The World is Spinning BackwardsDylan Eiler
A/N: Thank you to all the lovely people who continue to review, and I apologize if I do not reply to every single one of you I hope you continue to enjoy!
Chapter 22: Dependency
Sherlock looked over the file Lestrade had faxed him. Nothing about the case was particularly interesting, but Sherlock was bored. The DI had not given him a case in days, and this was the only one for Sherlock to work on.
Emma sat next to him on the tiny leather sofa at Nonni's, working on her homework. She was muttering to herself in French and every few minutes writing something down. Sherlock peered over at her homework. He pointed at the beginning of her sentence.
"That should be je suis."
"Oh." Emma erased furiously and corrected her mistake.
She took a sip of her coffee before resuming her mutterings. Sherlock smiled and looked back at the case. It was a rather simple murder case; he took out his phone and texted Lestrade the necessary details to catch the criminal. Emma finished her French work and closed her textbook.
"Thanks." She smiled at Sherlock.
"I saw an error, and I corrected it." Sherlock shrugged.
Emma rolled her eyes and started packing up her book bag. Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and paused. He felt a tremor in his hand. He pulled it out and stared at it; it shook again. It had been happening more and more frequently over the past month; he needed the morphine. He turned quickly to Emmaline.
"Can we please go now?"
"Yeah, just a second." Emma said gently, noting the tone of distress.
Sherlock bounced his knees in impatience; he needed to be back in his flat, and soon. Emma grabbed her bag and shouldered it. Sherlock took her hand and the pair grabbed a cab, quickly getting back to Sherlock's flat.
As Sherlock rushed up the five flights of stairs, Emma shouted after him. "What is the matter?"
Sherlock did not answer; he reached into his pocket and grabbed his keys, both hands shaking now. Emma walked up behind him and opened the door; as soon as that stabilizing weight was gone, Sherlock fell over the threshold into his home.
"Sherlock, are you OK?"
Emma closed the door, threw her bag across the room, and kneeled down next to him. Sherlock clutched at his stomach and drew his knees to his chest. Emma felt his forehead; he was burning up.
"I need – morphine. I – I need – the – morphine." Sherlock spoke in struggling breaths.
"No." Emmaline shook her head. "No way."
"Please – it – hurts!" He yelled, closing his eyes and looking down.
"Give me painkillers, give me anything!" He begged, tears coming to his eyes.
"No." Emma said firmly.
It hurt her to see Sherlock like this, but she could not give in. Giving him the morphine, or even painkillers, would only hurt him. What he needed was time to get over the pain. Struggling, Sherlock picked his head up to look at his friend.
"It's an addiction, not physical dependency. My brain and my body crave this drug, even if I have not had it in months. I need…I need you to help me." He whispered.
Emma took pity on the pathetic creature writhing on the floor in front of her.
"I'm not giving you pain meds."
Emma felt his head again; he was hot and sweating. "Let's get this coat off."
Sherlock helped her take his coat off before he started shivering again.
"Are you feeling cold?" She asked.
He nodded his head quickly.
Emma pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and covered him with it, tucking it around him as best she could. Then she sat up against the couch and pulled Sherlock into her arms, holding him. Even if he would never admit it, her physical presence helped. It was comforting to know that someone was there for him, and cared about what he was going through. He understood that she was not going to give him anything, so he would have to fight through it.
Emma ran her fingers through his dark curls, keeping the hair off his forehead. She started humming a lullaby and rocking him in her arms. Sherlock's shivering stopped after a few minutes, though he was still hot and cold. His eyelids drooped and he quickly fell asleep. Emma looked to see if his eyes were closed.
She watched the clock, and once he had been asleep for fifteen minutes, she moved carefully out from under him. She stood up on the couch, and putting her arms under his armpits, dragged his upper body onto the couch. She swung his legs up next, and settled him down for his nap.
Emmaline grabbed the thermometer from the bathroom and stuck it under Sherlock's tongue. He was running a temperature of 99°. She washed the thermometer off and sighed. He probably had a cold or the flu. No doubt it was a reaction to his body being off the drugs, his illness. Bu the fact that he had been clean for three months, and his body was just now reacting to its missed opiate?
Emma knew she was going to have her hands full, taking care of him for a while. Sherlock needed time to get over his addiction and that would not be easy. She ran a hand through her hair and thought of what to do next. Luckily for him, it was Friday so she could spend all weekend taking care of him. Her grandparents had also told her Thursday morning before school that they were leaving for an eight-day cruise on Monday afternoon, so she could take care of him during the week as well.
Emma grabbed Sherlock's phone from his pocket and looked up Lestrade's number. She would have to tell him not to send any cases to Sherlock while he was sick. If he were too tempted by one, the idiot would get out of bed to investigate. She texted Lestrade about Sherlock being ill, and warned him not to send him anything.
Emma grabbed the trashcan from the bathroom and set it next to the couch. If he was sick with the flu, then he would want to vomit. Emmaline did not want to clean anything up because he could not make it to the bathroom in time.
After rifling through the cabinets, she found that Sherlock did not have any disinfectant spray.
"Awesome, just awesome." She said to herself, grabbing her purse.
She would have to go and buy cleaning products for his flat, and probably some soup while she was at it. She closed the door quietly and locked it, so no one would disturb him.
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"I'm sorry that you had to see that." Sherlock whispered.
"Nonsense; you're lucky I was here."
Emma scooped another spoonful of chicken-noodle soup and bought it to Sherlock's lips. He slurped it down. Emma had only made him half a can so the bowl was soon gone.
"Can't I have some more?" Sherlock pleaded.
"Not until we see how your stomach does. If you can handle that, we'll see."
Emma patted down Sherlock's covers. It had been a few hours since his episode in the main room. He had woken up and changed into pajamas, and settled into bed. Emmaline had given him a glass of water, and a few crackers. She had read a few chapters of a book to him, before he requested something more filling for his stomach.
"Has it happened before? What happened out there?" She asked, tucking the blankets in around him.
"A few times over the past month."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I did not want you to be worried."
"Well, too late." Emma finished tucking him in. "Let's just hope you get better soon."
Emma stood and turned the lights off in his room.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, child-like.
Emma smiled in the dark. "I have to disinfect your apartment; don't worry, I'll be here all weekend."
Emma gently closed the door so Sherlock could get the rest he sorely needed.
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"Ahh." Emma moaned, rolling over on the couch.
"Stop fidgeting; here's your soup." Sherlock commanded.
He was sitting on the coffee table in front of her couch, and holding out a spoonful of chicken-noodle soup to feed her.
Emma ate the bite and looked at him between slanted eyelids.
"I hate you."
"What, why?" Sherlock asked, thinking he had actually done something to offend her.
"You look so healthy."
Sherlock laughed and gave her another bite. Emma had taken care of him Friday, Saturday, and Sunday before he had gotten better. Tuesday morning Emmaline had called to tell him that she had gotten the flu as well and blamed him.
So he had come over to take care of her; it was Wednesday afternoon and she hadn't thrown up in almost twenty-four hours.
"Don't worry, you'll be better soon."
"I know; I just hate being sick."
"There – that's all the soup."
Sherlock left the room to go and wash the bowl out. He looked out the window while he did so, checking for Henry. Emma had called to tell him she would not be at school for a few days because of the flu. So Saint Henry had decided that he would bring her homework every night and help her with it.
Since Sherlock was over nursing Emma back to health during the day, he left when Henry came over and walked around the neighborhood. He did not want Emma to be talked about at school for having an adult friend; it was a strange situation and he did not want to hurt her.
At the same time, he wanted Henry to know that there was someone taking care of her better than he was. He wanted the boy to know that there was someone who cared more about Emma and was willing to risk getting the flu again to take care of her.
But he would never do that, because it would hurt Emmaline. And that was one thing he never wanted to do.
"Sherlock," Emmaline croaked. "Can I get a glass of water?"
"Yeah!" Sherlock called. He filled a glass for her and saw that Henry was just down the street.
"Your boyfriend's here, I have to go." He said, handing the glass to her.
"No you don't." She replied, taking a small sip.
"Yes I do sweetie." Sherlock kissed her forehead and grabbed his coat, slipping outside unseen. He put the coat on and popped the collar, walking in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.
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On Saturday night, Sherlock watched from down the street as Henry and Emmaline left her house. She had gotten better the day before, and Henry was taking her out to the cinema. Sherlock lit up his cigarette and breathed in deeply. It was a habit he had decided to pick up again. He watched as they walked down the street, and turned away, disgusted.
What kind of a friend was he to spy on a date, or to feel thorn wrap around his heart? He was happy that Emmaline was happy and that would just have to do. Sherlock inhaled more of the tobacco as he walked into the dark night, thoroughly wishing that Lestrade would have a case for him tonight. Anything for him to forget whatever he was feeling.
A/N: OK, so I feel really happy that so many of you have stuck around and are reading still! Just a word that they will get romantic (if jealous Sherlock was not enough to tell you that) just not for a while. I will be skipping time so some months will be skipped if nothing eventful happens in them.