Chapter 3

It was difficult for the doctor to get to sleep. He could hear the rustling of the sheets from the other bedroom. Sherlock was tossing and turning in there, working hard against the desire to get up and move. At least he was making an effort to stay in bed. It was more that John had even hoped for while dealing with a high Sherlock.

Of course it wasn't John's first time when it came to this sort of thing, but it had been so long, and it was discouraging to say the least. He'd held onto the hope that Sherlock would never go back to the drugs, that somehow, their relationship would help him to overcome that. It was hurtful to think that after all they'd been through together, cocaine was still superior to him.

Was he being naive or even ridiculous to assume that Sherlock could put his life of addiction behind him? Or on the contrary, would assuming the worst of Sherlock be insulting? John didn't know where the balance lay. He wished that he could switch into doctor mode— to look at this from an objective point of view, but any shred of professionalism was clouded by his love for the other man. That and the fury that was still brewing in his chest.

These sorts of thoughts persisted in John's mind for some time, bouncing off one another, adding fuel to the fire. Thank goodness it did not last forever. He wasn't sure when it happened, but eventually, his thoughts went from racing, to the pace of a leisurely stroll, and at last, to a halt. The former soldier's eyes closed, and breaths slowed, until he was in a peaceful sleep: blissfully, albeit temporarily, unaware of the evening's dramatics.

Sherlock's tossing and turning stopped just before the doctor had drifted off. The cocaine's effects had diminished, leaving him feeling sluggish and determined to get more. Having been clean for so long prior, his tolerance for high quantities of the drug had diminished significantly. He'd been running on manufactured energy. As soon as the high was gone, his body had been forced to realize the weight of his exhaustion. So before he could even try to get up to get himself another hit, the detective was out cold.

John awoke feeling refreshed and clearheaded. He hadn't forgotten the events of the previous night, but for a moment, it felt like he could ignore them. The flat was quiet, sunshine was seeping through the edges of the curtains, giving the room a warm and soft glow. Wouldn't it be easier to get up, make some tea, and pretend that nothing had happened? He scared himself a little bit by how seriously he'd considered the thought. He couldn't help it. Was it not an enticing fantasy?

Fantasy, however, was the key word. That was not the life that he'd signed up for when he'd agreed to share a flat with that bloody fascinating and devilishly handsome prick of a man that was called Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't the life he wanted either. John thrived off of adventure perhaps as much as Sherlock did, and though the thought of a domestic life together occasionally sounded appealing, it wasn't their speed. Never would be.

Slowly, John sat up and stretched, taking in a long breath. He couldn't decide how he should approach Sherlock. Should he wait for the detective to wake up on his own time, and greet him with a nice cuppa ready? Or should he barge in and let the now sober man hear how he felt about all that had happened? Maybe even giving Mycroft a call would be the way to go. At least it would spare John the extra ounce of initial confrontation. It seemed that there was no good way to do it. Why the hell did Sherlock have to go and make everything so bloody complicated?

Whatever. He'd let Sherlock sleep for a while longer, God knows the man needed it. It was remarkable how little Sherlock could run on. With a sigh, John got up and made his way to the kitchen.

A couple hours and a few of cups of tea later, John figured that it was about time to get the detective up. It was concerning that he hadn't yet made an appearance. It meant that he'd either snuck out to work, or to get another hit. More concerning still, was the chance that he could still be asleep. So, with a glass of water in hand, John quietly approached Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Sherlock?" He called, gently knocking before he opened it up. "I've got some water for you, sit up." John set the water down on the bedside table, and moved towards the curtains to let in some light.

"Sherlock, up. We need to chat." He said, finally turning round to give the detective a proper look. Immediately, John frowned. Sherlock's face was pale— nearly translucent looking, and his skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat. His body was trembling, and his breaths were quick and shallow. These weren't normal withdrawal symptoms. Not for cocaine.

John's blood ran cold as he suddenly realized that he'd never once bothered to find out just how much Sherlock had taken the night before.