Prompt #2:From A to Z: Use at least two of the following words: abdicate, automaton, allele, Zarathustra, zither

Title: Faith

Universe: Elementary

Rating: PG (one naughty word, drugging)

Summary: Joan's self-doubts come to the surface after a brush with a drug-dealer. Sherlock reassures her.

Joan Watson had had her doubts about this case from the get-go, from the moment the teen with the dirty blond hair collapsed from drug-induced arrhythmia. But there was no stopping Sherlock. There never was. Which was how they ended up in a back alley, grappling with a syringe-wielding drug dealer bent on exterminating the two busybodies ruining his business. And that was precisely when Joan felt the sharp pinch of a needle, even through her trench coat, button-down shirt, and tee shirt.

She said nothing about it to Sherlock or the police. Not even after they gathered up the now-empty syringe as evidence. Not even when Sherlock stared at the syringe and shot her a sharp look. And Sherlock said nothing to her on the way back to Baker Street.

Joan tried hard not to sigh with relief. She felt herself detaching from her body, separating soul from body. Her movements felt strange – stiff, jerky, uncontrolled, like she was changing into an automaton or robot and her gears were jamming. Joan could feel her pulse pounding away in her carotid arteries and wondered if it would be visible if she took off her scarf. She took it off anyway. It was too hot to do otherwise. It was too hot to be wearing so many layers, and after the trench coat was gone, she fumbled at the buttons of the top shirt.

Joan saw Sherlock glancing her way but she turned away without meeting his eyes. She'd barricade herself in her room for the next twelve hours, until whatever she'd been injected with had run its course. Nobody would know and everything would be fine. Just so long as she could keep it secr –

"Show me."

"Huh?" Joan started. She hadn't even heard Sherlock come up behind her.

"Show me your arm." He took hold of the limb in question and pushed the sleeve up. One fingertip touched the small, fresh scab halfway between elbow and shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Joan pulled out of his grasp and rolled down her sleeve. "I was a doctor. I can handle it."

"That isn't what I asked." Sherlock looked hard at her, even after she turned her back to him and slipped off her buttoned shirt. "What are your symptoms, besides elevated body temperature?"

"Leave me alone, Sherlock. I'll be fine." Beads of sweat were gathering on her face. She didn't dare wipe them away, not with him watching.

"Dilated pupils," the irritating man persisted. "Rapid breathing. Quick, sudden movements." Cool fingers wrapped around her wrist, pressing on her pulse point. "Increased heart rate. Perspiration. You know what you were injected with."

Joan squeezed her eyes shut. Yes, she knew. She knew Sherlock knew. And now he knew that she knew that he knew and oh God, she was getting incoherent. She had to get away from him, keep him from the poison coursing through her veins. She'd tried to protect him from himself, from herself, and now it was for nothing. He'd succumb to temptation because of her because once a person was an addict they were an addict for life through and through, right down to their alleles; they only could become recovered addicts and Sherlock would fail to stay sober because she failed as a sober companion, because what kind of sober companion gets herself shot full of cocaine while on the job; and Christ, what were her parents going to say when she showed up on their doorstep, unemployed and a failure yet again; what would his family say to her, the woman who got high when she was supposed to be protecting him –

"Watson. Watson! Joan!"

The sound of her first name shocked her enough to pay attention to him and not her frantic, anguished thoughts. She looked at Sherlock, trying to keep a desperate plea for help off her face. She didn't think she succeeded. The unusual look of compassion he gave her was proof of that.

Quietly he led her to the couch and gently pushed her into it, lifting her feet onto the cushions so that she was nearly lying down. "The dose was not a large one and it was diluted. But your build is slight and you have no experience so you're going to feel the effects rather strongly. I'm afraid there's not much to be done except to ride it out, unless you want to ride it out in the hospital?"

Frantically Joan shook her head no. The first experience with cocaine was rarely fatal unless the person had a heart condition, which she didn't. But even if she did, she couldn't risk the slightest chance of this being reported to the police.

"I thought not." Sherlock smiled at her faintly. "I'll get you some water. Try to relax. Enjoy it if you can."

"Enjoy it!" Joan shot up and her feet hit the floor with a thump. "How am I supposed to enjoy this? I was drugged against my will and I've put you in danger of relapse and I may as well kiss my job good-bye! Nothing about this is enjoyable!" She stopped, only because she couldn't catch her breath and the pounding in her neck was so powerful it was painful. Fear clenched her throat and to her abject humiliation, she felt her eyes burn with tears.

Gently, firmly, Sherlock made her sit and guided her head between her knees. Then he crouched in front of her. "Joan. You're working yourself into a panic attack. Calm down. It isn't as bad as what you're imagining. No, let me explain," he insisted when she started to reply.

"Your job is in no danger. You did not take illicit drugs voluntarily and you never will. Your body will metabolize it completely in a week or so by my estimate, and leave no evidence after that. It would not be to my advantage to tell anyone about this. You are by far the most tolerable sober companion I could have hoped for."

Joan snorted despite her still-pounding heart and her nose still touching her knees. Only Sherlock could mean the phrase "most tolerable" as high praise.

"I know you were drugged against your will. I'm very sorry for that. Not only because of the inherent violation of your body, minor as it was, and not only because it puts you in the middle of a medical ethics predicament, but because of how it has affected you. And that brings me to my final point.

"You worry that being injected with cocaine will tempt me into using again. There is nothing tempting about it, not when I see you so miserable. How could I be tempted by a substance that causes a friend harm?"

Joan considered that, both the sentiment and the words. It was a little easier to breath now and it didn't feel like her heart was trying punch through her ribs anymore. Best of all, the tears had ebbed. She still felt oddly detached from reality and a bit like a hummingbird hopped up on speed but it was bearable. "Thank you," she murmured, sitting up carefully.

"You're welcome." Sherlock stood and took a step back. "I'll get you that water now but I'll have to go out for some Tylenol PM. That is, if you want to get any sleep tonight."

Small alarm bells went off in Joan's head. "I'll go with you. I've got energy to burn."

"I'm not going out to get a hit, Watson," Sherlock said softly. "I'm not going to do anything that will jeopardize either of us. Have some faith."

It was too soon after rehab to trust his self-control. It was too soon after being exposed yet again to dealers. And yet, he called her his friend, and by all accounts it should have been too soon for that too. "OK," she agreed, and judging by the time Sherlock was gone and back again, her faith was not misplaced.