John had slept fitfully, tossing and turning, afraid Sherlock would try to leave and he wouldn't notice. There had been little snippets of nightmare the few times he had slept - Sherlock dead on the pathway at Barts, Sherlock high and alone in a doss house, Sherlock dead of a OD on the airplane. He rolled over, his hand coming up to shield his eyes from the morning sun that was streaming through the window. John's body ached from the steady tension he had been under. Feeling eyes on him, he blinked. Sherlock was awake and staring at him.
The detective cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. There were things he needed to do, but first he had something to say. "When I came back, before I knew about Mary, I was going to ask Mycroft for help." He peered intently into John's eyes "I was going to quit. Really get clean." He swallowed, unsure of himself and terribly afraid. "If you'll help me, I want to try." For several long moments, John just stared at him, his face devoid of expression. Sherlock, unable to take the silence anymore, started to roll away. "That's fine, I'll..."
"Is that supposed to be a bribe? Maybe a threat? 'Help me, John, or I'll keep using and when I finally kill myself, it'll be your fault.' Because that's complete shit." John had sat up and was glaring at the detective. "You've manipulated me from the day we met, haven't you? Guess what? It ends now."
Sherlock was stunned, but realised he shouldn't have been. He had manipulated John. He manipulated everyone. It was a habit, fully ingrained by now. He gave himself a mental shake. It was time to stop. He sat up, placing his feet on the floor, back to John. "You're right." Sherlock bit his lower lip, his brow furrowing. "But I still want to try. You don't have to be involved, I'll call Mycroft. I don't know how I'll do it, with Moriarty hanging over us..." His voice trailed off and he appeared to be looking far away, lost in thought.
John, cursing himself for a thrice damned fool, leaned across the bed and placed a hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder. Maybe Sherlock was still being a manipulative bastard, that's what addicts did, but what if he wasn't? He couldn't risk throwing this chance away. "In that case, I'll help."
Turning his head to look over his shoulder, Sherlock blinked hateful tears from his eyes. He let out a shuddering breath, then everything he had been feeling since before the fall crashed down on him, hard and cruel, without mercy. His body was racked with sobs as he slid from the bed onto the floor. The world could have come to an end at that moment and he wouldn't have noticed.
John scramble across the bed and onto the floor, taking the detective in his arms and started rocking him. He murmured nonsense words and reassurances as he stroked Sherlock's hair. God, this was real. "Ok, Sherlock. We'll do this, one day at a time." There were so many things left unsettled, but he couldn't afford to think of that. He had to think of Sherlock. "Christ, if that's too much, we'll take it minute by minute."
The door cracked open and Mary stuck her head into the room. She took one look at them, John holding the still sobbing detective and gave a little nod. Her heart was stuck in her throat and she felt slightly nauseous. She didn't want to lose John, but could see him slipping away. There was little she could do. Once, she had made the wrong choice - shooting Sherlock. Now, she realised that to kill him was tantamount to killing John. Mary knew she wasn't a good person, not like her husband was, but she did love him. If that ultimately meant letting him go, then so be it. Placing a hand on her distended belly, she slipped quietly from the room.