John sat up against the headboard, watching Sherlock's side rise and fall in shallow sleep. He was curled at the end of the bed like a cat, an old t-shirt of John's hanging off his shoulders, nose whistling at every exhale.

He was, as far as John knew, a week clean. It didn't seem that long ago, sitting on the tile with Greg crammed up against the sink, Sherlock hunched over the toilet, bile and words coming out unbidden.

"I don't want to disappoint you," Sherlock had said, and John hadn't known how to show that a moment of disappointment could never negate years of care and concern. The following week brought with it a calm that they hadn't experienced in months; Sherlock still wasn't eating nearly enough but he had at least accepted John's presence. John stayed in Sherlock's room every night until he fell asleep before moving to Mary's, an alarm set so that he'd be back in the guest room by sunrise.

He heard the toaster pop up and nudged Sherlock with his foot. He got a growl in return.

"Come on, up. The kettle's on."

"s'cause it's morning," Sherlock mumbled against the covers.

John laughed, pushing him further into consciousness. "Brilliant deduction."

Sherlock arched his back before sitting up. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. "Were you here the whole night?"

"No, just popped in a few minutes ago. Will you eat something?"

"Mm," Sherlock hummed noncommittally. "Would you take a look at this?"

"Hmm?" John waited as Sherlock lifted his shirt. He carefully pressed against his ribs, grateful that Sherlock was finally amenable to check ups. "Yes, healing nicely. Getting a few more pounds on you wouldn't hurt, though. Are you cold?"

"No."

"You're shivering. Here." John rummaged through the drawers and pulled out a knitted sweater. "Listen, Greg called about an hour ago. He's got some cases he'd like to drop by later if you're feeling up to it."

His eyes lit up. "Can I?"

"He's stopping by for lunch. Said he'd give you a file for every sandwich you eat."

"I'll skip breakfast, then."

John gently grabbed him by the arm and led him towards the kitchen. "We'll count breakfast towards the tally, alright?" He kissed Mary good morning and excused himself for a shower.

"How are we feeling, Sherlock?" Mary asked, placing half a piece of toast in front of him and leaning forward. "Get enough beauty sleep?"

He picked up the toast but didn't bring it to his lips. "Mary? Will you help me with something?"

"I'm not eating your toast for you. John's not as dim as you think."

"No, I…I'm getting better, aren't I?"

"Of course." She grabbed his wrist. "We're all proud of you. Especially John. It's so good to see you accepting help."

"I think I should move back to Baker Street."

"God, didn't you hear what I just said?"

"Mary, I can't…I can't have John resenting me. Or you. I couldn't bear it."

"What on earth put that thought in your head?"

"He should be focusing on his family."

"Oh, Sherlock. How thick can you be?"

Sherlock furrowed his brown and jumped as he felt John hug him from behind. "You are family," he whispered, and Sherlock let himself believe it.

Greg crossed his legs. "I'm waiting."

Sherlock huffed and picked up the sandwich. "Happy?"

"Do I look happy?"

"I had toast this morning."

"You know, I know it sounds crazy," Greg said, leaning forward, "but the other day I heard that adult human males actually need more than a cup of tea and piece of bread once a week."

John let his hand rest on Sherlock's shoulder as he brought a bowl of apples to the living room. "Withdrawal's only going last longer if you don't eat. I swear the dog gets more nutrition than you do. Making me look like a shoddy doctor, you know. Please?"

Sherlock took a bite and Greg handed over a double homicide. They talked through the details of the case for half an hour, John occasionally placing food into Sherlock's palm when he was lost in his thoughts. It was solved as the third cups of tea were being poured.

"Hey." Greg patted him on the shoulder. "Proud of you, kid."

"Your team would have figured it out."

"You know I'm not talking about the case. Been feeling okay?"

Sherlock shuffled and watched John fiddle around in the kitchen. "I don't think he minds me being here."

"He cares about you. We all do. Hey." Greg waited for eye contact. "Have you really been clean? Be straight with me, now."

"I have. Really."

"There's nothing left?"

His eyes flickered to the floor.

"Sherlock."

"I haven't touched it."

"Jesus. Why—"

"What's going on?" John called from the kitchen.

"I just haven't had a chance to throw it out. That's all."

"Oh my god, you're telling me…I just did a search, Sherlock, where the hell have you been keeping it?"

He looked down. "It's not here. Baker Street. I just haven't been back to get rid of it yet. You can call Molly right now, the test'll come back clean."

"Okay, well I'll clean it out for you." Greg went to grab his coat. "Where is it?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"You want to be done, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well?"

"Sherlock," John said, "I know you've been doing well. We're not cross, we know you haven't been to the flat by yourself. Let Greg take care of it."

"There's…a lot."

John cocked his jaw. "Okay. Okay, well, good. I mean, good for honesty. Where does he need to look?"

"Can't I just get it myself?"

"Are you actually insane?"

"John, I won't keep any. I just don't want either of you going through everything. There are things you shouldn't see."

"I doubt that," Greg said, bending down. "Sherlock. There's not much else you could throw at us. I think we've proven that we're sticking around no matter what. Tell me, what am I going to find at your flat? Heroin, cocaine, morphine? What?"

Sherlock sighed. How he wished that was it.