A/N: Heh. Here ya go. Didn't end where I was hoping to end it, but new problems appeared. Next update in two weeks!
The shift had been unbearably long, and John ended up handling six overdosing drug addicts. Every single one had been so far gone that they had coded and he had lost them. By the end of the shift he had refused to take the next one to come in, instead passing it off to the doctor that was taking over his patients. It was rare that an overdose turned fatal, even more rare when there to be that many in a row. It was bad luck, and John knew it, but he couldn't help but see Sherlock in every dead junkie that came through his ER.
Seeing those odd, ice-blue eyes dead and lifeless, the track marks vivid against pale skin. The curls flopping uselessly as CPR continued, a last attempt to revive someone who was almost never coming back. He refused to cry, refused to give into any of the useless emotions that were coursing through him. He had known Sherlock less than a day, despite the vigil he had been standing. Why was he so attached to the bloody man?
John almost did not go to see Sherlock after his shift. He was not certain if he could handle it, handle seeing Sherlock survive while everyone he had seen that night had died. Reality was even more stark, for he knew that it would be more likely than not that Sherlock would end up back with a needle in his arm, no matter what. John had accepted that. His sister was an alcoholic, who struggled to get clean, much less maintain her sobriety. While the drugs were different, the addiction and the longing was the same. The reasons were not, but the reasons only mattered once Sherlock was interested in a solution.
Somehow he found himself in the elevator, riding to the medical/surgical floor. He stopped the nurse to get Sherlock's room number, but did not have time to ask before he saw Mycroft walking in his direction. The grim expression on the taller man's face was not promising, and John felt his heart sink. Had something taken a turn for the worse? Overdoses were tricky; sometimes symptoms were missed. Sherlock had been oxygen deprived for a while as well - had there been a hypoxia issue the ICU doctors had not found?
"Mycroft." John's eyes met his, searching and trying to decipher anything he found. "Is Sherlock okay?"
Mycroft's eyes softened the slightest amount and John realized that the problem was not likely with Sherlock. It could have been, but John doubted it. "He is awake and terrorising the medical team, as usual," he said dryly. "However - there is an issue." John waited patiently for Mycroft to continue. "Sherlock is to be discharged tomorrow, and is convinced that he is to be returning to the same ramshackle establishment he was discovered in."
"And your answer to that is hell no?" John sighed, seeing the problem. "And rehab's out of the question." He saw Mycroft's head incline in agreement. "Least for now, anyway," John amended. He thought for a few moments. He did have an extra room. Mycroft must have seen the change in his expression, seen something, for his eyes glimmered with knowing. "Oh hell no," John said, his hands up and defensive. "I can't bring a patient home. What I'm doing now is unethical. That would be - I don't even know how many boundaries that would cross." This, of course, was spoken in a hushed whisper. It wouldn't be good for the other doctors or patients to overhear, for it really was none of their business what John did in his free time.
Mycroft stood and listened, brolly in his hand, the metal tip resting patiently on the floor as he waited for John to finish. "While I understand your objections, Dr. Watson, I do feel that your environment will offer a beneficial change for him."
John's mouth opened and closed while he thought about the implications of Mycroft's words. "You have already checked my flat out, haven't you?"
"Of course," Mycroft answered, a blithe smile on his face. John sighed. Of course.
"I don't have any choice in this, do I?"
"It would be far more expedient if you merely accepted the inevitable."
John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, grimacing as it spiked up the damp strands. He was still overheated from his shift. At least he had changed out of his scrubs. He would have looked even more out of place on the med/surg floor with them still on. The last thing he needed was someone confusing him for their doctor or nurse. "He's waiting for you." Mycroft's voice invaded John's thoughts and he glanced up at the politician, startled, only to see that Mycroft was already heading towards the elevator, the umbrella swinging casually at his side.
This time he did stop a nurse and get the room number. A private room, which didn't surprise him. Not only did Mycroft have money, but he was probably attempting to head off the international incident that would be the result of someone being forced to share a room with Sherlock. Opening the door, John walked in, careful to shut it behind him. There was a chair next to the rather comfy-looking bed (for a hospital, anyway) and he pulled it out slightly and sank into it.
Sherlock appeared to be asleep. Breathing even and deep, thin arms crossed defiantly over his chest. He was gaunt, like most drug addicts, with dark purple blotches underneath his eyes and scratches on his arms. Probably from when he was high. John's breath hitched at the thought and he fought it down. God, what was it going to be like having this berk in his flat? Especially if John came home from a shift to find Sherlock high on the floor. It was such a bad idea that John was having trouble finding one that even sounded worse.
"You're weak," Sherlock muttered, his eyes opening and fixing on the doctor sitting next to him.
"Weak what?" John asked promptly. He could guess, Sherlock probably could guess, but it never hurt to clarify.
"You're letting Mycroft do what he wants." Sherlock's ice-blue eyes were boring into John's, the intensity making John a little self conscious.
"I don't really have a choice, do I?" John said practically, leaning back into the chair.
"There's always a choice."
"You're afraid that I don't want this, aren't you?" John tilted his head, latching eyes with the addict in the bed. "You're afraid I'm being pressured into something I don't want. That I'll end up resenting you for it. That I'll treat you badly."
Sherlock drew himself up at that, losing his prior defensive posture. "No one can treat me badly," he spat. "I care naught what other people think."
"I think that's a bunch of bullshit," John said quietly. "You care a lot about what other people think. You just hide it behind a great big shell because you've been hurt so much."
Sherlock snorted. "I'm a high functioning sociopath. I don't have feelings."
"Gee, for how smart you are, I'd think you would know that sociopath isn't a diagnosis anymore. And you definitely don't fit the criteria for antisocial personality disorder." John watched, pleased, as Sherlock's mouth opened and closed.
"Of course I know that," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing. John kept his appearance bland, a pleasant smile on his face and his posture nonchalant. He didn't want to give Sherlock any ammunition. People tended to react like that, when their insecurities were put in front of them. They looked for someone else to attack, a way to make someone else feel bad.
Finally Sherlock looked away and mentally John added a mark to his tally. John had won that round. For now, anyway. Sherlock was probably already planning another attack, one John couldn't win. John's gaze flickered to the monitors surrounding the man in the bed. There were fewer; most had been removed when Sherlock was transferred out of the ICU. Still, the two monitors he did have attached to him looked good. BP was normal, heart rate within (mostly) acceptable limits, oxygen level was fine. He was going to be discharged and would be fine.
Until he overdosed again, of course. "I'm going to do this again, you know." The words were small and soft, so quiet that John nearly missed them. Sherlock had pulled his knees up to his chest and wasn't looking at John. Instead his focus was his kneecaps, fingers tracing the shape of his patellas underneath his skin. "I can't help it."
John watched Sherlock for a few moments, startlingly aware of how much it had cost Sherlock to say that. "Admitting that there's a problem is the first step," the doctor said. He wasn't encouraging, wasn't judgmental, merely stating a fact. He knew he had to tread carefully with the taller man. As an ER doctor, John had learned how to read people, and quickly. Sherlock was an enigma at points, but he wasn't nearly as mysterious as he liked to think he was. For once in his lifetime he thought about thanking his sister for what she was bottle-deep in the middle of. Without it, he wouldn't have known what Sherlock was going through.
Sherlock fell quiet again, straightening out his legs with a grimace and settling against the back of the bed. John stifled a yawn, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he settled his legs underneath the hospital bed, closing his eyes. Sherlock was quiet, and John was going to enjoy the peace. If he was lucky he wouldn't fall asleep. Distantly he heard Sherlock shift in the bed, heard him scratch at his elbow, and his mind presented him with the mental image of the third addict he had coded, lifeless in the bed.
His eyes snapped open; his breathing had accelerated, his pulse was rapid, and he was staring at Sherlock as if he was going to vanish any moment. Sherlock watched him for a few moments, searching, before he seemed to find something. Several emotions passed over Sherlock's face in quick succession before he hid whatever he was thinking behind a blank, uncaring mask. "You should go home," he said before John could open his mouth. "Having you around is distracting. Remove yourself from my presence."
The doctor rubbed one of his eyes with a fist. "Is that Sherlockian for 'go home and get some rest?" he asked with a faint chuckle. Sherlock scowled, but it wasn't a real scowl. There was some mirth, some hidden amusement buried deep in the expression. Regardless, John got up and headed towards the door.
"I will be discharged tomorrow. Three in the afternoon," Sherlock said quietly. John stopped, turning around to see Sherlock pulling out a cheap mobile and quickly becoming absorbed in it.
"I'll be here," John said, a slight smile on his face. "I don't work tomorrow night."
"You work primarily nights?" Sherlock's sharp eyes were back on John's face. John nodded, breaking eye contact to search for a piece of paper. He found an abandoned post-it note in his pocket and pulled it out. The nurse had left a pen on the counter near the sink and he grabbed it, scribbling down his phone number.
"Here. If you need anything, call me. Or text." John smiled raggedly, his face worn from a need for sleep. Nights were often damaging for the circadian rhythm, especially when John had stayed up instead of going straight to bed. It was worth it, though. "I'd love it if you gave me some time to sleep instead of calling me right away." He lifted an eyebrow, questioning. Sherlock smirked and John let out a laugh. "See you tomorrow, Sherlock." John waved a hand in a salute as he walked out and closed the door.
He glanced around, pleased to see that Mycroft wasn't lurking. The elevator ride was short and uncrowded, and he had gotten lucky and parked near the entrance. He yawned as he walked into his house. It was a small, one-story place, two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. John had had a roommate a while ago, but it hadn't worked out, so John had been maintaining the place by himself. As a doctor he didn't really need a roommate, but the company had been nice.
Now he was preparing the spare room for a drug addict that he was being forced to bring home. He groaned; when had this become his life? Not that he was completely objecting. Besides the whole drug addiction thing, Sherlock wasn't wholly bad. He was obnoxious, and frustrating, and John occasionally had an urge to punch him, but there was something about him that John was drawn to. He fought back yet another yawn.
Going through his guest bedroom, he changed the sheets and aired it out, clearing as much of the clutter as he could so that Sherlock had places to put any belongings he might have. He doubted there were many (drug addicts rarely had much), but he wanted to present Sherlock with the opportunity to do so. John did leave a few more welcoming knick knacks on the shelves and one on the dresser. His favorite was a waving cat that he had found when he was shopping. It was whimsical and supposed to be lucky. John thought that Sherlock could use all of the luck he could get.
He stumbled to the bedroom, shucking off his clothes as he did so. He crawled underneath the covers in just his underwear, yawning into the pillow as he curled onto his side. His phone was left on the bedside in case someone tried to call him; it was set to the lowest vibrating setting so that whomever would have to be persistent. Regular sleep was important when working night shifts and John wasn't abut to screw it up. He fell asleep almost instantly.
The past few days had worn on him, and he slept nearly ten hours. When he woke up in the late evening, he felt extremely relaxed. Until he looked at his mobile, anyway. The flashing light on his mobile was blinking furiously, as if accusing him of not paying any attention to it. He opened the inbox and noted twelve text messages, all from the same number, each sighed 'SH'.
At least Sherlock hadn't woken him up. John figured he should be happy with small miracles.
'Bored. SH'
'BORED. SH'
'John. SH'
'JOHN. SH'
'The nurse is sleeping with three of the doctors. SH'
'She has two children. One is her husband's. One is the cardiologist's. SH'
And so on and so forth. John was thankful that Sherlock hadn't spent more time conscious around his colleagues, because he had a feeling he would have learned far more than he wanted to. 'How do you know all of this?' John texted back. He added Sherlock's number to his contacts in case he needed to find it later, and then wandered out to the kitchen to make himself breakfast.
John sat down at his computer with some toast and tea, a simple breakfast. He would have to go to sleep early enough to be up about one, time to shower and get ready before he went and fetched Sherlock. The mobile on his desk buzzed and he glanced down at it, the hand not holding the jam-covered toast opening the text message. 'Simple. SH' There was a pause of about twenty seconds and then another buzz. 'You sleep too much. SH' John snorted. 'You don't sleep enough,' he texted back, a hint of a smile on his face.
His phone was silent for a few minutes, long enough for John to start what he intended to Google. The next few hours passed quickly, between texting Sherlock and reading various websites. While John had dealt with quite a few addicts in his time in the ER, he had never had to deal with helping one get through the harder stages of their addiction. Despite their relatively short period of acquaintance, Sherlock had seemed to react more positively to John than anyone else. Not that John was wholly surprised - Sherlock seemed to naturally grate on everyone's nerves.
Lunch passed, and he continued to read. Most of what he read was jogging information he had learned in medical school, but some of it was new information that he hoped would be useful. The smartest part of him knew that Sherlock was going to go straight back to drugs, even if he had a week or so of sobriety first. It was a coping mechanism, and although Sherlock was being removed from the environment, he hadn't magically developed new coping skills. That would be something Sherlock would have to work on, and John would be there to help.
He nearly fell asleep at the computer, suddenly world-weary at the thought of everything he was going to encounter. He crawled back into bed and slept five hours before the sharp vibrations of his phone pulled him out of a deep sleep. His hand scrabbled against the small nightstand his mobile was on, bringing it to his ear. "Hello?" he said groggily. A glance at the clock showed him it was ten AM or so.
"I do request that you make your way to the hospital as quickly as possible." Mycroft's voice sounded pleasant, although John could hear the hint of steel underneath it. It wasn't a request as much of an order.
"Is Sherlock okay?" Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes John sat up, waking up rapidly. It was a skill he had developed working in the ER, especially when it was a slow night (which was a rare occasion anymore).
"I am afraid the psychologist has stopped by and there has been some upset," Mycroft said.
John groaned. "I'll be there as soon as I've showered." He hung up the mobile and swung out of bed, darting into the shower. He had forgotten the mandatory policy for overdose victims - if it was intentional, or close enough to death, a psychologist had to clear the patient before they could be discharged. Sherlock was volatile enough that John dreaded to think what was going to happen.
Dressed, he grabbed his jacket and flew out the door. He was half-afraid of what awaited him at the hospital.