A/N: Please believe me when I say I have not abandoned this story! I just got stuck in a major writers' block. Sorry! But now, I'm back. So if you are still sticking with me, please let me know! It really keeps me motivated.

Chapter 17 - Way Down We Go

Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down 'til the dark
Yes and they will run you down, down 'til you fall
And they will run you down, down 'til you go
Yeah, so you can't crawl no more

Way Down We Go – Kaleo

The waiting room of a hospital always was a strange place to be. Whether it was because somebody was hoping to receive good news, or expecting to get bad news, people were still a little anxious for what was about to come. It didn't matter if you were waiting with ten people or, in this case, had the waiting room for yourself; there was always this energy around. And even though he was a doctor, John couldn't shake it.

He glanced at Sherlock, who was sitting beside him. He actually didn't seem that nervous, which surprised John a bit. But then again, he had to admit that the last two days had gone quite well. Sherlock hadn't argued with him every step of the way, he'd accepted to rest in the afternoon (although they were disturbed after half an hour by a call from Lestrade), and John had even managed to get him to eat a meal or two. If anything, he maybe was a bit quieter and more absorbed in his thoughts, but that didn't strike John as an odd thing in Sherlock's behaviour.

John's mind stopped racing abruptly when two piercing blue eyes looked directly at him. John gave Sherlock a small, comforting smile, although he hated to admit it maybe was more for himself than for Sherlock. The detective pleasantly surprised him by giving back a little, private smile, but it was only there for a second. After that, his smile faltered. John didn't miss the pained, confused expression he had when he turned away. He was about to ask what was wrong, but he was interrupted by Sherlock's name being called.

They walked down the hall to the office and were greeted by Dr. Wilson. "Mr. Holmes, it's good to see you again," she said and shook his hand. When she stepped aside to let them in, she gave John a small nod as a greeting.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Wilson asked when the three of them sat down.

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at his hands and started fumbling nervously. "I'm doing okay," he finally answered.

"How's the pain?"

"Manageable."

"Any difficulties with breathing? Movements that are discomforting?"

"No."

Dr. Wilson paused briefly to type some things down on her computer before she continued. "All right, let's continue with the examination, shall we?"

The examination was quick. Within no time, Dr. Wilson had taken a look at the incisions, had checked Sherlock's lung capacity and heart rate, and had taken some blood to check the levels. She asked another couple of questions, and soon after that, she seemed satisfied.

John couldn't help but notice that all the questions focused on the aftercare of the splenectomy and the bronchoscopy. He wondered if she was deliberately avoiding questions about how Sherlock was coping with the withdrawal. And if so, why?

"All right, everything seems to go as well as expected. If you don't have any questions, you're free to go. Try to take it easy for a couple more weeks, okay?" Dr. Wilson spoke gently before she turned her gaze towards John. "Dr. Watson, I want to have a quick word before you go, please."

This took John completely by surprise. "Oh, uhm… Sherlock has another appointment to get his cast removed. Is it possible to do it over the phone?"

"I'm afraid it isn't. I'm sure Mr. Holmes will be fine by himself. It won't take long."

John was about to argue with that, but Sherlock interrupted. "It's fine, John."

Dr. Wilson stood up from her chair, walked to the door and poked her head outside briefly. "Linda, could you bring Mr. Holmes to the plaster room so his cast could be removed? Thank you." She turned to Sherlock and waited for him to rise from his seat. She held out her hand. "I'll see you at our next appointment."

John watched as Sherlock nodded, shook Dr. Wilson's hand and walked out of the office without sparing John a glance. Something in his posture told John that something was going on; that he wasn't doing well, and he had to fight the urge to go after Sherlock, instead of staying behind.

"All right, what did you want to discuss?" John started impatiently. The sooner they could get this over with, the better.

Dr. Wilson walked back to her side of the desk and sat down, but didn't start right away. She waited and seemed to consider her approach carefully. After a moment, she gave John a small smile before she started speaking. "How's Sherlock doing? From your perspective, I mean?"

There was something in the way she asked the question that made John want to defend himself, and Sherlock, instantly. "I think he's doing the best he can at the moment. His pain is manageable; he's mobile enough to take on a case. He's sometimes struggling, but that's expected."

"Dr. Watson, can I give you a piece of advice?" Dr. Wilson asked, her tone deliberate. She put her elbows on her desk and stapled her fingers under her chin. Something in her posture reminded John of Mycroft. "From one doctor to another?"

John shrugged. "Sure."

"It's time to take those blinders off and start acting like a doctor instead of a loved one."

"Excuse me?"

"Sherlock is not doing okay. He's exhausted, lost weight and he obviously isn't feeling well. I think you should be able to see that as a doctor, but I'm afraid your judgement is clouded."

John sat up straight in his chair and took a moment to reflect upon what Dr. Wilson was saying. How dare she suggest that he wasn't able to see what was going on? That he didn't act as a doctor when it came to Sherlock? That he was jeopardizing Sherlock's health? He tightened his fists to keep his anger under control. "That's quite an accusation you are making, especially when you don't know what he's like and what he needs. Believe me; I'm doing the best I can."

"If this is doing the best you can, your best is clearly not enough. I'm warning you, doctor Watson. You need to step up your game. If you can't, I need to admit him." Dr. Wilson glared at him for a moment. "And we both know how much fun it would be for everyone involved, don't we?"

John opened his mouth to comment on that, but luckily he realized in time that he was out of his league here. He knew that if he pushed, she would have Sherlock admitted in a heartbeat. And suddenly, he realized that maybe she was right to do so. That didn't mean he had to like it, though.

After a long silence, Dr. Wilson sighed and ran her hands across her face, dropping a bit of her rigour with the gesture. "Listen, I usually would've taken action by now. But I think he's better off at home than in the hospital right now, so I won't proceed. I'll schedule an appointment in two weeks. If he hasn't improved by then, I'm afraid you aren't giving me any choice."

"Fine," John managed to answer through gritted teeth.

"I'll ask Linda to point you to the plaster room so you can meet him there," Dr. Wilson suggested as she slid back into her composed self.

"No need. I'll find him myself."

"As you wish."

John didn't bother to give her a proper goodbye. He stood up straight in his military posture, turned around and walked towards the door with firm steps.

"Dr. Watson," Dr. Wilson spoke before John could exit the office. "I know it may be a little hard to believe right now, but we are on the same team here."

From the moment Sherlock and John were able to leave the hospital, the tension was palpable. They had stepped into the car in silence; both men didn't spare a glance towards the other. John took out his phone and Sherlock turned himself towards the window. He was twisting and bending his wrist absent-mindedly, wholly caught in his thoughts.

They were halfway on their way back to Baker Street when Sherlock's attention was driven to the quick typing of John's fingers on his phone. He turned a bit and looked at the man next to him properly. Something had caused a sudden shift in John's state of mind, something Sherlock hadn't been a part of. The doctor was sitting straight up in his seat and was all tensed up; his jaw clenched, his face set into a familiar stern frown.

With a sigh, Sherlock sat back against his seat and resumed glancing out the window. He knew that if he asked John what was wrong, he would tell Sherlock that it was nothing and would wave it away. And if Sherlock was honest with himself, he also knew why John avoided him. Because the reason for him to feel like this would revolve around him.

Sherlock glanced sideways again and let his gaze slide down to the quick swipe of John's thumbs. Suddenly, he realized he had seen this particular scene before over the last few days. He had caught John texting multiple times, almost always caught up in some heated discussion. On occasion, Sherlock had wanted to ask who John was talking to. But every time he almost did, he averted.

He was afraid of the answer he might get.

The car stopped with a jolt, and John stepped out of it immediately, slamming the door shut with a loud bang. He opened the door of 221B, walked up the stairs at a fast pace and entered the apartment. Sherlock couldn't do anything else than to follow reluctantly.

"You are upset," he started once they were both inside the apartment.

John stopped in his tracks but didn't turn towards Sherlock. "Obviously," he replied, his voice clipped.

"With me."

John didn't respond. He didn't have to. Sherlock already knew he was. He waited a moment for John to speak up, but when it was clear the doctor wasn't going to, he started his deduction.

"You were fine this morning, so something happened in the hospital, probably during the removal of my cast. Dr. Wilson has scolded you, perhaps because she thinks I'm lying about my progress or because she thinks you are not giving me the proper care. Possibly both."

John turned slowly towards Sherlock. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, and Sherlock knew that wasn't a good sign. "You are. Lying about your progress."

"I'm doing fi—"

"Don't finish that bloody sentence! You are not. Doing. Fine!"

The loudness of John's voice made Sherlock flinch involuntarily, and John immediately felt guilty. His first reaction was to walk towards the detective and apologize, but he saw Sherlock twitching when he made a move. Instead, John let himself fall on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair and took a deep breath to calm himself a bit.

"I don't see why you value her opinion so much, John," Sherlock tried.

John looked up briefly before running his hand down his face in defeat. "Because she's right, Sherlock," he started, his voice muffled. "I am not doing the best I can, because if I was, I would make you listen to me and force you to take better care of yourself. I would make you rest, eat and sleep."

Sherlock looked down at John but didn't move. He couldn't. The words John just said, ran through his mind like a siren. For the first time, Sherlock noticed what was really going on. He was going through a hard time, but John was blaming himself for it. And he could not let that happen.

So he decided to do the only thing he could do. He needed to solve this case, fast.

When Sherlock suddenly started moving, John looked up. It took him a moment to process what the detective was doing. He had tossed himself on the floor in the middle of all the files and started rustling again, and John felt his anger rise once more. "For God's sake, Sherlock, just lie on the couch for an hour like any other recovering patient would do!"

"I can't do that, John. I can only rest after I solve the case. The sooner I solve it, the sooner I can let you hover over me. That's what you want, right?"

John snorted in disbelief and threw his hands in the air. "That's not what I- You know what, never mind. I'm not having this discussion again."

"Please don't; it's tiresome," Sherlock mumbled, his thoughts already on the case again. "It would be better if you put your frustration and energy into helping me solve this case."

John just looked at the detective for a long moment, unable to decide what to do. A part of him knew that he shouldn't give in to it; that he shouldn't give Sherlock what he wanted. But then again, John also knew the man was right. The faster they'd solve the case; the faster John could make sure Sherlock would strengthen.

For a couple of hours, Sherlock's focus was completely on the case. His attention only slipped for a moment when he heard footsteps on the stairs, but he quickly deduced who it was.

Lestrade opened the door of the apartment without knocking. "Here are all the files Austin and Brandon worked on together. There weren't many cases, but maybe you'll find something we didn't."

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock answered without looking up. He reached out his hand and waited for Lestrade to give him the files.

"I don't see what it could be, though," Lestrade tried while he handed Sherlock the folders and looked around. "It was only three cases, all minor offences. There isn't a connection between- Sherlock, what are those?"

Sherlock looked up in confusion. "What?"

Lestrade held up the two photos Sherlock had stolen from the crime scenes and Sherlock knew he was in trouble.

"Pictures, obviously. Don't be so obtuse, Lestrade."

"I can see that. Why do you have them?"

"I just happen to have them in my possession," Sherlock snapped. He jumped up to his feet and reached forward to snatch the photos from Lestrade's hand, but he was too slow. The DI was looking at him suspiciously and Sherlock knew that the DI was smart enough to connect the dots.

"These are related to the case, aren't they?" Lestrade asked after a moment and sighed. "Please don't tell me you're withholding evidence again, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine, I won't." He let his gaze fall back to the file, but he couldn't fight the panic he was starting to feel. Now would be a good time for John to step in. Where was he, anyway?

Sherlock let his eyes roam around the living room in hope to catch John's eyes, but he didn't have any luck. He quickly scanned the kitchen and listened to know if John was upstairs, but John wasn't there either. He took another look around the living room, noticing that John's coat wasn't there. John was gone. Had he been so caught up in the case that he hadn't heard John leave?

"I can't believe this," Lestrade exclaimed and Sherlock's attention snapped back at him. "In all those years working with you, I thought you would have learned by now that there are some lines you simply cannot cross. Stealing photos from a crime scene… I thought you'd learned!

"Oh, please. Stop overreacting. My apologies, it won't happen again."

It was a desperate attempt to play is cool but Sherlock knew he was had gone too far. He hadn't missed the low, threatening tone Lestrade's voice contained; a tone that was never directed at him, at least.

"You think I'm overreacting? You are withholding evidence, Sherlock! That's not a minor detail someone can overlook; that's an actual reason to fire someone! Hell, it's a crime, even! You know better than this! And even if you would think that, for some bizarre reason you would be justified to do this, John would know better!"

"John has nothing to do with this," Sherlock replied too quickly. He knew he was showing Lestrade more than he wanted, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. If he would go down for it, he would accept the consequences. But he desperately wanted to spare John. "He doesn't even know I have them."

Lestrade snorted in answer. "For someone who calls himself a sociopath, you are a terrible liar. Why did you do it in the first place? Even you must know taking evidence from a crime scene isn't a smart move. Did you really want to make us do another drugs bust? Because you know we would."

"No, I… No."

"Why didn't you let us file them? Did you really think my men are incompetent enough to fail to notice them? Do you really think we would be that stupid?"

"No," Sherlock answered, his voice sounding small.

"Then what was it, Sherlock? Enlighten me."

Sherlock didn't respond. His mind was racing a hundred miles per hour and but he couldn't actually grasp a single thought. The anxious feeling in him had spiked and his hands started trembling. There was an itch underneath his skin and nervous energy crept upon him. He knew this feeling, he knew it all too well.

He also knew he needed John. Now.

Lestrade was starting to lose his patience. "You better come up with a bloody good reason right now."

Sherlock shook his head, still not looking up at the man in front of him. "I can't. I can't tell you."

"Oh, but I think you will," Lestrade insisted and walked closer to Sherlock. "You have to. You've already wasted your privilege to continue this case, but I'm sure you want to avoid putting yourself, and John, in a lot of trouble."

"Please Greg, don't," Sherlock tried and looked up at the man opposite him, hoping that the use of the DI's first name made him realize there was something else going on. "Just let this slide, okay? It was wrong of me to do so, I understand that. But trust me when I say I wouldn't have done it if I didn't have a valid reason."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and let the words sink in. He seemed to consider his options for a moment. Then, he sighed and continued, some of his anger replaced by disappointment. "You know, I really want to, but I can't. I can't trust you after this. Because here you are; obstructing the investigation, while there are men out there who are being tortured."

"You think I don't know that?!" Sherlock suddenly bellowed. "You think I don't know they're tired up; being kicked and punched and God knows what else until there isn't a single spot on their bodies that doesn't hurt? That I don't know what it's like to be screaming in pain, pushing until you've reached your breaking point? Praying you won't wake up after another blow to your head or hoping your body would just give up under the severity of your injuries? How it feels to stop having hope when you don't dare think of ways to escape because you have no clue what you'd do if you actually succeeded?"

His voice broke at the end and with a jolt, Sherlock realized he wasn't talking about the case anymore. And from the look Lestrade gave him, he knew too.

He had said too much and Sherlock knew he couldn't save himself out of this one. His eyes flickered from Lestrade to the files and back, desperately searching for something he could focus on, but there wasn't anything around that could comfort him. He was breathing heavily, panting even, as a wave of nausea hit him which he tried to suppress.

The detective walked towards the window in hope to calm himself a bit, but it didn't help. He knew he couldn't hold himself together much longer. He

"I think you should leave," Sherlock spoke after a while, his voice almost a whisper.

"Sherlock, I—" Lestrade tried, but the detective didn't let him finish.

"I said, leave!"

Sherlock turned around to face Lestrade. Their eyes met and glared at each other for a moment, both unwilling to give in. But in the end, Sherlock's furious gaze won and Lestrade turned away in defeat. With every bit of strength he had, Sherlock stood in place a little longer until he heard the front door close. He rushed to his room and immediately opened the doors of his wardrobe.

He reached for the box he kept hidden on the top shelf and opened it. His hands were trembling uncontrollably now, but he somehow still managed to take out the small, glass vial with the clear liquid in it. He held it up, looked at it, and swallowed. Somewhere deep down, he knew he shouldn't be doing this. He should be asking for help instead. But the helpless, forlorn feeling he had was too powerful and he just couldn't handle it on his own, not anymore.

He locked himself up in his bathroom in a desperate attempt to leave everything behind.