When Sherlock woke he couldn't tell what time of day it was because John had closed all the curtains, keeping the living room a dark cave. The window had also been shut and he could feel the soft touch of a blanket over his body. The doctor must have been tending him in the night. His head was still woozy and felt thick, but physically he felt better, except for a heaviness in his limbs he was sure was the result of fatigue and the crash from the stimulant.

He tried to sit up and found that moving made the world spin underneath him, but he went through with the motion anyway. John noticed almost immediately and when Sherlock managed to pick his head up, he was surprised to see him smiling.

"Morning. Well, afternoon rather. Are you hungry?"

"John, am I ever hungry?" Sherlock grated. He wanted to rub the sleep out of his eyes but he didn't dare put that much pressure on his skull.

"No, but I thought I'd ask. And you're going to eat regardless. You need it. Don't fight me," John warned when he could see Sherlock about to protest. He set a plate of eggs and toast in front of him along with a glass of water and a cup of tea.

"It's your normal cup, just so you know," John informed him as Sherlock cautiously approached the tea like there might be a snake inside the cup that was going to try and bite him. Sherlock nibbled at the food John had set in front of him until finally he managed to get down the toast and half the eggs and John figured that was enough to start with.

"Why, Sherlock?" John asked after he'd cleared away the dishes and sat back down diagonal from the couch. He withdrew the vial of cocaine from his pocket and set it in front of Sherlock who watched him with incredulous eyes.

"Why what, John?" the detective asked. His voice was much softer than it had been since the two had met and John began to entertain the possibility Sherlock was experiencing guilt for the first time.

"Why did you try to kill yourself on a gram's worth of cocaine?" The question came out sharper than John had meant to, but if Sherlock noticed he didn't let it phase him.

"I didn't try to kill myself," Sherlock argued. "I just…I had to make it stop."

"Make what stop?"

Sherlock heaved a very aggravated sigh as though he were sick of explaining this, like he just wanted John to magically catch on and follow his roller coaster stream of conscious thinking. "I can't even begin to comprehend how I could make you understand what it's like to live inside my head. This isn't narcissistic antics or petty attempts for attention or sympathy, I've never needed such nonsense in my life. My mind, John, is like train that is going much too fast for the tracks to hold out forever and if I don't have something to turn it off, it derails." Sherlock picked his head up and watched the doctor closely.

"So the work…that rights it, then?" John asked tentatively.

"Yes. It's a distraction, it gives my brain something to do. My mind never quits, John. Maybe I'm defective, maybe there's something inherently wrong with me, but I can't shut it off on my own. There always has to be something external." He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair as he fought through fatigue, irritation, and intense shame.

"And the cocaine?"

"It stops it, temporarily. Obviously it never lasts for that long and the consequences can be severe but it's the only sort of chemical I've found that shuts it up. I don't understand it, I've never cared to know the reason. It's just enough that while I'm using my brain slows down and I feel like I'm human." He exhaled slowly and leaned down against his knees, still feeling the world reeling beneath him, but now on the other side of the worse of his tangle with the cocaine he wonders if the unsettled feeling is more to do with John's unrelenting stare.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad? Is this why you've been so…hard to live with lately? Because you've been craving?" The words softened enough to cause Sherlock to look up. Something in his still addled brain told him that it was not disbelief that he saw in John's face, but rather concern. It shocked him like ice water doused over his skin.

"Because it has nothing to do with you," Sherlock growled. "This was my problem long before I met you. And it'll be my problem long after you wise up and realize you can't live like this and clear off." He could feel himself shaking, his fingers biting into his arms as he tried and failed to shove all the emotions he was normally so good at repressing back into the cage he'd built for them years ago; but the bars were worn and thin and the lock was rusty, and every syllable out of John's mouth was chiseling away at the creaking metal. It distressed him enormously but he was finally at a loss for what to do and he didn't have the strength in him to fight to hold the doors shut anymore.

"Not my problem? Sherlock, I saved your life! I barely knew you and I killed a man to stop you from killing yourself…do you really not understand…?" John's voice was practically stuttering with disbelief.

"Understand what, John, speak plainly, because no, I don't understand!" He was practically shouting by the end of his sentence, and though his voice sounded crazed he refused to look at John. He didn't want John to see the unraveling of the oh so carefully constructed façade that he'd spent years perfecting. It was too much to take.

"Sherlock, look at me," John urged, his tone becoming much softer again. Sherlock didn't know why but that gentleness hurt. It hurt as bad as scratching himself to pieces last night. It hurt because it was the key to the lock, gleaming bright as a diamond in full sun, and Sherlock knew that he couldn't stop it.

Be angry with me. Please, just do it. Just say you can't take it anymore. Go away, please. Don't do this, I can't handle it.

You know better, Sherlock. This is why you trust him. This is why he's the only one that matters. Because he's the only one whose stood by you. No matter what you've put him through.

No stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, please, just don't do this. I don't know what to do, it'll just ruin everything. I'm not human, I can't act the way he can, I can't…

"Sherlock. Look at me."

The firmness of John's voice makes him look up. He doesn't want to, but Sherlock has never been a coward, so he stares John in the face, knowing that he owes him that much.

"It doesn't matter what you've done. I'm not going anywhere, alright? Mycroft couldn't bribe me, Sally couldn't scare me, and an insane cab driver couldn't stop me." He paused for a bit, a strange sort of grin slipping onto his face. "For the world's only consulting detective you sure can be thick." He paused for a moment, trying to find the right words to say, hoping to not scare Sherlock off anymore, but still wanting to reach him at the same time. "It doesn't matter have you've done. That first case we worked together proved to me that you're not like anybody else I've ever met before. You could have killed yourself just to prove you're clever, and not to some psycho serial killer, but to yourself. You've always got something to prove. I can live with that, Sherlock. Sometimes I think you can't though. Sometimes I think you drive people away because you're sick of having to prove your clever. Because when you're alone, what do you really do? You don't work, you sulk and brood and then when your brain can't tear itself to pieces anymore you do something destructive. I don't even think it's a distraction anymore, Sherlock. I think why you really do drugs and hurt people carelessly is so the bar of expectations is lower. They can only expect so much from a junkie, right? So it's not as hard to prove you're brilliant. Because the only thing you're really afraid of is people thinking you're a moron. Because you know you've got shit people skills but being so damn clever somehow makes up for that. Makes you useful. Keeps people around, whether they want to be or not, so you can prove to them what you're really just trying to prove to yourself. But if you lose that, you have nothing. I'd bet a decent wager that something happened when you were a kid, and I'd bet an ever higher wager it had something to do with Mycroft. I bet Mycroft humiliated you carelessly, and I'll bet it wasn't just once, but over and over again. And so now you do everything you can to spite him and prove how much cleverer you are than he is. You both are idiots by the way, but what I'm trying to tell you is that you don't have to do that with me." He took a deep breath in and slowly let it out before he continued. "You don't have to play those games with me. You don't have to prove anything to me."

Sherlock could feel his brow furrowing and the inner tightness in his chest loosening. It felt strange, as though gravity had lost its hold on him. He had no idea what to do next, or where to go from here.

"John…I do believe I've rubbed off on you." Sherlock's voice was soft as he continued to meet John's gaze which was open and surprisingly relaxed, given the conversation they were having. A coy smile toyed with the doctor's mouth before he answered.

"Or maybe I know people more than you think I do."

Sherlock shook his head. "You know me more than I thought you did." He exhaled a shaking breath and felt his hands wringing as his gaze was slowly being drawn to the vial of cocaine on the table. "I am what I am John. I don't know if I will ever change, or ever be anything different."

John shrugged loosely. "I know. I'm not an idiot, Sherlock, despite what you keep trying to tell yourself. I know what I've gotten myself into. I do it for a reason. Maybe I'm not exactly healthy either. Maybe we do this thing together because it's how we stay sane. I help you, you help me."

"How do I help you?" Sherlock asked very softly.

John shrugged his shoulders a bit before staring him right in the eye. "You're not the only one who get's bored, Sherlock." He grinned again, just a bit, mostly in his eyes. "You're not as special as you might think." He got up from his chair and took the vial of cocaine off the table and noted the way that Sherlock watched him closely but didn't protest. It was as much of a surrender as the detective would ever give.

"No matter what you've done, Sherlock, you're not alone. Not anymore."

Sherlock watched him go, a veritable beehive of activity swarming in his skull. He didn't know where to begin to process it, all he knew was things had changed.

This can't last. It'll never last. Nothing's ever new. Nothing is ever truly different.

But maybe it is, Sherlock. Maybe that's why he's the only one who ever mattered.

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…

And with that folks, this story is complete. Thank you for everyone who reviewed, followed, and faved. You guys are bloody fantastic. I plan to do more Sherlock fics in the future, I hope I see you there!