Needles

John knows Sherlocks had many addictions over the years, they just don't talk about it. Ever. Its like an unwritten rule of their relationship. John doesn't mention the small needle scars on the detectives arms and Sherlock doesn't mention the day John's limp returns without reason or warning.

But John does wonder. Why did the detective do it? What drove him to such depths that the only answer was pumping chemicals into his veins?

But no, they don't talk about it. Ever.

It isn't that John doesn't acknowledge it. When they're lying together on cold winter nights he runs his hand across them, feeling the light marks carefully under his wondering fingers.

He doesn't speak, he just feels and Sherlock never tell's him not to so why shouldn't he?

His touches hold a thousand questions.

Why, where, when, how?

But they go unspoken and unanswered.

Because thats Sherlocks past and John is his present.

They way the detective smiles when John strokes his arm is all the answers John needs.

Sherlocks with him now and he wont ever go back to those dark days.

Ever.

Nicotine

Johns notices that less and less nicotine patches adorn the detectives limbs.

He doesn't question it because after all, what does he know about the complicated cogs of Sherlocks mind?

Although he does wonder in the detective is back on the cancer sticks.

Which he would not be happy about.

But no, the detective doesn't smell of smoke and he hasn't found any empty packets lying around. So why?

Then, one day, John watches with an amused stare as Sherlock opens the draw filled with the beige patches and empties them into the bin.

And John cant help but ask...

Why? Whats changed all of a sudden.

Sherlock merely glances at him in a amused fashion, as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.

I don't need them any more, I get my thrills in other ways.

John suddenly becomes aware of himself and overly nervous.

Because Sherlocks talking about him.

And that makes him happier then he thought humanely possible.

Alcohol

The bottle of red wine sits menacingly on the kitchen table and John stares with such malice that Sherlocks silently surprised it hasn't shattered into a thousand tinkling pieces. A gift, the detective had explained, from someone he'd aided.

Johns hates the sight of it, the mere appearance of it in the flat has considerably lowered his mood of the day.

Because, after all, this is the thing that killed his sister. Sure, she killed herself, but John holds this bottle directly responsible.

He can tell Sherlocks watching and silently judging him. But for once John couldn't give two fucks about whats going through the sociopaths crazy head.

Considering Sherlock still has all of his siblings left (and John has met them all now) he doesn't believe the detectives allowed his opinion on the situation.

But Sherlock always has little ways on surprising him.

The detective grabs the bottle in a vice like grip and for one horrible second John thinks he's going to crack it open and pour himself a glass.

But John finds himself pulled to his feet and dragged over to the kitchen sink. Sherlock grabs a bottle opener from the draw and pulls the cork from its glass confines, dropping it onto the kitchen floor with little thought for hygiene.

The detective peers at John for a second, his eyes saying it all.

I understand you idiot, I always understand.

The deep red liquid is poured down the sink, the drain glugging and John cant help but wonder if thats what Harry was like.

Actually glugging the sweet smelling liquid as fast as she possibly could.

Sherlock opens the window next to the sink and chucks the bottle out.

They're both made aware of gravity when they here a loud shattering from the courtyard out back soon followed by a loud yell from Mrs Hudsons home below. But neither hear her words or angered tone.

Because Sherlocks arms are wrapped around John protectively and for some reason he himself cant put his finger on Johns sobbing uncontrollably into the taller mans pale blue shirt.

Coffee

When John gets home from work and finds Sherlock reading surrounded by what can only be described as every coffee cup in the flat John has two thoughts.

One, Sherlock wont be sleeping much tonight.

And two, he really needs to lay of the coffee. The doctor lazily begins to clear away the items noticing Sherlocks gaze doesn't even lift from the paper work he's reading.

Suddenly, he jumps up, his eyes wide with excitement. He grabs his coat and runs out of the flat, leaving John looking like a mug tree, a cup hanging from every finger.

He sighs and cleans the mess that has been left after Sherlocks day before falling asleep in his favourite armchair.

He only wakes up when he hears the shuffling footsteps of Holmes returning back from what ever the hell he's been up to that night.

He watches tiredly as the detective slumps in the chair next to Johns and sighs.

Because he could never do things by halves and now he is been presented with the downer of his caffeine high.

John cant help but smile at the younger mans knackered face and limp limbs.

Sherlock knows he wont be drinking a whole jar of coffee in a day again.

But John doesn't say anything, because he know Sherlock knows.

After all...

He is Sherlock Holmes.

What doesn't he know?

Personality

The first time John met Sherlock he was somewhat stumped by the taller man. He was like an enigma, some sort of mystery that could never be solved.

But now, he finds himself, eating dinner in their grotty little kitchen and occasionally glancing at the other, just to make sure...

Just to make sure that the other hasn't gone any where.

Johns never been addicted to anything. He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, wouldn't touch drugs if you paid him.

And yet since meeting the detective John has found himself addicted to many things. Sherlocks smile, his gruff chuckles and his warm arms.

Not that he'd let the detective know it. He'd have a field day analysing that one.

When ever Holmes smiles so does John.

When Holmes laughs so does John.

And when Holmes gets that look in his eye that drives John crazy he knows he must by mirroring it.

Because to him, Sherlock is a drug.

And he has no future plans to give it up.

John figures he deserves a little addiction in his life.

Running

Some of the happiest moments in what John fondly refers to as his new life is running through the streets with Sherlock.

It satisfies him to no end.

Because its their thing, something they both have in common and would only share with each other.

They, John likes to thinks, are the perfect team. John with his medical and military history and Sherlock with his extraordinary mind and quick thinking attitude.

They haven't been presented with a case they couldn't solve.

He knows that when ever Sherlocks phone rings and he's told about some mutilated body in a back alley he's in for wild ride.

John knows he could die at any moment on these cases, but then again he knew that is Afghanistan and he still went there.

And the cases are different, because they make Sherlock happy and that brightens Johns mood considerably.

John loves the feeling he gets when they're running through alleys and old railways in order to get their man. And once its all over and they go home and collapse on the sofa or Johns bed they both laugh like maniacs.

Because both of them know this isn't a normal hobby and it certainly isn't a job. Because what job is this exciting?

But still, they laugh till their sides hurt and all they can do is peer at each other with amused stares.

Without this, John realises, they'd be nothing.

Because if Sherlock hadn't asked him to come with him all those months ago to peer at a dead woman in a pink coat his life be be so dull and mundane.

If she where still alive John would thank her.

Because of her they became Holmes and Watson.

But they also became Sherlock and John.

Fin

Sherlock peers at at it with disgust. Because its not necessary and its simply Mycroft trying to grind his nerves.

Sherlock doesn't need a drug councillor, all thats in his past were he plans on keeping it. Theres no need for this poorly made leaflet to be pushed through his door.

The detective screws it up and chucks it in the bin with distaste.

Sherlock doesn't need those substances any more. The drugs, the tobacco... They where all things he was using to fill a gaping hole in his life.

The front door opens and John walks in with a happy sigh after a hard day at the clinic. Sherlock watches him curiously as he walks into the kitchen to get a cup of tea.

No, Sherlock doesn't need any bloody drug counselor with their stupid ideas about why he's like he his and asking about family life. The detective follows his friend into the kitchen and creeps up behind the doctor, burying his nose into the other mans soft hair.

Sherlock doesn't need any help on the drug front.

Because at the moment, he only has one.

John.

Its his last and all time favourite addiction.

Well here it is :)

Because so many people made the effort to add me to their fave authors or put me on story alert I wanted to say thanks.

If I'm honest, I don't like this as much as Common Knowledge but I wrote it so I thought I'd post it :)

Hope alls well and review please! It makes me want to write more ;) (and yes that is bribery)!

Lots of love

White Lilly