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Chapter Text

Sherlock was wedged in between John and Mary, a strategy that was John's idea, as it would allow both of them to keep an eye on the detective.

The man that sat between them had a mournful, sour expression plastered on his face. He was not happy to be under such scrutiny.

He did not have a choice in the matter.

An hour ago Sherlock Holmes had almost died.

An hour ago London's only consulting detective had overdosed.

He was in no fit state to make decisions about seating arrangements in the back of the car. In fact, John would go as far as saying, Sherlock Holmes was in no fit state to make any decisions at all.

John knew Sherlock could be many things, but reckless with his own life? It scared him, thinking about it. His old flatmate had sunk into a dark place, and somewhere between the wedding and the shooting, John had missed all the signs.

He should have known that Sherlock, of all people, had suicidal tendencies. The man was a genius, his mind racing, as the rest of the world slogged behind at snail pace. All those thoughts, not being able to switch off, the ability to perceive the world in such painful clarity, was enough to drive anyone insane.

"How long?" John asked as he leaned in with a torch to inspect Sherlock's hazy, unfocussed eyes. His tone was as level as he could manage, but it still contained an urgency that lifted Sherlock from out of his drugged thoughts.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock slid down in the car seat so that half of his body was pointed in an awkward angle, one of his knees resting on Mary's lap, his chin falling onto John's shoulder. He had a smile on his face,and was giddy with glee. John felt a twinge of anger stir in his gut in response.

Not this time, Sherlock, you don't get to do this.

Mary was the one who stopped John from saying anything he'd regret later. She held up a hand to cut off the words he wanted to berate Sherlock with.

"He means the drugs, Sherlock." Her voice was gentle and she dared to run a hand through Sherlock's sweat coated curls. Normally, the man could not abide to be touched, but with Mary it seemed different.

That shouldn't have stirred a pit of jealousy inside John, but it did.

The nauseating feeling clenched at his gut.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were my childminders. Do I have to tell you everything?" Sherlock snarked, scrunching up his nose petulantly.

John wanted to say: You wouldn't need childminders if you didn't act like such a child all the time.

Out loud he said,"You don't have to tell us anything. Take drugs. End up in the back alley somewhere whilst you overdose. See if I care." He didn't mean it, of course, but his patience was wearing thin, and it had been a very long day, full of both emotional and physical battles.

"Caring is not an advantage, John. You should know that better than most."

"Me?"

"You cared for me once, then I betrayed you with my fraudulent death. You cared for Mary, and she turned out to me a traitorous assassin, who would stop at nothing to keep you to herself."

"It's not as simple as that though, is it? I've forgiven you for the fall."

"And Mary?"

"I'm working on forgiving her." John looked up at his wife with an apologetic look in his eyes. "In all fairness, you did shoot him."

"I know," Mary's lips pursed together. "I thought that he would…"

"Out you?" Sherlock bit out. "I was perfectly capable of that after you put a bullet in me, but I would not have prevented you from being with John."

"Why are you being so kind Sherlock?" Mary implored the detective with her bright, quizzical eyes. Her hands stilled in his curls, and the lack of attention caused Sherlock to shift in annoyance, his own eyes sliding upwards to greet her.

"I wasn't aware that I was being kind, as you so put it, but if you must know…I do not blame you for shooting me. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary."

Unspoken, Sherlock thought, In the name of John's happiness and welfare, sacrifices are necessity.

"Hmm." Mary hummed in response. "Think you can move a little? I'm not sure the baby likes having a knee jabbing into its home."

Mary had to shift at that point because Sherlock's knee was beginning to dig into her stomach. The position would have been uncomfortable, even if it weren't for the fact she was six months pregnant.

Sherlock grunted, and looking directly at Mary with his evaluating eyes, said "We are the same, you and I." We would do anything for John Watson, wouldn't we?

Mary didn't reply verbally, but nodded, as though she understood what Sherlock was trying to convey. She helped him into a better position that brought relief to all three of the trio, and let out a sigh when the pressure was alleviated from her baby bump.

Mary had always surprised John when it came to Sherlock, from the very first time they had met. The changing relationship between his wife and best friend was enough to give him whiplash.

She'd liked him, had got on with him like a house on fire, had encouraged him and John to go on cases, but then the shooting had happened…

That night he'd almost lost them both.

Never again.

He'd keep both of them safe.

He'd protect them.

Because there was no denying the fact that he loved them both, and he would do anything to ensure that they were out of harms way. No matter what it cost himself.

He had to protect Mary from her past.

And Sherlock? Well, given that he had overdosed, it was quite obvious what John had to protect him from.

He glanced over to the two of them and his lips twitched into a semblance of a smile,as he watched the detective curl up against Mary. There was something about the fetus position he'd taken up that reminded John of a child.

So innocent. So perfectly open, and vulnerable. The man's usual harsh contours seemed to soften, his eyes flickering shut, as he teetered on the edge of sleep.

Mary was treating Sherlock like he was the most precious and fragile thing in the world, speaking to him softly, stroking his curls. The sight was very motherly, and like looking into a looking glass that could tell the future. John had no doubts that Mary would be a good mother. She had a way of calming even the stormiest of souls.

And Sherlock's soul was definitely stormy.

Behind closed eyelids, John pictured torrential rain, the crash of thunder, the onslaught of hail, a bellowing wind that caused damage to everything in his path. That was Sherlock. A storm just waiting to happen, destroying both himself and those who were forced to watch his destruction.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock murmured into Mary's red jacket, sleep thick in his voice.

Indeed, it was a thought that had crossed John's mind. It was Mycroft's driver - Jeeves - Jason? - He couldn't remember the man's name- driving them. He had presumed that they were being sent back to 221B to settle Sherlock back into his home, but as he glanced outside he didn't recognise any of the streets or buildings that were passing by.

He fingered his mobile phone in his jeans pocket, and searched for Mycroft's number. He tapped furiously at his phones screen.

What wild goose chase are you sending him on now? JW.

This was so typical of Mycroft, sending his brother on a mission, or a case, only an hour after he'd overdosed.

No matter what the Elder Holmes had said on the plane, John was still bitter about Mycroft sending his brother off to die in six months time.

There was no possible way that Mycroft could be right every time.

No possible way that Mycroft knew Sherlock would have survived it.

He continued to type angrily.

He should be at home. That's the best place for him now. JW.

A moment later his phone buzzed.

No. MH.

John blinked as he typed another message. For once in his life it would be nice if the Holmes brothers could try and be a little less cryptic.

No? If not 221B, where? JW.

The reply made John feel sick to his stomach.

Rehab. MH.

Chapter Text

John had witnessed Sherlock's quiet spells before; those long bouts of silence where Sherlock did nothing but lie across the sofa in 221B and mope.

Back then life had been simpler. It was a time that preceded Moriarty and his sick and twisted games, before the fall, before the two years of grieving, and the incident with Magnussen.

The silences had meant the great detective was thinking about a case, absorbed in trying to piece things together. He'd often reminded John of a human statue, barely moving, only showing signs of being present when a cup of steaming tea was placed next to him.

This time was different.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't just quiet or still, he was positively lifeless.

It scared John more than he liked to admit.

It was exactly one week since Mycroft had sent the younger Holmes to rehab.

It had felt like one of the longest weeks John had had to endure. Even Mary was suffering. She'd tossed and turned in bed for the past few nights, unable to settle, and not just because of their child keeping her up. It was Sherlock. They were both worried about him.

For the first few days visitors hadn't been allowed. This was, John had been informed, something that the centre called a cooling off period. It was supposedly a time used to settled in the patient, and allow them to adjust to their new situation.

Understandable, John mused. It had been enough of a culture shock to walk in the doors himself. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to be weighed down by the knowledge that you could not leave the place. At least John knew what waited for him at home; Mary, a pint with Greg, a cup of tea in front of the fire. What did Sherlock have?

Nothing.

Once they were certain Sherlock was settled, John had received a text from Mycroft to give him the go ahead for visitation rights. He'd been showered and dressed within ten minutes of his phone alert going off. He had time to grab a piece of toast and peck Mary on the lips, but had hurried to the black car waiting outside for him without hesitation.

The security guards that hovered near the visiting room door were making John a tad apprehensive. This was no ordinary rehabilitation centre, but then, Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary man. He needed more than a locked door to keep him inside the same four walls.

Considering how much shouting had taken place when Sherlock had checked in, John would not have been surprised if Sherlock tried to escape the confines, but all of the security and high tech CCTV ensured that even the genius wouldn't be able to attempt a disappearing act.

Somewhere out there John was sure a certain government official was monitoring Sherlock's every move.

The rehab centre itself seemed very…tranquil? And nice. Yes. Everyone was very nice here. If Sherlock was in a speaking mood, John was certain that he would have described it, and the people as 'boring'.

That made John smile a bit more than it should have done.

The private nurse assigned to Sherlock was very chatty and her personality was warm and bubbly. Sherlock probably hated her. Then again, Sherlock probably hated everyone right now. John couldn't say he blamed him.

She filled John in on everything he'd missed, which apparently hadn't been much, as there had been no change in Sherlock.

The world moved on and Sherlock Holmes remained motionless. Always staring. Staring out of that bloody window like it was the one focus point of his attention. It was like he wasn't even aware John was in the room with him.

He was so very far away from the man John Watson had been introduced to. Even his appearance was different.

Couldn't they have at least given him him the dignity of keeping his clothes?

Sherlock didn't have any of his belongings with him. He was in a blank room. With blank walls. And a blank ceiling. And a blank door. The only light that seemed to filter into the white room came from the one oval shaped window positioned in the middle of the room.

The window overlooked a large stretch of green land, but on the outside iron bars were nailed to it, obscuring the view and preventing Sherlock from smashing the glass. It was a small window, but John wouldn't put it past him to try and wriggle his way through the space, if it weren't for the bars obstructing the escape route.

Sherlock was dressed in rehab issue clothes which were as white and as dull as the room he was sat in. The outfit consisted of a thin T-shirt, baggy pyjama trousers, and a pair of slippers (that Sherlock seemed to have decided were not meant for feet) as they lay on the other side of the room from where he was sat.

The room was only sparsely decorated. There was a bed, a bedside table, and the chair that Sherlock was occupying. John had to make do with standing, even though his leg was aching today.

There was something about seeing Sherlock like this that brought the symptoms of his PSTD back in sparkling form. There was a tremor running through his hand, too, but he managed to at least disguise that symptom by clenching his hand into a fist.

He leaned in to inspect his friend, surveying him with the eyes of a doctor, but studying him with the worry of a friend.

"So," he said after a moment of not getting any response out of Sherlock. "You're not talking, you're not eating, and apparently you're not sleeping. I can only presume you're thinking then. Do you want to talk about that?"

Nothing. Not even a grunt of usual annoyance. Not a nose wrinkle or a blink. How Sherlock was able to go without blinking for so long was frankly disturbing.

John leaned closer and frowned. Sherlock's eyes were listless. The spark that made Sherlock, well, Sherlock, had all but faded into non existence. He'd never seen the man look so…deflated? Defeated?

John wanted to touch him, just to make sure the man was still real, but he quickly shook the idea away. Ridiculous. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the fuss.

John had never felt so out of his depths.

It was frightening how incapable he was of breaking through whatever depression had hold of Sherlock. Usually, he'd be able to get something out of him, anything, even if it usually was a snarky comment or an exasperated sigh.

He didn't know where to look. Sherlock's thin, tired face? Or down at the ground where Sherlock's equally thin feet were splayed out. Wherever he looked, it didn't make a difference, his stomach still clenched in response to how indifferent Sherlock was.

He didn't know what to say.

If Sherlock was a coma patient, then John would have taken his hand, squeezed it, talked to him for hours in the hope that he would eventually get through to him. But Sherlock wasn't in a coma. He was right here…alive…conscious… but at the same time it felt like the man was barely registering as a blip in the world.

He couldn't comfort Sherlock. Couldn't hold his hand. Probably wouldn't be allowed to, even if he did try. There was literally nothing John Watson could do to end the pain his friend was in.

Had this been the right thing to do? Sending Sherlock to rehab?

John had asked himself that question time and time again. He'd repeated it over and over in his head like a mantra.

Yes, Sherlock needed help. The list Sherlock provided Mycroft with on the plane was proof enough of that. All of those drugs…taken without a care…with the intention to…god, it hardly bared thinking about.

The question was not whether Sherlock needed to seek help, for that was obvious. The question was specifically whether a rehabilitation centre was the right choice for him. Rehab wasn't a suitable environment for everyone, after all.

He'd seen this before, with Harry. He'd tried to fix his sisters alcohol addiction, but rehab had pushed her too far, and now they barely saw or contacted each other and John wouldn't be surprised if he got a call one day telling him she had died from alcohol poisoning, or by choking on her own vomit.

He didn't want Sherlock falling into the same pit of hopelessness. He couldn't bear the thought of him falling so far, and so hard, or the thought of Sherlock pushing everyone that cared about him (especially John) away.

John clenched his jaw in determination.

He was not going to let that happen. Not on his watch.

He was too late to save his sister, but he would be damned if he couldn't stop the destruction of Sherlock Holmes.

"If you're trying to protect me, it won't work." He said, voice tight with grit. "Tell me what you're thinking Sherlock. I don't care if that involves shouting, or insults, or-" John wanted to say that he didn't care if Sherlock broke down in front of him, but that seemed too insensitive, so he stopped himself. "Sherlock? Please. This is getting scary now."

Nothing.

John felt a pang of disappointment in his chest.

Perhaps he was expecting too much of Sherlock. It was, after all, very early days.

The buzz that penetrated the air signaled that visiting hours were over. The shrill noise made John flinch. It was too soon. He hadn't made any progress. Sherlock was exactly the same as he had been when John first entered the room.

Somehow, the lack of time John had been given seemed deeply unfair. What he'd give to make some kind of deal with the universe, just so he could stay the night with the pale faced man. Even if Sherlock didn't know he was there, it would at least help put John at ease.

"Times up I'm afraid, Doctor Watson."

John turned around and smiled weakly, out of polite habit. The muscles in his face pulled and tugged, reminding him that he really wasn't in a smiling mood.

It was the nice nurse. The one assigned to looking after Sherlock. She was here to see him off.

John took one last glance at Sherlock, sighed, then steeled himself enough to walk to other side of the room and slip outside the door.

"You will look after him, won't you?" He asked the nurse in a low voice. Just because Sherlock was choosing to ignore all external stimuli, did not mean he was deaf, and John was almost embarrassed to be heard fretting so much.

Sherlock would never let him hear the end of it.

Though even Sherlock's taunts might be nice right about now…

"Of course. We'll have him feeling more himself in no time at all, you'll see."

John recognised her tone of voice. It was the same as the voice he used to reassure terminally ill patients.

"Right," he sighed. "I'll try and come and see him again soon."

She waved him off and he left the way he had arrived.

He'd hoped to feel more positive about the current situation when he'd left his flat in the morning, instead he felt a tug and pull at his gut, and his heart was clenching so hard in his chest that he was fearful he was suffering palpitations.

A sleek, black car was waiting for him outside, and he gladly slid onto the posh leather seat, hoping that he would be able to will away his worries before he got home to Mary.

Chapter Text

When John slid into the car he found Mycroft waiting for him. He was the last person that John wanted to see right now. Mycroft was the one who had put Sherlock into the rehabilitation centre. Although John knew that Sherlock's drug usage could not go on for any longer, he couldn't help but partially resent the Elder Holmes for sending his younger brother away to a facility when he was so clearly vulnerable and needed to be around the ones that cared about him the most.

Mycroft stared down at the umbrella that was now laid out on his lap, avoiding eye contact with John. Since the plane incident where certain confessions had come to light, there was a noticeable tension between John and Mycroft.

Neither man wanted to broach the subject that so clearly still hung between them. Mycroft, out of shame, and John out of putrid anger and over-protectiveness over Sherlock.

Mycroft sending his brother away for six months to his 'death' had been enough to send Sherlock back to drug abuse. No matter how many times Mycroft tried to convince him that Sherlock knew that he would have been saved and pulled from the mission before the life ending scenario, John couldn't bring himself to believe it. What had happened on the plane had been a suicide attempt plain and simple. As a doctor, he recognised the signs.

He just wished he'd seen his friends anguish sooner, then Sherlock wouldn't be in the sorry state that John had left him in. He could still picture the man now with his blank expression and his vacant stare. The image was terrifying and so far away from the man that Mike Stamford had first introduced him to.

Mycroft cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Doctor Watson, how does my brother seem to you?"

John blinked in surprise and raised his eyes to look at Mycroft. Who, come to think of it, looked as exhausted and defeated by the current situation as John was himself. A part of John felt happy that Mycroft was miserable.

"Why don't you go and see him for yourself?" John asked harshly.

"I'm not sure my company would be well received."

"Why? Because of some childish feud? Nicked all his Smurfs. Broke his action man?"

"You and I know that it's a little more than that." Mycroft paused, pursed his lips, and then said. "Please, Doctor Watson. I worry about my brother. Now, more than ever."

John exhaled harshly through his nose. Then, when he knew that bickering with the Elder Holmes would get him no further, he finally responded to the initial question he'd been asked.

"He isn't eating, he isn't talking, he was barely aware of my presence. All he did whilst I was in there with him was stare out of the window. It was like he was elsewhere, probably pacing about in that great mind of his. That's normal for him, more or less, but this is…"

"Different?"

"Exactly. This isn't just Sherlock being Sherlock. Something's wrong, Mycroft."

"What's your diagnosis?"

"My diagnosis?"

"You're a doctor. I value your opinion when it comes to my brother."

"I'm not that kind of doctor." John frowned. He wished that he was a doctor who had studied the human mind. If it was a few broken bones, open wounds, cuts and bruises John would be able to fix Sherlock in a heartbeat. But this was something deep and psychological and John was at a complete loss about what to do.

"What would you recommend?"

"I don't know," John said honestly. This was one problem that couldn't be fixed with a simple solution. "I don't think that place is doing him any good."

"And yet the idea of letting Sherlock loose does not bode well. We will just have to hope that he snaps out of this ridiculous phase."

"He could be an out patient," John suggested, tone hopeful. The faster he got Sherlock removed from that awful place the better. Maybe then he would able to make a successful recovery and John and Mary would be able to talk things through with the detective.

"Out of the question, I'm afraid."

"He'd be better off with me."

"And Mary?" Mycroft asked snidely. "Do you think he would be better off with that wife of yours?"

John had to swallow down a lump of anger that had formed in his throat. "What happened won't happen again."

"Can you be certain? How well do you know her?" Mycroft finally raised his head so that he was looking directly at John, narrowing his eyes in a way that appeared to be scrutinising.

"I-" John wanted to say she's my wife, I know her, she's told me everything about her past now, I just know that she won't hurt Sherlock again. But he found that he didn't completely believe those words and he couldn't bring himself to say them out loud.

There was a part of him, deep down, that didn't trust Mary. She is a woman with a dangerous past. That hadn't changed. Logic was that past would come to bite them all sooner or later. John closed his eyes, breathed harshly through his nose. "No, you're right. I couldn't guarantee his safety."

"Then we're agreed, Sherlock stays in this facility until he either makes a recovery, or his safety can be guaranteed."

John didn't want to make that agreement. It felt like he was signing Sherlock away, pushing him onto other people as a problem that could be locked away and dealt with. However, he didn't have any other choice but to nod in agreement. "Agreed,"

"Your visits will be regular, as I believe he responds best to you. You will be picked up and dropped off the same time each week." Mycroft leaned closer to John. "If anyone can bring Sherlock out of one of his dark moods it's you."

John smiled weakly in response. It was nice that Mycroft saw him as the one confident that Sherlock trusted, but it also made John sad that Sherlock had no one else who could visit him and try to make him feel better during the rehabilitation process.

He didn't know how to respond, but in the end he settled for saying a simple "Thank you." After all he was lucky that he even got visitation rights to see Sherlock.

Outside of the car window he saw the familiar street he and Mary lived on. The vehicle slowed down to a stop and the engine came to a halt.

"Goodnight Mycroft," John began to pull at the car handle, but Mycroft stopped him, placing a hand on John's shoulder. He froze up in response to this out of character gesture. "Mycroft?"

"I'll look your wife up, Doctor Watson. I'll gather all of her available files, so that there are no surprises to catch us of guard. If you so wish you may look at the files too. A man should know who he is sharing a bed with."

John thought of the memory stick Mary had given him. He could see the vivid image of the initials A.G.R.A written on the device in bold marker pen. In his mind he could hear his own voice repeating itself.

"The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege."

He'd told Mary that he was OK, that he accepted her. So snooping about in her past would be a bit not good. More than a bit not good. It would completely violate the trust that he was trying to rebuild with Mary.

John shook his head. "I can't do that. I won't look at any files. Feel free to look her up, research her. Just don't get me involved." John pulled at the car handle and began to retreat. He was immediately aware that a cold breeze outside waited for him.

"Even if she presents a danger? Would you rather be ignorant of who your wife really is?"

John paused for a moment before taking a step out onto the pavement. He turned briefly to face Mycroft. "If she becomes a danger then do what you need to do. Just don't drag me into it."

As he closed the door and watched the car casually pull away John hoped that it wouldn't come to that. He wondered if Mycroft was going to do something drastic. The thought made his heart ache painfully for the second time since he'd stepped out of the rehab facility. It already felt like he'd partially lost Sherlock. He didn't want to lose his wife and child too.

John reached inside his jacket pocket and plucked out his keys. They jangled slightly as he turned them in the door. He took a deep breath before stepping inside.

The flat was quiet when John entered, though the living room light was on. As he walked in he spotted Mary sleeping uncomfortably on the sofa. Now that she was quite far into the pregnancy she always seemed to find it difficult to find a comfortable position to lie in. A small frown marred her features, as though even in her sleep she was thinking deeply about something.

He quietly took off his jacket and shoes, trying not to wake her. Slowly he approached her and knelt down to pick her up. He levered her up into his arms and began to walk in the direction of their bedroom.

As he looked down at her, he saw her eyes beginning to flutter open. "Hey you," she mumbled sleepily. "I tried to stay up. Must've fallen asleep. Sorry."

John pressed a gentle kiss against her forehead. "It's OK. You need your sleep."

As they entered the room, John kicked the door shut behind them. He placed Mary down on the bed as gently as he could muster and pulled the covers over her.

"Sherlock?" She asked, that one word carrying an unbearable amount of weight.

John just shook his head as he began to strip out of his clothes, till he was stood in nothing but his boxer shorts and a pair of socks. "Not good."

As he slipped beneath the covers to join Mary, she reached out and began to run her hand up and down his back soothingly. "I'm sorry. He'll come around, John. You'll see."

"I hope you're right." John moved in closer so that he was spooning Mary.

He watched as she gradually allowed her head to fall down to the pillow beneath her and she began to drift off, back into the realms of sleep. He wished that he could fall asleep as easily, but he found that he was too wired, and there were too many thoughts in his head to even consider closing his eyes.

Instead he stayed wide awake and watched as Mary's chest rose and fell peacefully. Now that he was with her the frown lines were non existent. She looked quite peaceful and harmless.

Harmless.

John didn't want to let Mycroft's words bother him, but he couldn't help but think about them. He didn't know who his wife was, not really. Her past shouldn't bother him so much. They'd moved past it, or at least John had thought they had tried to do so.

He tried to focus on what he knew about Mary. It was better than concentrating on all of the unknown aspects of his life with Mary.

Facts:

One. His wife was an assassin with a dangerous past.

Two. She had shot Sherlock to try and stop John from discovering her past.

Three. He didn't know her real name, just that her real initials were A.G.R.A

Sherlock seemed to trust Mary. (This last one was especially important. Sherlock Holmes doesn't trust people without good reason)

Five. The hardest fact of them all. Mary Watson was carrying his child.

Casually John allowed one of his hands to slide over the round curve of Mary's pregnancy bump. Inside there he knew there was a little person that was partially him and partially Mary. It might have been John's romantic side getting the better of him but he figured he owed it to that little person to at least try and make it work with its mother.

As he scraped one of his fingernails gently against the surface of Mary's skin he felt something that made his heart stop for a fraction of a second. The baby moved and pushed up against his touch, noticeably kicking with one of its limbs.

"Hello,"John whispered, with the goofiest smile on his face. "It's your daddy." As though answering him John felt another solid kick.

Among all the chaos in John's life he found that the smallest movements from a baby that had yet to be born was the only thing that kept him grounded.

He stayed in that exact position, feeling the tender touches of his child, until he passed out and fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

"I'm not an addict, I'm a user."

John had wanted to believe those words when Sherlock had said them on the plane. He didn't like thinking that his best friend was an addict, that the great consulting detective was reliant on the drugs that he consumed.

That's why, at first, he hadn't wanted Sherlock in a rehabilitation centre. He'd resented Mycroft a long time for placing his brother there. Sherlock didn't have a problem. He wasn't like all the other people in there. He just needed a distraction, some cases, and John by his side. If things could just go back to the way that they were before Mary shot Sherlock, before Magnussen came into their lives, before the plane journey and the close brush with death the detective had…everything would be OK.

Sherlock Holmes was the wisest man that John had ever met. He simply wouldn't succumb to the stupidity of being completely dependent on drugs to function, would he? He would be fine once he broke through his dark mood, surely. He just needed to get over this. Whatever…this was. Sherlock had to be fine. John couldn't bear to think about the alternative option.

As time passed it became harder for John to stand by his faith in Sherlock. The silent, endless staring had been disturbing, but what followed shook John to the core. Sherlock pale and shaking uncontrollably, clutched over a metal toilet bowl, a dull glaze to his eyes that John had never seen before. His body was soaked in sweat and yet his alabaster skin was cool to the touch.

When John Watson first met Sherlock Holmes there had been nothing dull about the man. He was dangerous and exciting, and his personality so bright and alluring that it was no wonder John had been attracted to him.

As John knelt down beside his vomiting friend, holding his overgrown curls up so they didn't get dirty, there was no sign of the man Mike Stamford had introduced him to. The man that John was tenderly caring for was a complete stranger. The man that now knelt before him was a drug addict going through a severe withdrawal, his body convulsing and sweating against his will.

A pained noise gurgled from the depths of Sherlock's throat. His stomach content had long ago been emptied into the basin, but his abdomen muscles still shook and heaved. With each heave of his body choked sounds spat putridly from his mouth.

John ran a hand along the plain white t-shirt Sherlock was clothed in, his fingers trailing along the man's far too prominent spine, feeling each individual bump and nodule beneath his fingertips. He was well practiced in comforting people who were vomiting, especially since Mary's morning sickness had hit.

"It's OK," he soothed, the tender movements of his hand not stopping for a moment. "It'll be over soon. Trust me, alright? I'm a doctor. You're just going to have to wait it out."

Sherlock turned and gave him a glare that clearly said he didn't think John was right; but sure enough the heaving and waves of nausea seemed to lessen over time. Just enough for Sherlock to sit up a bit straighter, not relying so heavily on the toilet to remain upright.

Satisfied that Sherlock was done vomiting for now, John stood up and fetched a plastic cup of ice-chip water. He knelt down with a grunt and pressed the cup up against his friend's cupid bow lips.

At first Sherlock kept his lips steadfast shut, refusing to open them. This only caused the good doctor to sigh. Even when Sherlock was this ill he was refusing medical care. How very…Holmesian.

"I know you don't feel up to drinking right now, but it'll help to soothe your throat." Sherlock, pale faced and shivering, shook his head. John pinched his nose in frustration and let out a weary filled sigh. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, open up, or I swear to god I won't hesitate in getting your brother down here."

That did the trick. It seemed that even when Sherlock was this out of his mind, the feud between him and his brother didn't cease to exist. His lips parted just enough to allow the cool water to flow down his throat.

John smiled a little when all of the water was gone. His hands were once again back on Sherlock's back, rubbing soothing circles there. Now that Sherlock wasn't so occupied with being ill, he seemed to take notice of John's gentle and kind touches, relaxing visibly because of them.

There was something in his expression there that was recognisable. John's heart felt like it skipped a few beats as he hoped and prayed that Sherlock was starting to at least recognise that John was by his side.

It had been hard knowing that his visits had mostly gone unnoticed, whilst Sherlock was trapped inside his mind palace thinking. For a long time John had been convinced that his visits made no difference to the younger man's day, but he had persevered, continuing his daily visits despite the lack of response he'd gotten each time around.

The slack smile on Sherlock's face now seemed to make all the time and effort John had put in worth it. As John's hand continued with its rubbing and comforting, Sherlock suddenly became very malleable, his tense and exhausted body settling down.

John was unsure of when Sherlock had moved to embrace him, but he didn't pull away. He was quite content to allow Sherlock's head to rest on his shoulder. Soon his arms and legs wrapped around the man's slender waist, so that John was quite literally cradling him like a small child.

It was silent for a long while. The only sound to permeate the air was their combined breathing. Both men seemed to revel in just being allowed to be so close to one another. It felt like the tension that had been building between them for weeks had broken, crumbling away into something tender and touching.

It should have felt wrong. He was a married man with his first unborn child on the way. He should not be cuddling and comforting his best friend like a life partner. He shouldn't be reveling in how good it feels to be able to touch Sherlock openly, or how wonderful it felt to have his tan skin pressed against the pale flesh of his best friend.

For now John couldn't allow those thoughts to ruin the moment. He was going to hold on tightly to Sherlock for as long as the man allowed it. His hands dropped down and slid into Sherlock's own, his shorter fingers filling the gaps between Sherlock's slender ones. He allowed his thumbs to caress the tiny imperfections he found there; the healed cuts, the chemical burns, the pads dented with the constant use of his violin.

His eyes slid shut as he focused on how good everything felt, filtering out any doubts that threatened to take over. As he did so he heard a sound that made his eyes fly open, facial expression etched with a myriad of emotions that he had yet to process.

"Thank you."

The two words sounded raspy and sand papery from lack of use. John's eyes darted around the room to see if anyone else was with them. Was his mind playing tricks on him? But no, there was definitely no one else. Just him and Sherlock.

His eyes, still quite wide with shock, settled on Sherlock. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but he found that he had lost his voice entirely. Everything he had witnessed over the past few weeks came crashing down on him all at once, and his chest felt unbearably tight with nerves and tension.

As though understanding what John was trying to convey, Sherlock squeezed John's hands tight. That tiny gesture was almost enough to break something inside of John.

When had he gotten so emotional? Lately he felt like he was walking on ice; one wrong move and he'd fall through and his emotions would threaten to consume him. The only thing preventing him from breaking down and sobbing was Sherlock himself.

John had always thought that Sherlock was the stronger one in their friendship. He'd been the one to help John through his PTSD, he'd given John a purpose, but right now as they clung to one another he knew that it had to be the other way around. It was John who had to pick up the pieces, and it was John who had to hold Sherlock close as he went through his withdrawal.

His eyes began to sting with the threat of tears. He blinked them away until they hurt and he was blurry eyed. When Sherlock's expression fell away to concern and equivocal, unmistakable care, he just couldn't take it anymore.

He wanted to shout and scream until his throat was raw. Because that simple "thank you" had been the first thing Sherlock had spoken in a long time, and now the man was just silent and…broken. He shook his head when the younger man seemed to ask him a question with his eyes.

"It's fine," John said, voice wavering. "It's all fine."

But in truth John Watson didn't know if anything would be fine ever again.