Hi all! I know I am updateing awfully early, so sorry :D Everything I am writing here is not real. I don't know anything about withdrawals or anything, only the stuff I could find on the internet and other fanfictions, so this all might be awefully wrong - or right, who knows?
TRIGGER WARNING: (probably wrong) description off withdrawals. If that bothers anyone, PM me and I'll send you an altered chapter, you can always do that by the way :D
Anyway, enjoy!

Five hours later I am much better. Sherlock isn't, though, and I watch him sleeping in his bed. I worry about him. He will probably wake up soon, but he is going to go through withdrawal and that will be horrible. Another thing that scares me is the memory of his face, when I was trying to stop him. That Sherlock isn't who he usually is, and the fact that he took drugs is enough proof to show how big his depression really is.

When Sherlock wakes up, he is disorientated, exhausted and very much annoying. His hit has gone off, and he is starting to get symptoms of withdrawal. It is horrible to see him like this, nauseated and sweating, but I fear that it will get worse, a lot worse considering Mycroft's words to look out for myself.

A day after Sherlock wakes up, it really starts and even though I have gone through this as well, it shocks me once more how horrible it is.

The first thing is the vomiting. Sherlock looks terrible, but he knows he has to get clean. He wants to, and this is great, although I suspect he'll change his opinion soon.

Shortly after, the paranoia starts and he freaks out when a nurse hired by Mycroft tries to touch him. It takes nearly thirty minutes to calm him down, and it repeats itself twice.

His mood is very changeable, being three days after Sherlock woke up, and I fear the moment when the cravings will take over his brilliant mind. Even though they don't show it, I know Sherlock and Mycroft are scared as well.

"Kiara," Sherlock's voice is quiet and I look up from the book I am reading.
"Yes?"
"You have been through withdrawal as well. You know how it feels like."
"Yes..."
"The cravings are getting worse. Don't – Don't let me take more. Stop me, will you?" he sounds calm, sure of what's going to happen, and this makes me wonder. How can he be so sure, so in control? How many times did he go through withdrawals?

An hour later, he starts asking for cocaine. I decline, and he is still sane enough to understand. But he warns me that it'll change, that he will do anything to get cocaine. I don't know how true that is.

"Kiara, please," It's one of the first times I hear him saying the word 'please', and it worries me. How far will he go? I know that when I went through withdrawals, I was very violent. Of course, Sherlock isn't addicted any more, but one shot? It can already trigger so much.
"No, Sherlock, you can't have any, you made me promise not to give you anything," I can see his eyes narrow, he's thinking of a way to persuade me. He's still lying in his bed, tense, but still lying, and I hope that won't change.
"And now I am telling you to give me some!" He has reached the line, the line where the cravings take over.
"No, Sherlock, I know it's hard, but you need to go through this!" He tenses once more and his eyes flit over my body. I know that reaction. He is preparing to fight, checking for weaknesses.
"Sherlock...!" I warn him, but he doesn't listen and jumps. I am ready, and a quick hit to the neck stops his movement, I press the pressure-point on his right wrist and twist his arm to his back. He is still so weak from the overdose, and it scares me, but somehow I am slightly grateful as well.

I push the button calling the nurse and she comes running, shocked to see me treating Sherlock like that.
"Just call Mycroft, tell him what's happening!" I shout at her, and after a second she leaves again.
As soon as Sherlock hears Mycroft's name, he starts struggling again so I change my hold. He is ow nearly immobilised, his back to my chest, my head next to his.
"Sherlock, calm down. You can get through this, but only if you don't give in to the cravings!" he shudders and his struggling gets weaker.
"Please, Kiara, just one hit – one hit and everything will be fine!" His voice is breaking, and I can only hope that Mycroft comes soon as I continue to rock him slightly and decline again and again.

Mycroft is there five minutes later. He looks sad, but calm, expecting what's going to happen. He orders the nurse to restrain Sherlock with my and his help and then tells her to leave the room and only come in when she is ordered to by me or him.
Sherlock is nearly begging by then. The cravings have fully taken over, and the only thing I can look forward to is the fact that according to Mycroft they will be over in a few hours. That doesn't exactly help my inner peace when Sherlock is partly shouting and offending us and partly begging for cocaine. More than once I leave the room for a few minutes to calm down and strengthen my resolve.

After about seven hours the cravings become less, and Sherlock slowly stops twisting and resisting against the restraints.
"Kiara?" He sounds exhausted, but better than before.
"Sherlock, are you feeling better?"
"I don't know, I-" And before he can finish the sentence, he is asleep.

On the second of May, three days after Sherlock took the cocaine, Sherlock is mostly through it all. The paranoia is gone, but the depression is still there. I know we will have to work again as soon as possible, it's the only thing we can do to stop the depression. Mycroft is very close to catching the second thread, Paul Timothy, his deputy and Joseph Daunt, the third threat. Anthea is working nearly constantly, Sherlock is itching to help, or rather, take over, and I just can't believe how much has happened in the last year.

On the third, Sherlock's depression is worse than ever. He's still in bed, after Mycroft and me threatened to restrain him again, and doesn't even insult Mycroft when he comes in to inform us that Paul Timothy and his deputy are now in a safe-house somewhere far away. Only Joseph Daunt has managed to evade capture, and Sherlock's sneer is not mean enough. It surprises me that I want him to be mean, rude, hurtful, but everything's better than this.
"Sherlock," I try once again to distract him.
"What?"
"On the day of your rehabilitation, I did two things. Firstly, I met Dr Watson." I now have his full attention, and I tell him what happened up till the point when I walked away.
"The second thing I did is something I need to show you."
"What did you do when you walked away from John? What did he do?" He interrupts, and I smile. The depression is at the back of his head, and I am starting to think that it's rather a mixture of boredom and the remaining depression from the cocaine.
"Shut up, Sherlock, wait a second, will you?" I pull my shirt up a bit and push the top part of my trousers down, just a bit, so he can see the skin of my left hip.
His slender fingers are cold as he traces the black lines on the tender skin, fully healed now. The writing his simple, but beautiful, and the black ink completes the picture of the text being a fact, being true.
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Why did you do that?" His voice is quiet, careful, curious, and somehow he seems very young just then.

"Sentiment, Sherlock. Sentiment."

So, what did you think? Because I am not going to be on my laptop in december (well I'm not allowed to but I'll try to sneak on) I'm not sure how much I'll be able to post. Still, I am trying to finish this story as soon as possible, but I don't think I'll get through everything before series 3 airs, I hope it doesn't bother you that this story will be AU then - kind of...

~Valkyrie