A/N: Sorry this took so long! Taking a break for a bit after this, but if everyone is very lucky, it will start going up sometime in December. You can follow me at my tumblr (iolre dot tumblr dot com) for updates/status checks/etc.

Sherlock followed him, eyes taking in everything, starting with the exterior of the home. John led the way to the front door, having to take two or three attempts at putting the key into the lock before he successfully unlocked it. "So here it is," he said self-consciously, pulling his wallet and keys out of his pockets and placing them on the table. Sherlock acknowledged him with a muted noise and disappeared through the nearest door. "Oi, that's my bedroom!" John trailed after him, standing in the doorway and watching nervously as Sherlock pulled out various drawers, cursorily examining the contents and moving onto the next set.

It wasn't long before he seemed bored of John's bedroom and wandered into the adjacent bathroom. John sighed, rubbing his face with a hand. He had a feeling this was a fight he couldn't win, and not one that he wanted to even bother attempting. Walking out to the living room, he turned on the coffee machine. Although he had a day or two off (and a third, if he could switch a shift), it was going to suck shifting back to the night schedule he had to maintain for work.

He drank two cups of coffee and was in the process of putting together a pair of sandwiches when Sherlock finally settled on a stool, watching him intently. "Do you like mayo on your sandwich?" John asked absently, finishing assembling his sandwich.

"Not hungry," Sherlock replied dismissively.

"Do you like mayo on your sandwich?" John repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

Sherlock scowled. "No."

"Mustard?"

"No." It sounded less irritated than before, a weak version of the prior protest.

"Mustard it is."

"I said no."

"And I'm ignoring you." John quickly assembled a second, smaller sandwich for the particular man, and then paused. "Do you like crusts on your sandwiches?"

"I'm not a child, John," Sherlock snapped peevishly.

John smiled amiably. "No, you're not. But if I can increase the likelihood of you eating it, I'll do whatever you want."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a few moments, not meeting John's eyes. His fingers drummed on the marble counter, and John waited patiently, giving Sherlock the time to decide whether he wanted to answer. "No crusts," he said finally.

"No crusts," John agreed, carefully cutting the crusts off of the bread before slicing the sandwich in half. He pushed the plate towards Sherlock before grabbing his own, settling on the stool next to the taller man. "Want something to drink?"

"No."

"I'll allow that," John said around a bite of his sandwich. "I'll show you where the cups and stuff are, so you can get them on your own next time. You've got to stay hydrated, Sherlock. Especially fresh out of the hospital."

"I already know where they are." Sherlock took a few bites of his sandwich, grimacing at the taste. John sighed.

"You only have to eat half of it," the doctor told him.

Obediently Sherlock ate the rest of the half in a few large bites, pushing the plate away. His fingers drummed on the table, restless, and John hid the grimace that threatened to show on his face. This was going to be the real problem, keeping Sherlock entertained and not bored. His mind worked so much quicker than a normal person's, and John had a suspicion that it was the reason behind Sherlock's initial turn to drugs. Coping mechanisms could be very dangerous, if one picked the wrong ones. Drugs were one of the worst.

"I'm guessing you've seen your room?" John asked conversationally. Sherlock nodded, watching John warily, as if he would turn into a demon the moment Sherlock closed his eyes. "There's a bathroom attached to it, and that's yours as well. Make a list of toiletries you need, food, whatever, and I'll get it for you. There are some basics in there right now. You're free to use anything in here that you need access to. I'd prefer you not break my laptop."

"Mm, no guarantees," Sherlock said absentmindedly. John sighed. Sherlock coughed, seemingly uncomfortable, and the movement and the noise drew John's attention. "I will be able to acquire a laptop that is superior to yours, so do not worry about the degradation of your inferior piece of technology."

John took a few moments to parse that sentence. "Mycroft?"

"Unfortunately."

"Could be worse," John pointed out prosaically, ignoring a snort from Sherlock. The corner of Sherlock's lips curved up in a smile, and John returned in kind before allowing silence to fall. It became awkward after a few moments. John didn't know what to say, and Sherlock was likely not yet completely comfortable in John's presence. Although really, John doubted that Sherlock would do anything he didn't want to do. Sherlock retreated to John's plush couch, sinking down onto it and closing his eyes. "Oi!" John protested. "You could at least take your shoes off."

"Boring," Sherlock replied.

John grumbled, shaking his head, before retreating to his bedroom. He left the door cracked open but settled his laptop on his desk closest to the door, in case he needed to leave his room quickly. Sherlock liked to cause trouble, and John wanted to be able to respond swiftly.

The next few days passed slowly, but the silence that lingered became more comfortable, less frayed around the edges. Sherlock was quiet and relatively polite, tentative. It was a large difference from the sarcastic man that John had met in the hospital. Sherlock spent most of his time reviewing John's numerous medical texts, devouring all the information yet remaining polite and courteous when their paths crossed. It was as if Sherlock was trying to feel John out, trying to determine his limits so he knew where he could push and where he could not gain any extra ground. John was actually rather pleased with that, for it meant that Sherlock was actually respecting John as a human being, and not just a convenient house-mother.. Sherlock could allow himself to get attached, to grow close. Hopefully.

John showered and dressed in his street clothes. He had scrubs at work, provided by the hospital. It was the first night he had to work since Sherlock had came home, and John had to admit he was rather nervous about leaving the other man alone. John had not even had to leave to fetch groceries - it seemed that the moment he needed something, Mycroft or a leggy brunette was at his beck and call, fetching whatever he desired so that he didn't have to leave the house. He wasn't completely certain whether he should be intimidated or impressed, so settled with a mixture of both.

"Text me if you need anything, okay?" John said, his voice strict.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, mother," he drawled. "Shall I sit here and not move a muscle until you return?"

"Yes," John muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair, his nerves showing in the jerking, erratic way he moved. "Alright. Well. I'm off, then." He stood in the doorway, waiting for an acknowledgement. All he got was a raised eyebrow and a pointed look. Sighing, he left, closing the door and locking it behind him. Although he had left a key with Sherlock, he hoped the other man wouldn't use it, or have a reason to need to do so.

It was a short drive to work and a quick change into his scrubs before he was on the floor, cell phone tucked securely in his pocket so that he could hear it go off while he worked. He took report from the previous shift doctor, setting up his mind sheet, and then he was off.

It was twelve hours later before he had a chance to check his phone. Back to back codes, cardiac arrests, arrhythmia, intubations, severe trauma patients. Anything and everything had tried to die in front of John and he had ran the entire time, had told four families that their loved ones were not coming back, including the parents of a seven year old child hit by a car. He was tired and emotionally exhausted, and all he wanted to do was go home and collapse into his bed.

Oh god.

Sherlock.

Pulling out his phone, John noticed with a growing sense of horror that he had twenty three text messages and two voicemails. He groaned. The fucking codes, the deaths, the trauma. He vaguely recalled feeling his phone buzz against his leg, but he had been hands-deep in a teenager's chest, trying to pinch off the aorta, or trying to intubate the 7-year-old that didn't survive, or coding the three victims of a car accident that had all ended up in his trauma rooms that night. It wasn't unusual that the ER got slammed, but it was unusual exactly how slammed they had been. He had not even had time to think about his phone, much less check it and read a message.

Twenty of the texts were from Sherlock, three from an unknown number John guessed was Mycroft's. Ignoring the texts for a moment, having noted that the timestamp was later for the voicemails, John dialed the number that allowed him to access them, listening intently to Mycroft's worried, frantic voice, pleading with John underneath the steely tone to go home and check on the stubborn man. God. He flipped through the texts, noted the increasingly desperate tone to Sherlock's words, and sighed heavily, feeling as if an anvil had been placed on his chest.

One thing! He had been entrusted with one bloody thing, one bloody person, and he had failed him already. He was afraid of what he would find when he got home. If Sherlock was even there. John changed rapidly, throwing his street clothes on and jogging out to his car. The drive home was silent and tense. John could predict roughly what had happened, but he did not know Sherlock well enough to be able to predict the specifics. Did Sherlock take drugs? If so, where? How much? Was there another overdose? There were too many variables for him to consider without having more data.

Getting out of his car, John approached the front door quietly, slipping the key in and noting that it was still locked. Had Sherlock simply used his key, or had he stayed home? Pushing open the door, he walked in, closing and locking it behind him. He turned, and froze. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, syringe capped and laying next to him. His breathing was steady, visible, and John already felt a pulse of relief in his chest. He walked over and gently peeled back an eyelid, noting Sherlock's pinprick pupil. Examining the capped syringe, John noted the probable dosage level and recorded it mentally for later comparison. Then he threw the syringe away.

Mutely John grabbed a book off of his bookshelves and walked over to the couch. His hands were careful as he lifted Sherlock's head, settling down on the sofa before laying it down on his lap. That way, sitting as he was, he could feel Sherlock's pulse and see his physiological reactions before they could depress enough to cause him any real damage. It wasn't very likely that there would be a significant decrease in his pulse or breathing, but John felt safer being prepared, felt safer knowing that he could see what was happening to his - whatever Sherlock was - before it happened.

Sherlock shifted in John's lap,and John paused, looking down, gaze momentarily drawn from the book in his lap. He carefully moved a curl out of Sherlock's face, fingers tender, before turning back to the novel he held. It was going to be a long journey, a long process, full of ups and downs that characterized Sherlock's very personality. But John had faith, both in Sherlock and in himself. They would make it through, and Sherlock would emerge stronger on the other side.

It just took time.