Chapter 15
Still Day 5 in 2016, almost midnight
"He needs to stop disappearing into his mind palace," John stated when Greg returned to the living room.
"Funny enough. Right now he isn't even in a state to go there, I think. But do you really think it is wise to expect him to go through this torture more conscious than necessary?"
"No. That's not what I meant. The problem is, he's not moving enough and not drinking enough."
When Greg took breath, John interrupted him, "I know we shouldn't do anything that might tip his careful balance while he is walking on the edge, but he is getting worse."
"John, I know this is very hard to watch. I feel as helpless as you."
"He's getting dehydrated to an amount that will make things go downhill soon," John ranted on.
"Right now he is even less able to communicate his issues than usual," Greg made the issues known he had observed, "Additionally he's trying to figure out what and how to say the right thing. After last night he probably thinks he'll only make it worse if he speaks. Therefore, he's reluctant and quiet... and overwhelmed by cravings right now."
"You really think the cravings are the worst of it? I think the depression is hitting him equally hard."
"Yes. This is a danger night... Although every night is a danger night at the moment, this one will be bad. The cravings come in waves and are at a high this very moment. He tries to handle them. I think he's totally overwhelmed with... everything... Sorry, as a medical man you know that... sorry... It's just... The music is a bad sign, it means he can't or won't - for some reason - use the mind palace. He shouldn't be alone. He'll hate it, but for the next three something hours, we need to be in there with him."
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They took turns sitting in Sherlock's room after that.
The detective seemed to ignore them completely, he didn't even adjust his position or roll to his other side.
Sitting there in the dark, John was amazed how much self control Sherlock had. It was clearly visible how much strain it put on him to fight his body's cries for relief. All his life, the doctor had never seen someone go through withdrawal from these kinds of drugs. Contrary to expectations, he hadn't had to chain his friend to a wall to keep him from following his urges - yet.
It was grievously hard for John to monitor Sherlock's trembling back, his way too fast shallow breaths. The music must be at a volume Sherlock's sensitive ears would register as pain since John could hear it through the headphone at the other end of the room.
What was getting to him was that he could do nothing else than stare at his unmoving tense from.
Sherlock was still perspiring and would need another shirt soon. He was wearing all clothes inside out at the moment, because even the seams were incommodious. Sherlock's clothes had no tags, the detective removed them immediately, because even on a normal day he claimed they disrupted his thoughts due to the itching they caused.
During the last three days they had gone through Sherlock's entire wardrobe of comfort clothes and although Mrs Hudson was washing daily, John knew someone needed to get more non-irritating soft cotton clothes soon.
Feeling utterly useless, it made John physically uncomfortable to sit still while his best friend seemed to fight his battle alone.
Now and then Sherlock's breathing changed into a more laboured pattern or even hitched. The little chocked noises he made now and then hit John's apprehensive soul and every time it happened he had to close his eyes for a few seconds to keep his own emotions in check.
Finally, after almost four long hours, the tension left Sherlock's body and his breathing deepened.
Within a few minutes, he seemed to have fallen asleep – or managed to go to his mind palace.
John decided to wait a few more minutes. When he deemed it safe, he to returned to the living room, where Greg had taken a nap.
"Order some pizza? I know a place that is still delivering at this hour," Greg mumbled and sat up, his hair a mess and his stubble starting to show.
John winced, it was almost midnight.
Eating was the last thing he felt he needed, worry and shame suppressing his appetite. But his medical senses told him he should eat. Replenish the stuff his body was lacking after the drinking. It might even help the still present aftereffects of the hangover.
"Come on. You need nourishment. Prefer something else than pizza?"
John shook his head, out of words and unable to make another decision.
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An hour later, both men were sitting at the dining table.
John had relaxed a bit and it seemed having a decent meal and drinking a lot of soda had improved his mood a bit.
Greg had abstained from having a beer and was also having a sugary soft drink.
They were almost finished eating when suddenly there were noises coming from Sherlock's room.
John and Greg looked at each other in alarm.
Some seconds later the bedroom door burst open and the detective stumbled into the kitchen. He had to use his arms for balance on the doorframes and walls.
John saw him coming towards them through the lit kitchen.
Sherlock's movements broadcasted so much distress and precipitance that he was up and moved towards his friend immediately.
"Sherlock? What the hell?"
When Sherlock lifted his head, John could see his face. The detective was very pale and the dark areas around his eyes had worsened. He looked seriously ill and his face was covered in sweat. But the most troublesome thing was his expression, it was clear he was in panic mode.
"Get out!" Sherlock's hoarse yell echoed through the silent house.
"What?" Greg headed over to them, too, but Sherlock was already opening the kitchen door and scurrying into the hallway.
"Shit!" Greg sounded confused and changed direction to stop their friend.
It was John who reached Sherlock first, grabbed his upper arm, this way preventing that he ran down the stairs.
The doctor was mainly afraid Sherlock might fall, he was clearly weak-kneed.
For a moment, John was convinced this was finally Sherlock's first try to get rid of them, to somehow sneak off and buy drugs, but when he saw the terror in Sherlock's eyes and the desperate tries to free himself from John's grip, he tried to assess the situation from a different point of view.
Sherlock's chest was heaving way too fast and John was sure his pulse was through the roof.
"I need to wake Mrs Hudson. Get Rosie! We need to get out of the house!"
"Sherlock? What the hell are you talking about?" Greg passed them and made a few steps down the stairs, effectively blocking Sherlock's way down.
John wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's chest to get a better hold on him.
"What? Why?... Sherlock! Calm down!"
Sherlock flailed and fought them, then started to yell.
"Mrs Hudson! Wake up!"
"Shh! Shit Sherlock! You'll wake the whole street."
"That's the point!... We need to get out... now!" Sherlock stammered with a trembling voice.
"What's the matter with you? Why the hell should we get out?" John demanded, his tone now suspicious.
"Rosie! We need to get out! We need to wake them..."
"Tell us why!" Greg ordered, staring at Sherlock's face, who's gaze was scampering through the room but looking at nothing, with a speed that was dizzying.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" Mrs Hudson turned on the light from downstairs and started to come up the stairs.
"No! Don't come up! Get out! There's a fire. Get out!" Sherlock urged her, struggling harder against the restraining hands.
"What?" the landlady squeaked.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Greg raised his hands in front of Sherlock, "Where?"
"Something is burning... I can smell it!" Sherlock argued.
Everyone was suddenly busy trying to sniff the air and find the source of the smell that was unsettling Sherlock so much.
John shook his head first. "Can't smell anything. You?" he addressed Greg.
"No. Nothing."
They stood in puzzled silence for a moment.
"Relax, Sherlock. Why do you think there is a fire? Did you see it? Is it in your room?" John tried to figure out what was happening.
"Yes."
Greg passed them again and sprinted back into Sherlock's room to check it.
"It was burning. I could smell it. It smelled like a burning house – not like someone making a fire but like all the various types of materials burning that are present in a house," Sherlock urgently rattled off, still trying to wind out of John's hands but with no vigour.
When Greg returned, he silently shook his head, out of breath but still alert.
The landlady had made it up the stairs, carrying a small fire extinguisher, she was now the one blocking Sherlock's way.
"Check my room, too," John asked him.
The DI hurried up the stairs to see if everything was all right there, too.
"The smell, there was that smell... and the flames," Sherlock's voice hitched, he sounded more confused than anything else.
"We can't smell anything. There is no fire, mate. I checked every room," Greg reassured him coming down the stairs.
Sherlock was just breathing heavily and shaking his head in disbelief, not struggling against John bracing him any longer. Without him realising it, the touch had shifted, from keeping him in place to keeping him upright.
To make sure everything was alright, Mrs Hudson went to check her flat and even checked the streets outside, but returned a minute later and assured them there was nothing burning.
With shaking hands, Sherlock shoved his greasy hair out of his face, then started to pull at it.
"Hey, stop that," John demanded in a gently voice, "let's sit you down."
When the doctor lowered him down onto the top step, Sherlock had to follow him down, having no strength left to keep himself standing.
John took a seat next to him.
"Sherlock? What just happened? Did you just have a nightmare?"
"No!" Sherlock insisted.
"Are you still smelling smoke?" he asked.
"No."
"Was it a memory?" John probed, not yet ready to suggest it was a hallucination. "Have you ever been in a burning house?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, it was clear he was trying to think.
Meanwhile Greg went to get a glass of water.
"Sherlock?" John tried to get the other man's attention when Sherlock was only staring into nothingness, obviously trying hard to remember.
"The smell... it was... my room was... something was burning... I... There were flames. They were high," the detective was struggling to keep it together.
"Alright. Have some water," Greg held out the glass and Sherlock took it.
"The intensity of my transport's reaction is kind of unnerving..." Sherlock pressed out between sips, trying to hide the very fact.
Unseen by Sherlock, Greg and John once more exchanged alarmed looks when Sherlock struggled to hold the glass in his trembling hands. Greg took it from him as soon as he stopped drinking.
"I am losing my mind," Sherlock croaked in a slightly hysteric tone, clutching his hair with his hands, as if to keep his head in place.
"You've been able to differentiate between reality and hallucination last night, what is different now?" Greg asked while John gestured to Mrs Hudson to give them some space. She nodded and went back to bed.
"I don't know," Sherlock whispered. "There is... Maybe there is strong... sentiment at work? This is difficult. I don't know why." He gulped repeatedly.
"Alright," John understood his friend needed something to relax him, even if it was only the tiniest bit to make him feel minutely more comfortable. "Can you make it to the bathroom? Let's clean you up."
"Shower?" Sherlock asked hopefully. The greasy heaviness on his head was interfering with his ability to think, he had understood that days ago.
"Yeah, no... Better have a bath, I think. But you need to calm down a bit first. That okay?"
The responding nod was tired but grateful, but they had to help him up and into the bathroom.
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Sitting in the warm bathing water, Sherlock closed his eyes in their 2016 bathroom.
Someone had made sure everything was as easy on his senses as possible. The room was lightened by waterproof rope lights, installed while Sherlock was still in hospital. Additionally, John had poured a generous amount of 'extra sensitive' baby bubble bath into the water after they both had an awkward moment watching him tremble like a leave in the water, causing tiny splashing noises.
The thick layer of fine bubbles made the bath a sensory delight. The thousands of tiny bubbles reflecting the many blue LEDs was intense but also had a calming, maybe even soothing effect.
It felt better than he had in days.
He had longed for a bath for so long. Had been irked by his unbathed state. Although he had washed every day, it failed to make him feel clean. He had needed this.
The odd waterproof plaster on his face was a bit annoying and John had made it clear he was not allowed to put his head under the water, had to yell for assistance when he was ready to rinse his hair.
Nevertheless, everything felt alien right now.
His body.
His thoughts.
Even the flat.
He had been through the process of detoxing several times and this time was different. Maybe it was just the fact that he was older, more experienced, had more words for conditions - emotionally and physically - to register.
It had never been this hard on him.
He remembered that after the last difficult withdrawal, which was before he had met John, he had sworn that no high was worth to go through this low.
When he had started with cocaine some long weeks ago, he had been at a low already and he hadn't cared any longer. It was not the high he had needed, it was the escape.
And the cause... going to hell.
But this was the real hell he was going through right now.
Another factor that hadn't been there before was: John.
This factor gave the entire thing a way more complex and existential touch than anything else had in his life.
It was amazing and terrifying, what John's presence was doing to him... or his absence. The shifts in perspective he generated.
The first time John's absence had made him kind of sick was during the time he had hunted down Moriarty's web.
It had been an eye opener.
No-John was disabling him, an absence that turned existence into a hollow shell.
It was ridiculous, but true.
He had spent a lot of time denying it.
When he had finally accepted it, spent even more trying to find out why.
Disharmonism happened when John wasn't there and he still couldn't grasp it or put it into coherent words.
John's discardment felt the more devastating the moment Sherlock realised that.
He had turned himself into a mere shadow of his former self.
And he was no longer sure he had the strength to work it all out.
Their issues seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle.
The world was so dull without cocaine.
Everything was unbelievable bleak.
Looking forward for a bath was pathetic. As was the hope that things would get better.
He moved and the sounds of little splashes echoed in the tiled room.
It suddenly made him feel much more desperate and lost than he had during the past days.
Life as he knew it was over.
John was a father now, one with double responsibility. He could no longer just hand their daughter over to a wife understanding he needed a bit of adrenaline.
Even if he had truly forgiven Sherlock, things would be very different from now on.
The changes seemed unacceptable, unfeasible to adjust to.
He disliked changes and knew he didn't cope with them very well, especially not live-changing ones like these.
His life would be dull from now on.
There was no future he could picture that could be worth all this pain.
Desperately, he reminded himself that he needed to find positive aspects, find a way for him and John to continue what they had done in the past... but he failed.
The only thing that felt real was the bleakness, the loss, the dullness and his flaws.
Everything interesting seemed somehow to be linked to John. Without him crimes were boring, eating unbearable, and cups of tea not worth being brewed.
Everything just seemed to be unmakeable.
The flat was the only thing that felt real, but everything that was supposed to be out there, was gone. He had lost all connection to it in the past days. Good crime fighting, people, interaction, life in general, nature, news, reality... all lost. Gone from his reality.
He didn't know what day it was, let alone the date.
Everything felt completely disconnected from his thoughts and reality.
He knew he shouldn't think about this in his state, but he couldn't keep thoughts like this away.
Reality had shrivelled to the size of the flat. Nothing good in it, only grief and disappointment, pain and darkness. Anxiety paired up with depression.
He felt the panic creep in, and for a moment, he had the common sense to fight it, but then it caught him like a huge wave and left him gulping for air like a stranded fish.
The ghost of the panic he had felt earlier when confronted with the fire in his room was still there and relit more distress.
He tried to fight the panic by thinking.
Where was this coming from?
Were there gaps in his memories?
Had he deleted memories from his time in Serbia he hadn't recovered yet?*
Unlikely.
Frantically, he tried so search through the details of the fire he had sensed, which left him even more unsettled.
But he couldn't find anything even a bit similar to what had been playing out in his mind.
And the only thing – besides the horror and the smells and the heat – that he knew that he saw a small gap in the flames and even though he knew he would get hurt he leaped through it.
It was likely it wasn't a memory, just another hallucination.
Yesterday, he had been able to just lie there and watch whatever his subconsciousness was regurgitating. Had the calm to just observe the things that evolved.
They were painful, but he had managed to find the balance to be able to just observe.
Never in the past had he suffered from hallucinations as intensely as this time.
The odd thing was that some kind of sense memory was somehow there, but not in terms of pain or burns.
The taste of ashes on his lips.
The penetrating smells of melting plastic and burning wool.
He gulped repeatedly, still feeling the breathing issues the smokes had caused.
Or was it just the panic? It hadn't lessened.
His chest felt tight and he was experiencing light-headedness.
The hallucinations had been threateningly unsettling. Mary being there or the morgue coolers, with those, he could make the connection where the subconscious issues came from.
But the fire?
Then he remembered there had also been a glimpse of emotions and sensations he couldn't remember to ever have experienced. But when he tried to probe or explore them further they seemed to recede.
Evaporate.
The entire thing might be completely disconnected to his current situation but felt nevertheless primeval and reality shattering.
When the door was yanked open and John stormed in, Sherlock realised he was gulping for air like a fish out of water.
"Hey?"
John's fingers were at his wrist immediately and the relief this touch caused was almost too much to handle.
He giggled frantically about the absurdity and the alleviation about the fact that John was no longer keeping him at an unscalable distance.
"Breathe, Sherlock. Come on, mate."
He did, rolling his eyes about his own pathetic reactions.
It took effort, but he managed.
"That's it."
The loud sounds of him sucking in air added to his panic for a moment, but the fact that his friend was there made it easier to handle.
John's presence grounded him.
But then, another realisation hit him like a brick wall.
He wanted nothing but out of experiencing this. The urge to contact Wiggins or some dealer hit him so hard, he could physically feel it.
Still fighting for breath, he realised he was in danger of sneaking out soon and he was still sure they wouldn't be able to stop him.
Intense fear that he really might do something this stupid floored all other thoughts.
The past hours - before he had managed to enter the mind palace, which resulted in the unfortunate interaction with Watson in their 1867 bathroom - had been so hard, he wasn't sure he could do that again.
Something so urgent and raw, a hunger so overwhelming it felt like starving, had spiked in a way that had drained all his energy.
The intense want his transport had thrown at him had made him nauseous.
He was afraid he would fail to resist.
"Look at me, please," John's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
Slowly, he narrowed his eyes and looked at the other man, who was down on one knee in front of the tub, ready to interfere if something happened. His gaze alert and his hands ready to take action.
Sherlock couldn't raise his gaze, his head sagged downwards in defeat.
"I can't..."
"What, Sherlock?"
"... this," He failed to explain.
"Alright, mate. That's enough. Let's get you out of there."
Only after that, Sherlock remembered that he hadn't washed his hair and he shook his head.
Afraid he might lose his fight with his will to endure this until he was through, he tried to concentrate on something else.
"Hair," he huffed.
"Sherlock, you're hyperventilating. You need to get out of there."
"Shampoo?" he insisted and after a sigh and a few long seconds of hesitation John handed him the bottle.
.
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* This refers to Sherlock suffering from repressed memories that resurface and give him a very hard time in my story 'Define Vulnerability'.
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A/N:
Make my day and tell me what you think.