Finally! Sorry guys for the long wait but my beta's really, really busy at the moment and of course real life is a priority. BUT I have good news too, the next chapter is also ready.
Chapter Seven turned out rather long so we decided to break them up.

Just a heads up, the next one will be a shorter one but not the last. Enjoy!

Life was dull. John's days involved getting up and going to work. After work he would go home and read the book Sherlock had left him (for some words he needed a dictionary) and when the day was over he would go to bed again and the next one would be exactly the same.

Of course there were the weekends but even then he would take extra shifts or just spend the day in a coffee shop and go home again.

Nothing exciting happened.

At least not during the last five weeks.

Five weeks and Sherlock hadn't appeared again. John wasn't sure how glad he felt about that. Sherlocks constant appearances meant that he was high again but still there. That he didn't show up could only mean two things.

One was that he somehow heeded John´s wish and stopped taking the drugs.

The second option meant that Sherlock had taken too much morphine those weeks ago and died.

Which was something John absolutely didn't want to think about.

Not that he managed to stop that. The thoughts mostly showed up shortly before he fell asleep. He would feel this sudden urge to seek out the grave of Sherlock in his world. Which was silly, they hadn't even known each other here.

And John doubted that Sherlock´s brother would like that at all. He really could do without meeting the older Holmes brother again (just to spare Mycroft the embarrassment).

Of course he could have gotten drunk and find out how Sherlock was doing (if he was alive) but he had demanded that both of them stop doing that. He wouldn't get deliberately drunk and Sherlock not high to meet each other. Not that Sherlock had listened to that but that wasn't the point.

The point was not to get drunk just to meet Sherlock.

I don't want to see the flat empty, a tiny part of his brain muttered.

So not getting beer it was. He didn't even have some in their flat.

His resolve was strong and didn't waver. Not the last five weeks and not now. He lived his dull days from one morning to the next and kept thinking about Sherlock. That probably wasn't healthy or normal but he was just concerned about a friend. Nothing more.

So it was a surprise to find a letter on his table the next day. It didn't look as if it came with the mail because it just lay there without an envelope. John briefly wondered if Mrs. Hudson had read the letter but scolded himself a second later. She would never do that.

Curious he hung up his jacket, picked up the card (it had looked like a paper but it was actually just a card) and read the message.

Relieve flooded through his veins in an instant. It was a message from Sherlock. He must have written it and deliberately placed it on the table to find its way to John. What a clever man.

The scrawled letters told John what to do on the weekend and while he had resolved not to do this he couldn't help himself and look forward to it.

'Friday 7 pm. Stay home, drink beer. Make no plans - SH'

John went shopping the same day and lied awake for the majority of the night. He wondered what Sherlock wanted to talk about and was glad that he planned this far ahead instead of sticking a needle into his arm.

While he stared at the ceiling in complete darkness he pondered if he should write a message back. Maybe answering it and saying that he got it but Sherlock´s message had gotten to him so it must be clear for the other that he had received it.

He was relieved that Sherlock was still there even if he couldn't talk to him and actually seek him out, that made his sleep that much better (when he finally fell asleep).

The next day was like a blur and still felt like an eternity due to work. John walked directly home and dreaded already the time until Friday. It would probably feel slower than usual.

Needing something to eat and tea he went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. When John opened the fridge he stopped short and starred into it. The head was gone and while another suspect looking box had appeared in it there was another reason for standing there and starring.

There was another note, lying under the milk. Curiously he took it and closed the fridge. In one hand he held the milk and in the other the note.

It was clearly Sherlocks writing again (who else would leave something in there).The detective seemed to make sure that he really got the message.

'Friday 7 pm. Don't forget the beer - SH'

John catched himself smiling fondly at the note and snorted. Sherlock was just making sure their…meeting was secured. Walking over to the kettle he made himself a cuppa first and wondered what could be so important that he absolutely shouldn't miss it.

Sitting down with his tea and the note he tried to guess but came up with nothing. They never met on purpose so this was something entirely new.

There was no use pondering over it so John placed the note next to the tea, reminding himself to put it away where he kept the other card and picked up Sherlocks book again. He would just get take out and read the book to take his mind off of things.

Standing up again he walked over to the big table and looked through the booklets and tried to decide what to order.

He picked up one from an Italian place he couldn't recall ever ordering from. Maybe it had been in the mail and he had tossed it there to the others. John looked through it to see what they offered when a post-It note fell from it onto the table.

Confused he picked it up again and turned it around. "Really Sherlock?" he said to no one in the room. There was another message, saying the exact same thing as the other two just worded different again.

Amused he walked to his chair and put the post-it note on the other one. "Friday, alright. I can't wait either." John chuckled to himself and shook his head. For all his genius he never took Sherlock for someone who was over-cautious.

Apparently that was the case and John got the message for sure. Pleased with that he even looked up the Italian restaurant Sherlock had left him with the message and ordered from there.

The evening was uneventful after that and John could dive right into the book again. Only when his eyes began to feel too tired to read and the little bit left over tea was already cold did he close the book and stand up. He stretched and looked at the time.

He might as well go to bed. There was still work the next day.

Taking the notes with him he went to his bedroom. He turned the light on and opened his closet where at the bottom sat a box. John put the lid to the side and placed the notes in there, the first one already in it. Satisfied with that, he took out some sleeping clothes and changed. Only then did he turn to his bed and noticed that there was a piece of paper lying on the small table beside the bed, where the lamp was standing.

Starting to feel a little peeved he walked over to the bed and sat down on it before grabbing the paper. "I'm not that dumb you know? I can remember that little information," John mumbled to himself and opened the piece to read the message.

'Friday 7 pm. Close the door too - SH'

Well, that was interesting. Why would he need to close the door? Did Sherlock plan to do something? Perhaps he wanted to play a game, somehow.

It wouldn't be farfetched since they were able to touch the others stuff in the flat would Sherlock really go through that hassle just to play a game with him? He doubted that.

Now really becoming curious he put the piece of paper back to where he had picked it up and turned off the light. Might as well catch some sleep so Friday could finally start to crawl towards him. This was worse than those stupid cliff-hangers on the telly.

After an hour of useless thinking about Friday sleep finally claimed John.

Thursday. Fucking Thursday wouldn't end.

How could Thursday betray him so? Wednesday had passed without an incident, work at the hospital keeping him blissfully distracted. It had passed in a blur and John had grown optimistic.

Stupid. That's what it was. How could he have let himself be lulled into that kind of thinking? Sherlock would have a field day with his optimistic behaviour. The speed that the previous day had been showing had obviously now been spend because Thursday ' .along.

If John had been able to kick time itself he would have already done so.

Sadly that was not the case.

Exasperated he listened to the next patient rambling about how he felt ill (a simple cough obviously) and probably wouldn't be able to go to work (yes he could, that git). John was in a foul mood. He did try to keep it away from his patients and co-workers but it didn't seem to work when Molly asked him if he was alright when they met to eat together.

John simply couldn't muster the strength to answer in more words than one, laced with some grunts. The meal was mostly silent because Molly, the kind soul that she was, left him alone after the first failed attempts to get him to speak.

Centuries later his shift ended, nothing could've kept him in the hospital. He was off for the weekend since he had worked up quite a few hours with his extra shifts over the last few weeks and taken Friday off.

He was ready. He was ready and nervous and curious. Strung tight would be the best description.

Looking at the clock at home (the ride home had been fast, of course) he realized he still had a little under a whole day to pass since they would meet later on Friday.

He debated with himself if he should go to sleep early but that was stupid. It would accomplish nothing and he wouldn't be able to sleep now anyway. He needed to calm down first.

Which was easier said than done.

First John made himself some tea and intended to loose himself in the book once more. When that didn't happen (his thoughts were racing around too much) he turned the telly on, hoping that there would be anything mildly interesting.

The only thing that John managed to do while watching crap telly, was musing over Sherlock. Did he watch telly too? He couldn't see that happening. Or did he enjoy certain movies or maybe shows? Probably scientific ones? Then again, Sherlock probably turned to books or looked it up on the Internet.

He should ask him when he saw him again.

Barely noticing what he was watching he continued to bring up questions over Sherlock. Was that strange? John shook his head.

They were just friends and it was natural for him to want to know stuff about his friend. To care about such things. He nodded to himself (anyone watching him probably thought he had a discussion with himself about a tough decision).

Looking at the clock, again, he was mildly surprised to see that two hours had passed. John didn't remember a second of the program he had turned on and it seemed that his constant musing about the detective had kept him away from checking the time over and over again. John could just hope that it would be the same case the next day.

He turned the telly off and changed his clothing so he could go to bed.

Throwing himself on the bed a pondered over when exactly he should start to drink the beer on Friday. Sherlock had written 7 p.m. but did he mean he should start drinking at the time or already be drunk? This was confusing and he didn't want to mess up whatever Sherlock wanted to talk about. Maybe the other was as nervous and excited as he was.

Probably not, his brain provided in an unhelpful way.

Unhappy with that direction of thought he turned around to drape the sheet over himself when he felt a strange sensation in his back accompanied with a rustling noise.

John blindly felt around between his back and the bed. After a few unsuccessful pats on the mattress he came to grab a sheet of paper all crumbled up. He pulled it out from under his body and held it in front of him.

Straightening out the paper he held it up in the air and read it in the light provided by the lamp on his bedside table.

'Friday 7 pm. Looking forward to it - SH'

A smile spread on John's lips and he stared at the paper. Leave it to Sherlock to say something uplifting even if he didn't know that John needed it.

The detective truly went overboard with the notes.

It was somehow endearing.

He would probably keep those notes forever. Together with the book it was a nice reminder that Sherlock was real and that no matter what happened (if this was their last meeting) that he wasn't a figment of his imagination.

Sherlock was as real as he could be and John was glad that he had been allowed to get to know him. If there could only be a better way to meet. Like, every time the water started to boil or some harmless shit.

They would have the time of their lives. He could imagine it. All these interesting cases Sherlock had (not that he had heard of many but still) and he could participate. Maybe not help but be there and listen. And all they needed to do was just to let water boil. No one would get hurt.

John silently chuckled to himself and turned off the light. He should probably go to sleep because these ideas were just getting ridiculous. It was wishful thinking too but mainly they were just silly.

With a sigh he closed his eyes and held the piece of paper in his hand. He had forgotten to place it on the table and didn't feel like turning around to do so now.

It probably is as close as I can ever get to Sherlock´s hand, his sleepy mind provided before he finally dozed off.

Despite the restful night John might have had he still snapped awake. The sun was just starting to shine into his bedroom and he groaned when the first thing he did was looking at the time.

Of course he would be up that early on a day he didn't need to do so.

Wearily he put a hand over his face and tried to recapture sleep. Of course it evaded him and he was left lying in his bed awake.

After a few minutes of lazily staying in that position he moved his hand away and sat up when it hit him.

Friday.

It was Friday. That meant that he would meet Sherlock again. His heart started to race in anticipation and he scolded himself mentally. There were still hours to kill before the desired time would crawl along. There was no need to get excited yet.

He stood up to start his morning routine. Something to put his mind off of Sherlock. Not that it helped in any way.

Sherlock seemed to occupy his thoughts since he had left the first note (was it wrong that it happened in the shower too?). If he was honest with himself, then probably since their first meeting.

After emerging clean and finally as awake as he would get he stepped into the kitchen and prepared himself breakfast, mulling over the hours to come.

He definitely should eat before he started to drink the beer in the evening. Even if the point was to get drunk he needed to plan ahead and avoid getting so drunk that he couldn't really provide company anymore (not that he intended to drink that much beer). But this was still as much as he could plan ahead. It was Sherlocks idea to meet at an appointed time so he must have something in mind.

One of his first ideas had been that Sherlock wanted to say goodbye to John. Maybe he had finally quit the drugs and would inform John that their meetings stopped from now on.

Frowning at that thought he took a bite from his toast, upset with himself. His pulse was racing again and he felt nervous just because of that 'maybe'. But as much as he disliked that idea it might be the right one and he needed to be prepared for anything.

As fast as he could John tried to think up other options.

Sherlock might not even see this as the big thing that John made it out to be. Maybe he simply wanted to talk or have company in the evening. There could also be a case and (for some reason) the detective wanted his help.

Yeah, he liked that idea much better.

He finished his breakfast and even cleaned the dishes while he was at it. John needed to kill time anyway and he might as well use it.

His thoughts always drifted around the maybes and what ifs but he tried not to do so on purpose. He didn't have enough evidence to make any clear deduction (and wouldn't Sherlock just love that sentence?) and so he tried to drop the topic.

Around midday he cooked himself a nice meal.

He had even looked up a recipe on his laptop and made good use of the food that was in the flat. Another way to occupy himself and it even worked to some degree. John was proud when he sat down and started to eat, a nice and delicious foundation for the alcohol that was to come.

The next hours were absolutely torture and only Mrs. Hudson would be happy about it. John had for some unfathomed reason cleaned his flat. He hadn't known it could look that alright. Even when he had moved in it hadn't been that clean.

Sitting in his chair now and starring at the clock he mused over the fact that there was a lot of stuff from Sherlock around. Cleaning up the flat had given him the opportunity to look over his stuff and he had been surprised by how much wasn't his.

Of course he also missed some things now but he was sure he could live without them since he hadn't needed them so far and barely remembered what it had been. Sherlock on the other hand probably missed some things of his chemical set which was now placed on his kitchen table. John would love to give it back but wasn't sure how to accomplish that.

Maybe Sherlock just needed to touch it when they met and it was his again. No harm in trying.

Looking at the clock yet again he was startled and relieved to see that there was only a little over thirty minutes to go.

John decided that it was alright to open a beer now. Standing up he retrieved one and felt a nervous fluttering in his stomach. Probably because this was the first time they met like this. Sighing to himself he took the first sip. He had the feeling that he had used that excuse now a hundred times.

Might as well try to be honest with himself and admit that he was nervous and excited to meet Sherlock again.

God five weeks was such a long time, he thought. He was just so glad that Sherlock asked him to drink beer and not get high. It wasn't a long time solution but John somehow felt better about it. He must have reached the stubborn man on the other side.

Sitting in his chair again he starred at the floor while he sipped his beer. It was strange drinking without actually having the intention to get drunk. The beer was just a way to accomplish meeting Sherlock. Hopefully it will soon kick in.

Maybe it had kicked in? Worried John looked around but nothing seemed to have happened yet. What if he was already past the point where Sherlock showed up but simply forgot the meeting? Surely not, he had gone to great lengths to make sure John new about the whole thing. a case had come up.

Yes a case sounded reasonable. A case could lure Sherlock away from him (from the appointed time of course, not him). And maybe, if it was a case, maybe he was-

"Really John? Worrying over me while I'm here?"

Startled John almost dropped his beer and looked over to the couch. There in all his glory and long limbs and stupid cheekbones was Sherlock, draped lazily over the couch in comfortable pants, a shirt and his dressing gown. The detective even dared to look smug. John wondered about why.

"Sherlock! Worrying over you? What gave you that idea?" John replied a little defensive, aware that he had been caught. Sherlock just smiled in response.

Ah, that's what he's smug about, deduced John on his own, even if he wasn't sure what gave him away.

"Like always John, I simply observe. Also, since we are supposed to meet it was clear that only I can be the thing you worry about."

"Nh, then I won't bother denying it," John raised his beer in a mock little salute and took another sip. "Well, I'm here." Curiosity was bitingly strong in him and he wanted to know why they even had this date (appointment). Looking expectantly at Sherlock he waited.

Sherlock just nodded and grinned at John, he had already known that he had been right. There was no need to reinforce that.

Standing up and walking over to the shelf with the books he retrieved a box. "One moment John, only one more thing and then we can start."

Which sounded quite mysterious to John. What would they start? What needed preparations? Still, he remained in his chair and watched Sherlock walking back to the couch. The tall man placed the box on the couch table and opened it.

John watched out as a nightmare unfolded. There before him was Sherlock preparing himself to shoot up. He instantly was out of his chair. "Don't you dare! What are you fucking doing?!" John felt cold dread running down his spine and wanted nothing more than to take the box and its contents and throw it out the window, no matter what people would think.

Sherlock just arched an elegant eyebrow while he prepared the syringe. "Relax John, I promise this will be the last time. I heeded your wish and didn't shoot up the last few weeks but this is something that must be done."

"Must be done? Must be done?! My god, Sherlock, you're about to get high why exactly? I'm already here!" He felt like punching something or someone. Preferably Sherlock if that would mean getting some sense into him. It probably wouldn't work.

The other just hummed in response and continued, the needle already in the crook of his elbow.

"Trust me on this. Please," Sherlock looked up while pushing the stupid drug into his bloodstream. "I planned this thoroughly and intend to follow this through. Everything will fall into place after that."

It wasn't fair of Sherlock to use that kind of look while asking him to trust him. To say please. Who did he think he was? John would forever have that image burned into his brain, Sherlock sitting there with a needle in his arm. He let that happen.

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes John clenched his hands into fists and tried to remain as calm as possible. "And what, pray tell, is it that you have planned? That you intend to follow through that requires drugs?"

Somehow he felt betrayed. Yet he felt glad too. Sherlock had said that he hadn't taken drugs the last few weeks, did he not? Did that mean that he had heard him that night when he had become unaware of his surroundings? Had the withdrawal symptoms been bad enough to keep him trapped in this flat? Sherlock wouldn't like that at all. And if he had gone through those symptoms then he just put himself into a situation where he had to go through them again. For what exactly was still a mystery.

Sherlock just continued to look back at him and started to smile again. It clearly portrayed that the detective knew something that he did not. It irked him because he would have liked to have a word in this if it meant taking drugs and alcohol (and hadn't he agreed with all of this when he had willingly opened the beer?).

He was still waiting for an answer when Sherlock put the syringe in the box again and closed it. The detective then slid on the couch to the side near the windows and patted the place beside him. "Sit down John, everything will be answered shortly."

Reluctant to just do as Sherlock said because he was still being kept in the dark John simply opted to stay where he was and wait for his answer. After a minute his shoulders slumped and he walked to the couch, sitting down on it.

Had he grown soft or was it Sherlock that could command him around like this? John blamed the beer, it couldn't defend itself against that.

Warily he looked at the other and watched for signs of the drug. It would take a little while for it to start to work. Surely they wouldn't just sit in silence until then.

"So you've…gone through withdrawal?" John tentatively asked.

Sherlock looked fully at John and seemed very relaxed and alright with that question. He nodded slowly. "Indeed I have. Not my most glorious moments but I expect you to help me through the rest."

What? "What?" echoed in his head and apparently aloud too. "You can't expect me to stay drunk all the time even if I really want to help you!"

The detective just chuckled lowly and shook his head. "And you won't need to be the whole time. Like I said I have everything planned through and once the morphine kicks in all will resolve itself. You don't mind having me as a flatmate right?"

John felt overwhelmed by this conversation. He wasn't sure if he understood any word that Sherlock said or if he was just slow with the understanding. All of this sounded as if they would permanently see each other, which was frankly impossible. What exactly had Sherlock worked out? Why couldn't he just tell him?

"John," Sherlocks deep baritone tore him from the endless questions that popped up. "John, answer the question."

The question itself wasn't hard. It had an answer John already knew since he had come to know Sherlock. "Of course not. Just don't expect me to move to the other bedroom," he immediately said defensively. Because it was as much his bedroom as it was Sherlocks.

The others smile just turned into a sly yet shy grin and John wondered if the morphine was already starting to work. "No, I don't expect you to…as long as you don't expect me to move. I don't mind sharing, not at all."

John blinked stupidly at this. His brain immediately provided him with images of him and Sherlock sharing the bed. Now that he came to think of it they already shared the bed, they just didn't see each other while doing so. And while he felt a light heat rising in his face he realized that he didn't mind that thought somehow. It would be alright with him.

Despite his fried brain (it felt like it) he managed to return the smile and snort amused. "Very well."

Sherlock just continued to look like that at John before he seemed to check his own pulse and inhale deeply. John shot him a worried glance. "Everything alright?"

"Everything is excellent John. I can feel it slowly taking effect. The time passes so much faster with you around."

John simply nodded at him in thanks for that compliment and took another sip from his beer before he placed it on the table as well. Being with Sherlock certainly had his advantages too. First and foremost the company he provided. Something only he seemed to provide in a manner so that John only craved more.

He looked at the detective absentminded, simply enjoying how he looked. Sherlock certainly seemed to belong on this couch, in this flat. They would make great flatmates was the conclusion John came to.

It was that Sherlock wasn't alive in his world anymore and this Sherlock was beyond his reach.

Whatever Sherlock had planned, he doubted that it would work. What could suddenly be the key if everything had stayed the same so far.

"Sherlock?" John asked and Sherlock was kind enough to look at him. He had started to stare at the table, the drugs must be kicking in.

"Mh?"

"Alright?" he asked again, just to be sure. Sherlock just smiled slowly at him again and proceeded to look down at his own hand.

"Would you hold my hand John?" came the unexpected question and made John blink. Confused he looked between both of their hands.

"I'm..what? It doesn't work Sherlock," he said firmly but flexed his own hand because that question alone reminded him of the feeling that always started when they passed through each other.

Sherlock didn't answer to that and simply reached over to John.

For a second John played with the thought to move out of the way because he was sure that he didn't want to see the disappointment on the others face. Surely he couldn't have forgotten so fast what would happen, no matter what drugs he took and-

Their hands met and Sherlock took Johns hand softly into his, intertwining their fingers.