John stared in wonder at the large house the car pulled up to. It was bit into the country, away from bustling people and prying eyes. John's mouth gaped open as he climbed out of the car. The house was huge and white, like the ones in old Victorian movies. He turned and pulled Sherlock out of the car. Sherlock fell into the gravel driveway.
"My legs don't work anymore," Sherlock informed John from the ground, "You have to carry me all the time now."
John sighed heavily and lifted the other man up and carried him bridal style up to the door.
"Knock the door, Sherlock," John commanded.
"Yes, Captain!" Sherlock said in a serious voice, he snapped off a salute and pounded his hand against the door.
John rolled his eyes and waited for the door to open. Sherlock giggled into John's ear.
"Do you like when I call you Captain?" he whispered in a low voice.
John blushed and refused to answer the question. He prayed someone would open the door before Sherlock embarrassed him any further. It seemed that whoever was in the house wanted to see John suffer, as the door did not open.
"I bet you like to give me orders," Sherlock whispered in his ear, "You like telling me what to do, huh? Knock on the door, answer the phone, buy the milk, clean up the table, take off your clothes, bend over, down on your knees, open your mouth. You'd like that wouldn't you?"
John shuddered as Sherlock's words slid seductively into his ear. He refused to address the fact that, yes, he would like that. He started counting in his head, ignoring Sherlock's drugged craziness. It's not him, John reminded himself, he's not in his right mind.
"Answer me, John," Sherlock commanded firmly, "Answer me now and you can order me to do whatever you want me to. You want that, don't you? You want to order me to drop to my knees and take your cock in my mouth, don't you?"
John opened his mouth to gush out "Oh god, yes!" but the door in front of him swung open. John nearly wept with relief. He walked sideways into the door and it was shut behind him. A man with messy brown hair stood in front of him. The man turned and waved for john to follow. John gratefully followed his savior down the hall and into a room.
"Come on, John," Sherlock whimpered urgently into his ear, "Answer yes! Come on!"
John blatantly ignored Sherlock, laying him on the bed in the middle of the room instead. The room was fairly normal except for a scary looking machine on a medical rolling table to the right of the bed. Sherlock's eyes were on it and he stared at in in fear. He turned to John, tears in his eyes.
"Please don't make me do this!" Sherlock cried, "Please! Please! Please, john! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for saying those things! I'm sorry! I know you're not gay, I'm sorry! I won't do it again! I'm sorry for everything! Please don't make me!"
John's heart broke at Sherlock's pleadings. He turned to the man that had led them there, assuming he was the doctor.
"Can you give him something to make him sleep?" John questioned.
"I can, but it will just make the whole process more difficult," the man said in a cold medical voice.
"Please do it," John said, biting back an angry response.
The doctor scowled and went off to get something for Sherlock. John came forward and sat on the bed. He took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it.
"I'm right here, Sherlock," John assured him softly, "It'll be ok. And for the record, I'm not doing this because I'm mad. I'm doing it because I love you and want you to be back to normal."
Sherlock relaxed slightly, but held to John's hand as though it was a life preserver and he was drowning.
"I love you too, John," Sherlock whispered.
John wondered why Sherlock's "I love you" seemed so much more than just friendly, as his had been meant to be. The doctor returned, breaking him of the thoughts and quickly set to work, bustling about Sherlock. Sherlock gripped john's hand refusing to allow him to let go for even a second. As Sherlock's eyes drooped closed his urgently took john's arm and pulled him down to his face.
"What's wrong?" John whispered.
"Nothing," Sherlock answered.
Then he pressed his lips to John's. John jumped in surprise and pulled his face away to see that Sherlock was out. John watched his unconscious face for a while. Then he turned to find the doctor. The doctor hurried forward and started putting the tubes into Sherlock's pretty mouth. John had to turn away from the sight. He hated hearing the sloshy, disgusting sound of the water going into Sherlock's stomach. He shuddered, feeling bile rise up in his throat.
At least the process didn't take too long. The doctor left, wheeling the machine away with him. He paused to say that Sherlock should be fine and sleep for a while. John thanked him profusely for his help. The man stopped and looked back to John.
"You're new, aren't you?" he questioned.
"What?"
"You haven't been around the Holmes brothers very long," the doctor stated, "Few years at the most. Their sarcastic and rude demeanor hasn't quite rubbed off on you, yet."
"I guess not," John shrugged, "I wanted to think that I was rubbing off on Sherlock. But I guess I was wrong."
"A relapse doesn't mean he isn't better," the man said, "Usually it means that they're so much better they don't know what to do with themselves. Too much sentiment and happiness causes them to become uncomfortable and relapse in an effort to find something familiar. I didn't think it would happen to him. But I guess he found you. You really threw things off for him, didn't you?"
"I…I don't know," John admitted, "I didn't realize…"
"People rarely do," the doctor assured him, "Because with this type of relapse, the person is really happy. Often times because they find love. It scares them. I'd say Sherlock is the person in this world that is least familiar with happiness and love."
John didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. The doctor nodded and started back out the door. John looked back to Sherlock's unconscious face. He leaned over and brushed some of the thick curls out of his eyes. Then he flipped the lamp off and crawled into the bed with Sherlock. He would have lain on the floor, but Sherlock's hand was cemented to his. He pressed close to Sherlock and pulled the covers up to keep the sick man warm. For now, he just wanted to sleep, not think about what might be felt by who. His eyes closed and he fell asleep quickly, his face snuggled into Sherlock's chest.
Little note: I'm hungry, tired and I really have to pee. So your ending may not be the best, but you get what you get. Love you all for all your support!