A/N: I'm Back! I'm actually doing a NaNoWriMo challenge where I'm writing 1000 words a day, and this is the first result of it! Let me know what you guys think of it, bc it was such a hard one for me to write and your love keeps me motivated!

Chapter 18: Don't Give In

Don't give in

Don't you dare quit so easy

Give all that you got on the sword

Don't say that you won't live forever

I know, I know

Don't Give In – Snow Patrol

From the moment John walked to the exit of the metro station and felt his phone buzzing wildly, he knew something was incredibly, horribly wrong. He took his phone from his pocket as he hurried through the crowd of people to get outside as fast as he could. There were five missed calls and two new messages, all from the same person: Mycroft Holmes.

That wasn't a good sign.

Quickly, John stepped out of the line of passengers who were exiting and pressed the dial-back button on his phone. The phone didn't even ring twice before the older Holmes brother picked up.

"Nice of you to finally call me back; I've been trying to reach you for twenty minutes."

"I was riding the tube," John snapped back. "Which you probably knew already."

Mycroft didn't respond to John's comment, which worried John instantly. He heard some shifting and the closing of a door on the other side of the line, and he knew Mycroft found a place more private to take this call.

"I thought you of all people would understand the importance of mental healthcare, especially in this stage of recovery," Mycroft started in a low, business-like way. Still, John didn't miss the judging undertone that was in there as well. "Imagine my surprise when I get a call from the hospital saying Sherlock has missed his appointment with doctor Parker."

"He didn't have an appointment with her. We went in this morning for a check-up with doctor Wilson, not doctor Parker."

"That's not the appointment I'm referring to; I'm talking about the one he had scheduled for this afternoon."

John opened his mouth to tell Mycroft he was mistaken, but stopped and swallowed. He knew the older Holmes brother wouldn't make a mistake, not when it came down to Sherlock's schedule and health. "I didn't know," he managed to say after a couple of seconds. "What's going on?"

Mycroft sighed before speaking. "That's what I was afraid of. I think we've got a situation on our hands. How close are you to Baker Street?"

"Couple of minutes out." John started walking immediately. "What's going on, Mycroft?"

"I tried to reach Sherlock multiple times before I contacted you. He doesn't respond."

"He has a case," John tried, but he knew that that probably wasn't the reason for Sherlock to ignore his brother.

"John," Mycroft said urgently. "What's today's date?"

The question stopped John. What was Mycroft getting at? He quickly tried to think of a reason why today's date could be of any importance but failed to see it.

"It's the 26th."

Oh.

As soon he said it out loud, John knew what Mycroft was referring to. A year ago on this day, he and Sherlock had said goodbye to each other on the tarmac. A year ago, Sherlock had boarded a plane while he had no prospect of returning. Of course, this date would trigger something, and John could hit himself for not realising it sooner.

"Shit," was all he managed to say eventually.

"I think you would agree with me if tonight would qualify as a danger night. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it already started," Mycroft paused briefly, and John could hear him swallow in an attempt to keep his emotions under control. When he continued, his voice was much softer and gentler. "I would get to Baker Street myself, but I know I'm not the person he needs right now."

"I'm on my way."

"Thank you. And prepare yourself, dr. Watson; if this indeed is a danger night, you need to be on top of your game. Don't hesitate to reach out to me if you need anything. And please, do keep me updated, will you?" With that, Mycroft hung up, and John did the only thing he could do.

He started running.

"Dear, is everything alright?"

Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway of her apartment with a worried frown on her face waiting for an answer, but John didn't give her one. Instead, he turned towards the stairs to yell again.

"Sherlock?!"

"John?"

The almost pleading tone in Mrs Hudson's voice made John stop in his tracks and close his eyes. He really didn't want to worry her unnecessarily or explain to her what was going on, but he knew he couldn't keep her in the dark either. Plus, in the worst case, he may need her help. With a sigh, he started to explain. "Mycroft contacted me and asked me why Sherlock didn't show up at his hospital appointment this afternoon. He tried to contact him myself but didn't get a response. We have reason to believe this night could qualify as a danger night."

"Oh, no."

"Do you know if he's home? Did you hear him?"

"I think so? I heard someone leave about an hour ago, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't Sherlock, I would've recognised his footsteps on the stairs."

John nodded in response. He turned around, looked up to the stairs and took a moment to brace himself. Whatever situation he would face upstairs, he knew he had to be prepared for anything. But when he walked up the stairs with Mrs Hudson on his heels, John couldn't shake his panic like he usually would. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice kept praying Sherlock would be fine, that he hadn't done anything stupid yet. And suddenly, another emotion rushed through his body: remorse.

Because what if he actually had taken care of Sherlock, instead of the constant arguing and bickering over nothing? What if he had paid more attention to how his friend was feeling, instead of being preoccupied with his own issues constantly? What if he had been honest with himself and had let himself see the struggle the detective was experiencing, instead of telling himself, and others, that everything would be okay? And above all, what if John would've had the guts to tell Sherlock what he meant to him, instead of being the coward he was?

He should have. John knew he should've said something. He should've spoken up about his feelings towards his friend. Perhaps it would've given Sherlock the strength he would need to continue, would've given him something to hold on to.

And maybe, just maybe, this situation could've been avoided.

When John reached out and opened the door to the apartment, he stopped himself from walking in. He realised the whole situation was getting the best of him and that he was getting ahead of things without proof that anything was actually going on. With a firm nod, he pulled himself together, told himself to stop assuming the worst and that and slipped into doctor-mode, preparing himself to attempt medical care on his friend if needed.

"Sherlock?" John called out into the living room, but there was no answer. He quickly scanned the place to see If something would indicate what was going on but nothing stroke him as odd, or at least, not more than usual. It was still a mess; there were still papers and files everywhere on the floor and food and cups of tea around the flat which Sherlock hadn't touched. If anything, he noticed the files were even a bigger mess than before, but that was probably just a coincidence.

Together with Mrs Hudson, John walked through the kitchen to the corridor and knocked at Sherlock's bedroom. "Are you in there?"

Still, there was no answer. John knocked again as he tried to push aside the unsettling feeling he started to feel. He opened the door with caution, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

The final room they tried was the bathroom. John didn't bother to knock; he immediately pushed the door to see if it was locked. When it didn't open, John instantly knew something was wrong. "Sherlock, if you don't open the door I'll be forced to kick it in."

John didn't wait for an answer; he knew he wouldn't get one. He took a deep breath, walked a step back, braced himself and launched himself against the door. With a loud crack, it flew open, revealing the scene John had feared the most.

There, on the cold floor tiles, lay Sherlock, seemingly unconscious. He was slumped against the bathtub; the colour drained from his face, his eyes closed. Next to him lay a small glass vile, and John knew Mycroft was right.

It was, indeed, a danger night.

He heard Mrs Hudson let out a scream, but John ignored her and immediately hurried forward and fell on his knees beside the detectives' body. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he tried and reached out to Sherlock's neck to search for a pulse. A rush of relief went through John's body when he felt a heartbeat under his fingers.

"Come on. You can't do this," John muttered and gently slapped Sherlock's face to provoke a reaction. "Wake up, Sherlock!"

"John, do you need me to call Mycroft?" Mrs Hudson asked hesitantly, her voice quivering.

"No."

"Are you sure? Or maybe an ambulance? He doesn't look too good."

Just when John was about to respond, there was a soft noise coming from Sherlock.

John looked at the detective and saw his eyes flutter as he regained consciousness. He reached out, took Sherlock's hand in his and squeezed it softly. "Hey, it's okay," he spoke quietly.

Sherlock felt how the world came back to him, all foggy and cloudy. He tried to remember what had happened, but couldn't focus enough. All he noticed was that he felt sore and that his head was pounding. "John," he groaned, his voice hoarse.

"I'm here. I need you to open your eyes for a sec. Can you do that?"

Slowly, Sherlock obeyed and opened his eyes, and John had rarely been this happy to see those icy-blue eyes scanning the room. He turned his head towards Mrs Hudson. "I think I'm able to handle the situation. I'll ask for help if I need it, okay?"

Mrs Hudson nodded in response. "Please take care of him, John." And with that, she left the two men alone.

"Hey, can you look at me, love? Perfect." John reached up with his other hand and placed it on the detectives' shoulder. "It's going to be okay; I've got you. But before I can help you, I need to know if you took something." He made a small gesture towards the vile that lay on the ground.

There was a sudden shift in Sherlock's gaze. "I… What?" he asked alarmed.

"Sherlock, did you take the GHB?"

A wave of nauseousness overtook Sherlock as he realised how the whole situation must look to John. To him, this looked like a danger night. And maybe it was, but he had to make clear that he wanted to, but that he didn't do it. That he couldn't, because of him. Because of John.

"No!" Sherlock said with force, and John saw the panic form in his eyes. "I swear, I didn't take-,"

Before he could finish his sentence, John cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Shhh, I believe you. There's no need to panic." He held Sherlock's gaze for a long moment to make sure the words were getting through to him. After a moment, Sherlock relaxed a bit in John's grasp. They sat there for seconds, unable to look away from each other.

"I'm going to examine you now, okay?" John eventually whispered and broke Sherlocks' gaze. He stood up for a brief moment and looked in the cabinet next to the sink. There, on the bottom shelf, lay a medical emergency bag, just like the doctor had left it when he left Baker Street. He took the bag, kneeled next to Sherlock again and cleared his throat before speaking. "Can you sit up a little straighter for me? Yes, that's it."

"John, I-"

"Hold still for a moment so I can recheck your pulse."

"John," Sherlock urged. He needed to focus and tell John what was going on.

John looked up. "What?"

"I wanted to, though."

John was silent for a long time, unable to hide his emotions any longer. The confession didn't come as a surprise. He knew. Sherlock had wanted to escape, to stop. He had wanted to take the drugs, but something had stopped him. If it hadn't, the situation would've been totally different. "I know," he whispered, took Sherlock's hand in his again and squeezed. He was surprised to feel a soft squeeze in return before they let go of each other.

John sat up a little straighter and switched from friend to doctor with well-practised ease. He continued his examination in silence and was happy to notice Sherlock was getting a little more alert, but he still seemed to have to fight to stay awake and had started to shiver. He still looked pale, his skin felt clammy, and the dark circles under his eyes didn't go unnoticed by John either, nor did the fact that his hands were quite cold when he had them in his.

Reaching inside the emergency bag, he took out a stethoscope and bent a little closer to listen to Sherlock's heart and lungs. Sherlock let John open the dressing gown he wore a bit so he could reach and gave him room to listen. John noticed Sherlock's heart rate was slightly elevated, and his breathing was a little more rapid as usual as well, but it wasn't alarming yet.

"Okay" began John after he put down the stethoscope again. "Do you feel any pain or discomfort?"

"Headache. And sore."

"Are you nauseous?"

"A little."

"Any dizziness? Lightheadedness?"

"No," Sherlock responded and shook his head to emphasize his answer, but it became clear he spoke too soon. "Okay, maybe a little as well," he admitted.

John gave him a small, sympathetic smile. "All right, I think you are suffering from dehydration, and quite severe probably. That, combined with the stress you put on your body the last couple of days made it shut down." His smile disappeared and made way for a frown. "I have to say; I'm not surprised it did. I'm more surprised it didn't happen sooner."

Sherlock huffed in response and scowled at John, but didn't respond. Instead, he tried to concentrate on the face in front of him, but he felt his eyes grow heavy the moment he tried. Maybe the doctor was right; perhaps he had pushed it a little too far.

The tug on his arm made Sherlock's eyes snap open again. "Let's get you out of these filthy clothes and into a bed, shall we? We can deal with the rest from there," John spoke as he stood up and tried to lift Sherlock with him.

"Shower."

"Excuse me?"

"I need to shower."

John couldn't help himself but to snort. "Absolutely not. I'm not going to pick you up from the floor for a second time."

"But I feel disgusting," Sherlock argued.

John looked down at Sherlock and felt a little stab of pity. The man had laid on the cold bathroom floor for what could've been more than an hour, in his cold sweat, and probably was more than a little sore. "All right, if you manage to stay on your own feet, you can take a quick shower. I'm staying close by, though."

Sherlock nodded and took the hand John offered to get him up on his feet. With a little effort, Sherlock got up, and for a second, everything seemed to go well. But then, the room started spinning again, and he began to sway on his feet.

Luckily, John saw it happen and reached out to Sherlock immediately. "Wow, wow, wow, easy! Here, sit down for a sec." He took hold of the detective and placed him on the bath rim, giving the detective a couple of seconds to compose himself before continuing. "you are asking too much of yourself right now."

Sherlock let out a defeated sigh. "I'll manage. I just need a minute." He looked up to John and saw the doubt that formed across his face. "Please," he added quietly.

John couldn't ignore the pleading tone in Sherlock's voice. He could understand Sherlock's desire to take a shower, he really could, but he failed to see a way how he would manage to do so without collapsing again. The only way he would be able to be if John was there to help. Oh.

"Sod it," John muttered, stepped back and reached for the hem of his jumper.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide in surprise. "What are you—"

"You can't stand up longer than a couple of seconds; let alone shower by yourself," John answered and pulled the jumper over his head. He quickly and took off his shoes and sock and reached for his jeans to take them off. He hesitated for a second, because he had imagined undressing in the presence of Sherlock for the first multiple times, but never like this. He quickly pushed the thought away before he would embarrass himself, pulled his jeans down and stepped out of it. He left his boxers on, just to make sure Sherlock wouldn't get uncomfortable, and reached out his hand. "Come on, before I change my mind."

Sherlock took John's hand without question. He patiently waited, in the middle of the bathroom, and let John take off his robe. Even though he knew perfectly well that the situation wasn't right, he felt a little jolt of anticipation when John helped him step out of his pyjama bottoms. He was curious to see if John also would remove his boxers, but he didn't. In any other situation, Sherlock would be a bit disappointed, but now he was grateful for the gentleman John was.

Efficiently, John placed Sherlock in the shower and put on the tap, trying to avoid the beam himself as much as he could. From the moment the water hit Sherlock's curls, he closed his eyes and little by little; he felt his body relax

"Just hold on to me if you need to, yeah?" he said and reached for Sherlock's shoulder to keep him steady, as he tried to look anywhere but at Sherlock.

In a couple of minutes, they were out of the shower. Sherlock had made quick work of cleaning himself a bit and even managed to quickly wash his hair, even though it took a lot of energy. When he was done, he let John help him to get out of the shower and took the towel the doctor handed him, dried himself and wrapped the towel across his waist.

After that, they exited the bathroom and slowly walked straight to Sherlock's bed. John placed Sherlock on top of it, turned to the closet to take out some fresh clothes, handed them to the detective and then walked away.

When John came back, Sherlock was dressed and had let himself fallen against the pillows. He handed the detective a glass of water and a couple of pills, which Sherlock took without hesitation.

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Just lay back for a moment. I'll call Mycroft to get some supplies so we can treat the dehydration."

"Don't."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"It's none of his business."

"That's not true, and you know it. He already knows what's going on. How do you think I knew there was something wrong in the first place?" John saw Sherlock roll his eyes as a response, but decided to ignore it. "Don't fight me on this, please. You're too dehydrated just to drink some extra water. You need an IV, and either you let me ask Mycroft for the supplies in order to give you one, or we're going down to A&E. Your choice."

For a second, Sherlock seemed to consider his options but eventually admitted defeat. "Fine. Call him if you must. But I can't be held responsible for the consequences If he wants to –"

"I'll deal with him," John said before Sherlock got the chance to finish his sentence. "I'll be back in a sec, okay? Try to get some rest."

Sherlock felt the warmth from John's hand on his knee long after the doctor walked out of his room. He tried to stay awake for a moment longer, wanting to gather his thoughts but he couldn't fight it any longer, slowly drifting into slumber.

It took Mycroft less than 10 minutes to get to Baker Street with the supplies John had requested. John met him at the front door and took the bag Mycroft handed him. He clearly had decided John would have more pressing matters at hand, and that his presence wouldn't be appreciated. John took a closer look at the older Holmes brother and noticed the dark, worried look on his face and took pity on him. He had the right to know how Sherlock was doing.

"You were right," John started, and he knew Mycroft knew what he was referring to.

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly and swallowed. "I know. I wish I weren't, though."

John didn't answer. Instead, he reached inside one of the pockets of his jeans and gave Mycroft the small, glass vile.

"He didn't take anything."

"And you believe him?"

"I do. I have to."

"Your confidence in him does you credit. "Mycroft sighed. "I wish I could say the same."

"I know."

There was a flicker of relief on Mycroft's face but was only there for a second. "Thank you, John," the man spoke, and John swore he heard something that almost resembled genuine gratefulness. He composed himself quickly and put his chin up in the air. "I'll be coming over tomorrow to hear the details. I rely on your medical expertise here to handle the situation at home, instead of sending him to A&E."

John chuckled at the sudden change in Mycroft's tone. "Don't worry Mycroft; I'll take care of him."

Mycroft nodded in response. "Good. I'll leave you to it, then." He turned around but turned back before John had the chance to close the door. "Oh, and dr. Watson? Do know that I have knowledge of your personal situation as well that I can be very persuasive."

Without another word, Mycroft turned around and got back in the car. John watched with a frown how the black vehicle drove off. Of course, Mycroft knew what was going on. He shouldn't even be surprised anymore. What surprised him more, was the fact that he had offered to help John with the situation.

He shook his head before he turned around, trying to refocus on the matter at hand. His own problems could wait; Sherlock needed his attention right now. He closed the door behind him and headed back upstairs, where he walked straight to sherlock's room. With the bag in hand, he entered it as quietly as he could.

The sight in front of him when he entered Sherlock's room, made John's heart clench in his chest. The detective looked small, almost defeated. But he also looked peaceful in a way John knew only he was privileged to see. Sherlock had let his guard down and had surrendered to John's care completely. It was something rarely happened, but when it did, it touched John to the bone. He suddenly felt his eyes burn with unshed tears, feeling the weight of the events from an hour ago crashing down on him.

Trying to swallow his emotions away, he walked closer and tried to arrange everything to put in an IV as silent as possible. Mycroft had listened very carefully and hadn't forgotten a single thing on John's list. He had made an excellent estimate of what might be going on, judging on the extra medicines and painkillers John found in the bag.

John tried to work as quick and efficient as he could without trying to wake Sherlock. He had to improvise a bit to find a place to hang the IV bag but managed to grab the floor lamp from the corner of the room and use it as an IV pole.

"Hey, I need you to wake up for a bit so I can insert the IV," John said in a hushed voice and gently tugged on Sherlock's shoulder to wake him.

Sherlock opened his eyes to John's voice, looked up at him and gave one of his tiniest, softest, warmest smiles. John felt his heart swell in his chest and the tears in his eyes returned instantly. God, how he just wanted to reach out and take Sherlock in his arms and hold him, comfort him. But instead, the only thing he allowed himself to do was to return Sherlock's smile and to take away the corner of the duvet to expose his arm.

Sherlock shifted to the centre of the bed a bit as an invitation and waited for John to sit down. He handed the doctor his arm, and watched how John put the tourniquet around his arm, searched for a usable vein and eventually put in the IV needle with precision. From the moment John opened up the drip, Sherlock felt the cold liquid under his skin and relaxed against his pillow.

He took a moment to look more closely at the doctor, noticing the emotions that were across his face. Sherlock realized It was taking his toll on him, that it was draining him. But he also knew that the doctor would never tell him that, and Sherlock felt like he needed to come clean. He needed to let John know that he was the reason he didn't take the drugs. He felt the weight on the bed shifting, and before John could get up from the bed again, Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm so he couldn't leave. "John," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Don't."

The fierceness in John's voice made Sherlock flinch, but John took hold of his hand more firmly. "Don't apologize. Please, don't."

"Why not?"

John looked down at their joined hands and furrowed his brows together. "Because if there's anyone who should be apologizing, it should be me." His voice choked at the end, and he swallowed in order to continue. "I am. Sorry, that is. I should've realized."

When he looked up and saw Sherlock's confused expression, he continued. "It's the 26th," he said eventually and felt Sherlock tense. John waited for Sherlock to give a response, but he didn't get one.

"Why didn't you say anything?" John whispered.

Sherlock swallowed. He knew he owed John an explanation about what had happened, and he wanted to give him one, but for some reason, he seemed unable to find the right words. "I didn't know how," he started, his voice barely a whisper. "And I thought I was handling it. I was until I suddenly… wasn't."

"What happened?"

This made the detective close his eyes, because how could he explain to John that what had triggered him, what had really triggered him, was the fact that John wasn't there when Sherlock had expected him to be? That the realization that he shouldn't expect John to be there, because he didn't live here anymore and that he would have to leave eventually, was the final push Sherlock had needed to give in to the lingering temptation of drugs?

"All right, answer me this," John continued when he saw the struggle on Sherlock's face. "What made you stop?"

After a long moment of considering all the things he could answer, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked straight into John's. When their eyes met, Sherlock knew there was only one right thing to say. This was it; the moment he would let his true feelings show.

"You."

Neither of them moved as the word lingered in the air between them. Sherlock could see all the different emotions that crossed John's features; confusion, pain, gratefulness and eventually, something Sherlock couldn't quite place.

Then, John let go of Sherlock's hand and got op and Sherlock thought for one horrible, terrifying moment that John was going to leave. But instead, he just kicked off his shoes and walked towards the other side of the bed. Without saying anything, he tucked the duvet away a bit and laid down next to Sherlock. He extended his arm and leaned his head sideways, inviting Sherlock to come closer. Sherlock looked up at hesitantly, but John just gave him a small smile in answer. When he finally did put his head on John's chest, a strong arm wrapped around him almost immediately.

"Try to rest for a bit. You'll feel much better in a couple of hours," John muttered, his words muffled by Sherlock's curls. Sherlock felt himself relax against the warmth of John's chest and his eyes grew heavy.

"John?" he called before sleep could take him.

"Hmm?"

"Please stay?"

John didn't answer immediately and felt himself tense. What did the detective mean by this request? Did he ask him to stay with him while he slept? Because that was an easy request to fill. But for some reason, John suspected he meant something more. If that was the case, he couldn't tell Sherlock he would, and not because he didn't want to.

It was because he knew it would be a promise he couldn't keep.

"Believe me, I'm doing everything I can to do so," he whispered and hoped that Sherlock already had fallen asleep.