symptoms have worsened.'

'Coke bugs,' John muttered. 'Yeah. I shoulda known. Can you have him call me as soon as he's better? Please?'

'Of course dear. I'll tell him you called.'

'Tell him I love him,' John ushered before the nurse hung up. He wasn't sure if she had heard or not. He hung his head and hung up the phone. He pressed his forehead against the wall and reminded himself to breathe.

'Do you want to go back to your room?' his doctor asked.

'No. No. I want Sherlock,' John sniffed.

'I'm sorry John, but you know–'

'I bloody know I can't see him!' John snapped. 'I just want to know he's ok.'

'I know, John. Let's go back to your room, ok? You should get some rest.'

'I don't want to rest,' John frowned, but he followed his doctor anyway. Once he was in his room he changed into Sherlock's purple shirt and climbed into his bed, drawing in on himself as the tears started.

…::-::…

It was another two whole weeks before Sherlock was deemed well enough to get in contact with John. He asked for John and waited impatiently on the other end of the phone.

John was curled up by his window, sitting on the ledge and looking out at the warm day. Two weeks. Two whole weeks of no Sherlock. He had been worried he was losing his mind, but then he had begun writing again. The writing helped. It was no blog about his and Sherlock's cases, but the journaling did help quite a bit.

There was a knock on his door and he turned to see his doctor entering. 'Phone call for you,' he said, smiling softly. 'It's Sherlock.'

John's heart leapt in his chest. He leapt from the windowsill and ran out to the phone, picking it up and putting the receiver to his ear.

'Sherlock? Love, is it really you?'

'Y-eh, it's, er, me.' Sherlock's voice shook nervously.

'What's wrong? You don't sound too good. Is it the bugs?'

'The bugs are quite bad. Still, better than they were before. They had to tie me up for scratching at them. Which is why I haven't been allowed to get in contact with you.'

'Oh honey,' John frowned. 'I'm sorry they were so bad. But I have some good news for you. I'm filling out. My ribs aren't so prominent anymore.'

'That's brilliant, dear. Maybe you'll be nice and meaty for me when I get out,' he joked lightly.

'At least one of us is recovering,' Sherlock sighed. 'I am afraid I am making far less progress.'

'Love, you're going through drug withdrawal. Of course it's going to seem like you're making less progress than me. Just hang in there, ok? We'll both be out soon enough.'

'It's not just that,' Sherlock sighed. 'My therapist thinks I have anger issues. He's suggested a longer stay.'

'They say I'm delusional and am codependent on you,' John said. 'The voice isn't so bad anymore. He hasn't been around for a few days. And while I'm sorry you may need to stay longer, it's for the best. If I get out before you I'll try to visit. Maybe it can even be a conjugal one.' He grinned widely and bit down on his lip.

'Fucking tease,' Sherlock muttered before sighing in relief. 'I'm glad you're getting better, dear.'

'Thanks love. Glad to hear you're withdrawal is getting better. And it's so good to hear your voice again. I missed it.'

'It was awful not hearing your voice. I began to get more than a little ratty with the people here.'

'How many nurses did you go through?' John asked, a small smile on his face.

'Ten,' Sherlock chuckled softly.

'Really? Only ten?' John teased.

'Yes. I'm horribly off my game. I'm working on the eleventh though.'

'By next week I expect you to be near thirty,' John chuckled.

'Challenge accepted,' Sherlock laughed deeply.

'I love you,' John said softly. His mood had changed dramatically. His doctor was gesturing for him to finish up.

'I love you too. You have to go, don't you?'

'Yeah. My doc's telling me to finish up.'

'It's ok. I'll be here next week. Promise.'

'That's a horrible promise,' John mumbled. 'I'll call you, ok? I love you and I miss you so much.'

'You know what I mean,' Sherlock sighed. 'Love and miss you too.'

'I know. Take care of yourself. I expect to hear more life in your voice next week.'

'Yeah. You too,' Sherlock replied, his voice breaking slightly.

'They're making me hang up now. I love you. I love you so much. Go put on my jumper. I've already got your shirt on. Go. Take care of yourself. Get healthy. Listen to your therapist. No! Please! Just two more minutes!'

'I'm sorry John, but you know the rules.'

'Sherlock? Sherlock, I–' His doctor took the receiver from him and hung it up. '–love you,' he finished. He ran back to his room and slammed the door shut. He crawled into bed and hugged his pillow to him tightly, sobbing into it.

…::-::…

As time went on Sherlock seemed to worsen. His withdrawal symptoms had cleared up sure enough but since they had he'd had more time to speak to his therapist. He'd been diagnosed with anger issues and mild depression due to suppressed emotions linked to childhood memories.

He lived for the phone calls he had between John, even if they were short conversations. It would seem, however, as John grew plumper he himself was growing thinner. He refused to eat. He could barely think of eating. And as John became happier in state of mind, Sherlock went spiralling down into a deeper depression.

'They say I can go home soon,' John said. 'Seeing as I'm at a healthy weight now and I'm dealing with my emotions better than before. I'm on antidepressants now. Oh! And I can't fit into your purple shirt anymore.'

'That's good, dear.' Sherlock's voice was dull and heavy. It had lost its usual spark a couple of weeks back. 'I'm really happy for you.'

'You don't sound very happy,' John noted. 'Things not going so well over there?'

'No. Things are going – ok. Listen, I'm really sorry but I've got to go. My therapist made me another appointment.'

'Oh. Ok. Take care of yourself, love. I'll try to come see you when I'm released. I love you.'

'Goodbye, John,' Sherlock mumbled miserably, hanging up without another word.

John hung up the phone and sighed. He went back to his room silently and sat in front of the window, drawing his knees up tight and holding onto them. Sherlock sounded miserable. Utterly miserable. He'd need to talk to Mycroft about looking into his situation. He just hoped Mycroft would allow them to see each other. How long had it been now? Two and a half, maybe three months? John had lost track of time. He didn't remember the days anymore, just the day he was allowed to talk to Sherlock. And now Sherlock sounded worse than ever. Was it because his therapist was making him relive his past? Was he not sleeping? Not eating? John worried about him throughout the rest of the day and night, not moving from his perch by the window.

…::-::…

Sherlock stopped eating.

He stopped sleeping.

He couldn't be bothered to insult the nurses.

He refused to see the therapist. There were already too many memories he didn't want unearthed.

He became sickly and weak because of his food and sleep deprivation and the nurses were finally forced to pump nutrients and sedatives into his blood stream by force.

He lost all contact with John.

…::-::…

John had been home for a week. Mycroft had told him not to visit Sherlock. Said he could ruin any progress he'd made. John knew he was lying. He didn't want them to see each other because of their codependency.

'Sod it,' John scoffed one day. He swallowed the rest of his tea and stood to get dressed. He had moved his things into Sherlock's room a few days ago, tired of going up and down the stairs to a room he was barely using anyway. Once he was dressed he phoned Lestrade.

'Greg, I need you to do something for me. And you can't tell Mycroft.'

'John, if this is about Sherlock–'

'Greg, you're going to take me to see him. If you don't, I'll call Mycroft and tell him I know all about the video conference call blow job and the lewd way in which you use cake.'

There was silence at the other end of the line.

'I'll be over in five minutes.' Greg hung up.

'Thank you,' John sighed. He looked over at Sherlock's violin, abandoned and dusty, sitting in a corner. He knew how she felt. 'We'll get him back,' he said to the violin. 'I promise.'

He looked toward the door and straightened up, determined. 'I'm going to see you whether your brother wants me to or not. It's evident you need to see me, Sherlock. And that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'll be there soon, love.'

…::-::…

'Mr Holmes, if you continue to refuse to eat you will die. There's only so much the nutrients we're pumping into you can do.'

Sherlock didn't say anything. He stared at the nurse with lifeless eyes. He'd lost his fight. He didn't know how to get better.

…::-::…

'Hurry the hell up, Greg,' John growled. 'Turn your sirens on or something. Speed up!'

'You know I can't do that, John.'

'Ok. Let's add the school boy and dean role play to the list.'

Greg turned on his sirens and sped down the highway.

…::-::…

Sherlock wondered selfishly how fast the process of his death would be. How long until his body faded and he could leave his misery? How long until everything just stopped?

…::-::…

'I need to see Sherlock Holmes,' John told the receptionist. 'Please.'

'Visiting hours aren't for another–'

'I don't care. I need to see him. He hasn't been calling, and I'm worried he isn't taking care of himself. Please, just let me see him. Please.'

'Mr Holmes, please eat,' one of the nurses begged, smiling sadly at him. 'You look like a skeleton.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head.

A nurse led John down a hall to Sherlock's room.

'I should warn you, what you see isn't going to be pretty,' she said.

'What do you mean?'

'He refuses to eat and sleep. We've been pumping nutrients into him as well as sedatives, but he hasn't touched real food in nearly two weeks. Your boyfriend is completely emaciated.'

John paled and swallowed thickly. The nurse turned one more corner and knocked on the second door on the right.

'Mr Holmes? You have a visitor.'

'A visitor?' Sherlock gasped out, his voice sounding like glass that was on the verge of shattering.

'Yes,' the nurse smiled softly. She gently pushed John into Sherlock's room. John gasped at the sight of Sherlock. He looked like death, his skin drawn tight over his bones.

'Oh, Sherlock,' he frowned, moving to kneel in front of him. 'You look awful.'

'John.' Sherlock smiled weakly. It felt so wonderful to see his lover, and looking so well too. 'You, on the other hand, look a lot better.'

'Yeah. I filled out rather nicely, didn't I?' He placed a hand on Sherlock's bony knee and squeezed. 'Why aren't you eating, love?'

'I don't remember why I stopped,' Sherlock said, voice rasping. 'Therapist thinks I'm depressed.'

'No, love. You are depressed. You sound terrible and you look like death. Think you could drink a glass of water? For me?'

Sherlock frowned but nodded slightly. 'I'll try.'

John motioned the nurse for a glass of water. She returned a moment later with a cheap paper cup filled with water.

'Here, love. Sip at that, ok?'

'Ok.' Sherlock sipped at his glass of water, almost moaning in pleasure as it flowed down his painfully dry throat.

John pushed Sherlock's longer curls off his forehead. He really needed to get his hair cut. Didn't they do that here? They certainly had at his facility. Maybe they didn't want to have scissors near Sherlock. Was he that unstable?

'Feel a bit better now?' he asked softly, his hand having moved down Sherlock's arm and squeezed his free hand gently.

Sherlock grunted and nodded. He squeezed John's hand back weakly. He felt like utter shit in truth and so he remained silent.

'Why?' John asked softly. 'Why are you doing this to yourself?'

'I became so lost without you. And then my therapist began bringing up painful memories. And–' Sherlock sighed. 'It really messed me up.'

'Oh, Sherlock,' John sighed. He moved to sit beside Sherlock on the bed. 'I'm sorry. I wish I could have been there for you. But I needed to get better. And now you're going to have to stay longer until you're back to a healthy weight. Please eat, love. I miss you at home. The bed isn't nearly as warm or comfortable without you in it with me.'

'I don't know,' Sherlock exhaled heavily. 'It's been so long since I've eaten. The thought of food repulses me.'

'I was like that for a while too. I didn't want to eat, just the mere thought of food made me sick. But I worked through it and look at me now. I'm healthy again. And you know why? Because I knew you would need to see me getting better if you were going to get better, and if I saw you were getting better than I would be more motivated to get better myself. But looking at you now I don't see healthy or better. You're wasting away, love. Please don't starve yourself to death. I couldn't bear to lose you.'

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock whispered sadly. 'I didn't mean it to get to this stage. This place has given me more problems than I had to start with. I tried to stay strong but – I couldn't. I've failed you. I'm so sorry.' Tears leaked from his eyes.

'I wish I could just take you home,' John said softly. He pulled Sherlock into his lap and held him tenderly as he cried. The man was so fragile, stick thin, and incredibly light. John was afraid he'd break him.

'Even if my health picks up they want me to go through all of those painful childhood memories I have. I – I can't.' He sobbed harder. 'I just can't.'

'I'll talk with Mycroft. See if I can't get you out of here. I can take care of you well enough. I got you to eat before. Maybe I can do it again.'

Sherlock grinned at John and sniffed. 'That would be good. Thank you.'

'Or, I could really piss him off and just take you now,' John mused. He smoothed Sherlock's errant curls out of his face and placed a small kiss to his temple. 'I'm probably already in trouble for making Greg drive me here.' He turned to the nurse.

'His withdrawal is over, correct? He should be able to manage his cravings, yes?'

'Yes, but I can't just let you take him. He can't be discharged in his condition. He needs proper medical care.'

'I'm a doctor,' John said, handing her his ID badge from his workplace. 'And I'm his doctor. And I'm taking my patient home.'

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. 'That's my John. Stubborn as ever. God I love you.'

'I love you too, Sherlock. Come on. I'm taking you home.' He stood and adjusted his hold on Sherlock, cradling him in his arms. 'Greg, pack his stuff. He's coming with me.'

'What?!' the DI appeared from around the door and blinked. 'How did you know I was there? And why are you taking him?'

'I could hear you breathing, and I'm taking him because he needs me. Now get his stuff or do you want me to tell Mycroft that I know about the interrogation role play too?'

Greg swallowed and nodded, moving to Sherlock's wardrobe and pulling out his suitcase and clothes. Once they were all packed they began making their way down the hall, the nurse protesting the entire way. John signed Sherlock out, signing the medical discharge form and stalked from the rehab facility.

'It's going to be ok now, Sherlock. We're going home.'

Sherlock just nodded weakly into John's chest. He was already tired and weak. He hoped that John knew what he was getting himself into. John slid inside Greg's car, holding Sherlock to his chest. Greg put the suitcase in with them and sat in the driver's seat.

'I hope you know what you're doing,' he sighed, starting the car. 'Myc is gonna kill me.'

'Shut up and drive,' John scowled. 'I'll deal with Mycroft when the time comes. For now, just get us back to Baker Street.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock rasped out, glancing at the D.I. He buried his face deeper in John's chest and groaned.

'It's gonna be ok, baby,' John cooed. He held him just a little closer, combing his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock nodded and whimpered loudly. 'You know that for sure, do you?'

'I don't know anything anymore,' John admitted. 'But I'm gonna take care of you as best I can. I promise.'

Sherlock hummed, his breathing shallow and ragged. 'I don't doubt that at all.'

'I'm so sorry you got to this place. I wish I could have been there for you.'

'You needed to get better.' Sherlock moved a hand to John's now soft, fleshy belly and smiled. 'And you did.'

John smiled. 'Yeah. I did. And now it's your turn.'

Sherlock frowned. 'If I can get better. I'm not as confident as you on the matter.'

'I am a very stubborn man, Sherlock. I am not going to give up on you. I am going to feed you up, get you healthy again. We'll start slow until you get back into a regular eating pattern. Right now, the fact that you drank water is a very big deal. So, we'll start with some protein water. Sound ok?'

'Yes... sure. Errrh – gonna go sleep.' Sherlock relaxed in John's arms. 'Love you.'

'Ok, baby,' John whispered. He placed a soft kiss to his hair. 'I love you too.'

Sherlock slept for the entire journey. He was broken and ill but that didn't matter because he was with John.

'Greg, I can't thank you enough,' John whispered as they pulled up to Baker Street. 'I owe you one. Big time.'

'Yeah, well, if you can't blackmail your friends into helping you rescue your flatmate and lover from rehab, then, well, yeah.' The D.I. parked the car and opened his door, moving to open the passenger one by the kerb.

'I may owe you more than one,' John whispered as he crawled out of the car, being mindful not to wake Sherlock.

'I'll think of something,' Greg grinned. He grabbed the suitcase and gently closed the car door. 'Got your keys?'

'Back pocket.' Greg plucked them from John's offered pocket and moved to unlock the door. He let John go through first, then quietly followed him up the stairs. He left the suitcase in the hallway outside Sherlock's bedroom, saying he didn't want to intrude on their sleeping space, that it felt weird. John thanked him and placed Sherlock in bed, pulling the covers over him snuggly, and then quietly left the room.

Greg was already gone, so John made some more tea and sat in his chair. The flat was oddly silent, but it was now a comfortable silence. The last week had been too quiet, but now that Sherlock was back it felt more like home. John smiled softly and sipped at his tea, waiting for Sherlock to wake.

Once again, sorry for not updating on Friday or at all over the weekend. But you get two chapters in one day so that's gotta be a plus? Ah well. I'll do my best to actually update this Friday. Until then my lovely readers.

Happy Red Pants Monday!

TSA + IB