Chapter 5

Not an hour had passed before John heard the sound of frantic scrambling in the hall. Immediately, he jumped to his feet and hurried in the direction of the noise. Just before the doctor reached the open door of the bathroom, the sound of retching could be heard. With a sigh, he entered, kneeling down behind Sherlock to rub his back in soothing circles.

Withdrawals were always difficult, especially when opioids were involved. With substances like Heroin, sometimes it only took one hit to become hooked. It likely wouldn't be the case for Sherlock, but at the very least, the next few days were bound to be awful. How he would respond to the lack of cocaine, well, that was less predictable. He might be fine, but there was a good chance for psychological side effects. Depression, intense cravings, irritability, none were easy to deal with, especially not with Sherlock.

In a couple minutes that seemed more like an eternity, the detective's painful heaving subsided. He flushed the toilet and leaned back against the wall, gulping down air. Sweat covered his body, yet he was shivering. It was a rather pathetic sight, and John couldn't help but take pity on the man. In this state he was so vulnerable, so small, and while it broke his heart, it was a rare occasion. He felt as if he was being let in on some sort of secret. Gently, John reached out and pushed away the curls that were plastered to the detective's damp forehead.

"Stay there," he instructed, getting to his feet. "I'm going to fetch you some water and a flannel." With this, John exited the room, leaving a silent, and miserable Sherlock behind.

Shortly, he returned, passing the glass of water to Sherlock. The detective merely stared down at the liquid. He certainly didn't feel inclined to ingest anything after that ordeal. For all he knew, it would come right back up. The sensation of the cold and wet flannel on his forehead came as somewhat of a shock to him. The man tensed slightly. Even though he was freezing, the cool cloth felt piercingly cold against his clammy skin. It was altogether a confusing and entirely unpleasant sensation.

"Must you do that?" He asked flatly, voice hoarse from the strain that had just been put on his throat.

"Sherlock, you're all sweaty," John remarked. "That'll be one of the side effects of the smack you took, you dolt," he continued to wipe gently at Sherlock's face, moving down to the back of his neck. "Actually, I'm going to run you a bath." John left the flannel to rest on Sherlock's neck, and decidedly set the tub running.

The water was warm, but not hot, and when it was about halfway filled, John shifted back over to Sherlock. He had not yet touched the water. Reaching out, John began to unbutton the brunet's shirt. Of course he hadn't bothered changing into comfortable clothes overnight. Hygiene evidently hadn't been a priority for Sherlock considering the state he had been in the previous evening. Needless to say, he wasn't smelling the best.

Sherlock started to unbutton his shirt from the bottom, with the intention of meeting John in the middle. At least, this is what he was trying to do, but his hands were shaking, rendering the task nearly impossible. With a sigh, John paused his own effort and took Sherlock's hands, squeezing them gently.

"Sherlock," his voice was mildly reprimanding. "Let me help you."

A quizzical expression appeared on the detective's face. "Why?" He tried momentarily to pull his trembling hands out of John's grasp. "You're upset with me. Why would you want to be helping."

John let go with one hand, and ran a hand through his blond hair. Sherlock had gotten considerably better at understanding human emotion and connection. It had taken a few years, but the progress was there. That did not mean though that it was perfect.

"You're not wrong. I am upset with you. And moreso disappointed. But none of that taints my love for you, Sherlock. That's not how these things work," he went back to unbuttoning the detective's shirt, and slid it off his shoulders. "I knew the risks I was taking when we got together. I knew that relapses were entirely possible in the future. It wasn't a deal breaker for me. Our trust is damaged now, but it can be fixed," quickly, he reached over and turned off the now full tub. His fingers nimbly undid Sherlock's belt. "Here, let's get you up." John hoisted Sherlock to his feet.

"Thanks," Sherlock whispered, keeping one hand on the wall to steady himself.

Quickly, Sherlock slipped off his trousers and pants, and was being helped into the warm bath water.

"Anyhow, Sherlock, as your friend, boyfriend, and your doctor, I want to help you. I want to see you recover. I want the best for you, despite being upset about all this."

A weak, quivering smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. It melted John's heart.

"I am… I am sorry, John. It could be that I'm only sorry because I'm in the full swing of withdrawal, and am having cravings, or that I just don't like it when you're cross with me… but I think that I really am sorry."

John couldn't help but chuckle lightly as he began to shampoo his boyfriend's curls. "I know, Sherlock. I believe you."