Chapter 6

Just as John was about to start the process of rinsing Sherlock off and draining the tub, the loud sound of a phone vibrating against the counter echoed throughout the room. John sighed, and pulled back. Silently, he dried his hands and reached for his phone. He wasn't surprised to see Mycroft's name on the screen. Tempted as he was to ignore the call, John thought better of it. He'd rather chat with Mycroft over the phone than have him make an unwelcome and dramatic appearance in the flat.

Heaving a sigh, John answered the phone.

"Hel—" he was interrupted by Mycroft's voice before he could finish his greeting.

"As you are certainly aware, my brother has been using again. I've discovered his supplier, and have shut down all other potential suppliers to my knowledge. Well, shut them down in regards to him." Mycroft paused briefly to take a breath, and John knew that he needed to seize the opportunity to interject.

"Mycroft, what exactly is your point here? Because if this update isn't immediately helpful to either of us, I have your brother to tend to. So please, make this quick."

"Yes, of course. I trust your judgement as a doctor when it comes to the matter of his health. If you ever need any backup due to his attitude, however, let me know. I can send some people over to provide any… reinforcements necessary. I'm sending Lestrade and a few others over to do a sweep of the flat for any remaining drugs. Let's hope that this was a one time mistake. We can't have it turning into an ongoing trend. Not again."

"I know, Mycroft. But you don't need to send anyone. We finally got the place cleaned up, and we don't need it being torn apart again so soon. I'm sure I'll be able to handle thi—" he was cut off once more.

"They'll be over in half an hour." Click. The eldest Holmes brother had hung up. At least he'd respected John's wishes in keeping the conversation short.

John set down his phone and turned round to see Sherlock apparently trying to drown himself in the receding water levels of the bathtub. It was largely ineffective, as the water had drained so much in his short absence that the detective's slender nose was still sticking up out of the water. The doctor chuckled and shook his head.

"Right, drama queen, lets get you up. Get ready to hear it from Greg," he reached into the tub and hoisted Sherlock up with strong arms. He wanted to get the taller man out of the tub as quickly as possible. He didn't seem steady on his feet, and the last thing they needed was for him to slip and end up with a concussion on top of the withdrawal. That and the fact that Sherlock was shaking like a leaf from the cold.

Quickly as he was up, John was wrapping a large towel round Sherlock.

"There," he said gently. "Now, you can go to bed, or you can go lay on the couch, but you'll be interrupted regardless,"

"I know, John," Sherlock said gruffly. "It's not as if I'm unfamiliar to this sort of occasion." He pulled himself away from the other, and shuffled towards the door.

John sighed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Maybe it was turning into a habit, but it always seemed to be an appropriate way to express himself. Sherlock was already out of the bathroom, leaving a dripping trail through the hall to the bedroom.

Before John had managed to catch up with him, Sherlock had emerged wearing what he assumed was nothing but a duvet. At least it was warmer than the infamous sheet he'd sported on previous occasions, but John still wished that he'd put something proper on. Fortunately living with Sherlock forced one to learn how to choose one's battles, and this was not one worth fighting.

It seemed that as soon as Sherlock had collapsed in his chair, there was a sharp banging on the door. The detective flinched. The sound was piercing and painful. Lestrade was early. It had only been twenty-one minutes since Mycroft had called, and the anticipation of having the flat filled with a herd of irritating human beings was making him feel sick again. With a groan of annoyance, Sherlock pulled the duvet up over his head, leaving him to look much like a nun.

Lestrade let himself in the flat, followed by Sally Donovan. At least Anderson hadn't had the nerve to come along. Sally might be sour, but she was tolerable when need be.

"Bloody idiot," Lestrade said loudly, glancing at Sherlock. He didn't bother going over to the detective. He had work to do. "Hand over whatever you have now, and it should speed up the process. We shouldn't have to do quite as thorough of a sweep that way." He advised.

Upon hearing these words, Sherlock began to squirm in his seat. At first one would think that this ordeal was making him restless, but soon a hand emerged with two small baggies of powder, the off white colour that comprised of the cut of cocaine and heroin. He closed his fist round the bags, and kept his arm extended.

"Were you really sitting on them?" Lestrade snorted incredulously, watching as Sally struggled to pry the bags out of Sherlock's slender fingers. It wasn't long before she'd succeeded, and she tossed them to the inspector.

"Last thing you need are these, freak," she spat. A hint of pity could be noticed, not in her voice, but in her face as she said the words. It was a kinder disposition than Sherlock was used to, but he despised it. Pity was not what he needed. What he needed, was to be left alone to deal with this by himself.

Feeling entirely miserable and annoyed, Sherlock drew the duvet round his face, desperate to block out everything that was going on at that moment. The sounds hurt his ears. The lights hurt his eyes. He was still freezing and burning at the same time in a way that made him tremble involuntarily. One more hit would stop it. Almost instantaneously. If only he could just have a little bit. A couple milligrams more... No. he needed to stop. His flat was being rifled through because the drugs were bad. Because they were capable of destroying the mind that brought him his livelihood. He couldn't let this turn into what it had been in the past. Not only did he have work to live for, but he had John. He had... friends. Lestrade, Molly, even a fondness, albeit minimal, for Sally Donovan. He needed to overcome this before it escalated. If only to prove a point.

He may have had the mindset of maturity, but he wasn't willing to bring it to reality right then. It felt much safer under his little fortress of blankets. There he stayed, listening to the rustling and chatter from the others in the flat, until he dozed off, in a heap in his chair.