"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"You know there's nothing wrong with being tempted, don't you?"

Sherlock, who had been lying quietly in John's arms in their bed, shifted uncomfortably.

"It's perfectly normal to crave something you were once addicted to."

Sherlock pondered John's words. He had been clean for years now, an achievement he was immensely proud of, but he always felt ashamed whenever he even considered going back to the drugs. He felt like his mind was betraying him, trying to tempt him with memories of what it felt like to be high.

Truth be told, whenever the drugs crossed his mind, he always felt afraid that he would relapse. Before John had come along he had no one. Every time temptation reared its ugly head Sherlock thought of John, and how disappointed and worried he would be if Sherlock relapsed again. He knew it wasn't healthy to hang his sobriety on John's feelings, but until he could forgive himself for these thoughts, he wouldn't be able to maintain his sobriety for anyone else.

"I'm afraid, John," Sherlock murmured quietly.

"Afraid of what?"

"That if I start again, I won't be able to stop. It's been so long since I did those things, but I can still remember how it made me feel. And as happy as I am now with you, my mind still replays all these memories and I remember how good it felt and I'm scared."

John wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock, locking him in place to convince himself that Sherlock was still there. "I wish you'd told me."

"What's to tell? No matter how long someone's been clean the temptation is always there; the urge, the need to feel that way again. It doesn't go away. You become stronger and you fight it, but it never truly goes away."

"You're stronger than you know, Sherlock. Look how long you've been clean. Look at all the things that happen around us, all these triggers, all these stressors and you've kept your sobriety. And I'm so proud of you for that."

Sherlock thought back to all the times he'd relapsed in the past; all the times Mycroft and Lestrade had pulled him back from the edge, all the times he'd nearly died. He wouldn't let John go through that. Not ever. "It's hard," Sherlock admitted, "but I want to be in control of my own mind. I don't want to be dependent on anything just to get through the day. I want to chase criminals and solve crimes and spend the rest of my life with you."

John smiled down at his partner. "That's a pretty big commitment."

"Well, you don't have anything better to do, do you?"

"Let me think about that for a second." John leaned down and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. He closed his eyes, revelling in the sensation, the warmth, the love. "Nope, definitely nothing better to do."

"Good." Sherlock sat up, chest to chest with John and brought his hands up to John's face. He started stroking his cheek with the back of his fingers before kissing him, and soon felt John's hands holding on to him tightly. Their kiss deepened, and their hands started wandering; John's were now grabbing Sherlock's shirt, bringing the two even closer together. Sherlock suddenly disengaged himself from John so that he could move. Before John could protest he had the detective on his lap, legs on either side of him, and they were kissing again.

"I love you, Sherlock," John declared between kisses. "I love you so much."

Their kisses lingered, no longer frenzied or rushing, simply enjoying the feel of one another. Sherlock laid his head down on John's shoulder, his hands wrapped around the doctor's waist. John started stroking Sherlock's hair again and placing soft kisses every so often.

As relaxed as they seemed, Sherlock knew that there was something still bothering John. He was too tense and too stiff. Sherlock looked up to see a frown on his face.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head before replying. "Nothing- wasn't thinking of anything."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly at him. "You're the one who wanted to talk… so talk."

"I…" John sighed in resignation, "I was just wondering how you first got involved in all this. I mean, you're brilliant, Sherlock. You're absolutely brilliant, so why did you start doing this to yourself?"

That was the question that Sherlock had been dreading. Everyone who knew always asked, sometimes just out of curiosity, sometimes out of cruelty, but most of the times out of concern. They wanted to know why someone would do this to themselves, why they would put their bodies through this just because of their minds. It was a question that Sherlock was asked so often that he'd perfected an answer over the years.

But he didn't want to give John that perfected half-truth. He wanted to be honest with him, as painful as it was. Because John deserved to know the truth. He cleared his throat before going down this ugly road in his mind. "As you can imagine, school was rather difficult for me, especially high school. People alienate and insult me now, but can you imagine what teenagers were like?"

"No, and I wish you'd never known," John replied sadly.

"They were cruel, John. Cruel and angry and violent and I didn't know how to defend myself, from their insults or their fists. I was too strange and abnormal and not enough like the other kids. My parents tried their best to support me but there was nothing they could do. Those kids were never going to stop. Bullying me made them feel better about themselves; they felt strong and powerful and most of all normal compared to me. There was nothing anyone could do, least of all me."

"Did they know?"

"I think they suspected it, but I never told anyone. I knew it would be pointless and I didn't want to upset Mummy. Looking back now I realise that shutting myself off in my room and not wanting to talk to anyone probably worried and upset her just as much as the truth would have. But I couldn't think rationally at the time."

His head was always so full; knowledge, experiments, languages, insults, people, places, memories and thoughts all trapped in a single place. Everything was difficult to sort through and the insults ended up being at the forefront of his mind, which was when he decided to develop his mind palace. It helped, in a way, to control some of the thoughts he wanted to keep away and he started learning how to organise everything and delete what wasn't important. But there were memories you could never get rid of.

"How old were you?"

"I was 16 when I first started. I was just about to finish high school and was trying to decide what course to pursue at college. I'd had a particularly bad day at school, so I left halfway through the day and went for a walk. I wound up in a back street when a man offered me something. Desperate as I was at the time I took it, and as you can imagine I went back for more. After that every little bad thing that happened seemed bad enough that I needed the drugs to get through it."

John had gone quiet and still, locking onto Sherlock's every word. It was hard to listen to everything Sherlock had been through. He just wanted to hold him close and tell him how much he loved him and that everything was going to be okay. But he didn't want to interrupt Sherlock.

"Mycroft wasn't there at the time and I hid it well enough from my parents that they didn't notice, so there was no one to stop me. Until one day Mycroft found me high in my room. I was surprised when he didn't tell our parents. It was only later that I realised that maybe he knew what it was like, to have a mind that never stops, thoughts that you can't always control. He took me to his house and tried to help me, but he realised soon enough that it wouldn't be enough, so he took me to a clinic."

And that had been the worst part. His brother couldn't help him, at a time when he couldn't and didn't want to help himself. Mycroft had despaired, worried that his brother would end up killing himself- and he had come close enough, even under Mycroft's supervision. That's when he'd decided that enough was enough. He finally admitted to Sherlock and to himself that he just wasn't strong enough to help him through it. But he knew that Sherlock desperately needed help.

"Did the clinic help you?" John asked.

"I suppose, in a way. It cleaned me up, but it didn't take the cravings away. A few years later, university wasn't any easier. But it did feel liberating to be away from home."

"I'm just glad you made it out alive. And I'm glad we met and that you're here with me."

John wrapped Sherlock in a tight embrace, and Sherlock felt himself returning the pressure and burying his head in John's chest. He'd remained fairly collected throughout the whole recall, but these were difficult memories to talk about.

He kept replaying things in his mind, remembering disappointed faces and headshakes, tears spilled from red rimmed eyes, but he couldn't remember if they were his own or someone else's. Everything was suddenly crashing down around him and he couldn't control his mind or his body and so he clutched to the one thing that made sense right now. John. John always made sense and he was always there when Sherlock needed him.

John felt Sherlock's breath accelerate against his chest. Worried, he pulled the detective away slightly only to have him hold on to him tighter than before, unwilling to let go. "I'm right here, Sherlock. You're okay."

A few seconds later John heard sniffles coming from the detective and he simply held him. "Everything's going to be okay."

He started laying kisses on the detective's temple and whispering to him. "Just let it all out. I'm right here. I'm right here, Sherlock."

And so they sat there, clutching at one another, unwilling and unable to let go.

After Sherlock had calmed down they moved to the quiet of their room, John falling asleep not long after getting in bed. But Sherlock was still awake, turning memories over in his head.

He hated giving in to emotions, especially when fuelled by the past; there was no point in dwelling after all. Whatever happened, happened, and it shouldn't affect him so much now. But the fact that he'd never opened up about his past had worked against him and everything had built up to the point where he had to stop.

Recalling these memories now, when he could think clearly, he realised how much he had hurt those around him. His parents had both suffered, once they found out about his drug use. And Lestrade had also been dragged into the whole mess not long after first meeting Sherlock. But Mycroft had gone through the most at Sherlock's hand. He'd seen the very worst of Sherlock in those years, and that had driven a wedge between them because of the responsibility he had placed on his brother's shoulders. It was a habit that stuck around for years and years- a habit that was still around- and only served to remind Sherlock of why Mycroft had acquired it in the first place.

In the midst of all the memories Sherlock started feeling a dull ache in his head. The nicotine withdrawal was slowly but surely rearing its ugly head and there was no stopping it.

Sherlock brought his fingers up to his temples, rubbing slightly and hoping that it might serve to lessen the pain. When that didn't work he turned on his side and fluffed up his pillow, hoping to get into a more comfortable position that would allow him some peace.

The movement woke John up, who slowly opened his eyes and blinked down at Sherlock. When he saw the tightness between his eyebrows and the way he shut his eyes tightly and was curling his fists around the pillow he started worrying. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"My head hurts," Sherlock whispered.

John started rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's back. "I have to get up to get something but I'll be right back."

Exhausted and in pain, Sherlock stayed right where he was until John came back and placed something on his forehead. He instantly felt the cold lessen the raging pain inside his head.

"Oh," he breathed, "that feels really nice."

John sat on the bed by Sherlock's hip, running his hands up and down Sherlock's face lightly. "Keep it there, it should help a little."

Minutes passed in silence while Sherlock held the ice pack to his forehead and tried to concentrate on the wonderful effect it was having on the pain. He'd almost drifted off when he heard John's voice break the comfortable silence they had been in.

"I wish I could have been there for you," John said sadly.

"I don't," Sherlock replied.

"What?"

Sherlock turned slightly and opened his eyes to look up at John. He could see the worry and insecurity in them. "We wouldn't be here otherwise."

"You don't know that."

One small change, just one, could be enough to rip apart his life as it was. He and John may never have become what they were now. They may not even have met. The thought was unfathomable. "I wouldn't risk us, not for anything."

John smiled down at him. It wasn't often he heard things like this from Sherlock, but when he did they always brought a swell of happiness with them. He knew Sherlock loved him, of course, but hearing Sherlock sounding so certain of what they had made a comforting warmth wash over him.

He saw Sherlock slip his eyes shut once again, clearly tired and in pain, and grabbed the fallen ice pack. "Is this helping?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed.

John placed the ice pack on the back of Sherlock's neck this time and held it in place, hoping that the detective would be able to get some sleep. "Try and get some rest, it'll make you feel better."

"I'm not tired," Sherlock mumbled, almost half-asleep.

John chuckled. "Sure you're not."

In less than five minutes Sherlock was asleep.