A/N: I neglected to mention this before, but Khorazir has posted another stunning drawing on her Tumblr account. It is a work depicting Sherlock & John together from my story "Lestrade's Requiem." It is beautiful and brought me to tears. Trigger warning for major character deaths in the image.

Shake the Disease - 2

After I had cleaned up Sherlock's mess, I went to check on him. He was as I had left him in the bed, and was sinking back down under the influence of the heroin again.

I re-checked his vital signs and was reassured that he was no longer in any immediate danger. I emptied out a plastic waste basket to have handy in case he had another bought of nausea when the drug finally wore off. I changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed with him, leaving my little bedside lamp on.

I was too wound up and upset to fall asleep any time soon. Plus, I wanted to watch Sherlock for a bit longer, to make sure he'd be safe. So I held one of his wrists and pressed my thumb against it as I reclined next to him, trying to make sense of what had happened.

My only direct evidence is what he had told me: "You didn't come home. You don't want to be with me."

I looked over at him. His eyes were closed, and he had the slight, dreamy smile from earlier, a product of the heroin binding with the pleasure receptors in his brain.

Did my abandonment, as minor as I thought it was, hurt so badly that it drove him to this? There had to be something more. Why would he risk his long-time sobriety, career, health, even life, over me not coming back home on time?

I decided that there was a bigger clue in the second part of what he said: "You don't want to be with me."

I wasn't quite sure why he felt that way, but apparently it was a strong enough feeling for him to take this extreme measure to alleviate his emotional distress. It would be awhile before I would be able to talk to him about it, though.

From the way his body was reacting, the drug would probably be in his system for another six hours at least, followed by the withdrawal. It would take a few days to get back to complete normal. I would need to watch him carefully during that time, as that is when he would be most likely to get high again, when his synapses would be screaming for the euphoria that only heroin can provide.

I found myself idly wondering if the drug had an even stronger impact on intelligent people such as Sherlock, who have more advanced neural networks with more connections and therefore more possible receptors for the drug. I thought to myself that I might try looking that up...some other time.

I sighed and squeezed his wrist a bit tighter, then reached over and ran my fingers through his curls. They were still slightly damp from the sweating he'd done after I gave him the inhibitor.

I was furious with him, but also deeply concerned and my heart ached that he apparently hurt so deeply inside. I also felt a bit guilty that I could have contributed to this disastrous decision on his part. I knew that I had to be careful, though. I had enabled Harry's behavior for years, believing that I was at least partly to blame for her bad decisions. I couldn't let myself fall into that pattern again.

I reminded myself that it had been Sherlock's decision to risk his life, and that he certainly had other options to deal with his unhappiness than the needle.

I dozed off and on, periodically checking Sherlock's vitals. Around four am he began to show signs that he was definitely coming off the high. He grew restless and began sweating again, then moaning softly. About an hour after that he retched into the basket I provided.

When he was done he ordered me out of the room, which I ignored. After that he seemed resigned to my presence. We spent several hours in relative silence. I brought him a cool, wet cloth for his aching head and glasses of water for when he felt thirsty. He tossed and turned on the bed, sweating and giving the occasional groan. I tried setting up a portable fan to help with the sweats, but he couldn't stand the noise of it.

By nine am he was calming down, and by noon he was quiet, but himself again. I knew that his brain chemistry was going to be still quite off from normal, so I didn't want to try and talk to him about our relationship just then, but I wasn't going to wait about the drug use.

"Sherlock," I said, "I won't have an addict in my bed. If this ever happens again, I'm moving back upstairs. Got it?"

"Yes, John."

Sherlock's voice was weary and sad.

"So, do you want to tell me why you decided to relapse yesterday?"

He didn't reply.

After a moment I continued, "Did you think, at all, how it would have been for me if I came home and found you dead of an overdose?"

"No," he whispered.

There was a long pause and he added, "I'm sorry."

I believed him.

I pulled him to me, pressing his head against my chest and I buried my face in his curls. He cuddled into me and wrapped his arms around my torso. We sat like that in silence for a bit.

Sherlock finally spoke, "It's hard for me to understand, sometimes. I'm not used to this, even now."

He paused again, before finally continuing, "Drugs are easy, I know what to expect...exactly what I'll feel. I can control them."

I grunted in disagreement.

He sighed, "I had a lapse in judgment about the dosage. I'd forgotten about the fact I'd hadn't used in a while. I was stupid."

I tightened my arms around him slightly.

"Yes, you were," I agreed.

"I just wanted...something familiar. I'm sorry."

"I'm not familiar? Even now?"

"No. Everything keeps changing. You're the same, but we're not the same. I don't know, John. I don't like talking about this because I don't understand it."

"It's ok, Sherlock. We don't have to talk about this right now. You're still recovering. Just promise me that this won't happen again."

"Would you believe me?"

"Yes, a promise from you I would trust."

"Then I promise, John. Never again."

"And you'll give me the rest? And your equipment?"

"Yes."

He made to get up, but I clung to him tighter.

"No, it's ok Sherlock, I trust you to give it to me later."

He relaxed back into me.

"I feel like crap," he complained.

"You should have known that would happen."

"I feel worse than usual."

"That's what happens when you have a near overdose. Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?"

Sherlock rubbed his face against my shoulder and said, "You're here."

"I'm here," I agreed and after a pause added, "always."

"Thank you," he whispered and took my hand.

I squeezed his hand back, and then laced our fingers together. We stayed like that until we both fell asleep.

To be continued...