Not only does this one seem to have taken ages, it's also pretty short, but sticking it on the front of the next chapter would just be silly :) So here it is.
Enjoy; and review...if you don't mind :) x
The word leaves a silence between the two men, only broken by the sound of two sets of footsteps ascending the stairs.
"You should get that," Sherlock says quietly, not moving his pale eyes from where they rested on John's own. The doctor feels guilty under the other man's gaze: there's disappointment laced into the icy grey, and that's unfair – he shouldn't be made to feel guilty for trying to sort Sherlock out.
John makes no response. He doesn't want to break his own gaze, because trivial as it is, it would be admitting that he's wrong in Sherlock's mind – and he isn't.
A soft tap on the door interrupts John's inner justifications, and out of the very corner of his eye he sees Mrs Hudson poking her head round the door, and the shape of DI Lestrade hovering behind her. He shifts from foot to foot as the lady beside him addresses the room.
"Sherlock?" she says, peering around. "There's a gentleman here to see you – oh, sorry."
She backs out of the flat, clearly noticing the staring contest taking place in the kitchen.
Lestrade does no such thing. He thanks her quietly, and proceeds into the lounge, where he takes a seat. Neither the detective nor John acknowledges his presence, although Sherlock's expression sours.
"I'm guessing I don't need to explain the choice to you," John states, digging his hands into his pockets. Sherlock arches one eyebrow, and snorts derisively.
"I don't have any choice," he states calmly. "Other than the choice of when I decide to throw Lestrade out."
"Not an option."
Sherlock shifts his weight onto his right foot, cocking his head sideways into a patronising, slightly unnerving position, still refusing to lift his gaze from John's face.
"Since when did you become responsible for my 'options', John?"
"Since you started being a bloody idiot," John counters evenly. He even manages a smile. "And while I can't force you to do anything, I think the Detective Inspector here has significantly more power."
Both the detective's brows shoot upwards into his hair. John can hear Lestrade shifting in his seat behind them.
"So you came here to threaten me, is that it?"
John considers the accusation.
"If you like."
Sherlock's stare becomes a glare, he folds his thin arms across his chest, and with narrowed eyes, he shifts his gaze from John to Lestrade, and back again. The expression in his face is rather hard to read, and apparently sensing an end to the confrontation in the kitchen, Lestrade joins John in the doorway.
"I sincerely hope you're not playing along with him," Sherlock says, addressing the DI this time, and jerking his head towards John. The doctor's grateful for the sympathetic hand that clasps his shoulder briefly, as Lestrade steps forward to confront the younger man.
"You of all people shouldn't need reminding, Sherlock, that a person suspected of possession of illegal drugs can be arrested, taken into custody, and held for up to 24 hours, longer if sanctioned by a superintendent. After that time, said person can be charged with up to seven years imprisonment, although will also be offered help should possession be linked to a habit." Lestrade pauses in his recital to really look at the detective, and sighs.
John watches his flatmate. Sherlock's expression is bored.
"I didn't need reminding, Inspector," he drawls, "but thankyou anyway for wasting my time by regurgitating such a useless piece of information."
"I don't particularly want to arrest you," Lestrade continues, his voice becoming harder, and more pointed. "But if that is what is needed to help you, I shall not hesitate to do so."
Sherlock stares blankly at him.
"You won't," he states. "You need me too much."
Lestrade is incredibly swift in his reaction: well-practised fingers jamming Sherlock's hands together behind his back, followed by the reassuring click of metal as he secures the handcuffs. The detective's expression is almost surprised, and John wonders if he'd have been able to avoid capture with his usual reflexes. His eyes search for John face, and the hurt and injustice in his expression is certain this time, if still uncalled for.
The doctor says nothing, just draws a hand across his face, and follows Sherlock and Lestrade down the stairs. He's glad Mrs Hudson isn't about; he's not really in the mood to explain.
The atmosphere in the police car is very unpleasant. Sherlock sits in the back, shrinking up against the window, scowling and muttering; hands still secured behind his back. The rebellious, defensive expression across his face is a far cry from his usual self-assured brilliance.
Stopping at a set of traffic lights, it's instantly noticeable how beautiful the evening is. Above the newly flickering streetlights and the London architecture, the sky is a delicate blue, a strip of deep red rippling above the horizon, bleeding copper onto the blue with increasing vindictiveness. As the three men near Scotland Yard, the buildings begin to lose their colour, becoming dark silhouettes against the rust coloured sunset. The beauty seems to be proof of the universe's ironic humour.
The sky reflects in the silver paintwork of the car, turning it pale orange as Sherlock is hoisted out by Lestrade. John watches in silence, shuts the doors of the vehicle, and follows; keeping his pace slow enough so that he lingers behind. He knows there's still justification to his decision, but he dislikes seeing the submissive Sherlock by Lestrade's side.
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John watches his flatmate through the bars of his new door. He sits quite still on the plastic seat at the back of the cell. The door is unlocked, but he doesn't make any attempt to escape as John might have expected. Lestrade's gone to find the paperwork sorting out all the formalities, and on impulse John lets himself into the cell, and joins his friend on the seat.
"Why?" Sherlock asks, not looking at him. John can feel him shivering a bit.
"I told you I'm not watching you destroy yourself," he replies. When Sherlock doesn't respond, he continues. "I reckon seven years in prison would kill you, with your mind. Lestrade will bail you out of here if you let us help you, which I think you'd prefer to seven years with nothing to do. No one's trying to make you go cold turkey, but equally, I can't watch you as an addict."
"Blackmail doesn't suit you," Sherlock tells him, although his eyes stay fixed to the opposite wall.
"Dependence doesn't suit you," John counters, grinning. He glances sideways in time to see the detective's lips tugging irresistibly upwards.
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Night has clearly fallen. Not only are the hands on the dial of Sherlock's watch inching slowly towards midnight, but the cell is very quiet, and the only light in it is coming from a flickering florescent tube in the corridor outside. The light is surrounded by tarnished mesh, adding to the feeling of imprisonment.
The frequency of the light is doing nothing for Sherlock's head either, which is really starting to throb now, and has been joined by the slight feeling of fever. Sherlock shivers, and wishes he'd had his coat with him.
However, it's with a sudden smile that he inserts a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, where his phone usually resides. From it, he pulls one small packet of his precious brown powder, and is incredibly grateful that his arrester was Lestrade: given the circumstances, he hadn't thought to search him.
The light isn't good, but Sherlock can tell from the silence that no one's in the vicinity, and he scrabbles in his pockets for some paper, procuring a crumpled piece from the pocket of his trousers. Injection was by far the most effective form of administration, but in the absence of the proper tools…
He lays the packet on the bed momentarily, concentrating first on creating a sharp fold in the paper. That done, he tips a measure of the substance into the fold, making sure not to pour so much as to spill it – he had a possible twenty four hours in this cell. He'd wager Lestrade would cave after sixteen.
He lowers himself onto the bed as he brings the paper level with his face, holding it over the stained bed sheet to avoid waste. Both nostrils twitch in anticipation.
Sherlock blinks, listening one last time for lingering police officers, and hearing none, inhales the powder sharply. He finds himself coughing as it hits the back of his throat, and leans forward eagerly to inspect the paper by the light from outside. Nothing remains, and he presses his lips together in disappointment, and pockets the little scrap of white again.
Then, he seats himself on the very edge of the bed, and waits for the drug to take effect. Inhalation was never as effective as injection, but it would suffice for the present.
Minutes pass in silence, and gradually the detective begins to feel the effects: more a creeping exhilaration than a rush, but good enough to disregard for that moment the children he couldn't save, John's disappointment, and most importantly: the desperate craving that burned in his veins constantly.
He realises he's holding his breath, and lets it out, the sound the only penetrating noise in the entire building.
Listening to the air rushing from his mouth, Sherlock registers something.
Silence.
The place was silent. Not what people usually counted as silence, but real quiet. There was no pacing from police officers on the night shift, no detainees shifting in their own cells, snoring perhaps, heavy breathing, security nodding off. There was nothing. Just engulfing silence that only he broke, as he focussed on the process of breathing, and the rise and fall of his chest.
Breathing was boring, yes, but this cell was dull to the point of being unbearable.
Sherlock strains his ears, getting up to peer between the bars and out into the corridor. There was nothing, just the muted, stuttering light from the tubes secured to the ceiling.
He frowns, runs a hand through his hair; bringing both hands to rest on his hips, thinking. Was it too ridiculous to describe the situation he was in as possessing a 'deathly' silence? He certainly detected no signs of life, and years of collecting information from conversation had left him with fine-tuned hearing, or at least increased sensitivity to the sound waves his ears received.
Sherlock's about to retreat back to sit on the bed, when a definite sound catches his attention. His head snaps round so fast it sends a shooting pain through his neck. He disregards the information as useless immediately, focussing entirely on the sound. The sound of footsteps. The tread was self-assured and confident, the shoes clearly expensive and well-made, probably size ten or eleven, so almost certainly a man.
The one live man in the whole building, excepting himself…