Title: Detour Down A Rabbit Hole

Chapter 3/3: Waking

Rated: MA, for language and to be safe

Spoilers: Maybe. But there are three episodes. Seriously, just watch them.

Crossover: Torchwood. But you don't have to know it to get the story. I don't even know it that well and so apologise for any misrepresentation.

Summary: Sherlock has been abducted in Cardiff and now it's John's turn to play the hero.

Warnings: Drug use (abuse), language, weird narrative perspective. No slash but be my guest to read it like that if you want to.

A/N: Ta da! It's finished. I would have had it up sooner but I did a bit of a rewrite. And I have exams. Minor inconvenience.

Thank you to people who have reviewed! And to those who have this on story alert – it makes me smile =D

Points for: Knowing the direct allusion to one of ACD's stories.

Nine days.

Nine days since you pulled him from that hell hole. Three since you both returned to Baker Street. You had wanted to leave earlier, but Sherlock's unpredictable behaviour had made it impossible. As it was you both hardly survived the journey home in one piece. For the third time in as many days, you mind flits over what you may as well start calling the 'Perilous' – no – 'Death Defying Adventure from Cardiff to London'.

Half way home he had started yelling and swearing at you, telling you how much of a shit friend you were because you were driving and didn't book plane tickets, even though you had discussed with him the day before why this was impossible. Medical issues were always more difficult to deal with on a plane, and they wouldn't let him fly if his abused brain chose at that moment to have a freak out.

You had tried to remind him of this but he wasn't having any of it. When he actually tried to grab the wheel you had to pull over and let him ride it out. You wished, not for the first time, that you could give him a sedative. You also wished he would concede to going to a hospital. But he had been adamant on both accounts. No hospitals, no drugs. He was doing this cold turkey and both your nerves were paying the price.

"Sherlock, I need you to calm down." You've lost count of the amount of times you've made this spiel. "The anger you're feeling is from the withdrawal-"

"Shut up, why don't you just SHUT UP! You don't know how I'm feeling, you don't know ANYTHING! You're...stupid! You STUPID BLOODY IDIOT! You haven't even the slightest sense of how I work, how I function because your pathetic little brain is too diminutive to be able to grasp it! Why the hell are we in a car? We could have caught a plane, we'd be home by now but instead you choose to shove me into this box. Do you ever even think? Of course you don't! I HATE YOU!"

You had tried to keep an impassive face. Let it wash over you. It was like watching a five year old having a tantrum. You took a deep breath. You needed some air.

Your belt was off and you were out of the car before you realised it. He was out of the car a few moments later – it would have been sooner but he'd forgotten his own seatbelt was on.

"I'm sorry," he was saying, chest heaving from the screaming marathon, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm really, really sorry." He may not have been yelling any more, but he looked mortified, running a hand through his hair like he expected you might run off and leave him at any moment. It was not a comforting alternative.

"It's alright, Sherlock," you breathed towards the ground. You were leaning on the boot of the car, trying to calm your racing heart and gather your thoughts. "It's fine." Then, when he continued to hover, "Can you please just go back and sit in the car? Please?"

You were begging and you knew it, but you didn't care. You were miles past caring. He looked at you, lost, before slowly complying with your request.

Five minutes later you sat back down in the driver's seat. He was holding your bottle of water with both hands, lid off and staring at it intently. Okay, then. His eyes flicked towards you. Without warning he attacked it ferociously, forcing the liquid into his mouth and trying desperately to swallow it.

"Whoa!" You had reached over and wrenched the bottle from his hands. He gagged and the water spilled down his front. "Jesus," you looked at him incredulously.

You had been trying to get him to drink something since he woke up in the Hub, but it was a futile effort. You weren't much surprised. He had been soaking in fetid water for over a week, and wanted nothing to do with any kind of liquid.

You had been begging him to try drinking something. Just a sip, but there was no give, and the drip had stayed in for longer than you had wanted it to. And now he had jumped straight into the deep end without warning.

Well of course he did. He was Sherlock Holmes.

You let out a sharp laugh, but caught yourself when you realised. He looked at you and for a split second you thought he was going to cry. But his face broke into a familiar pursed-lip grin and he echoed your laugh with a snort.

And then you were both gone. You laughed so hard that you almost ended up with the rest of the water down your own front, which only made you both laugh even harder. It took a good five minutes to calm yourself down so you could drive again.

The rest of the trip had been interspersed with barely contained snorts of laughter. You were like children trying not to giggle in detention.

Arriving back at Baker Street had been a sobering affair, apparently, because after Mrs Hudson had hugged him viciously, he had escaped upstairs, looking positively panicked.

"He'll come round," you muttered, trying to sooth the worried and hurt look from her face before dashing off behind him.

You found him standing in the living room, staring at the mantelpiece.

"Mrs Hudson returned my skull," he intoned, with no discernable emotion.

The skull was indeed sitting above the fireplace. It had been a bone of contention (no pun intended...well, okay, maybe a little) ever since he had moved in. Mrs Hudson had said she didn't want it in her flat, but you knew better. She just used it for leverage when Sherlock was being particularly intractable. You'd even found it on her own mantelpiece once and had been sworn to secrecy about it. But Sherlock probably knew anyway.

"She's being nice." He spat, as if the word itself was sour.

"She was worried about you, Sherlock. We all were. Even Lestrade."

His jaw tightened at that. Maybe you should have left Lestrade out of it.

"Does he know, then?" His eyes were piercing.

"Of course he knows-"

"About the drugs, John, does he know about the drugs?"

"He knows you were drugged-"

"But does he know it wasn't me? I didn't want to do it. I thought-" His breathing was picking up again. You must have had this conversation a million times over.

"He knows, Sherlock." Your straight forward tone seemed to reassure him somewhat.

"Sit down," you invited, "I'll make a cuppa."

His eyes became cold.

"It's not for you, it's for me. Just...sit down. You'll feel better." Brilliant. Freaking genious you are.

You bring yourself back to the present by rubbing a hand over your face. You're exhausted. Completely and utterly. You've had to deal with the episodic symptoms over the last three days essentially by yourself. At least at the Hub there had been Gwen. And Jack. And Owen. Sherlock hadn't gotten particularly friendly with them but had tolerated their presence when you needed to sleep. You'd both been moved into makeshift guest quarters when the immediate danger was over, but had been itching to get out. Now you wanted them back.

The anxiety had been relatively simple to deal with. You'd dealt with it before in military colleagues and even in yourself. In Sherlock, though, it brought forth his frustration and anger, crescendoing into a screaming match that was usually either one sided or between himself and the contents of the flat. You'd become quite used to his normal tantrums so it was not so much of a stretch to merely avoid the maelstrom of objects that would go hurling around the room. At least he'd stopped throwing epithets at you, and he'd usually feel better afterwards. Sometimes, though, when he really got himself into a state, the anxiety would culminat in tonic-clonic activity – typical GHB withdrawal, you'd reassured him. Not quite full seizures, but frightening enough that Mrs Hudson liked to have you in the room when she was there too, ever since he'd almost fallen into the fireplace.

Sherlock hated them. Passionately. But you knew how to deal with them so the situation itself was manageable and he appreciated you not making a fuss.

The delirium was not so easy to handle. You didn't know when it would start or what it would involve, but it was never anything good. You had to confiscate his laptop when you caught him posting scathing and harsh messages onto his website, including how the police force could go 'Fuck themselves with their batons because their stupidity is beyond anyone's comprehension and Lestrade was attempting to take over London with a hatchet and screwdriver and is obviously in league with Moriarty and anyone would know this if only they'd just think!'

You still desperately hope that no one saw the post before you were able to delete it.

Another time was when Mrs Hudson had decided on providing a seafood dinner and Sherlock had started talking about oysters taking over the world. It wasn't immediately obvious that he was out of it, because there was no yelling, but he was so emphatic that Mrs Hudons had promised to buy up the entire store of oysters the next time she went to the shops in order to create a larger demand and subsequent supply. As she had pointed out, if they're inhabiting your stomach, then the likelihood of their world-domination is minimised quite substantially. Sherlock had looked stunned for a moment, before agreeing and declaring Mrs Hudson's savoir-faire to be exceptional. Then to your and your Landlady's immense surprise he had shot up, pulled her to a standing position and wrapped her in an urgent hug. You had been torn between prying him away and letting it play out, deciding on the latter when it seemed Mrs Hudson had it completely under control.

"Alright, alright," she had muttered while smoothing his back.

You may have laughed at the spectacle they made; a veritable giant engulfing a small, elderly lady; if it were not for the tears that threatened to fall from the both of them. You had started clearing the dishes instead.

You had encouraged the drinking. Of water, of course. He would be prone to dehydration anyway, but his little show in the car had not heralded the end of his hydrophobia. He only complied when you threatened to reconnect the drip. It had taken a couple of hours, though, to realise you needed to hang around to make sure he swallowed, instead of spitting it back into the cup when your back was turned.

The only reason you haven't given in and taken him to a hospital or detox clinic is because the episodes are becoming less frequent. It'll be over soon, you think, and tell him regularly. You seriously hope you're right.

A knock on the door pulls you from your reverie. Muffled voices filter up the stairs and your eyes flicker to Sherlock. He's lying on the couch, eyes closed. You know he's not asleep because his breathing's not quite deep enough but at least he's giving it a shot. You inwardly moan at the visitor because it's so rare for him to be lying still for five minutes. You decide that they should probably be forestalled and you mentally prepare an "I'm really sorry but now's not a good time" speech as you pad down the stairs, but the words stick in your throat when you see who it is.

Mycroft is speaking with Mrs Hudson and you feel a surge of dislike for the man. Now. He chooses to come visit now, nine days after his brother's abduction. Some concern.

"He's asleep and I'd like to keep it that way," you say, a little harsher than you wanted, but you don't feel guilty about it.

Mycroft turns to look at you.

"Ah, Dr Watson, it's so good to see you again."

"Yeah, well, I can't really say the same, I'm sorry to say." Mrs Hudson is giving you an incredulous look but you don't care.

Mycroft smiles briefly but it doesn't reach his eyes. It never does.

"You're angry," he says calmly and you want to slap him.

"It's been nine days."And that really says all there is to say.

He sighs and looks down at his feet.

"I was in Iran."

"He's your brother."

Mycroft looks back up at you and there's a glint of steel in his eyes.

"I'm well aware of that, thank you doctor. Who do you think instructed Torchwood in their rescue operation?"

Of course. Mycroft had his tentacles everywhere.

"You still could have come," you know you're being irrational, but it's been a bloody difficult few weeks.

Mycroft's smile is a little more genuine this time.

"And done what? Sherlock wouldn't have wanted me anywhere near him. You know that. I would have only made things worse."

And you know it's true. And you think you glimpse a flash of hurt on the face of the stoic older Holmes and your resolve disappears. You sigh and run a hand over your face.

"Yeah..suppose," you practically mumble.

"I have nothing but gratitude for you, doctor. I realise these past few weeks have been difficult. For all of you." He glances briefly to Mrs Hudson and you know she's been won over. You suppose you have been too. A part of your brain realises that it was probably in record time, but you really don't have the energy to care at the moment.

"He is sleeping, though."

"John?" A voice calls from the living room.

Mycroft smiles. "Not anymore."

=IIIII=

He needed a statement, Mycroft had said. But if you've read things right he's using it as a guise to check up on his younger brother. You think Sherlock probably knows this as well, so no one's really fooling anyone, but everyone plays along with it anyway. Ah, the life and times of the Holmes brothers. They can't do anything in a straight forward manner.

Sherlock complies far quicker than you expect but probably only because it'll get Mycroft out of the house sooner as opposed to later. He's sitting in his favourite armchair and Mycroft has yours. You hover behind Sherlock and hope you're conveying a sense of 'having his back', so to speak.

Mrs Hudson lit the fire earlier and it's serving as a good focus point for everyone in the room. As long as one can look at the fire there's little need to look anywhere else. Sherlock's been staring at it for about seven minutes now. Mycroft has his head on his chest, apparently waiting patiently. You wonder if you're going to spend the afternoon observing what could be, for all intents and purposes, a painting. It's completely without any notice that Sherlock begins his story.

"They made me think they'd abducted Mrs Hudson." He ran his hand over his mouth, as if he was surprised he'd said it. Mycroft doesn't give any indication that he's heard, but you know he's all ears.

"I don't...really remember anything between then and waking up in a foot of water." You think he's probably not telling the whole truth, but he's come a damn site closer now than over the past nine days.

"They would lower syringes down on a piece of string and they...told me to inject them. They...I thought they had Mrs Hudson and she was screaming because they were..." A thirty second pause with only the sound of the fire to fill it.

"I tried faking it once, but they..." His breath catches but he manages to steady it. "Screaming..." he gestures around his head and you understand precisely, even if he's not able to vocalise it.

"They threw down bread, sometimes, but I only caught it once. The rest of the time it fell in the water...I knew it was drugged. Both." His head twitches.

"You didn't have a choice," you say in a low voice. You hope it's at least marginally reassuring.

Mycroft lifts his head from his chest.

"Why do you think they didn't use John?" His question does not betray any emotion he might be feeling, but instead of being hurt or upset, it appears to bolster his brother, who finally looks at him.

"Probably because they knew I'd recognise the deception. I have experienced John's behaviours in all kinds of situations; apprehending thieves, speaking in court, watching Top Gear...being threatened by murderers. I know all his nuances, as anyone would, being in such close proximity to a person for almost three years. With Mrs Hudson though...but perhaps I should have known, there must have been something, some mistake they made pretending to be her -"

"Sherlock you were drugged to the teeth!" Your voice comes out a little harsher than you intended. His jaw becomes tight.

"So they were keeping you out of the way," Mycroft summarises, "While they went about attempting to infiltrate forensic units across the country. Well," he flashes a humourless smile, "At least they kept you fed."

"Yes, fed," Sherlock spits, staring once again into the fire. "Bread made from flour laced with GHB. And sometimes they were nice enough to throw down other things. Sheep intestines, for example. Rotting flesh...things..." The veins in his hands are standing out, the only indication that he has the chair arms in a vice grip.

You realise belatedly that Mycroft's comment was made purely to draw out more information and that his ability to manipulate is truly second to none. The thought isn't a comforting one. But perhaps it's what Sherlock needs, because after two steadying breaths, he continues.

"I tried to minimise risk of infection, but after a couple of days the water was..." His nose wrinkled in distaste and the sentence didn't need to be finished.

"Do you know the group who did it?" Mycroft is the champion of non-emotion, but you notice an edge to his expression and you know you never want to be on the wrong end of Mr Holmes' wrath.

"Torchwood gave us the essential pieces of information. I deduced the rest. They were a satellite group of humans and aliens attached to a Polish drug and crime-syndicate. The syndicate were plotting a way to infiltrate and compromise crime labs so they would have greater control over chain of evidence. This would simplify obtaining their ultimate goal, which is to provide a steady and unhindered flow of recreational and euthanasia drugs from the Eastern European market into the UK.

"I had been watching this group for weeks. Ever since noticing the discrepancy concerning the Forensic Anthropologist's wife and her handbag."

Mycroft gave his first genuine smile since the interview began.

"I also knew there were some issues concerning lost evidence and botched investigations. That's why it was essential that I attend the National Forensic Conference. Imagine my surprise, though, when I realised Torchwood was involved." He was staring almost accusingly at his brother.

So Sherlock did know about Torchwood, then. Well, of course he did.

"They weren't." Mycroft's smile is this time without mirth. "Well, not until you had gone missing, anyway."

Sherlock's eyes twitched.

"You don't control Torchwood."

"No one controls Torchwood." Mycroft's fingers interlace and come to rest on his abdomen. "But I have certain influences."

You almost roll your eyes. Of course he has.

=IIIII=

After Mycroft has left you decide to ask one more question. Just one more because it's been bugging you for a while now and he's been pretty open so far and you don't know when the next opportunity will be. He knows there's a question coming and almost imperceptibly braces himself.

"Sherlock, when you woke for the first time in the Hub, you said something. You asked what the opposite of clean was." His jaw clenches. "What did that mean?"

"Nothing. Childhood memory, that's all. Nothing."

And you know it's anything but 'nothing'. You keep going.

"You also kept repeating 'it wasn't me' over and over when we were bringing you up from the ruin. You were referring to the drugs."

He's edgy now and you know you've only got moments before he decides the conversation's over and it's not something you're likely to revisit.

"When we first met, you told Lestrade you were 'clean'. Multiple times."

Yep. Seconds now. Hit it hard.

"The opposite of clean is dirty, Sherlock," you say in a matter-of-fact tone, because this needs to get through. He flinches. And you know. And plough towards the finish line. "But that's just semantics. Taking drugs does not make you...unclean. It doesn't make you dirty. It just presents obstacles that are difficult to overcome."

Your words aren't soft or reassuring or laced with emotion. They're straight forward and factual. Data. God you hope that's how he sees them.

"I couldn't stop them," he bites.

"Of course not, you thought they had Mrs Hudson."

"They didn't."

"But you thought they did. You did the right thing."

"I spent a week in my own filth!" He roars, gripping the arm rests.

"And you survived it, Sherlock." You remain calm. The doctor. The professional. No matter how destroyed you are internally.

He scoffs. You sigh.

"One week, Sherlock. Just give it one more week and the physiological addiction will be broken and you'll be feeling better. And we can go madly rushing off to crime scenes and freaking the pants off Anderson and Donovan."

He snorts slightly but you think it's mostly for your benefit. At least he's trying. He wipes a sleeve under his nose. You're going to need to get him out of that habit.

"Will Mrs Hudson take my skull away then?"

He looks longingly over at the grinning face on the fireplace and you know he's only half joking. You smile anyway.

"That depends on whether you re-establish your habit of shooting walls. Besides, you know how lonely she'd be if he didn't go and visit once in a while."

It takes three seconds of silence before you both break into hysterical giggles. You're feeding each other so it quickly turns into rich, deep laughter. You know it's what you need to recharge your batteries. It's good and loud and long and much like the car ride from Cardiff, but this time it's not born of hysterics. Tears are rolling down your cheeks and you notice moments later that you're not the only one.

Mrs Hudson's not so positive, though, as she knocks only once before almost careening through the living room door.

"Is everything alright?" She looks horribly concerned, which causes you to laugh even harder. "John, Sherlock?"

You manage to pull yourselves together for a grand total of two seconds before you both fail hopelessly and break into another fit of laughter. Mrs Hudson huffs.

"Well if you're going to be like that..." and she marches back down the stairs, leaving you and your flatmate to suffer the indignities of uncontrollable mirth.

=IIIII=

It takes another two weeks for Lestrade to come up with a particularly interesting case and you are thanking every deity you know for the timely intervention. It's not a murder, but a particularly intriguing robbery at the British Museum that promises some interesting investigative potentials.

As you watch your friend dance around the 'Department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan' with a gleeful air you know he'll not only survive, but also recover. You know it. Because if anyone can, he can. Truism to a T.

And maybe, with any luck, you will too.

~fin

A/N:

So, you have questions? You don't think I filled in all the holes? Good, that's what I was aiming for. Here's to ambiguity of plot – it's rather new to me.

If they only offered marks for procrastination ability, I'd be top of the class. What did you do to procrastinate today? I wrote a 10 000 word fanfic. In second person present tense!

Do they even have a fireplace? *shrug*