Sherlock, wrapped in John's dressing gown, sat on the soft. He was snugged up tightly in the corner, his knees tucked under his chin as he thought. John and Mary were in an adjacent room, their whispered conversation drifting to his ears.

"…the flat…"

"…furious…about ten minutes…"

The detective shifted where he sat, flopping down on the sofa. "Would you two stop your insistent chattering?!" He had to think, put aside his self-pity and the spectres of the past. He had to ignore the creeping feeling of need that he steadfastly refused to admit he felt, at least out loud. There was something he was missing, something important.

There was a brief moment of silence, then the whispering resumed. "…Greg…"

The pieces slotted into place. "John! Where's my mobile!" He was up and across the room in just a few short moments and loomed in the doorway. "Now, John!"

The doctor took a step "I don't have it, what's wrong? What have you figured out?"

"I've got it," Mary commented as she went to fetch her handbag. She dug the phone out and passed it to Sherlock.

Fingers flying, Sherlock unlocked the screen and dialed. He wheeled about, walking back into the other room. "Mycroft," he spat the moment his brother answered. "He'll be going after Greg and Mrs. Hudson."

The British Government's voice interjected, "He?"

"He, she, it, doesn't matter. They're in danger. Make yourself useful. Do something!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft spoke softly, "What would you have me do?"

The detective growled.

"That wasn't sarcasm, baby brother. It's a genuine question. Shall I have them taken into protective custody?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, though Mycroft couldn't see it. His thoughts flew. "And Molly." The detective started pacing.

There was a pause, then, "They will be picked up within the next half hour. Anything else, bother dear?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Whoever it is will probably be under the mistaken delusion that I care about you," he spat. "So take precautions."

"Ah, very touching," Mycroft replied, his tone cool. "I assure you, I am quite safe."

"Fine. Good day." With that, the detective rang off the line.

"It won't be enough." The words were whispered in Sherlock's ear with an Irish brogue.

The detective's head jerked up and his body went stiff. "Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He jerked as he felt a hand close around his shoulder and wheeled about. It was John.

"No one said anything, Sherlock." The doctor took a deep breath. "You're having auditory hallucinations, remember?"

Moriarty walked around John and stopped, mere inches from him. "He doesn't know, Sherlock. Aren't you going to tell him I'm here?"

Of course, he wouldn't tell John. Sherlock had been here before, forced into rehab once by Mycroft, and was familiar with the symptoms of withdrawal. Auditory hallucinations weren't that uncommon in those going through it. So what if his were visual as well? If he could make it two weeks, the hallucinations would subside. If he lived that long. He might not, with Moriarty's minion out there, seeking revenge. Some would call that paranoia, but it wasn't paranoia when someone really wanted to kill you.

Sherlock brought his palms up to rub at his eyes. He could feel his heart rate increasing, it was racing. He broke out in a sweat, feeling chilled and hot at the same time. Worst of all, he couldn't breathe. Breathing wasn't boring, it was necessary, and he couldn't breathe. Swaying on his feet, the detective staggered to the nearest chair and collapsed into it.

"God fucking damn!" John was at his side, kneeling down and taking Sherlock's hand in his. "You've got to breathe, Sherlock. It's just a panic attack."

The detective let out a burst of hysterical laugher that devolved into gasping breathes. "Just a panic attack." At least the vice that had been constricting his chest had lessened and he could fill his lungs properly. He tightened his grip on John's hand. "How am I supposed to keep us alive, John, when I can't function? You don't know what it's like and it'll just get worse. I won't be able to sleep," he was rocking back and forth, "and I'll be irritable and depressed. I won't even want to try."

John spoke, using his calmest, most practiced doctor's voice, "You never sleep, you're always irritable and the depression will pass."

"Not soon enough." The detective was shaking his head. "Please," he looked at John with pleading eyes, "Let me find him, whoever is doing this, then I'll get clean."

"No!"

"I'll be careful, John. I just need enough to make it go away."

"I. Said. No." The doctor had raised his other hand to wrap around the back Sherlock's neck.

The detective lurched to his feet, "You can't stop me! You can't keep me here against my will." He bounded for the door, but was surprised when he wasn't tackled to the floor.

"If you do this," John's voice cracked and Mary placed a hand on his arm. This was tough love at its harshest and he hated what he was about to say. "Don't come back. Leave me alone. Leave Mary alone. We don't want to see you."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he paused. He had jumped off a building for John. That had been easy. Could he sacrifice their relationship to keep John alive? He took a hesitant step towards the door, then sagged, going down on his knees as he shook. He should make that sacrifice, but he couldn't. He simply couldn't.