I remembered the first day. You had watched me, silent, with sadness in your face as I turned to gaze at you. My eyes were still clouded with sleep, but by the light in the windows, it must have been at least afternoon. You reached down to smooth my hair from my eyes.

"You took the medicine." You whispered. "Good, John."

The trigger of my pistol clicked. Nothing. I pulled again, shaking. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again.

"He said it would make you drowsy. It's alright, just rest." You rubbed my shoulder and stood up, brushing off your coat and tying your scarf around your neck.

You had reached into my drawer. You had gone in for my gun. You had taken my gun.

"I'll be back soon, John." You leaned down to press your lips against my temple.

"No, no, no, no." My hands clenched over the pistol's neck as my chest built with pressure. "Christ, no. Sherlock. No."

You had taken the bullets from my gun.

I felt my entire soul break into pieces. It shattered like glass, its fragments piercing my heart, filling my lungs. I could hardly feel my body as the dizziness continued to spread, and pain radiated throughout my entire body from my legs to the tips of my fingers. Hysterical sobs seared my throat as they came

"You- You-" I gasped, clutching the gun to my chest, still desperately pulling at the trigger. "You- You fuck."

"John. Listen to me."

You reached out to touch my shoulder, but I pushed myself up, struggling to my feet just to collapse to my knees. Gently you slipped the gun from my hands, setting it behind us as you took me up onto your lap.

"You took them-" I shrieked, clawing and crying. "You took- You-" I descended into gutteral sobs.

"You'll get through this." You whispered. "It's almost over. You'll get through this."

I pulled at your shirt, and you held me against your chest. You rocked me slowly back and forth, petting my hair and waiting.

Mrs. Hudson's clicking footsteps came quickly from the downstairs flat when she heard the commotion. Her words caught in her throat when she saw us, with me curled small and fragile in your arms."Oh, heavens, Sherlock, what's happened?" She cried.

"He's just had another attack. It's alright, Mrs. Hudson." You hid the gun from her sight. "Go into my bedroom, there's a large London study near the center of my bookshelf. Bring me the little black box."

"Box?" She chirped. "Sherlock, if you've been hiding drugs again..."

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Alright, alright! Black box. Okay." She scrambled out of the room.

You kicked the gun under the foot of your chair. I had quieted down a little, but only because I was running out of breath, and you quickly moved to lift me up and bring me onto the sofa. You gripped my hand in yours and held your head close to mine, close enough so that I could hear the waver in your voice. Your hands were cold.

"Can you hear me, John?" You breathed. "Stay with me."

Mrs. Hudson rushed back in with something clutched between her hands, and although she voiced her objection, you ignored it and grabbed it from her as soon as she came within reach. Opening it, you removed a syringe and a small bottle of clear liquid.

"Are you giving him cocaine?!" She shrieked.

"Why the hell would I be giving him cocaine," You snapped back, reaching for your scarf. "You know how to do this. Help me tie him."

I thrashed against you, but you gripped my wrist and elbow while Mrs. Hudson (with great complaint) tightened your scarf around my bicep. She pulled it until I felt it cutting into one of my bruises. You flicked your needle and held it up to the light, then positioned yourself by my waist with your hand on my wrist. I hardly felt the needle, but I could feel the slow wave start to engulf me. Everything was suddenly much farther away.

Your hand was on my chest. Mrs. Hudson was gone now, and so was the sun. You were watching me, your eyes empty and weary, your skin the color of the flames in the fireplace. There were trails of tears on your cheeks, as blisters of darkness encircled your head.

Slowly I faded from conciousness.

The drugs made me feel like a stone in a stream, with time flowing past me without consequence. I slept for a long time without nightmares or any dreams at all. After such a long time with dreams being a normal part of the night it was strange to have nothing. Lights and colors blurred together whether my eyes were closed or open, dancing across the ceiling and making me sick. But I could identify the large square of dark blue as your coat moving back and forth across our room.

You were packing. You hadn't slept at all that night - you had made phone calls, you had made arrangements, and now you were finishing packing two small suitcases, one with your clothing and one with mine. Dark bags hung under your eyes, but you splashed cold water on your face to freshen it up and bring some color back.

Coffee filled the air, and I could see the steaming mug sitting idly on my nightstand. Every minute or so you would reluctantly swallow a mouthful and return to your packing. You detested coffee; I had never seen you drink it before, unless you were working on a challenging case and cocaine was off the table. But you kept forcing yourself to drink it, shaking your head to distract from the taste. You were thinking, but you had no time for your violin.

When you realized I was awake, you came to sit beside me and put your hand against my forehead. "You're a bit warm." You brushed across my cheek. "How do you feel."

I turned my head. "What'd you give me...?"

"It's morphine. How do you feel."

"I don't know."

"Mm."

You gently pulled the blankets down from around my shoulders.

As the sun rose, you brought our suitcases into the sitting room and dressed me. My navy blue jumper swallowed up my wrists and my waist, but it was warm and unconstricting, as not to put as much pressure on my stomach. You carried me into the living room to wait, propping me up against the arm of the sofa and letting me doze for a little while longer. Mrs. Hudson brought up food for the two of us, but you ended up feeding my portion to Gladstone.

The speed with which you put your plan into action made me suspect that you had been considering your next step long before I picked up the gun. You had been devising and preparing ever since I had been abducted in the first place. First you ordered the car. Then you contacted my parents in Cardiff. It wasn't as much of a request to visit more than it was an report of our visit. My father opened up the invitation, and you started packing.

You tied your scarf around your neck and flipped up the collar of your coat, taking the handle of my suitcase and making for the door. Before you stepped through, you glanced at me. Your eyes had hardly left me for more than a few minutes at any time. You were always within arm's reach, always hovering, always watching over me, carefully keeping track of my temperature and my blood pressure and my breathing. Once I could see your eyes glisten, as if a small diamond had been pressed into the corner of your eye. I reached out to touch your hand, and you whispered something I couldn't hear.

The car helped me stay awake, with the white noise of the engine and the news station playing quietly over the radio. The smell of the fresh leather had frightened me at first, but you had stopped at a little shop and bought me a vanilla-scented air freshener to make it a little easier. We drove west out of London and onto the M4 motorway, waiting for the heating to kick in and the traffic to clear.

"I hope it isn't too much trouble for my parents, staying with them," I said. "It's fairly short notice."

"They'll be relieved to see you. They've been worried."

"I guess that's true." I sighed.

You looked over, evaluated me, and turned back to the road. "You look much better."

I shrugged and stretched out my legs. I had been curled into a ball in the far corner of my seat, pressed against the door and the window, with my jaw tightly clamped down on my teeth. When I realized it I tried to loosen myself and sit upright.

"Your bruises aren't as deep anymore." You mentioned.

"I still look like shit, though." Saying that, I went back into the corner. I remembered why I had adopted that position in the first place; otherwise I was able to see myself in the rear-view mirror, black eyes and all. My stomach favored being curled, so I laid my head against the cold window and watched the horizon out of your side of the car, keeping my legs pulled tightly against my chest. "When should we get there."

"About eleven." You answered. "If traffic is good. It might take us longer because of the season. If you need to pull over for anything, tell me."

"Alright." I shifted, looking at you. A brief silence passed, and I decided to ask what I had been thinking about for the last few minutes. "Where did you get so much morphine, Sherlock?"

You glanced over. "I was keeping it in case of an emergency."

"Ex-addicts don't just keep drugs on-hand in case of an emergency."

"I did. I'm not only an ex-addict, I'm a consulting detective, constantly in the line of fire of all kinds of criminal organizations. I didn't know if it would ever become necessary, whether you or I would need it, but I kept it besides the fact."

"Then if you had it the whole time, and you knew it would help me, why didn't you give it to me sooner?"

"I didn't want to give it to you at all. I was saving it for the worst of circumstances. I knew there was a risk of addiction, especially with your diagnosis, and it could have reacted badly to the drugs E had already been giving you. But I was afraid that you would worsen if I did nothing." Your eyes glazed over, fixed on the road. "It was a last resort."

I scratched at the crook of my arm, where two little injection marks were hidden beneath the sleeve of my jumper. I realized how painful it must have been for you to inject me so soon after you had relapsed yourself, and after everything that had happened. Now looking back at you, I could see the confliction still marking your face.

"Wales will be good for you." You stated. "You'll be out of E's reach, at least until I can determine what to do next, and it'll put us in contact with your parents. If we-"

Your phone chirped, the shrill tone surprising both of us. I reached over into your coat pocket and took your mobile. "Oh, it's Lestrade."

"Answer it."

I swiped the screen and held it to my ear. "Hello?"

"John? It's Greg." Lestrade's voice sounded almost unwell, and the noise behind him was dotted with sirens and stern shouts. "Wow, it's good to hear from you. How are you feeling? Sherlock told me he was taking you up to Wales. You doing alright?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Good. I want to talk to you, but I have news for Sherlock that's pretty urgent. Is he there?"

"Yeah, I'll give you over."

I handed you the phone, and I noticed you turn down the volume just slightly as you raised it to your ear. "Lestrade."

You purposed to keep me out of the conversation, but by what I could read through your tone it wasn't good. Your mood shifted for the worse, and I pursed my lips and waited for the relay. The hills rolled past us as you talked.

As you set down the phone, I watched you. "Are you going to tell me what he said?"

"You're not well enough." You replied.

I huffed. "Sherlock. I'm not a kid. You don't have to coddle me."

"You're more fragile than you think."

"Just tell me."

You glanced at me, and I sunk farther against the car door. Your overprotectiveness was irritating, but at the same time I sensed it was appropriate. After all, I had just forced you to watch me hold a gun to my own head - I shouldn't be complaining now that you weren't convinced of my personal reliability. But I wanted to know, and I felt like not knowing would have bothered me more.

"Anne Carter is missing from her flat." You stated. "Lestrade got a warrant for her arrest, but by the time he had arrived she was gone. Signs of a struggle."

"Oh, God." I rubbed my forehead, feeling my skin go clammy. "Dammit, I told her she should've stayed with Mycroft."

"We can only hope that Anne can provide enough of a distraction for us to secure your parents' estate," You continued. "It's even more important now that we reach them. E will most likely be frustrated, and you can't take any more injury. We have no time left to waste dancing around this case."

I nodded, leaning my head against the spine of my seat and closing my eyes to think. I could feel you watching me, but I didn't care. "I hope Mum and Dad haven't had to deal with any of this. I don't care if they knew about it, I just don't want them to have to deal with it too."

My eyes opened, and yours met them. You looked sad. The purple outlining your eyes was even more distinct now against the backdrop of white, with the pale sky allowing no warmth. I swallowed, feeling for the first time ashamed of the way you looked at me. I had hurt you. I could hardly even remember what I had said to hurt you so badly, but I had hurt you, and now you had even more on your plate that you had to sort through. I curled tighter, trying to get myself as far away as I could from you.

"It'll be good for you to be with your parents." You said, quietly. "For you as much as them. It will help you. They will help you."

I nodded, then closed my eyes again. I wondered whether you were reassuring me or to reassuring yourself.

Sorry this is a day late, it was a hectic weekend. Hopefully I didn't scare anyone too badly aha.

The review you stole off the stage has red and purple lipstick all over the page.

Next update Thursday.