April 3rd, 1867 - Wednesday

The train arrived in London at the scheduled time and at this time of night it wasn't difficult for Watson to find a cab to drive them to Baker Street. Despite the long intervals Holmes had spent asleep on the train, he was not as steady on his feet as Watson would have liked. Withdrawal was getting worse and travelling had taken a lot out of his friend.

Mrs Hudson greeted them and felt clearly rebuffed when Holmes just sluggishly responded to her enthusiastic greetings before he shuffled up the stairs without a word.

Watson stopped her when she was about to chastise him for his ignorance and promised her he would come down again soon to tell her about all that had happened, but first, he needed to get Holmes to bed. When she was about to protest in her caring and motherly way, he raised a hand and stopped her with eyebrows raised in warning. Finally, she understood that things were dire and allowed Watson to follow Holmes up the stairs.

Watson found the flat warm and lit and send a silent thank you to the heavens for being blessed with someone who cared so deeply about them as their landlady did.

Noises could be heard in the bedroom and Watson headed towards it. The door was wide open and Holmes was in the process of getting out of his trousers. All the other garments he had worn were already discarded all over the floor. Holmes stumbled when his foot got tangled in the trouser leg and Watson reached out to stabilise him. To his dismay, the doctor found Holmes was not only sweaty but also trembling from exhaustion. He helped him lie down, which his patient endured without protest.

Holmes curled up and pulled the blanket so far up only his face and curls were visible and it was clear Watson was dismissed when he mumbled, "Leave one light".

Despite the danger this posed, Watson was glad Holmes had uttered it, it showed he was not afraid to ask for the small comfort. Watson was sure that before all this, Holmes would have allowed him to kill the flame of the lamp and after he left relit it secretly, afraid to show any vulnerability.

"Of course. I will come in later and make sure it won't smoke," Watson declared and pattered the bump of Holmes' shoulder under the blanket - he couldn't help himself, it was the only means to show his support and understanding he had at hand. Reducing the laudanum doses was finally catching up with Holmes and Watson was not looking forward to the inevitable.

"Hmm," Holmes grunted and Watson left to talk to Mrs Hudson and maybe get served some well deserved hot tea.

Not even half an hour later he found himself back in Holmes' room. Loud clattering in the rooms above had alerted him that something was going on and he had hurried up the stairs - closely followed by their landlady.

He found Holmes kneeling in front of their pristine and richly decorated water closet, which had been installed last spring.*1Holmes was retching piteously and tried to kick the door shut to keep them out when he became aware of their arrival. Of course, Watson had none of it and charged into the bathroom.

"Please," Holmes moaned, clearly asking to be left alone.

"Not happening," John informed him no nonsense and fetched a woollen blanket. The bathroom was too cold for someone just wearing underwear and it could take some time until the nausea receded enough to allow Holmes to return to his warm bed. He wrapped it around his friend, who pushed it off his shoulders immediately. Only then did the doctor realise that his friend probably couldn't stand the rough material clinging to his damp skin.

"Do you have ginger in the house?" he asked Mrs Hudson, not only to give her something to do, but also to give Holmes a bit more privacy. She nodded.

"Please make some weak tea from it, it will help with the nausea," he continued. She bustled off and Watson wetted a washcloth before he knelt down next to his friend.

"Look at me," Watson urged and was glad to see Holmes comply. He lifted his head from his forearm, which was resting against the porcelain, but evaded Watson's gaze by looking up at the ceiling, well aware what the doctor needed to see. Holmes' pupils were dilated far more than the dim light of the room warranted.

The signs of laudanum withdrawal were obvious: lacrimation, excessive sweating, and nausea. Holmes was probably also suffering from muscle and stomach aches. It was only a question of time until diarrhoeaand irritability would become additional issues. He must have felt pretty bad by the time they got home.

Holmes gagged. He hurried to get his head back over the bowl but the lack of sustenance meant he didn't produce anything, which was probably making things worse.

They spend the remainder of the night between the bathroom and Holmes' bed; only in the early hours of the morning Holmes was able to find sleep.

By the time he finally did, Watson stood in Holmes bedroom for quite some time, not sure what to do. After weeks of uncertainty and worry, he was once more overwhelmed by the fact that he had found the most important person in his life was still alive.

Spending the past five days together in the same room had changed things between them. Of course he had taken care of Holmes when ill or after injuries, but never like this. The intense care and close monitoring while living in the same space hadn't been easy. However, the more time went on, the less fight it became that Holmes entrusted him with his care. The trust between them had grown and the distance between them had shrunken.
So much in fact that Watson felt the idea to just go upstairs and leave him alone felt wrong, so he stayed.

.

April 4th, 1867 - Thursday

It wasn't until the next afternoon that Holmes was able to go to the living room for the first time. He miserably sat in his armchair by the warm fire, bundled up in his warmest dressing gown and a blanket to smoke a pipe. Watson had eaten lunch downstairs with Mrs Hudson to spare him the smells of food - an all too familiar routine by then.

Smoking soothed the raw mood Holmes was in only slightly and he returned to bed soon after.

.

April 8th, 1867 - Monday

Four highly uncomfortable days later they shared their first meal in the living room together in almost a month. For Sherlock it felt more like half a year. It was also the first time he was actually dressed. Not in a fancy way, though. His own wardrobe usually did not contain comfortable and loose fitting garments but he had lost weight and everything he owned was now slightly oversize. Watson had gone to the attic and found some old and well worn clothes from Sherlock's university days for him to wear. They had been washed so often they were soft and comfortable - and decades out of fashion. He didn't care about the latter. It felt good to wear his own garments and enjoy their softness.

He couldn't deny that sitting there again like this filled him with exceptionally strong sentiment. Although he was still miserable and in a lot of pain, he managed to converse with his friend and eat a bit of soup. Ever since his first day at the asylum he had longed for this (and Mrs Hudson's cooking). It lifted his spirits to be home again and eat with his friend.

After the meal Sherlock sat on his desk to review the notes on his unresolved cases. There were two, three if one counted the death of the maid who had been poisoned by not sufficiently diluted phenol. In the end, it was more likely her death was an accident than murder. Nevertheless, Sherlock hadn't filed it because whoever had written down the instructions hadn't been found. Another reason he had kept it between the unsolved ones was the parallels to another case: the frozen woman in the woods, killed by inhaling caustic fumes, which might have also been an accident. Someone had tried to hide her death by disposing her copse. The employers of the maid had also tried to get rid of her corpse to prevent a scandal. Sherlock found it highly unlikely there was a connection other than the fact that someone else might have had the same problem - hide an accident to prevent a scandal.

The third case was the one of the sickly boy, who was found in a waste dump. Whatever had caused his death couldn't be determined and due to the recent illness the coroner (not Hooper, who might have done a better job) had deemed it natural causes or rather late occurring complications of the illness. Sherlock assumed it was Anderson's usual incompetence that lead to the fact that the case was dropped.

They were having an after meal pipe when the doorbell rang. Roughly a minute later, Mrs Hudson came in, asking if they were ready to see a possible client. Watson said 'no' while Sherlock answered with 'yes' simultaneously.

"Holmes, look at you. You are in no state to receive visitors. Tell them to come back next week," Watson protested.

Sherlock sucked at his pipe. Watson was right. It was his first reflex to allow all cases to be submitted, no matter what. Probably his own version of running away from all things inconvenient.

Nevertheless Watson was right; he was tired.

Why did he never listen to his transport announcing the need for rest?

One reason was certainly that he had problems noticing it. Another might be that he had learned that admitting it meant he was deemed lazy or weak or selfish. Additionally, there were always hidden expectations and if he gave such an information, it would be used against him sooner or later. If he was honest with himself, he knew that solving cases was not only a kind of addiction but also an escape - from everything dreadful in his life: drugs, loneliness, depression, understanding the world, and whatever trauma was haunting him. So perhaps he was running to evade emotional pain, still, being aware of that did not provide him with an idea on how to process it instead.

Spending the past nights in misery and visited by nightmares brought back to him what he was currently really running from: reality. Despite his best efforts he had created a mirror image of trauma in his chosen reality; it was seeping in and he had no means to stop it.

He had dreamt of fire, locked doors and being abandoned. Even though he was awake now, those images lingered, especially those of fire. All those negative feelings were amplified by withdrawal, made the dreams more vivid, the emotions more intense - overwhelmingly intense. He found himself close to meltdown on several occasions and was not sure he wanted privacy in those situations or not. He just didn't know how to handle sentiment; it was like a storm he had to weather and no clue if it would fell him or how to get through. One of the reasons he had relapsed in the past was that he had never been able to figure out strategies to handle it adequately. Advice that helped normal people cope was completely useless to him and realising this had been a major landmark in his early life. He had tried many things - including drugs - to cope even though was still at a loss. Emotions were just debilitating.

Or was he suffering from a tendency to catastrophise?*2

The odd thing was, though, that although the harrowing emotions lingered, his memories of the past days were hazy and vague. He did know it had been miserable, but the days had kind of rushed past him. As if someone had pushed the fast forward button on an VCR tape they had sped by. He did remember things, but they were more like snapshots than entire sequences of events. Maybe he was just tired or maybe it was some form of dissociation.

Some part of him hoped that this was his body going through withdrawal in real life and that when he returned to it one day his body was finished with it. This had been part of the point of the entire escape to the Victorian era. Still, his hopes that it would actually work that way were slim. If he was unlucky, only a day or so had passed in real life by now. Maybe that was one reason why he had not even tried to return to real life, yet.

Admitting defeat at this point seemed not a too bad thing if Watson suggested it. Sherlock stood up and dragged himself back towards his bedroom.

"Send them away," he mumbled in Mrs Hudson's direction when he passed her.

His departure was accompanied by deafening silence.

He had almost reached the bedroom door when Watson came after him.

"Holmes, if you are desperate to have a case, maybe they can wait until you freshened up a bit," he suggested, clearly back paddling . Why the sudden change of direction though, escaped Sherlock's understanding.

"No, it's fine. You are right. I am tired," Sherlock muttered and rolled into his bed without shedding his dressing gown. The bed smelled and felt used. It was disgusting, really.

His teeth hurt.

The tightness in his head worsened it all.

Watson's steps faded and Sherlock cursed his inability to relax. He wanted to, his body was screaming from the tension.

So tired.

Although he wanted sleep, he knew finding it would be difficult. First, he needed to relax and he was unable to do even that. It took him a moment to realize that restlessness was part of withdrawal.

Trying to relax and fail made it even worse. Sherlock desperately tried to consciously breathe and allow his muscles to slacken to aid the process. Unfortunately, it didn't help at all.

Then suddenly, something unexpected happened, the mattress dipped from a heavy weight added to it. He didn't need to open his eyes to know Watson had sat down on the opposite side.

Movement.

Apparently, Watson had lifted his legs onto the bed.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes a bit.

Watson was sitting at the food end of the bed, leaning against the high footboard with a pillow between his back and the wood. He neither wore shoes nor the fine dress suit he had worn before, instead he had changed into comfortable woollen trousers and a loose fitting shirt. A book was open in his lab.

Sherlock suddenly remembered that this was not unfamiliar. He had found Watson doing the same two nights ago - after one of his fire-haunted nightmares - but hadn't been sure if it was real or a dream in hindsight.

Not a dream, then. He allowed his eyes to close - only to open them again immediately.

Had he seen that right?

It was hard to discern in the dim light, but it seemed Watson's moustache was not there.

He blinked and shoved a bit of the blanket away.

The movement alerted Watson, who looked up.

No, there it was, the wretched facial hair. He had probably imagined it in a fit of wishful thinking.

"Hmmm," he answered the unspoken question clearly written on Watson's face and closed his eyes again.

The moustache had definitely not changed. But something had changed in the past week.

The time at the inn had blurred boundaries that had never really been set, that just existed due to social standards or the floor design of their flat. Something had been torn down in the past days, not that Sherlock was able to name it, yet some barriers were gone. Things had mingled. Things that had been private before were no longer, though they had never really been separate due to living together.

Having Watson around when he slept, having him in the room his bed was in, sleeping in the same bed (though not at the same time) and borrowing clothes had brought a new level of intimacy by normalising them, not because they weren't there before. They had done one or the other at some point before but it was an exception. This level of normalcy felt right. It kind of bared all… or was it just because his own boundaries had been reset by the lack of privacy and free will the asylum had robbed from him?

This was more than a doctor watching over an ailing man.

This felt normal and relaxing, although or because boundaries were gone.

Abandoning social norms Sherlock had never cared about was freeing. He was a man out of his time after all, no matter what time that might be.

Watson turned a page and the familiar sound took away more of his tension just by being present.

He was home.

Sherlock felt his breath slow down.

A few minutes later, when his friend stuffed his pipe, the ambience was so well acquainted and cosy, he slipped into sleep without actively trying to.

1 https/en./wiki/Flush_toilet#History

2 Catastrophising: having negative thoughts that spiral extremely fast to the worst case scenario. There are theories (which I support) that say autistic people don't lack emotions but struggle to identify and manage their intense emotions. If you want to learn about that, find some good articles via google, I am not in the state to summarize it.

A/N:

I made a lot of fanart to illustrate this story. Go to my tumblr to see it, or read the story on AO3 where it is actually possible to insert art into the text.

Also, I am doing a Sherlock themed Inktober this year, so loads of Sherlock whump ahead (and already posted).