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~ Maisy-Shane

It had been just under a month since John Watson had left 221b Baker Street.

Lestrade could hardly believe it, because how, in such a short space of time, could Sherlock deteriorate so vastly? The consulting detective, despite everyone's protests, started work exactly a week after waking up in hospital, and he had not stopped since. He took on anything and everything that he possibly could. He lingered around the station like a shadow, sometimes just sitting silently in the corner with his hands set together in a steeple, staring through the people working around him. At first, the other officers objected to his presence, though it did not take them long to adjust once they learned of his new reserved behaviour. More often than not, they forgot he was there.

A majority of those who knew him welcomed this drastic change in personality with open arms, Anderson and Donovan in particular. Lestrade suspected it was due to their affair no longer being pointed out whenever she would come to work wearing the same clothes the next day or sporting Anderson's aftershave. Sherlock did not even comment on things like that anymore. He commented on barely anything these days. It seemed the only one who actually cared was Lestrade, and he knew that once the novelty wore off, the others, even Anderson, would soon feel the same as him.

It was not just the alteration in manner either; it was in his physical appearance. Sherlock had lost weight; he was lean man anyway and it was not thought that he could get any thinner, yet they were proved wrong. Lestrade estimated that he had lost around six pounds, and a man like Sherlock could do with gaining that rather than losing it. In addition, Sherlock's complexion had died down to an almost translucent semblance, and his hands were continuously shaking, knee bouncing whenever he sat down, which was more than half of the time. He looked ill, though Lestrade suspected no bug or sickness was the culprit.

"You've lost weight you know," Lestrade remarked offhandedly, sliding into the seat opposite the detective in the canteen one midday.

"Have I?" Sherlock replied indifferently.

"Yeah, you have," Lestrade pushed the sandwich he had just purchased towards him. When Sherlock went to oppose the offer, the detective inspector brought forth a second, homemade one from his bag. "Eat. No complaints."

Lestrade tucked into his lunch, eyeing the other as he did so, refusing to divert his attention until Sherlock, with visible reluctance, did the same, tearing off some of the crust and bringing it to his mouth. They ate in quiet for a while, the noise, and clatter of the others around them filling in the silence for them. Dusting his hands of crumbs once he had finished, Lestrade glanced up in relief to find the sandwich he had given Sherlock devoured also.

"There you go," he said encouragingly. "Wasn't that difficult was it?" the other did not react yet he did not expect him to. Instead, he pressed on. "How have you been, Sherlock?"

Sherlock exhaled heavily, leaning back in his seat with his eyes gazing off elsewhere. "I've been just fine," he answered coolly.

"Come off it," Lestrade urged. "I'm here for you, you know that, yeah?"

Sherlock turned to him and, with what seemed to be somewhat of a sneer crossing his face, said; "You're going to ask if I've been using again, aren't you?"

Lestrade did not attempt to deny it, there was no point but he wasn't about to go all shy either. He wanted to know. "Have you—"

"No," Sherlock had cut in too quickly, and it drew suspicion from the detective inspector.

"You are, aren't you?"

"See, this is what I don't understand about you people," Sherlock spat. "You ask me and when I tell you, you don't believe me."

"Yeah, I wonder why," Lestrade retorted, turning red at the tips of his ears. "You lied about your old...habit in the past, remember? It was only because we showed up unexpected and caught you, high as a kite, in your flat. Otherwise, yeah we would have taken your word and you would be in the gutter right now or worse." His voice was rising gradually as he went on. "Now you tell me if you are using drugs again or so help me—"

"If you don't trust me, then why do you bother asking?" Sherlock demanded. "You're as bad as Mycroft. Always contradicting yourself. If you don't take my word for it, then why do you bother?"

"Because I want you to admit it," Lestrade said easily without thinking.

The two men glowered at each other for some time, eyes boring into each other and neither of them refused to back down. After around five minutes, Sherlock scraped back his chair and stood up.

Looking down at Lestrade, he said, "You will be waiting a very long time for me to admit that I'm using again, because I'm not."

"I bloody hope so," Lestrade confirmed.

Sherlock took that as his que to leave, and did so accordingly. Knowing the other was watching him, he tossed the sandwich he had supposedly eaten into the bin and exited the canteen without looking back. Lestrade clapped his hands over his face, groaning loudly, and then he too got up and left.

[SH]

It was as if a second body was sat within his own. Throughout the day, the second was all tense and sitting upright, threatening to break his skin, stretching him to his absolute limits. However, the instant the piston of the syringe was pushed down, it relaxed and lay down, settling into his shape. He could finally breathe evenly without fearing he would burst open, and his eyes rolled back into his skull, the tingling sensation rich and gorgeous in the tips of his fingers and toes. His mouth open, he sucked in the oxygen that had never tasted so fresh and clean to his lungs before, and his mind was organized for him. It was all tucked and stacked away neatly. He did not have to fumble around through all of the insignificant things; the one matter of importance was right there waiting for him patiently as if under a spotlight.

Sherlock could not compare those collective feelings to anything else in his constricted world, and at moments like those, he wondered why he didn't just lay there all day in this beautiful haze.

Soon, the euphoria began to ebb away and he clung desperately onto it only to have it slither through his fingers and disappear to a place unknown and unreachable, without assistance of course. Sherlock's eyelids ascended like a curtain, and the dull performance started all over again, the ugly grimy faces of its audience watching him expectantly. Sherlock could not help but let a slight groan drift from his mouth, clapping a hand over his eyes.

And this was when he felt revolting, as if adopting a second layer of skin made entirely of dirt. He felt sick, bitterly scolding himself for succumbing again. He swore to himself he never would again. That was a lie. Sherlock made that promise every time he used. Only once in his life did he actually go through with it, and that was because he had Lestrade and his brother snapping at his heels, dissecting his entire home every night to ensure there was nothing hidden in the backs of the cupboards, inside of the cushions, under the skull or the loose floorboard in his room.

He heaved himself up into a sitting position, hands still covering his face. His head felt as though it was being flooded, the ecstasy that his brain had hungrily absorbed earlier being leaked out, thick and disgusting, maintaining not one trace of its once delicious potential. Sherlock sat on the sofa like that for a while, when he heard thuds. His head shot up, blinking blearily in the darkness of his flat as he intently listened. They were coming from—

"John?" Sherlock's gravelly voice sprang out as he unsteadily stood, swaying as he made his way through the kitchen, trusting his feet to guide him to the right place.

Sherlock staggered up the stairs and to the second bedroom that had found itself recently neglected and bare. He shoved open the door, flinching at the loud bang it made when it connected harshly with the wall.

"John?" Sherlock shouted to the empty room, staring distressfully at it.

Slumping against the door, Sherlock clenched his jaw and rested his temple against the cool, unsympathetic frame. His heart, stuffed with emotions heavier than a trillion stones, sank in his chest. His eyes swam but he roughly dismissed them with a swipe of his hand, rejecting their very existence as he was and always will be, a man made of stone with no chinks or weaknesses.

Despite his attempts, there was no denying, he was starting to crumble.

[SH]

It was rerun of an old Connie Prince episode, and when her round, bright face came on the screen, John's thumb lingered over the remote control button for a second, his eyes fastened to the screen as she talked animatedly about something he was not tuned in to. Sarah straightened up at his side, a sign that she was taking an interest in it. John cleared his throat awkwardly before changing channel, earning an exclamation of disapproval from her.

"John! How come you flicked over?" she asked, hand extended out at the screen that now showed an old man standing in front of a wind ruffled field. "I loved that show."

John blushed. "Urm, not really my cup of tea."

Sarah pouted and lowered her hand. "Fine, but I'm not watching this tonight. It's worse than watching white paint dry on a white wall."

John eventually settled on a film that was being shown on channel four, and excused himself to go to the bathroom. As he scrubbed his hands under the running tap, his thoughts drifted over to the consulting detective. He sourly wondered how he was doing, if he was doing just fine living by himself. John was convinced Sherlock didn't give a toss that he was no longer living there, and was probably enjoying being alone. That was how Sherlock liked it best. Secluded and focused on nothing but his thoughts and on the cases that he prospered from. That was all he cared about really. The cases and his — his damned cleverness. He did not care about anything or anyone else. Not his brother, or his clients. Not the people dying around him or the people who put up with him. Not those who admired him, and definitely not John.

The remainder of John's night consisted of Four Weddings and a Funeral, pulling Sarah closer as she cried at the scene where the character played by John Hannah read a eulogy at the funeral of his same sex lover, and then shuffling off to the lie low at eleven, his eyes aching. It was a sure warning that tomorrow he would wake to a full-blown migraine. Sarah offered a space at the end of her bed, an offer he politely turned down. He would have felt highly uncomfortable sleeping there, as he had not quite forgiven himself for how he had treated her that night. She, on the other hand, had cast it all into a past that she no longer cared for and acted as if it had never happened.

Come three o'clock that morning, John was still wide-awake. Most nights were the same; save the odd few where he would just pass out the instant his head hit the pillow. Unfortunately, that night was one of those occasions.

Whenever he would try to sleep, he would feel sudden jolting pangs of guilt split him in half and he would start awake. John was not sure what he had to be guilty about. Nothing was what he sharply told himself, yet he was not convinced. He kept thinking he should have tried; he should have refused to leave and made Sherlock change his mind. John liked Sarah, he liked her a whole lot but he missed living at 221b Baker Street. In a way, it had some sort of sentiment to him, in a bizarre way. It was where he had found the desire to live again. Before that, he was just hollow waiting for something to return to him, to come find him. In a sense it did. Sherlock found him. Sherlock unintentionally saved his life.

That notion glued itself to John, and he found his eyes set wide open throughout the night. He did not get up until he heard the toilet flush, meaning Sarah was getting up for work. Once he heard the shower running, he went to the kitchen and made her breakfast without really thinking about it. She ate it gratefully, not once complaining if he burned anything or hadn't made it exactly the way she liked it, unlike a certain someone, and she kissed him on the cheek prior to heading out of the door.

John sat motionless at the table, a pulsing dull pain stirring in his leg. He touched it subconsciously, rubbing it in a soothing manner. It was hurting just as bad as it had been before, and he did not think it was down to where the bullet grazed him a month ago. It was worse than that. He decided to walk it off, starting to do the washing up when the door knocked. Shaking his hands free of excess water, he hobbled over and pried it open to see a warm familiar face standing at the other side.

"You alright there, John?" detective inspector Lestrade greeted, holding out a hand that John took courteously. "Can I come in?"

"Um yeah sure," John replied bewilderedly, stepping aside to allow the other man to stride on through. He was not dense, he was well aware of the purpose behind Lestrade's visit. It wasn't a leisurely one to catch up and exchange small talk; it was to discuss Sherlock and a wave of dread rolled directly over John.

"Cup of coffee?" John offered.

"Yeah that'd be great," Lestrade grinned wryly at him. "Four sugars if you don't mind, Doctor Watson."

They descended into silence as John set about preparing it until finally, the detective inspector spoke. "How've you been?"

John glanced up shortly. "Good thanks, yourself?" he never received an answer on that as Lestrade skipped it and dove straight to the point.

"Look, um—is there any possibility of you moving back to Baker Street?"

The doctor went still momentarily, and then went on as if nothing had been said until he finished making the coffee, handing it over to Lestrade without meeting his gaze.

"Not sure," John answered cautiously. "It all depends really."

"On what?"

"On Sherlock."

Lestrade gave a small nod and pursed his lips, brow furrowed. He took a swig of his coffee prior to speaking again. "He's a mess, John. He really is."

John was perplexed as to why this made him somewhat happy, and bowed his head as if to prevent the other man from seeing it. So Sherlock was not made entirely of stone. He wasn't just carrying on, pretending John never existed. He cared even if it was just a little.

"He needs you, even if he acts like he doesn't," Lestrade added. "Will you at least just talk to him?"

John mulled over this. "I don't know how to go about it to be perfectly honest," he admitted after a pause. "I mean, I can't just walk up to Baker Street and be like 'I'm moving back in now'."

"You don't have to do that really," Lestrade pointed out. "He's usually at the station now just sitting around like a lost kid. You can come back up with me if you like now and talk it over with him. I'm sure he'd love to see you."

John was greatly tempted, and he felt the urge to grab his coat and follow Lestrade out to the car. However, something held him back. He faltered, crossing his arms over his chest as the inspector drank more of his drink.

You were sent away from Afghanistan to leave the war behind! Don't go looking for a new one to one, John. It was wrong of me to make you anymore than a flatmate. You were only there to help me pay the rent, not help me become just as attached and feeble as the rest of you.

"Maybe, I'd best do it another time," John said slowly.

Lestrade, seemingly sensing his wariness, stepped in. "John, please mate. You're the only one that can fix him right now."

"Well maybe I'm sick of that responsibility," John countered hotly. "I'm always the one who has to pick up the pieces, to apologise for how he acts, to stop him from self-destructing. He's not a kid anymore; he needs to learn how to look after himself."

"You know better than anyone he never will learn," Lestrade persisted. "When he was taking care of himself, you know what he was doing? Putting all kinds of crap into his body and literally killing himself!"

"I can only do so much," John said. "I need to look after myself too, you know. I have other people that need me, and I have to put them first at least for a while." Sarah leapt instantly into his mind when he said that, the way she had left him at Angelo's when he said that Sherlock needed him.

Lestrade gave him a disappointed look and set down his mug with a sharp clank. "I'll see myself out then, doctor. Thanks for the coffee."

John feigned indifference, merely picking up the half-empty drink, pouring the remains into the sink, and rinsing it out under the tap. He glowered into space, teeth ground painfully together. He felt agitated more than anything; agitated that everyone expected so much of him. They all expected him to save the day, to magically transform Sherlock into a good, normal person. John wondered what had given them that idea, and considered himself rid of that job now.

[SH]

Lestrade was in a foul mood and it just got progressively worse as the day went on. His shift over, he made to head down to his car when he noticed Sherlock in the corner of his eye, sitting with his head resting against the table, arms used as a cushion, fast asleep. Lestrade contemplated just heading off out, John's words echoing in his head (he's not a kid anymore; he needs to learn how to look after himself) and made to leave but found he simply couldn't. Biting his bottom lip hard and cursing his morality, he approached the sleeping consulting detective apprehensively.

"Oi, Sherlock," he said gruffly, giving the man a gentle shake on the shoulder.

Sherlock bolted upright and, upon seeing whom it was, let out a yawn and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Morning," he responded tiredly.

"A few hours behind there, pal," Lestrade was caught between being amused and being concerned at how the other was acting. "It's nearly half nine at night."

Sherlock blinked vacantly, stretching his slender arms out in front of him. "Oh," was all he uttered.

"Do you want a ride back to your flat?" Lestrade suggested. "You don't look too good."

"I'm fine," Sherlock assured him unconvincingly. "I'm just catching up on some sleep I suppose. Not much is happening in London right now. Rather boring if you ask me."

"You sure? It's not a problem."

"I'm sure, mother," Sherlock smiled wanly up at him, ruffling his own dark curls. "I will be just fine. Look at it like this though; if anything bad happens it will give you something to do rather than go out for an elongated lunch hour. Visiting a secret lover, Lestrade?"

Lestrade's eyebrow twitched, unsure whether to state that John Watson was hardly a secret lover of any sort. He decided not to and just patted Sherlock's arm as lightly as possible as if to avoid breaking him.

"Take care of yourself old boy," he said lastly, and then left.

Sherlock sat there for a few more minutes, watching as the night shift officers and workers came in, filling in the empty chairs and answering calls, half-heartedly conversing with one another. He had been at the station since seven o'clock that morning, and his entire body ached in protest against staying docile for such an elongated amount of time. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock followed Lestrade's suit, leaving and going out into the street.

He should have hailed a taxi; he was too worn out to walk all the way back to Baker Street, but for some reason he didn't stop. He just walked in the direction he needed to go, hands tucked into his coat pockets, wind tearing through his hair and billowing out his clothing. Sherlock despised going back to the flat now. He already knew what he was going to do the instant he got back; he was going to text Raz, get some more drugs, and spend the rest of his night reclined in his armchair or better yet on the sofa, blocking out the reality that threatened to twist and break him.

He couldn't stand it anymore. It was miserable if anything, and not to mention lonely. Not so much the drug taking, but going back to an empty flat. He would never admit it to anyone, but now he could not stand being alone. It felt like there were insects scratching around in his skull, biting and irritating him until he used again. When he was by himself, it was at its worst. When he was at the station, he was distracted and prevented from taking anything in case someone saw or noticed, most likely Lestrade. Sherlock needed John back as well as wanted.

Sherlock went stock still in the midst of a street congested with irritable people, oblivious to the disgruntled mutters of those behind him and numb to the harsh knocks to the shoulder he received as they walked past him. For a second, he wondered if he was hallucinating, if he was experiencing the aftertaste of some drug he had subconsciously taken.

His nails biting into his palm, he stared in disbelief as he saw John Watson a yard or two before him, exiting a restaurant with Sarah at his side. She went up on her tiptoes and crushed her lips against his, and he smiled widely after they pulled apart, pressing his forehead against hers. Sherlock inhaled deeply through his mouth, watching as John left her side, one hand still clasped with hers as he stretched out his other arm, calling on a taxi that was coming down the road. The cab pulled over and John opened the door for Sarah to clamber inside.

Sherlock observed them together, analysing their body language with a critical and tormented eye. Things were good for them so it appeared; she had clearly fallen for the doctor as she focused her body towards him at all times and her eyes never left his face. John looked happier than Sherlock had seen him in a long time. He did not look stressed anymore; he looked well rested, and well fed, satisfied was the word he decided on. He was using the cane again, and his limp looked bad but Sherlock was not really focused on that. He could not distract himself from that smile on John's face. Genuine as it brought out those crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

Unable to watch any longer, Sherlock hung his head and rushed on forward past John. He felt like the point of a knife was slowly immersing into his skin as he passed his old friend, forcing himself not to make a cutting remark and to keep as much distance as possible so not to draw attention to his presence. He stormed onwards, not daring to glance back.

John turned his head slightly ajar as a cool wind caressed the nape of his neck and his heart spluttered, blood swimming chillily in his veins. His view was obscured by the vast amount of people bustling on home or out onto the town for nightly activities, and despite his efforts to look around and over them, the retreating back that had caused such a reaction was gone.

"You alright, John?" Sarah asked, leaning out of the vehicle.

John did not say anything. He just climbed into the taxi and slammed the door shut, croakily giving the driver Sarah's address. She enveloped his hand with hers, giving his fingers a tender squeeze as if to bring him back to her. John returned it, focusing all his attention out of the window. He did not see the consulting detective anywhere, and after about fifteen minutes, turned back to his girlfriend and started a conversation involving how great he had found their meal that evening.

[SH]

It was now a routine; knock, hand, notes, baggie, hand, door closed. It was performed as neatly as always, though just as Sherlock was about to complete it by shutting the door, the man on the other side spoke for the first time, splintering it.

"You want to try somethin' new?"

Sherlock was ever eager to try at least everything once, and drugs were no exception. Intrigued, he gave a brisk nod, inviting the dealer to go on.

"It's called Dion—ysus," he explained, pronouncing the name with some difficulty. "Some real strong shit from overseas." He produced a circular round pill from his pocket; it could easily have passed for ibuprofen, and it looked nothing special. "Clever little disguise, right? But this ain't for curin' headaches, mate."

Sherlock studied it fixedly, knowing its namesake, Dionysus, was after the Greek god of ecstasy. This alone made him curious as to what it was capable of doing to him, and as a plus, it would be easy to conceal from Lestrade, perhaps even so much so he could sneakily take it at the station claiming it was for a headache.

"How much?"

"Eighty quid a pill," the man sounded as if he was smiling. "But I'll give you half off for your first go as you're a friend of Raz's an' all." He held it out and settled it down softly in Sherlock's palm.

Sherlock took out his wallet and gave him the £40 that was required, shutting the door without another word.

One o'clock that morning, he planted the pill on his tongue like a seed, and swallowed, shivering as he felt it shift down his throat, taking a gulp of his tall glass of cider. He bared his teeth at the bitter taste raving at the base of his tongue, and eased himself down into his armchair, eyelids descending.

It took a few seconds for it to give him a good old kick, and as the room spun and swirled around him like colourful smoke, he discarded all of his thoughts of John and of Lestrade, of his brother and Moriarty. In his ears, he heard the faded beats of what sounded like a drum, yet he knew it was his own heart, sprinting madly and unevenly. Without thinking or real reason, a throaty laugh belted from him and rang throughout the flat, bouncing playfully off the walls and waltzing romantically around him. Sherlock laughed until his lungs ran empty, and his voice died with a creak. Mrs Hudson's faint calls scarcely reached him, and the small amount of it that did, was not cared for. He rose to go up to bed but his legs gave way and he collapsed on the floor face first.

[SH]

TBC

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