Archive of Our Own

It was like a dream, the houses and cars and people they went past; just like a hazy glow, shadows about to vanish once he blinked.

His hand touched window, cherishing the cool of it, and his head rested against it. It was hard keeping his eyes open. They kept falling shut, it was exhausting.

“Sherlock.” Someone wouldn’t stop calling his name. Couldn’t they just leave him alone for a second? They had already interrupted his dream several times, never allowing him to solve the case.

His head was spinning and his body was trembling a little and he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back. His brain had told him it had been utter nonsense. Pure imagination. Just a fantasy. A feverish dream. Not real. 

The signs of withdrawal were going to set in gradually, he was sure, and they had to make it back to the flat before it happened.

“Sherlock…” It was John’s voice.

Sherlock hummed quietly. His chest ached and it was difficult to keep breathing normally.

“Are you going to tell us what exactly Moriarty’s going to do next?”

“We have to get back to Baker Street. I have to–“ A stabbing pain shot through his head. His hands flew to his temples, trying to ease the ache, but it didn’t work the way he had hoped it would.

“Sherlock.” John’s hand was touching his shoulder.

“We need to get you to hospit–“

“For God’s sake, John, I’m fine!” Sherlock snapped and turned to look at him a bit too quickly. He felt dizzy and his vision blurred almost entirely. His pupils were blown wide, almost swallowing his irises. “At least I will be, but only if you would stop worrying. It’s not helping in any way!”

He saw John was about to answer him, he had already opened his mouth to speak and if it weren’t for Mary’s hand on his knee, he would have shouted at him for at least five minutes.

He didn’t remember much of the drive because his lids hang heavy over his eyes and he was glad they did. The speed of the people and objects moving around worsened his headache.

Sherlock tried not to wince when he dragged himself out of the car once they arrived. He fished the key out of his pocket and opened the door with shaking hands. He hoped John wouldn’t notice so he blocked the view to the lock.

He was relieved Mrs Hudson wasn’t in. She only would have asked questions he was not willing and incapable to answer right now.

His legs felt heavy when he walked up the stairs as quickly as he could manage, John and Mary being right behind him. He rummaged through the drawers of the cabinet next to their sitting room window.

“It has to be here. I put it here when we came back from the pool,” Sherlock murmured, hurling some paperwork out of the drawers. 

“Sherlock, what are you looking for?” John asked calmly.

“The– argh…” A strong wave of pain washed over him, gripping him tightly, not going to let go anymore. He convulsed, digging his fingers into his thighs, looking for stabilisation.

“Sherlock!” John rushed forward, resting his hand on his shoulder to support his weight. “Okay, this is it,” he said. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you work while you’re in massive pain. You should be in hospital, damn it!"

“I’m fine!” Sherlock growled and straightened himself. He felt lightheaded and it took all his strength not to stagger.

“Yes, I can see that!” John turned towards Mary who still stood in the doorway, watching them. “We won’t get anywhere today. You should go home.”

“All right,” Mary said, the expression on her face was unreadable. “You’ll take him to a clinic, then?”

“I would appreciate it if you left this instant, both of you,” Sherlock murmured. “I don’t need to be in hospital to come down.”

“I think you misunderstand,” John told him. “I’m not going to witness you having a heart attack from an overdose of cocaine and God knows what else!”

“I actually thought your observational skills were improving,” Sherlock retorted, “but I must have mistaken it for sheer luck. I am not having a heart attack, John!”

“All right, I’ll leave you two to discuss this in a man-to-man conversation. Hope you’ll get better soon, Sherlock,” Mary said and turned around, heading downstairs.

Sherlock sighed in relief when he heard the front door fall shut. “Will you do me the favour of going after her, please?”

“And leave you alone in this state? Are you out of your mind?” John asked him. “Sherlock, you might have survived the overdose, but the withdrawal symptoms are already setting in. I have seen enough junkies coming down from a high and they felt more than utterly miserable, so if you–“

“Is your sermon over now? Would you just stop–“

“Stop what? Stop caring? About my best friend who just shot up and has lost track of how much he can actually take? Your so called controlled usage has turned into a serious habit and has now reached the point where you just use it all up to – yeah, to do what exactly? Die? Was this what you wanted?” John didn’t intend to bring it up again, but he knew he wouldn’t get another chance to talk about it. “Because proving Moriarty is actually dead certainly wasn’t the reason you did this. You were told he was on every screen in the country after you used.”

“You proved your point. Are you happy now?” Sherlock asked him. His face was paler than John had ever seen it and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

John shook his head, capitulating. “I am not leaving,” he said.

“Why does everyone assume I am not able to handle this on my own?” Sherlock inquired exasperatedly.

“If you were able to handle your life on your own, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“John–“

“No, Sherlock. This is not over yet. I know this isn’t easy for you. Christ, it’s not easy for me either. But tell me … why do you think you have to do this alone?” John’s voice softened at the end of the sentence. The furrowed lines on his forehead eased gradually.

Sherlock closed his eyes. The pain still ripped through him like a dagger, but he couldn’t wince, he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t let John know. “Because I’ve been alone all those years and I never had a problem with that before.”

“Sherlock,” John tried again. “There are people around you who care, people who are worried. Your brother and I probably worry the most, so why can’t you just admit,” he paused for a moment, “you need help to the people who are more than willing to provide it?”

It got harder and harder to stand upright so he rested his hand on the edge of the table for support.

“This is it. I’ll take you to hospital. They can take better care of you,” John said and stepped towards him, trying to steer him out of the room, but Sherlock leant forward on the desk, his head hanging from his shoulders.

“John,” he whispered. “Don’t make me go there again. Please.”

John’s hand rested on his back, rubbing it firmly and gently at once. Sherlock never wanted him to stop. “Your temperature, pulse, respiratory rate, blood pressure and oxygen saturation have to be monitored at all times. There are no antidotes here to alleviate the pain. I can’t … we can’t do this here. I’m sorry,” he said calmly. “It’ll only be for a few days. I’ll stay with you.”

“We don’t have time. Moriarty is–“

“Working in this state won’t do any good,” John said sternly. “You need to rest.”

“Tell Mycroft to get the medication …” His voice was merely a whisper. “… and all the supplies you need.”

He looked up into John’s eyes, finding fear and concern and doubts in them. 

“If we do this, you have to promise me something,” John answered, locking eyes with Sherlock who blinked once to encourage him to keep talking. “No more lies. You’ll be honest with me. You will answer every question truthfully. If you’re in pain, you’ll tell me. If we can’t get it under control, I’ll call an ambulance. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded and almost collapsed to the floor, barely managing to hold on to the table.

“Come here,” John ordered and supported Sherlock’s weight with a strong arm around his waist as he put one of Sherlock’s arms around his neck. “Bedroom.”

________________________________________

John had called Mycroft and told him to get the pharmaceuticals Sherlock was going to need once the withdrawal symptoms got worse.

He helped Sherlock into a new pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. Sherlock assured him he had showered this morning so there was no need for a bath. John knew he might possibly have to have one sooner or later to cool off and bring down the temperature he was certainly going to catch. 

Mycroft arrived half an hour after the call with a large bag containing everything John asked for. “Thanks,” he said.

“I should thank you, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft replied quietly, his voice sounded more worried than John had ever witnessed.

“Could you,” John cleared his throat, “give me his list, please?”

Mycroft pulled out his little notebook, handing the shreds to John without saying anything. After a moment, he spoke up, though. “How is he?”

“Pretty weak. Sleeping lightly right now, but I don’t think he’ll be able to for much longer,” John sighed.

Mycroft acknowledged it with a nod. “If you need anything else, call me.”

“Actually, there’s something I’d like to know,” John said, keeping his voice down, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t overhear this conversation. “Has he … has he overdosed before?”

“Once,” Mycroft told him. “He was at university. The people he engaged with at that time introduced him to the drug scene … well, I am sure you can imagine what they were like.”

John swallowed hard. “What triggered him?”

“A break-up,” Mycroft informed him, leaving John wide-eyed. “He attempted to make my brother quit, help him to get clean for good. Quite the opposite ensued so he left." 

John clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He took a deep breath, trying to gather the courage to ask another question, but Mycroft interrupted him. “This isn’t the time to dwell upon the past. I think you do have a patient who is in need of your medical attention." 

John nodded, wanting to get rid of the lump in his throat. Mycroft left without another word. He looked down at the list when the elder Holmes was out of sight and closed his eyes for a bit. He shouldn’t have listened to Sherlock. He should have taken him to a clinic.

Morphine and cocaine were the two drugs he had used most of so this was what he was going to focus on first. Thanking God heroin was not on the list and cursing the oxycodone, John went back to Sherlock’s bedroom with the bag in one hand, pocketing the shreds of Sherlock’s list with the other.

“Sherlock,” John woke him gently.

Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking at John several times. “I’ll administer you an antidote to prevent your body from responding to any of the morphine." 

He rested his left arm next to his body so John could inject it. John saw the various punctures and marks, but didn’t comment on them. There’d be enough time to talk about it later.

He washed his hands before he put on sterile gloves, opened a packet and took out the sterile needle, preparing the injection and disinfecting the crook of Sherlock’s arm. He didn’t flinch when the needle slid in. He was used to the feeling by now. 

“Naloxone?” Sherlock wanted to know.

John nodded. “I’ll start an IV in a minute, but I wanted to give it to you first. It takes about a minute or two to set in.”

He removed the syringe when it was empty and disposed it as well as the gloves. “How did you take the cocaine?" 

“Intravenous injection,” Sherlock murmured quietly and closed his eyes. “But I snorted two more lines later.”

John reached for Sherlock’s hand to check his pulse. He didn’t have to count many beats to know it was above what was normal for an adult. “So it’s wearing off?”

“Starting to.”

“All right.” John reached for the sphygmomanometer and took Sherlock’s blood pressure. “155 to 108. We need to lower it quickly or we’ll increase the risk of a heart attack.”

He gathered all the materials he needed before he prepared the IV tubing, suspending the IV bag from the back of the bed as an elevated stand wasn’t available to them at the moment. He filled the tubing with saline solution, making sure there were no bubbles in it. He disinfected his hands and put on a new pair of sterile gloves. 

“It’s probably best to use your right arm for the IV,” John told him, knowing he’d injected the drugs into the veins of his left one. The crook of it looked slightly swollen and irritated from the marks the needles had left behind.

Sherlock nodded as he watched the procedure. John applied a tourniquet on Sherlock’s upper arm, slipping a finger underneath it to be sure it wasn’t too tight. He had no trouble finding a prominent vein. He tore open a fresh alcohol swab and wiped the skin of the inner crook of Sherlock’s elbow. Removing the catheter from the package, he quickly checked if it’s working, inspecting the needle and the catheter hub.

He looked up at Sherlock to make sure he was all right.

Sherlock nodded briefly, encouraging John to continue. John stabilised Sherlock’s arm with his right hand, inserting the needle with his left. He hit the vein at the first attempt and moved it deeper into it. Maintaining pressure on the skin, he pulled the needle back a little and advanced the catheter into it. Once it was seated, he removed the tourniquet and taped the catheter with sterile bandage over half of the hub and held the catheter in place as he pulled out the needle completely and disposed it.

Removing the protective cover from the end of the tubing, he inserted it into the hub, placing a tape over it and securing the IV. He ensured there were no kinks in the tubing.

“There we go,” John said softly as he administered clonidine to lower the blood pressure.

“Thank you.” Sherlock offered a small smile and John’s heart almost shattered to pieces when he realised he had never seen Sherlock so wrecked.

“How are you feeling?” He asked him. “Do you have trouble breathing? Do you feel a strain on your heart?”

Sherlock nodded once. “Heart strains a bit.” 

“Tachycardia,” John answered as he rummaged through the medical bag, looking for liquid aspirin. He reached for another syringe, tore the package open and prepared the injection into the IV.

“You should be in hospital,” he murmured as he sat down beside the bed.

“I thought you were doing great so far,” Sherlock countered.

“You’re putting your life at risk and so am I.”

“Don’t I always?” Sherlock asked and looked up at John.

“Not like this,” John said as a silent sob shook him and he desperately tried to suppress it. “Never like this.”

Sherlock let out a breathy sigh and shut his eyes, turning his head away from John.

John buried his hands in his own hair and for a moment, their breaths were the only sound breaking the silence. “Why did you do it?” he asked him when he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to know so he could prevent it if it ever happened again in the future. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh yes, Sherlock. It does matter,” John said firmly. “You wanted to stay here and you promised me to be honest in return. Don’t you think I deserve to learn the truth?”

“I do,” Sherlock told him, “but it honestly does not matter!”

“Why not?”

“Because there are at least a hundred reasons to do it,” Sherlock grumbled and faced John again.

John’s eyes were unreadable, neither cold nor soft, simply worried. “How about you just tell me the main reason?”

Sherlock buried his head deeper in the warm pillow and took a deep breath, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat by swallowing a few times. His hands trembled and he dug his fingers into the sheets to stop them from shaking. “The MI6 offered me a job which required me to do undercover work in Eastern Europe. It would have been … fatal. Six months were all I had, according to Mycroft’s estimate.”

John stared at him, not knowing what to say. His mouth went dry and a cold shiver ran down his back. “So you decided to end your life before you even got there? Why would you even accept an offer like this? Your own death sentence.”

“There’s nothing to keep me here anymore,” Sherlock whispered, wanting to turn his head away from John again. He couldn’t bear the look on his face; the worry, the disappointment, the shock and the realisation.

“Isn’t there?” was all John had to say. It came out like a hushed whisper.

Sherlock couldn’t answer him. Breathing normally felt like an impossible thing to do in this moment, not because of the high dosage of the drugs circulating through his system but because of the tears welling up in his eyes, almost choking him.

“When did you start?” John wanted to know, his voice full of suppressed tears, and Sherlock blinked at him. “You never used when we still lived together. You even quit smoking, so tell me. When did you start?”

Sherlock didn’t know if he should be angry with John for forcing him to lay it all out on the table or if he should be relieved he could finally get it off his chest and make John see even though he hated the emotions clouding his judgement and leaving him incapable of forming another sentence without a sob joining his words.

There had only been been two moments in which all his feelings poured out of him; when he saw the Hound whilst they investigated Henry Knight’s case in Baskerville and John mocked him for being afraid and when he stood in front of the plane with John and was about to be taken away and never return to the one friend he cared about more than he was allowed to, except he didn’t let the emotions overwhelm him the way he did in Baskerville. He was on the verge of letting John know about this, but in the end it didn’t seem worth it. He would find out and then what? It wasn’t going to make Sherlock stay. He would leave John behind, fly off to his death and both of them would suffer from his revelation.

“Why is this relevant?” Sherlock asked him, nearly pleading to be spared to answer his question.

“Because I want to understand.” John looked so sad it made Sherlock feel sick.

“The first time we sat down to plan the wedding.”

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he breathed. “That was more than a year ago.”

“It was controlled usage. I calculated every dosage–“

“It doesn’t matter,” John told him and looked up. “So you were high during the wedding.”

Sherlock wished he didn’t have to look at John. He couldn’t stand it. He wished the withdrawal symptoms were worse by now so he would have an excuse not to talk to John. Sherlock closing his eyes again for a moment was every answer John needed to continue.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Sherlock choked out.

“If this was so hard for you, why did you never say anything? I told you before, you could have talked to me anytime. I still came around to visit – I still came along to cases.”

“But you still weren’t here,” Sherlock said through the tears he tried to hold back. His voice was merely a tight whisper.

John looked at Sherlock for several never-ending seconds before he got up from the chair and sat down on Sherlock’s bed, reaching for his hand. It was sweaty and cold and uninviting and Sherlock hated it, but John didn’t seem to mind. “I am here now,” he assured him, “and I’ll stay until this is over.”

Sherlock wanted to ask what ‘this’ meant exactly, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

Instead he offered him a small and tired smile, hoping it would convey how thankful he was he didn’t have to go through this alone this time even though he couldn’t quite admit it out loud.

“You should rest now,” John told him quietly.

Sherlock snuggled into the soft pillow and tried to get some sleep.

________________________________________

The next forty-eight hours were going to be the worst; John knew that. He had seen many junkies come down from their high and they were more than just miserable.

Sherlock woke a few hours later, moaning in pain and kicking the duvet aside. His fingers clenched around the sheets. There were sweat stains on the neckline of his t-shirt and on his forehead.

John went to get two buckets, an empty one just in case Sherlock would be sick and one with cold water, as well as a flannel. If he was bringing on a temperature indeed, they would have to find a way to cool him off.

“Sherlock,” John said gently and touched his shoulder lightly to wake him up. “I’d like to take your temperature.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to let John do so. It beeped a little later. “38,3°C,” John said as he looked at the screen of the thermometer. 

“Will get worse,” Sherlock croaked and buried his face in the pillow.

“Lovely,” John muttered and soaked the flannel, wiping Sherlock’s forehead and his neck gently.

“Does your chest still hurt?” he asked then.

“Bit,” Sherlock breathed as he welcomed the cool cloth on his heated skin.

“Getting better?”

Sherlock hummed quietly and nodded once before he drifted off into a feverish slumber. The last thing he felt was John checking his pulse again.

________________________________________

“John …” Sherlock’s voice was weak and strained when he opened his eyes again. Everything was moving too quickly and he couldn’t make out a single thing in the room. John was merely a silhouette.

John rushed forward to hear what Sherlock said. “What’s wrong?”

“I feel sick,” he gasped, feeling as though someone had taken his digestive organs and was squashing them and wringing them like a wet towel. He held his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“There’s a bucket right here,” John told him and then rummaged through the medical bag to find the Pepto-Bismol. He went to get a glass of water and took out a pill.

“Can you sit up a little?” he asked him as he handed Sherlock the tablet. Sherlock swallowed it and emptied the glass before he sank back against the pillow. 

“A hot water bottle would help the nausea, but you’re burning up so it’s very counterproductive,” John said and sat down on the bed.

Sherlock lay on his back, breathing in and out shallowly. “Do you have trouble breathing?” John inquired immediately, but Sherlock shook his head. 

“Cramps,” he whispered as he turned onto his side and pulled his knees up against his chest, trying to find relief in the position.

“It’ll take a few minutes to set in, but you’ll feel better soon,” John assured him and the gentleness in his voice made Sherlock feel even more nauseous.

He groaned and tried to take deep breaths, in and out, in and out again, focusing on the regular rhythm of it.

John soaked the cloth in the water again and placed it on his forehead. He had never regretted his decision to overdose more than he did in this moment.

________________________________________

It was dark and John was asleep in the chair beside the bed, but the sound of Sherlock vomiting into the bucket made him jump and get up immediately. He knelt behind him on the bed and ran a hand up and down his back, attempting to soothe him even if it brought little comfort.

Sherlock collapsed against the bed when he had emptied his insides. His throat burned with the taste of bile and it hurt from coughing up vomitus. John stroked back a few sweaty curls sticking to his face and Sherlock melted into the warm touch of John’s hand.

“It's cold,” he whispered, resting his cheek against John’s knee, and John could see his entire body was shivering and trembling.

The fever must have got higher, making Sherlock suffer from chills. “I’ll clean out the bucket and get you some water to rinse out your mouth, all right?” he asked him calmly. “And then I’ll take your temperature again.”

Sherlock hummed, unable to form another word, his throat hurt terribly and his voice wouldn’t cooperate.

John ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair once more before he got up and took the bucket to the bathroom, coming back in no time. “Here.” His voice was so gentle it made Sherlock’s heart ache again. He didn’t deserve to be taken care of this way after everything he did to hurt John so much. He never intended for John to see him like this and, realising how much he would owe John once this was over, his body was flooded with shame.

He cleaned out his mouth with the offered water and let John take his temperature again. “40,5°C.”

He left the room without telling him where he went, giving Sherlock a moment to himself. The dark-haired man buried a hand in his damp hair, almost sobbing from the pain ripping through his stomach.

“Sherlock,” John said and his voice was steady next to his ear. He hadn’t even heard him come back in. “I’ll give you an extra blanket and a hot water bottle now until your chills are gone.”

Sherlock whimpered in relief when he felt the warmth of the bottle on his belly. “John …” he breathed as his friend pulled the duvet up to Sherlock’s chin and wrapped another blanket around him afterwards. He looked at him and his eyes were so soft Sherlock got lost in them. “…nk you.”

John smiled warmly and wiped the sweat off Sherlock’s forehead with a warm cloth this time. “No need to thank me.”

________________________________________

Sherlock dragged the blanket off so the cool air in the room enveloped his body and sighed wearily.

John was right beside him. His hand was on his cheek then back on his sweaty forehead. “We have to lower your temperature,” he told him. He was in doctor-mode, Sherlock could tell. “I’ll prepare leg compresses.”

John pulled the trouser legs up to Sherlock’s knees and he soon felt the pleasant cold of the compresses, giving him the chance of relaxing a little.

“You should drink something,” John broke the silence and the rim of a glass of water touched his dry lips just a second later.

He drank slowly, knowing he would upset his stomach even more if he gulped it all down in one go. “We’ll try another one of these.” John handed him a pill and he swallowed it with the next sip.

John was searching for a clean t-shirt in his wardrobe and was back beside him in the blink of an eye. “Can you sit up again for me?" 

Sherlock accomplished the task with a little support from John’s hand on his back. John pulled the shirt over his head and removed him from the drip for a moment to get the soaked piece of garment off of him. Wiping Sherlock’s damp chest, back and neck with the cloth, Sherlock closed his eyes to welcome the wonderful cool feeling on his skin. John dried him off and dressed him in the clean shirt.

“Do you think you can sit in the chair for just a minute?" 

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered and John helped him get up. Sherlock almost collapsed in John’s arms, but John’s grip was firm and steady. He sat down on the chair whilst John changed the sheets and put a new cover on the pillow as quickly as he could manage. Sherlock nearly dozed off on the hard item of furniture.

“Sherlock,” John asked, his voice was hushed and his hand rested on his shoulder. “Let’s get you back into bed.” 

Sherlock wanted to get up, but his knees weren’t strong enough to stand or even carry him. He felt exhausted and his head was spinning again. “I can’t walk,” he breathed as his head fell against John’s arm.

There was a hand at the back of his knees and on his back and Sherlock tried to open his eyes to realise John lifted him into his arms and carried him. His head came to rest against John’s shoulder. His body was so strong and comfortable and Sherlock wished it weren’t just three steps until they reached the bed.

“Go back to sleep for a bit, all right?” he heard John ask as he sank back against the clean pillow.

Closing his eyes wasn’t hard at all anymore. Sherlock nodded affirmatively when John put him back on the drip. John changing the compresses again a minute later was the last thing he noticed before he was lulled to sleep.

________________________________________

The next hours were hellish. Sherlock’s fever was persistent and it brought John to the edge of despair. He wiped Sherlock’s forehead once he had changed the leg compresses and repeated the procedure every ten minutes.

The pills wouldn’t settle his stomach. He vomited several times into the bucket until John wondered how it was still possible because there couldn’t be anything left.

Sherlock dreamt of Jim Moriarty. He dreamt of Mary coming out of the shadows. Her grin was horrible. He dreamt of the two of them wandering around his bed whilst he came down from a high, tossing and turning, trying to find a position to alleviate the pain and not finding it. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, digging his fingers into his sweat-soaked shirt.

Their mocking voices wouldn’t stop haunting him. He wanted to scream and get up and threaten them with the gun he kept in his bedside table, but he was to weak to even move a muscle. 

He sat up in bed and rested his face on his knees, violent shivers kept tormenting him and his stomach hurt as if someone had stabbed him.

“Shall I release you from all your sorrow?” Mary asked him, her voice was full of mocked sympathy.

“It’s time, don’t you think?”

When he felt a gun press against his temple, he woke with a start and sat upright in bed.

“Sherlock.” John was behind him. Of course he was. Caring and loyal John was here. With him.

He hid his face in his hands and despite being aware it had been a dream, a quiet sob escaped him.

“Sherlock.”

John’s hand was on his back, but Sherlock couldn’t find any comfort in it. He hunched his shoulders, pulling his knees up against his chest.

John shifted closer towards him, keeping the hand on Sherlock’s back as he leant forward to look at him. “Nightmare?”

Sherlock nodded, but couldn’t turn to look at John. He couldn’t face him, not like this.

John’s hand moved up and down his back and eventually something extraordinary happened. He pulled him closer and folded another arm around him, embracing him tightly. Sherlock’s brain disconnected completely. He let himself be surrounded by John’s strong arms and pressed against John’s chest.

This was the moment when the dam broke and burst. He couldn’t hold back the emotions threatening to overwhelm him anymore and was shaken by silent sobs as he clutched John’s shirt tightly.

John’s hands wouldn’t stop caressing his back.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blubbered out as the tears began to fall. He had never felt so ashamed.

“It’s all right, you don’t need to apologise,” John said softly. “I should be apologising.”

“This has got nothing to do with you,” Sherlock repeated the words he had already told Mycroft on the jet.

“To be honest, I think this has got everything to do with me,” John answered.

Sherlock sniffled audibly, burying his face in John’s shirt.

“You can’t touch this stuff again, Sherlock,” John breathed after some time. “Please, you have to promise me.”

“I can’t stop it.” Sherlock’s answer was merely a whisper.

“This is killing you.” John sounded so worried so Sherlock dug his fingers deeper into the soft fabric.

“I can’t stop it, John,” Sherlock said desperately.

“Moriarty is back. We have to solve this case,” John told him firmly. “Coming down from cocaine every day won’t help us with this.”

“I’m not using every day,” Sherlock breathed, clenching his teeth.

John’s hand stopped moving. “I’m not going to watch you kill yourself. Not again, Sherlock,” he said. “You told me about your plan, remember? Do you honestly think I pretended to forgive my ex-assassin wife who’s been working for Moriarty and is probably still a threat for both of us and try to live a perfectly normal life with her for you to abandon your– ”

“No …” Sherlock’s voice was weaker than before. “We’ll solve the case, John. I told you, … I promised you.” 

John pulled back when the weight of Sherlock’s head felt heavier on his chest than before, looking at him to ensure he was all right. As far as this was possible under the circumstances anyway.

“I need the pink phone, the one Moriarty sent us …”

“When I said we should stick to your plan, I didn’t mean it has to be now,” John answered soothingly and his hand continued to stroke his back gently. 

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes once more.

“What has this got to do with the phone, though?” 

“The pips. American secret societies used to send out dried seeds, melon seeds for instance, or orange pips …”

“We never got the fifth, you said. So you think we’ll get another clue soon, then?”

Sherlock coughed a little before settling back against John’s chest. “Yes.”

“What do you think is it going to be?”

“Another bomb, possibly. I’m not sure. We’ll have to wait,” a shiver ran through him, “… until we get a message." 

“All right,” John said quietly and nodded. “You should go back to sleep. There’s nothing we can do at the moment.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, not wanting to pull away just yet. John’s chest felt inviting and comfortable and if he had the choice, he would never let go again.

Before the moment would lose its intimacy and become more than embarrassing, he sank back against the pillow.

________________________________________

“John …” Sherlock murmured as he woke up with a jump and retreated to the side of the bed. “John, wake up!”

“Sherlock …” John had fallen asleep in the chair once again, resting his head on his arms on the table in front of him. “What’s wrong?” He got up and knelt beside the bed, following Sherlock’s gaze.

“What is it? What do you see?” he asked.

“There’s a giant spider on the bed, can’t you see it?” Sherlock whimpered, staring at a spot on the duvet. “It’s coming closer. This species can jump two metres at once. Please, John, take it away!” His voice shivered as he moved further away from the middle of the bed.

John’s hand was on his shoulder. “Sherlock, there’s no spider–“

“Yes, it’s there! Look!” He sounded terrified. “There’s a second one.”

“Sherlock, look at me,” John said calmly. “Sherlock.”

“I can’t,– I have to,” he gasped, slightly out of breath. “Take the duvet away, please …” he begged.

“Okay,” John answered and did as Sherlock asked him.

“Oh God!” He hid his face in his hands. There were bugs and ants everywhere. They surrounded him, coming closer towards him, buzzing loudly.

John put the duvet back on the bed, but didn’t cover him. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at his hands and his arms, staring at his skin as if he was possessed by the devil. He scratched his upper arm, sliding down to brush the ants off.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John told him firmly and finally he looked up. “There’s absolutely nothing on your bed or on your body. This is your mind playing tricks on you. It’s one of the withdrawal symptoms.”

“It’s on your face,” Sherlock breathed.

“What is?”

“The spider.” He shuddered and closed his eyes.

John brushed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Okay, it’s gone now. Open your eyes."

“It’s not,” Sherlock said and his voice sounded strained.

“Sherlock, please.”

“No! Get away from me,” the sweating man whispered and covered his eyes with his palms.

His skin tingled so badly he wanted to scream. It was as if his entire body was covered in ants which wouldn’t stop tormenting him. They kept scuttling over his arms up to his chest and his neck.

He heard John taking a step back and searching something in the medical bag. Sherlock opened his eyes and moved further away from him when he approached him with it.

“Was this in there?” Sherlock quavered.

“It’s tablets,” John said. How could he sound this calm? He was holding a huge beetle in his hand.

“It’s not.”

“It is. Look, just take one of it and you’ll feel better,” he promised.

Sherlock hunched his shoulders, breathing heavily. “You’re mocking me.”

“I am not mocking you, Sherlock. Honestly,” John answered. “Here, take it and drink this.” He handed him his glass of water. “It will make you feel a bit tired, but at least you might be able to sleep through the rest of the night.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and took the pill without looking at it.

________________________________________

The rest of the night was more peaceful. Sherlock slept soundly and even though the dreams kept coming, he didn’t wake up. Sometimes, he was sure he could feel John’s hand on his forehead or his cheek or his shoulder, but it might as well have been a hallucination. 

It was mid-morning when he awoke again. His limbs felt heavier than before and his lids hang over his eyes. His vision was slightly blurred, but it got better after a few moments. 

He heard the bathroom door fall shut and bare feet approaching his bedroom. John opened the door and came in. He was clad in jeans and a spare t-shirt he used to keep here since he had occasionally used his old bedroom despite having moved out. His hair was still damp from showering and his smile was bright, but the large bags under his eyes spoke volumes. “Oh, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock observed every twitch of his muscles, every blink of his eyes. He was sleep-deprived and must feel horrible.

When he thought of everything that had happened last night, the vomiting, the suppressed tears, the hug, the carrying, the leg compresses and the constant wiping and cooling Sherlock’s forehead and neck, he teared up.

Hiding his face in his hands, he tried to hold back a sob, but failed miserably.

“Sherlock,” John said worriedly and sat down on the bed, leaning forward and reaching for his hands. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

Sherlock shook his head. He hated not having any control over his body and his emotions. He didn’t want them to break free that easily. John wasn’t allowed to see this. He probably already judged him for making him stay up all night and take care of him whenever he woke from a nightmare or from being in too much pain.

He didn’t deserve any of this. He should be in hospital, facing the signs of withdrawal on his own, calling for a nurse who would deal with his vomit or his fever, not John.

John’s hands were on his wrists, pulling them away from Sherlock’s red eyes. He was still paler than he should be, but they had made it through the night and John couldn’t be more relieved.

“Tell me, what’s going on?” His voice was calm and soft and Sherlock wished it wasn’t because it brought another wave of tears to his eyes that, thank God, hadn’t rolled down his cheeks yet.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Sherlock rasped, angrily wiping the tears away.

John looked bemusedly at him. “Pardon?" 

Sherlock couldn’t answer him. He couldn’t even look at him. 

This was when John realised. “You’re embarrassed,” he stated. “That's it, isn’t it?”

Sherlock turned away from him, but John rested his hands on his shoulder to stop him. “Sherlock, look at me, please.”

He turned around, meeting John’s eyes and feeling ill at ease.

“Everything you went through last night was a natural response of your body to all the drugs you took. There was absolutely nothing you could do about it. You accepted my help and this is exactly what this is, Sherlock. It was what I wanted. I didn’t do it because I pity you or because I judge you. You’re my best friend, all right? I knew what I signed up for when I offered you support and you knew what was going to happen when you accepted it. There is absolutely no reason to be embarrassed,” John said and Sherlock desperately wanted to believe him. 

Sherlock blinked back the salty drops in his eyes and nodded with a sniffle.

“And if you think I’ll go home now, after we made it through one of the worst parts,” the smile reappeared on his lips and he reached for Sherlock’s hands again, “you’re on the wrong track.”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a small smile, too. 

“Let’s get through the rest of this and get you well again.” The corners of John’s eyes crinkled a little when his grin widened, but then he turned serious. He was silent for a long moment before he spoke up once more.

"I won't help you through this again."

There it was. Sherlock had known this was going to happen. "You don't have to stay here. It's too much trouble, I know–"

"No, I didn't mean it like that. It's not the trouble, Sherlock. It's you. It's you destroying your body and your mind." John told him in earnest. "I meant there will be no need for me to help you cope with another withdrawal because once you’re your old self again, you’ll stop touching this stuff. I can't watch you do this to yourself.”

Sherlock let out a breathy sigh. “How?”

John took Sherlock's hands between his own. “I’ll be there from now on. I should have listened when your brother told me a few years ago.”

“Told you what?”

“He said, ‘You have to stay with him, John.’ I didn’t realise he wasn’t just referring to a danger night.”

“You don’t have to–“

John interrupted him. “Hush now.”

“But Mary–“

“Let’s not talk about her or the case right now. Neither is as important as you getting better at the moment,” John said softly.

Sherlock blinked several times and John spoke up again. “We’ll get through this together,” he assured him. “We always do, don’t we?”

“Yes, … yes, we do,” Sherlock whispered with a small smile as he closed his hands around John’s and squeezed them weakly.