Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath/ Sparkypip for her patient beta work!

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Chapter 8

2016

"Sherlock, can I come in?" John asked, knocking gently.

On the other side of the door Sherlock closed his eyes. He should have known the noise he was trying to keep down might draw attention to him.

He was torn between letting John in and needing solitude.

Just a few days ago he had let people see his state deliberately, but he had enough of that now. It had been necessary to get John's attention to reach his goal to make his friend safe him.

But now that the deed was done and he didn't want to be seen, wanted no one to pity him. He was miserable enough without having to endure people around.

Suffering through this was a private matter - as was being high, which he had been very private about all his life - until a few weeks ago. It had been difficult to get used to letting other people witness it, but necessary for his mission.

Now that it was done and he wanted privacy.

The fact that they wouldn't let him alone and had surveillance in place as part of the deal he had needed to accept to be allowed to go home instead of to rehab made it difficult.

The drugs had made him feel invincible and dulled his need for privacy, although his mind had provided the input that it was only the chemicals and it was not real, but his very state had shoved aside that knowledge. No matter how meticulously he had planned to be careful and be not too psychotic when he was alone, that plan had totally failed.

He seemed to have hallucinated Culverton's daughter and all tries to prove that she had in fact been in the flat had been futile up to now.

The sudden memory of the moment in the morgue, when he saw her and realised he had never met her before worked itself into the forefront of his mind. That horrible moment when time had stood still and he realised everything was collapsing around him, like a house of cards. He had felt that lost in his adult life once before, in Baskerville when he thought he was losing his mind because his senses told him the opposite of what his eyes were.

This was similar.

Questioning his mind was one of the most devastating things there was. The only real constant in his life, the only thing he really trusted - failing him. Without the capabilities of his mind he was no one and useless.

It was one of the most vulnerable and horrible sensations he knew; and in this compromised and exposed state John had raised his hands against him.

Sherlock had known of course that this might happen, but had relied on John to wait for privacy and a moment where Sherlock could actually handle it. He had been prepared for this, but not in this setting, not while still fighting the shock about it all going so enormously wrong.

In slow motion, he saw his entire carefully prepared plan go wrong.

Losing control was something he feared and it had not just happen on one level in the mortuary.

He needed to find out what had gone wrong but couldn't concentrate enough to find a conclusion, not even now.

Once more, the events played out in his mind, it made his ribs start to ache as well as the wound on his forehead, triggered by the memories. But the plan going wrong resulted in fear that was sucking away all the smart thoughts, as it had happened back then, preventing him from even drawing the tiniest logical conclusion.

John's anger and Culverton's laughter added to it, distracted him, floored his intelligence and he couldn't hang on to it. Impulses took over, hurt him by purely existing and having a life of their own he was unable to control.

A state he hated.

It was similar to the one he was in now. The only path of thoughts present in his mind an impulse, no matter what he did to distract himself.

The all encompassing impulse to get drugs - right now - it was maddening. His senses and mind seemed fogged by the need.

He needed cocaine and it was the one thing that dominated it all, made everything else meaningless.

He remembered the other times he went through withdrawal. It was always a detestable experience that left dread and dismay in its wake. Being shot had been bad, but withdrawal was – although only slightly – worse. One aspect of it that was yet to come and that he dreaded were the psychological issues. By now he also was no longer suffering from the delusion that this was the last time he'd have to do this. Although he hadn't had a relapse in the past ten years, it had happened again. In addition, he wondered if he could have figured out another way to make John save him than to bring a criminal down in combination with the drugs.

Would it have worked better without the drugs?

Had him being high added to John's anger?

Probably.

Maybe John would have been more sympathetic if he had looked in need of help in some other way. Maybe if he hadn't been that messed up the plan would have worked better.

Had he used this to warrant his relapse?

Because he had tried to drown his grief about losing Mary and John and it had been the easiest way?

He knew he had asked himself all this before and realised the psychological issues had already started to get bad. His thoughts were going in circles and although it had started days ago, it was getting worse.

As was the anger at himself.

There was more anger about being unable to do anything good on a personal level, at failing to lessen John's agony and grief. As well as about being useless and unable to help the most important person in his life.

He despised his own helplessness.

"Sherlock?" John's low voice came through the door again. He sounded worried, and as if he hadn't slept... and defeated.

As defeated as Sherlock felt.

Nevertheless, he was too tired and too fed up to deal with John right now. He didn't deserve John's care. If he hadn't been so smug to believe he was able to handle everything Mary wouldn't have died.

But not only his mental state was getting worse. Every nerve ending in his body seemed to have been sandpapered and was now a source of piecing agony.

The muscle aches added to his pain, even if he didn't move at all.

At times moving felt necessary and he had walked from the door around his bed and back for the past hour to get rid of the restless tingling in his legs. It felt like he needed to run and he fought the urge to do so. Mycroft would misinterpret it – as would everybody else. It felt like he needed to do a few rounds on a race track but there was none at hand, which irked him in addition.

"Go away," he mumbled, loud enough so John could hear, trying not to sound rude. Maybe he was overcompensating, because he knew his level of aggression had risen during the past days. It was an aspect of withdrawal he tried to fight all the time and reminded himself to fight it, all the time, too.

Even if he wanted to go to a gym where he could run alone in the dark, he'd not even make it there; he was too weak and exhausted. The combination of restlessness and tiredness were driving him crazy.

"Mate, come on, let me in."

He had spent the first part of the night in his mind palace with the cold case but after a bathroom break had been unsuccessful to retreat there again. His tries to enter had ended after only a few seconds, something had kicked him out again.

Maybe he should make another try.

"Sherlock. Please..."

John seemed to be nearing his breaking point if the light trembling in his voice was any indication.

Some tiny aspect of him wanted John to make it better, although he knew there was no way he could. Maybe even talking to him would distract him for a few minutes. Even a John as bitter and gruff as he was, was better than no John.

If only Mycroft would go away.

"Send him away," he requested.

The doctor's steps moved away from the door and Sherlock could hear a silent discussion going on, then the lid of a laptop that was shut.

A minute later John was back, tipping the door with some fingernails as a silent way of knocking.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment longer, still wanting to be alone but needing something, too. Something that wasn't drugs but that he was unable to name.

God, he wanted to shoot up so badly.

With one hand he unlocked the door, slowly so that it wouldn't screech, then he lifted his knees so that John wouldn't bounce the door into his lower legs.

The doctor opened the door carefully and poked his head in first.

"Can I come in?"

"Stop asking stupid questions. I wouldn't have opened-" Sherlock spat.

"Right. Sorry, sorry."

Slowly, John stepped into the room and went down on his haunches.

As so often in the past days Sherlock didn't look at him, evaded his gaze. He stared onto the old wooden floorboards.

"Cravings getting to you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, already overexerted by the interaction. But then he nodded.

"You're shivering. Chills?"

Sherlock actually needed to open up his senses to notice the other man was right. He was just trying to block sensations out, they were too much.

"Want to go back to bed? I can bring you the cherry pit pillow again," John offered. Mrs Hudson had introduced the thermal pillow to them, it could be heated up in the microwave within a few seconds.

"No," Sherlock hissed, the smell made him nauseous. "Hot water bottle."

"Alright."

When John held out a hand Sherlock ignored it, but started to use the wall to lean on when he staggered to his feet. The doctor knew better than to touch him nowadays and Sherlock was glad for it.

"There is Thai takeaway. Your favourite."

It was the second time John tried to make him eat, but in contrast to most people withdrawing from cocaine Sherlock wasn't suffering from increased appetite. Or maybe one of the other drugs he was withdrawing messed up his appetite.

Overall many of his symptoms were atypical, it made checking into the average rehab facility useless, where underpaid and overworked staff had no time to do anything but to go off pat would mean more stress than necessary, luckily on this Sherlock had received support from Mycroft.

The pain intensified when he made the first small step and he stifled a groan. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw John raise a hand, ready to stabilise him, but he managed to start walking on his own and John backed off.

"I'll be back in a mo with your meds. You're almost due for the next dose of painkiller."

Morphine. John meant morphine.

Two hours ago Sherlock had been sure he'd make another try to refuse further doses, wanting to get it all over with at once, but right now the small relieve the drug would give him was desperately welcome.

Sherlock carefully lowered himself into the bed, it felt cold and clammy.

In the kitchen someone filled the kettle and switched it on.

He felt another wave of desperate want for a syringe full of bliss and all he could do to soothe his agitation was starting to rock again. A habit he had been broken off by his parents early, and he only came back to during withdrawal or severe distress.

It wasn't enough... and it felt pathetic.

He needed space, less sensory input, and less being watched.

Desperately trying to drown the paraesthesia he started hitting the headboard with the back of his head, only pain stimuli would be enough to do so. The pain was so refreshingly different from the dull piercing aches and also brisk since it came from only one spot he could focus on, it was good.

But then suddenly it stopped when the surface behind his head changed texture. He jerked his eyes open and realised John was next to him, had pushed his own hand in between Sherlock's head and the wood.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Please don't hurt yourself."

The softness of John's hand felt so disgusting and was so sudden Sherlock almost jumped out of his skin in frustration. He barely managed to stifle a loud holler working its way up from his chest.

It felt bad and then John had switched on the bedside lights, which send tendrils of pain into his eye sockets.

"Sorry. Take your meds," John spoke way too loud and all the sensation piling up was too much.

It overwhelmed him.

He felt the urge to hit something - hard... and scream until all the built up distress was gone.

But he didn't, managed to hold back – by pressing his thumbnail into the soft flesh of his other hand's palm to create pain in another way.

"Get out!" he yelled, not able to keep that need secret.

"Sherlock, I-"

"I said get out!"

"Hang on. Tell me what is bothering you?"

"Stop asking stupid questions! I need some damn stimuli, and it happens to be pain, so leave me be."

"Sorry, can't let you hurt yourself."

"So you are allowed to hurt me but I am not? If you have the right, I have, too!" he shouted.

The comment hit John like a punch; Sherlock saw it but was way too unnerved to be nice any longer.

"No, I didn't have the-"

"Shut up and get out!"

John's mouth closed and his expression hardened.

Why hadn't he left him alone as he had wanted from the beginning?

Why had he been so demanding?

Sherlock had known something like this might happen, that's why he had wanted to be alone.

But right now he didn't care any longer.

For a moment, John stood frozen and shocked in the middle of the room, pills and a big glass of water in his hands.

It took him visible effort to actually step closer to Sherlock and place the items on the nightstand, risking getting closer again and thereby agitating Sherlock even more.

"You need to drink more, you're getting dehydrated and that is the last thing your kidneys need. So drink the water and take the pills," his voice was cold and dead.

The speaking and being told what to do worsened Sherlock's mood, the voice grinded on his brain – it felt like a grater moving over the inside of his skull. And when John stepped closer, Sherlock smelled his Rosie-smell and bed-smell and aftershave and sweat.

Sherlock lashed out to protect himself from the additional olfactory assault, swept the glass of water from the nightstand in his anger. It flew across the whole room and collided with the wall. Only then the detective realised it was not glass but plastic.

They were treating him like an imbecile, using unbreakable stuff. He was angry to be denied the satisfaction if it breaking.

"Shit, Sherlock!"

"Get the hell out!" he yelled on.

In the living room Rosie started to cry and finally John retreated. He had the presence of mind to actually switch off the light before he left the room.

The door remained wide open and Rosie's obnoxious noise was making it all even worse.

Hurting all over and in overwhelming pain now Sherlock got out of the bed with closed eyes, slammed the door shut, which he regretted immediately because of the noise and locked it again.

Then he stepped into the spilled water and his senses went into meltdown mode. The sensation of cold wetness in his socks, was so overwhelming he had to work hard not to scream.
Feeling blindly for the pills he found them and gulped them down dry.

Then sank back into his bed.

When he pulled off the wet socks something ripped from the violent movements.

With shaking hands he pulled the duvet over his head.

Cravings mixing with adrenaline and sensory overstimulation made him feel his heartbeat in his head, which throbbed and hurt fiercely now. However, he couldn't stop the input, which made him feel helpless.

He felt wetness in his eyes, not because of sadness but because of the senselessness of it all. Life was just a waste of everything. It was never worth going through all the shit just to stay alive. John was only staying because of his guilt, not because he wanted to. Sherlock was not worth it, he knew.

The damn pills had an effect-delaying component he cursed about – to make addiction less likely to happen.

He wanted cocaine.

No one would miss him, so why go through this?

As soon as John was better he would return to his life as a father, needing to work double parenting because he was the only parent left.

Sherlock would be alone soon again. And although John would have been saved Sherlock would not.

Not in the long run. So what was the use in staying alive if only misery was ahead.

It would never be like old times again. John would never really get over losing Mary. His bitterness about how his life had gone downhill was easy to spot and he was probably still unconsciously angry about Sherlock faking his death and Sherlock had broken his promise to protect them.

Even if John wanted to display forgiveness and friendship, it felt wrong, like a facade that might fall at any moment.

In addition, he didn't deserve John's forgiveness.

In fact, he was guilty of failing John and Mary... and Rosie. The child's presence rubbed that in whenever she was here. Sherlock realised he was angry with her but should in fact be angry with himself. He didn't deserve care or affection.

So why try any longer.

Maybe he had succeeded in saving John but their friendship felt shattered beyond repair.

He dwelled in these thoughts until he finally pulled the mental emergency break.

In an epiphany of analysing his own behaviour he realised that he had just been rude to John because he had been kind to him, punished him for being worried.

It also made him understand that this was the depression talking, turning every detail sour no matter how neutral it had been originally.

This was bad for detective work.

He had pinned a large note on a mental wall inside his head that said he had to push those thoughts away and be aware that it was all nonsense. Another note reminded him, that John was here because he cared and because he wanted to help.

But it felt like a lie to remind himself of that.

This felt like he was starting to lose the battle.

He was beginning to doubt what he had written down – aware he'd doubt it eventually, which was the reason why he had pinned the mental notes to a wall in the first place, to remind himself that it was not true.

No one had ever really truly liked him because he was himself.

He was socially inept, appeared to be arrogant and uncaring, and he was unable to show affection – people had told him that all his life, and he should be aware that they were probably right.

Why would anyone want him around?

He had never understood why John did from the beginning, and he was wondering why John had stayed before.

Focussing on his meandering self-loathing thoughts was making it all worse, he finally realised. Luckily, the pills kicked in while he tried to get rid of this kind of thoughts and he was finally able to focus on entering his mind palace enough for it to actually work.

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A/N:
Long and difficult to write chapter, this one.

Some feedback or constructive criticism would make my day ;)