February 12th, 1867 and a late evening in 2016
Sherlock woke several times during the small hours of the morning, exhausted and with a profound headache.
Watson was there once, talking to him, asking if he was in pain. Sherlock ignored him.
A bit later the doctor came back and offered him medicine.
Victorian medicines wouldn't work, at least not the ones he would agree to take. Even modern drugs only succeeded in taking the edge of some aspects of withdrawal - a very small edge.
He drifted off again.
.
With a groan he blinked at the man who had just entered his room again and he realised it was modern John, wearing modern pyjamas and his awful plaid dressing gown.
"How is it working?" the doctor whispered.
"Not at all," he hissed through his teeth. "Go away, please."
"Hey," John rested his hand against Sherlock's shoulder, which increased his physical unease threefold.
He must have made some kind of noise because his friend jerked his hand away.
"Sorry," he murmured. "Need something else?"
Sherlock just closed his eyes, not able to deal with this reality and his transport's malaise for the time being.
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A moment later the touch reappeared and he came close to yell out of sheer frustration when a careful voice asked, "Holmes?"
His eyes opened wide without a conscious effort.
He stared at Watson's face, who was now beside his bed with a ringed chamber candle holder in his hand. The light of the small candle stump was so poor he needed a moment to realise he was back in Victorian reality.
"Are you still feeling poor?"
"I'm fine," Sherlock answered, unnerved.
"Well, you always say that, it doesn't relieve me to hear this worn out phrase."
Without asking for permission Watson reached for his wrist and took his pulse. At this point Sherlock had to admit modern John was quite a bit more respectful of his wishes when it came to his needs as a patient.
Sherlock pulled his wrist free without waiting for him to finish counting.
"What is it?"
"I can't endure your fussing any longer!"
Watson raised his hands, "Surely you must have noticed you're not well, I heard you tossing and turning upstairs. You even made noises that are clearly the one's of a suffering being. Let me examine you."
"No! There is no need. You can do nothing for me," he yelled.
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"Shit, Sherlock. Shut up, you'll wake the whole street! Come on, calm down!"
He blinked and was back with modern John, who obviously had just taken his blood pressure - an open cuff was next to him on the bed.
This unintended mixing of the two realities was getting annoying.
Also, he felt chilled and the muscle aches had worsened.
"I'll be finished in a minute. Stay with me and tell me how good you are able to handle the cravings."
He wanted to stay in the past, being diverted from this, or even better, wanted to not experience existence for a bit. When he was honest with himself, what he wanted was a few hours of drug filled oblivion just to get away from all this. Although, this weren't really cravings – those would start soon, probably within the next twelve hours – it was a constant urge to provide what his body missed.
"Hey, is there something I can do?"
"Remove my jacket and the shoes from this room, I can't stand the smell... I let the top hat fall, can you store it properly... I should have left it all downstairs," Sherlock mumbled.
"Are you starting to hallucinate, mate?"
"Of course not. That stage is at least two days away, if it happens at all."
"Sherlock, just look at me?"
The detective just grunted in annoyance.
"Hey?"
Finally, he raised his tired gaze to his friend who smiled when their eyes met and he understood Sherlock was coherent.
"Can I do something?"
"Get a rubber mallet. Knock me out," Sherlock suggested, wanting nothing but oblivion.
"Sorry, can't do that," John chuckled.
"There's ginger tea in the kitchen if you want."
Too tired to think, Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.
A few moments later he had drifted off into sleep again, he had not dared to hope he'd be able to do so.
But he was caught in REM sleep and his dreams were vicious.
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Two hours later he woke again, soaked in sweat.
He wanted to shower but found he was in the Victorian era and there was no shower installed, although they had a water closet since last spring.
This time he tried to actively switch realities, it had happened so often in the past hours without him wanting it, he hadn't expected it might fail to work.
But no matter how much he tried, he was stuck in his 1867 self.
Panting, he shuffled out of his room and sat down at his working table in the room that would be their kitchen in modern times.
Why hadn't he chosen a cold case from the 1930s? At that point there would have been proper hot showers and better heating.
Watson once more appeared at his side, holding out a wet towel.
"My dear fellow, are you running a fever?" he asked.
Sherlock ignored the question, too tired to think about it.
There was a moment of silence and then he asked, "Does your practitioner's case contain something to help me sleep? Something herbal... non addictive?" Although herbal and traditional remedies where quite out of fashion in this decade, they were still available and used.
"Yes, there's some syrup, non-addictive and even advertised to be to be suitable for people suffering from addiction. Let me get it."**
Sherlock wasn't ready to talk about what his problem was, although he was sure Watson would welcome it if he took lesser drugs. He would realise sooner or later what was happening.
"But I must insist, you let me take a look at you before. See what is ailing you."
The detective resigned and the doctor left to get his bag.
"Alright, you seem to be quite exhausted, you have probably overdone it again," Watson said after he finished his examination.
Sherlock remained silent, letting him believe in his diagnosis would be easiest.
The detective didn't think about it, but as long as it wasn't laudanum or opium, he should be fine, and if John said it was non addictive he had to trust him. It was not as if medications had labels that listed the ingredients, yet. Also, his mind palace didn't list every receipt of every historical medication there was. He should do a chemical analysis, but he was way too exhausted and unnerved.
The doctor brought a small bottle and diluted the syrup with water. Sherlock gulped down the sweet liquid, the taste that assaulted him almost made him wretch, it was quite intense.
"This should start to work within 20 to 30 minutes, my friend. Go back to bed, relax."
"Er!" he made in disgust, "What's in it?"
"Don't start to analyse everything. Besides, I don't really know. Corporate secrets, you cursed that before, remember?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes in disbelieve, from the modern point of view this was still kind of hard to understand, but it had taken ages, too, to have nutrient information on every piece of foods. In his childhood those hadn't been on packages either.
Watson once more eyed him carefully.
He got up and returned to his bedroom to escape the scrutiny.
"I will stay close by in case you need assistance," Watson followed him down the hall and watched him cling back into bed.
God, it was warm and cozy, at least for almost a minute, until the joint aches returned.
"Why would I need assistance?" he grunted.
"Just in case," Watson left the room and Sherlock felt distantly reminded of the day Irene Adler drugged him.
They had had a similar conversation, hadn't they?
Soon, the medication made his appendages feel heavy and his thoughts uneven.
He realised he didn't associate the feeling the medication caused with being intoxicated, so the rest of his scepsis vanished, he just felt a strong urge to sleep.
He was out before he knew he was drifting off.
.
With a wildly beating heart, he jerked awake, dragged from a bad dream into reality.
Immediately, he sat up and placed his feet on the ground, the world was unsteady and he was aware he was swaying.
Horror was creeping up on him, his heart beating so intense it was highly uncomfortable, but he wasn't sure about what had caused this, yet.
He was no longer in Victorian England. Something had pulled him out of the past.
"Sherlock?" John was suddenly beside him.
"Huh?..."
"What is it?"
"I took something... It... it was working way too good to be harmless... also it tasted..." and then he grimaced when the realisation hit him hard and the memory of the vile taste came back.
"I should have recognised the flavour..." he gasped, "probably Chloral Hydrate..."
"What the hell?... Where did you get this? Shit, Sherlock! Where the hell...?"
Sherlock raised his hands, realising John was about to throw a fit as a result of a misunderstanding.
"Really? While we are trying to get you clean?!" John griped.
"Shut up! It was a nightmare," easiest way of explaining that he didn't actually take it, "I dreamt that I took it... or to be more precise that you gave it to me."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?"
"What about the word 'nightmare' is hard to understand? I didn't actually ingest it, I dreamt that it was given to me," Sherlock yelled back, irritated as hell.
The irritation was so intense, so sudden, it made his thoughts grind to a halt for a moment in astonishment.
"Shit... Don't do that!" John said in a low voice
"So glad you're such a soothing presence when it comes to haunted sleep - get out."
Sherlock was unnerved by John's reaction and by the fact that he had been given a medication that was in modern times actually known to be highly addictive if taken over a period of time. It was also known nowadays as a date-rape-drug.
Of course this wasn't real, but he should stay away from such things even in his private mental Victorian reality.
"Sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry... I guess I'm a bit strained by this whole detoxing thing, too. Let me get you some water."
With that John was out of the room and the detective assumed he was quite ashamed about his own distrust he had jumped on immediately.
The doctor was back a few moments later.
By then Sherlock had managed to calm his pulse. He sat on the edge of his bed with closed eyes, unnerved, trembling, and also slightly disgruntled by John's reaction.
The last days had left their marks on both of them.
It was a whole pool of guilt they were swimming in.
Sherlock felt not guilty for having taken drugs for weeks, he just still felt guilt that Mary was no longer with them and that he had failed her.
That sacrificing himself had almost failed because the drugs had affected his thinking in a bad way, he had also failed to see that coming. For the first time in his life he had actually catalogued minutely his decent into drug induced madness and how bad it was for his thinking.
In earlier years, while he had been under the influence, he had felt like a proper genius, unable to do anything wrong. This time, though, he had noticed the wrongness of that believe, it had been work to convince himself it was working. The effects hadn't been as positive and promising as he remembered them. The drugs hadn't 'helped' as much as he expected, they had compromised his thinking, too.
He was kind of able to – at some level of his consciousness – observe it all go wrong and downhill this time. But he had been unable to change course or improve what was happening. Maybe it was because he was so broken about John's refusal and his own grief.
He had tried to do what Mary wanted but since this was about reaching John on an emotional basis and he was rubbish at that, he had ignored things that were important and underestimated others.
"A few months ago, you accused me of leaving you at a graveside - which only happened only in your head - not helping the one time you actually asked for help... And now you dream that I give you addictive memory impairing drug? What is that supposed to mean?"
John had sat down in front of him, on a chair.
"You felt abandoned, is that it? Well, I guess I deserve that your subconsciousness has to deal with the rubbish I've done. I was a lousy friend."
Had that chair been there before?
Sherlock remained silent.
John's reactions when he had tried to reach out to him after Mary's death... and the beating had indeed left him sensing something – but it had taken him a long time to conjecture what it must be what irked him, and he still wasn't sure if this really could be described as abandonment. Though he was sure the first 'stages' of this disharmony had appeared before the wedding and multiplied after it, and ten folded after the birth of Rosie.
But at least for now, he needed to try to shove it all away, deny the existence of those facts and sentiment, he couldn't handle it on top of it all.
The thing was they seemed to creep back in from his subconscious, as he had just experienced.
They had to go!
It was another reason why he had turned to drugs, to kill the hurt, he understood that now.
But no matter how he wanted them gone, the memories stayed with him.
He had tried to lock them away repeatedly but they didn't stay hidden.
"Sherlock?"
A hand landed on his shoulder and this time he managed to receive the touch as it was meant, a soothing warm comfort and a helpless plea for forgiveness.
"You didn't do it on purpose, you didn't know it was addictive," Sherlock elaborated.
"Oh, glad to hear that..." John sounded as tired as he felt, "Feeling better?"
"God, I'm so tired of this."
John's face fell, he bit his lip.
"Yeah, I know. Get some sleep, you need it and it will pass the time."
Sherlock huffed in annoyance, the unspoken things between them were making the room seem to be filled with mental molasses.
They had discussed several medications that could smooth out the symptoms a bit, even had things like bupropion and selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors ready to use, to name just a few, but Sherlock had decided against it. His kidneys would be happier without all those and also he was not ready to experience another odd drug reaction to something he had never taken before. He had had a share of those in the past and had no desire to repeat things like that.
He was well aware though, that in case he'd suffer from severe paranoia, suicidal thoughts that turned into more than thoughts, aggressions, or dangerous hallucinations John would administer any drug that would keep him in check, they had discussed this, too. Although chances were small since Sherlock had only experienced hallucinations and medium severe paranoia in the past.
"Too tired to sleep," he huffed.
They had started him on antidepressants that were safe to use with his issues at the hospital, though, aware the detox would bring forth severe depression. When at home, John had refused to allow him to stop them. This type of medication needed weeks until it worked properly and was playing havoc on his system, too already. But he understood why John thought it was necessary and knew depression would hit sooner or later... and that he was already suffering from depression before. Molly had pointed it out repeatedly in the past weeks.
"Want your Laptop? - Oh, and Anthea brought a box with comfort food."
"Give me the files, I need a bit more background reading about the cold case."
"You should rest."
"I need something to occupy my mind."
"Right."
John seemed to understand and after bringing in the folders and the Laptop, he left him to it.
Sherlock's sense of time was lost, he slept in between reading and missed the fact that what he thought was roughly 48 hours were in fact only 24.
John was glad he was able to rest, well aware the fatigue was one of the withdrawal symptoms for more than one of the drugs he had taken, and also well aware there would be times ahead were insomnia would probably turn into a real problem, but that was probably about a week until then, before that phase it would get a lot worse.
Severe cravings and problems to concentrate were about to hit and they would make it a seven day lasting nightmare.
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* If you want to assume the 1976 film 'The Seven-Per-Cent Solution' is canon, then Victorian Holmes will undergo withdrawal in Vienna in 1891. I for myself am not sure if I accept this film as Victorian canon. It was well received but… I don't know, it feels kind of odd, but I nevertheless used some of the facts they built the film on for this story.
** Chloral Hydrate was advertised in the Victorian era to be non-addictive, which was not true.
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Hope you enjoyed.