Sherlock woke up with a start. His hands flew to his face. He expected his lips to be swollen and bloody but they were just fine. A hand gripped Sherlock's wrist firmly. Sherlock flinched and tried to pry it away.

"Easy, easy." A voice said gently. Sherlock turned his head to his right. John's face stared right back at him. The soldier's dark eyes twinkled with a worrisome look. Sherlock breathed heavily and sat up. John gently placed a hand on Sherlock's back. Sherlock hastily checked his ribs. They weren't broken or bruised. They felt just fine.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock gaped back at his flat mate for a moment, blinked several times and looked down at his trembling hands.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine…fine…" but John knew that asking the question in the first place was a silly thing. Sherlock's voice was hollow and he was obviously far from okay. John took Sherlock's pulse again. Sherlock stared down at John's firm hands with sunken eyes. He still felt like he was in that basement from eight years ago. He looked around his room. The curtains were drawn and on the bed side table was an empty vial of morphine that he had emptied the other day. Sherlock pursed his lips.

"You're pulse's still a bit high." John's hands swept away the matted hair from Sherlock's forehead and placed a hand on it. The doctor held it there for a few seconds and nodded. "Let me see your face." He gently turned Sherlock's face toward him and checked his eye lids and throat. Sherlock didn't utter a single word as the inspection was executed. Sherlock knew that John had already realized the situation and he probably thinks that Sherlock had taken the drug voluntarily. Technically he had for his second dosage but none of this would have happened if it weren't for Jim Moriarty. A strange feeling bloomed inside him as Jim's face emerged in his head. Oh hell, he was even calling him Jim.

"So, who's Jim?" John suddenly asked. Sherlock jumped. It was as if John had read his mind.

"Who?" Sherlock asked with a half dazed look. John avoided Sherlock's eye contact as he pulled his hand away.

"You were talking in your sleep. It seemed like you were having a nightmare." John looked up at Sherlock hesitantly. Sherlock cleared his throat. He shifted in his seat. His legs ached. He tried to slide out of bed but John held him back.

"No, you need to stay here. I'll go get some water for you. You're dehydrated." Sherlock didn't nod or shake his head. He just stared back at John with a blank look. As soon as John disappeared through the door, Sherlock ran a hand down his hair. It was soaking wet. He recalled the dream he had. The sinking sensation he experienced at his mind palace made him shiver. Suddenly he felt so cold. He drew the bed sheet up to his chin and dug himself deeper into the bed. He felt like he was sleeping on a pile of coal. His back ached. Sherlock tried to find a comfortable position but his body ached all over the place. He lied stomach down and hugged the pillow. He knew that all the kicking and punching was just from a bad dream but the body aches were so tremendous that he started to wonder if it was just a dream after all. He kneaded his forehead and groaned. How was he supposed to explain all of this to John?

Just then, the door creaked open and the doctor came with a jar of water and a glass. He poured some for Sherlock as the sick man slowly raised himself up again. He weakly thanked his roommate as he received the glass and gulped the water down. Every time he swallowed, a nauseating feeling grew inside his abdomen but he ignored it. John took the empty glass away from Sherlock without saying a word. Sherlock cursed John's grand gift of silence. He knew that John was bursting with questions and was itching to shake Sherlock and demand for a proper explanation for all this mess. Sherlock wished the doctor would simply just ask because he had no idea where to start.

Sherlock got back onto his stomach and breathed heavily. He buried his face into the pillow and tried to gather his strength to speak. He tried to organize his story in his head as quickly as his half deranged mind could possibly manage. John mistook Sherlock's body language as a clear "go away" message. He sighed and raised himself from the chair and reached for the door.

"John," Sherlock managed to call out in a cracked voice.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry." John blinked. Then he slowly slid down back to his seat with a half opened mouth. Sherlock had never apologized to him in such a straight forward manner. Usually, when Sherlock made an apology, he made sure to deliver a cynical remark along with it. He never just apologized.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock grumbled again. His face was pushed against the pillow. His head was turned only slightly so that his left eye was peaking over shyly at John. "I never meant to-"

"I know, I know." John said reassuringly. A smile of relief spread across his face. The awkward tension between Sherlock and John melted immediately. Sherlock exhaled in his pillow and turned his head so his full face was faced toward John. His right cheek was pushed against the pillow.

"It's been 24 hours since my last dose…you should leave before it gets any nastier. I can manage on my own." John slowly shook his head and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. There's no need to warn me." Sherlock nodded. Yes, of course. John was used to seizures, vomits, and high fever. He's a doctor for heaven's sake. Half of Sherlock scolded himself for the silly remark. The other half of him felt dread. He was half hoping John would nod in agreement and leave the room. Sherlock felt ashamed to show John such vulnerability. It just wasn't himself. It wasn't the Sherlock John knew. It was the Sherlock that he abandoned years ago. It was the Sherlock Detective Inspector Lestrade had helped to kill off. Sherlock's eyes shifted to the empty vial on the bed side table. He glanced at it for a while. John watched Sherlock and wondered what was going on in his head.

"So, you got this from Bart's?" John asked slowly.

"Mhhmmm." Sherlock replied, still gazing at the vial.

"Yesterday?"

"Yes."

"And how much-"

"I didn't." Sherlock replied sharply. His eyes peeled away from the vial and flashed towards John. Then, the lights in his eyes dimmed again. He dropped his gaze down to his pillow. "I emptied it before I could. And I disposed any other remaining stock as well." Sherlock's voice trailed away. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed. His eye twitched. He let out a sigh and a weak laugh.

"Look at me, John. Just look at me. The great Sherlock Holmes, bed ridden…all thanks to a small dosage of a single nasty shot." John didn't say anything. He just gazed down at Sherlock with a sad expression. "I didn't want to show you this. I really didn't." He muttered more to himself rather than to John.

"You should have told me immediately, you idiot." John opposed. Sherlock smiled.

"This isn't my first time."

"I know that." John replied bluntly. The two gazed at each other for a while. The silence was finally broken when John sighed and relaxed his shoulders.

"Why did you fall back, Sherlock? Why? Since when?" He asked pleadingly. Sherlock closed his eyes and shifted his weight slightly to the right.

"I didn't fall back. Someone pushed me." John squared his jaw as he heard this. "It was Jim…" Sherlock grimaced. "Jim…Moriarty" he added hesitantly. John's eyes widened. Surprise and anger swirled inside it. Sherlock's legs started to ache. It was a typical withdrawal symptom. He knew the pain will increase by the coming hours.

"The warehouse…?" John asked in a whisper. Sherlock smiled.

"Sharp." John's mouth twitched at the unexpected compliment.

"…Thanks" he croaked and returned a crooked smile at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled himself back onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. His head was strangely blank. If he was in his usual state his brain would be swirling with dozens of thoughts and he had to juggle them nonstop but right now, his mind was calm. It was so calm and peaceful, that it half scared Sherlock.

"48 more hours…" Sherlock muttered. "48 more hours to go." John nodded in agreement. The peak of withdrawals disappears 72 hours after the last dosage. Then, Sherlock would be free from his crave for drugs. He was only one third through the trip. The worst was yet to come. Sherlock turned sharply at John. They were set firmly at John's. The doctor stared back uncertainly. "John," he started in a low firm voice. "For the next couple of days I will probably fall into a delirious state in times. I may even try to escape this flat or hurt myself. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, don't ever, ever let me take another dose." John nodded firmly.

"Of course. I'll keep you clean no matter what it takes." Sherlock gazed back at the ceiling with a faraway look.

"No matter what it takes…" He echoed blankly. "Just don't hurt yourself, John…or if it's possible, don't let me hurt you." As he said this, a dark shadow fell upon Sherlock's face.

…

After their conversation, Sherlock just lied still in his bed. John was sitting beside him, reading a book by the lamp light. It was still midday. Sherlock's back was faced against the doctor. He was exhausted but his eyes were wide open. Sherlock couldn't admit this to John but the truth was that he was too frightened to go to sleep. He couldn't let himself slip into his mind palace again. He learned from his last experience that Jim had faded away and was not able to help Sherlock. Jim. He mouthed the words silently. Jim. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. His hands twitched. He wanted to jump out of the bed. Jim…Sherlock furrowed his brow. Stop calling his name in your head. He told himself firmly. Goosebumps ran down his arm. He rubbed his shoulders to get rid of it. He shivered. Jim…Stop it! Sherlock shook his head. He flopped on his back and gritted his teeth. Jim. He remembered the warmth. Jim. The gentle auburn eyes that stared back at him. JIM… Sherlock bolted upright. John jumped in surprise. Sherlock restlessly climbed out of the bed.

"I need to shower." Sherlock growled and burst out of the room.

"Okay." John murmured and grabbed a new pair of clothing for Sherlock and handed it to him before he disappeared into the shower room. John hovered over the closed door to check the noise of running water before he went downstairs to prepare for a quick lunch.

Sherlock was shivering violently as he stepped into the shower. The hot water pounded on Sherlock's temple and ran down his shoulders and back. He expected his body to be enveloped by steamy warmth but he still felt cold. He pressed his hands against the wall and leaned forward. He bowed his head so that the water would directly hit the back of Sherlock's long neck. He was cold…freezing cold.

John almost dropped his kitchen knife when he heard a large thud from upstairs. Before he knew it, he hastily placed the knife down and dashed toward the shower room.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" He called out over the door. The shower was still running.

"…Fine, I'm fine." Sherlock growled back. John let out a sigh of relief. He feared the Sherlock had collapsed in the shower.

"Do you need any help?"

"No." The voice replied bluntly.

"Okay." John nodded and went back to the kitchen. Sherlock stared down at his right hand. He furrowed his brow. He opened and closed his hand. The knuckle was deeply cut and blood ran freely down into the drain along with hot water. He had just punched the wall in undefinable agitation. His brain was screaming for the drug. And if he didn't obey soon, Sherlock's brain was going to tear his own body apart. Jim…

*Thanks for reading so far ;)

and a thousand thanks for the wonderful reviews!

The worst is yet to come for Sherlock and John, and hope I'll be able to write some things about Sherlock's childhood memories as well.

48 more hours to go!