When Sherlock awoke the first thing he noticed was that for the first time in days there was no biting pain in his wrists and ankles. They throbbed, but it was the kind of hurt that came with healing. He fluttered his eyes open and found John asleep, kneeling on the floor using Sherlock's mattress as a pillow.
Sherlock sighed, the withdrawal was over but he still felt particularly weak and frail much to his chagrin. He wondered if he should wake his doctor but it seemed he didn't have a choice, the shifting sheet must of stirred him because soon John was yawning and blinking awake as well.
Sherlock tried to greet him but instead of John's name all that came out was a croak.
"You need water." John surmised quickly bringing over the glass before hurriedly preparing some more soup for Sherlock to eat once he'd downed the liquid. Sherlock tried to speak after drinking but John immediately pushed the bowl of soup to his lips and practically forced it down his throat. Sherlock was ravenous though, so he didn't mind.
"Do you want some more?" John asked quickly, "You're warm enough right? Maybe I should ask Mycroft for some more blankets you look cold-"
"John, stop it." Sherlock sighed with an air of annoyance, "I know you are stalling because you fear I will be angry and tell you to leave if you let me get a word in."
John flinched.
"I'm not sorry for what I did." Sherlock mumbled, "But I am sorry it hurt you."
"Don't." John chocked, sounding so much like he did on the other end of a phone three years ago.
"I'm the one who should be apologizing." He continued, "I didn't mean-"
"John, you've already said so, many times." Sherlock smiled weakly, "When Lestrade told me I didn't believe him and even if I had I was sure you'd hate me for...relapsing."
"I drove you to it." John muttered, "After all you'd been through to keep us all safe, it's my fault. I pushed you."
They sat in silence for a while before Sherlock decided he desperately needed a shower. He'd been in bed for days. Unfortunately he forgot that meant his legs were sore from disuse and immediately collapsed upon trying to stand only to be cause by John.
"Careful." John chided, "The withdrawal is over but your body is weak, that happens when you don't eat or drink properly for three years."
There was a hint of humor in John's words that made Sherlock smile. Things would be okay.
"John, can we go home now?" Sherlock asked finally, he wanted nothing more than to be at home once more, at Baker street. With John.
"We should get some more food into you first, a few days rest until your strength is back." John replied, "Then we can go home."
Sherlock sighed with an air of annoyance but yielded anyway, he was tired.
"John?" he tried again."
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"When we do go home, can you make risotto?"
-oOo-
A few days later Sherlock had gained back some of his lost weight but eating near constantly, obviously making up for three years of starving in one go. This of course resulted in a few trips to empty his stomach in the bathroom. But John stayed with him the entire time, pushing his hair back and rubbing circles on his back.
Being back a Baker Street was surreal. For the first few days the two lived on Chinese take out while they watched old Bond films and Doctor Who re-runs. It was domestic and dull but it was something Sherlock had missed.
It was wonderful, being cared for, feeling loved. A few years ago he'd of shrugged it off but now, now he wouldn't give it up for the world.