Sorry for the long wait, I'm struggling. Not with the story, but with RL.
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Something touched his face and he immediately went into 'red alert' mode, tensed up.
A second later Sherlock recognised the smell and the hands.
Mrs Hudson.
Not a hospital, just his bedroom.
"It's me, Sherlock."
It took effort to relax again, the memories of being suffocated while lying down in a hospital bed still fresh and much more distressing that he dared to admit to even himself.
"Oh, dear! You seem so hot to touch."
"Mrs Hudson, please refrain from touching me unannounced, I feel quite unsettled by it," he informed her, fighting the adrenaline rush that was grinding on his nerves.
"Any telegrams?"
"What? Are you dreaming, dear?"
Sherlock blinked up at her, the confusion in her voice encouraging him to make an effort.
Oh.
2016.
"No... just..."
Explaining was way too much work.
He felt the urgent need to sit up, feeling too exposed and vulnerable lying down when another person was present, which had caused some trouble at the hospital.
"You really look awful, Sherlock. I'll make you some tea. Why don't you get up," she ordered while pulling open the curtains and opening the window.
Sherlock sat up and winced when he felt the cold winter air seep in immediately.
It was her 'shift' then this morning, the detective deduced.
Taking a few pieces of dirty clothing with her she vanished into the kitchen.
"You have five minutes then I'll come in with a cold washcloth," she threatened and Sherlock heard her fill the kettle. Her voice was warm though and revealed the lie.
She knew how sensitive he was to cold recently.
And to smells.
And to light.
And noise.
And any other kind of sensory input.
This state was disgusting.
He was disgusting.
Hating himself and therefore not opposed to torture himself for being an idiot and a failure he rolled out of bed - to make himself feel even more miserable.
It was colder than he had expected and his warm socks were gone.
With a growl he snatched his warm dressing gown from the back of the door and hastily wrapped himself as tightly in it as he could, hoping the pressure would be a soothing sensation. It used to be, but these days nothing that had felt good did any longer. His senses had gone haywired and even relying on former withdrawal episode's experiences had turned out to be dodgy.
When he slowly stumbled out of his room, he realised that something was off.
More off than yesterday.
There was a sudden urge, a need - familiar and devastating.
When he passed the bathroom, she came towards him again and then went for something else in his room.
He shuffled into the kitchen and the smell of the leftovers of Rosie's baby food made him work hard to prevent retching.
God, what had the poor child been given for breakfast this time?
Most of the time John fed her home cooked baby food Mrs Hudson had prepared, but some days, when there was little time or John was not up to it, he gave her the revolting stuff from supermarkets you could buy in little glass jars.
No matter which brand John bought, Sherlock found it all loathsome.
"I expect you to eat something, too. What do you want?"
Now he actually gagged at the thought of chewing something.
Probably a side effect of the morphine he was still taking.
But he remembered that one morning, John had fed Rosie something that had in fact smelled good.
Something that seemed to be some kind of biscuit-flavoured puree or porridge.
Mrs Hudson was suddenly next to him, shoving him into a kitchen chair and holding out his pills.
Six of them.
Sighing, he reached for the half-full bottle of water on the table and washed them down one by one with tiny sips, careful not to make himself sick.
Up to this moment he had had his cravings in check without too much work, but now the need hit him full strength, like a force of gravity pulling him against his will.
He would not give in!
"There you go," she praised.
Not give in!
"Could you be so kind to shut up?" he demanded, trying not to be rude but feeling the cravings and the discomfort catch up with him.
For a long moment she froze and scrutinized him, he evaded her gaze, annoyed about being such a wimp.
She was the least person who deserved a rude tone. She had been so patient and had also probably saved his life by kicking John into the right conclusions.
"Sorry," he whispered.
Giving in was not an option!
"Cravings setting in then?" she concluded.
Was he really such an open book in this state?
Devastated, he closed his eyes.
The ugly, overpowering-all-thoughts-need would get even stronger soon.
He hated it, as well as being an open book.
The kettle started to boil and he was glad she switched it off and poured the water over some special blend of tea he liked.
Desperately trying to concentrate on the welcoming smell of one of his favourite brands he inhaled.
The upside of having over reactive senses.
It smelled wonderful.
"Did you just moan?"
"Hm?"
Had he?
"Smells good," he confirmed.
She raised her eyebrows and grinned.
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Two hours later he was trying to read the newspaper, but it barely registered what he read. He had repeatedly gone through several paragraphs twice to get the information when he realised that it was getting worse.
Like he couldn't think about anything else his thoughts returned again and again to... the feeling of holding a syringe in between his fingers. The sensation of piercing the skin, pushing the plunger down, feeling the release when the substance hit the bloodstream.
He needed to fiddle with something, hold something else in his hands.
One of Rosie's sensory toys was on the table next to him, the obnoxious tawdriness annoying him, hurting his eyes.
But then he realised it was the perfect choice. Some kind of octopus, every stuffed blunt tentacle filled with a hidden form or noise.
He squeezed the first one.
Some kind of marble hidden in the stuffing.
The second had a small bell.
The third some kind of grains.
He kneaded the tentacles, feeling his body tense up and his blood pressure slowly rise, a side effect of his desire rising.
Desperately, he tried to read on.
Next tentacle: something that produced a clicking/snapping sound when pressed.
That felt good. Somehow satisfying.
But he couldn't concentrate, his thoughts returned to the glorious rush he would feel if he injected cocaine.
He found he wanted it.
No, he couldn't.
A rush of panic washed over him.
The fear of being unable to fight it.
Disappointing John by sneaking out and getting high.
He could if he wanted, he knew that. They wouldn't be able to stop him. No matter how much they assured him they would make sure to keep him in the flat.
If there was a will there was a way.
He fought the cravings, tried to block the thoughts out.
But reading was not working.
Violin.
He needed his violin. Do something that needed a higher level of concentration. She had always been a substitute in situations like this.
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Playing helped for a bit longer than half an hour, in which Mrs Hudson dared to leave him alone, knowing both his hands were busy. She went downstairs to start the washing machine.
But finally, he had to put down the instrument, his shoulder and arm joints hurting from use.
It took a lot of effort to carefully store the fragile instrument in its case, because his frustration was building up and he felt the almost overwhelming urge to smash something.
Running up and down the room in desperation he found the toy again and picked it up, fidgeted with its appendages.
It only took a few moment until Mrs Hudson was dutifully coming up the stairs again.
But all he wanted at that very moment was to be left alone in his misery.
"Go away!" he hissed through gritted teeth when she entered the living room.
"Sorry, can't do," she bustled around the room, picking up things and bringing them into the kitchen.
"Stop making noises!" he exploded and threw the obnoxious toy against the window glass.
Without much haste or being affronted, she just calmly sat down in John's armchair, her colourful apron getting on Sherlock's nerves immediately.
"Get that off," he spat.
And she did, balled it up and hid it behind the chair.
"It's getting bad, isn't it? Do I need to handcuff you to something?" she asked calmly, it was not a joke.
His still working brain provided that the only object heavy and massive enough to keep him in the house (if she could weld the keyholes shut) was the metal crib in John's room.
"Rosie's bed is the only object with poles and bars you could use for that purpose," he provided, "and that is not an option."
"Sherlock!" she looked scandalised, "I'll find something else, be sure of that."
Sherlock nodded, frustrated by his own weakness that made it necessary to even discuss this.
"That bed was made pre-war, you know," she wallowed in memories.
It had been quite some work to get it up there, he remembered, John had been very creative when cursing.
"Had it in the basement all these years, never bothered to throw it out. You know, one of the ridiculous things that was left behind by a former tenant. Probably left it behind because it was so heavy, solid metal and all."
For a moment he had the impulse to tell her to shut up because all those mundane stupid boring little things were so very unnerving and irrelevant.
But then he stopped himself, when another uncomfortable wave of 'need' crashed into him.
It was starting full force, starting to dominate his thoughts... and flooring the ability to think about anything else.
Like an obsession.
No thought free of the topic, the abnormal desire to 'get some'.
Every distraction was important!
Get his brain off the topic.
The thing was, he was capable of managing quite complex tasks and it wouldn't do a thing to keep him off the other thoughts.
Discomfort was building up.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, Mrs Hudson?"
"Are you listening?"
He nodded, feeling numb.
"How about you read some more in those case files of yours?"
"It's not working!" he yelled, frustration gushing out. "I can't read! My eyes won't focus properly!"
"Is that normal?" she looked a bit shocked while he fought his impulse to throw something fragile against a wall.
"I don't care!" he burst out.
And then saw how she flinched. He knew she wasn't afraid of him, that was probably one reason why he trusted her so much and dared to rely on her to a certain degree.
He was hurting all over and well aware that a good dose of cocaine would help with all his ailments.
But he couldn't.
He was doomed to endure this to get John back.
And John was more important than anything.
More important than drugs.
He needed to dominate his transport.
Fight the urge.
Then, his shoulders sagged in defeat, "I am sorry. I'm going back to bed," he said, feeling spent and like he didn't deserve her affection.
"Oh, no, you don't! Get on that sofa," she ordered, no nonsense style.
He considered ignoring her and retreating to his room anyway, but he had started to feel mentally incarcerated in his room.
Heavily, he let himself fall into the cushions and raised his eyebrows when she fetched the folder of case files and held it out to him.
"Pick the ones you need to read, I will read them out to you," she said, once more her tone was more of a stern order than a suggestion.
"I don't think this is-"
"Shut up and pick one!" she finally shed all kid-gloves, using a voice louder than Sherlock had ever heard before and dumped the folder on his thighs, the only area that wasn't hurting too much.
He bit his lips for a moment, trying to adjust to how ridiculous he would feel allowing her to do something like that.
The urge was growing.
As was the discomfort.
He would control his need for drugs - as he controlled most of his bodily functions.
He was good at that, had learned it from an early age.
Use every distraction available.
The first priority right now was to stop himself from planning how to get his hands on some cocaine or evaluate how to get past Mycroft's men so they wouldn't stop him.
He didn't really want to leave to get something, but some aspect of his mind was thinking about it. And his transport was pushing the issue by screaming at him to ease the agony.
Despicable.
Right, a distraction was needed.
Exhaling slowly, he closed his eyes.
"Read the autopsy report on the frozen body, please," he suggested.
She started to browse the folder for said report and Sherlock tried to breathe.
Just breathe.
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