Hello,

great that you found your way to this little oneshot of mine!
I do hope you'll enjoy it! I would love to know what you think of it...
And thanks to High-Functioning Ginger for her amazing beta-work!

Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own BBC Sherlock, characters belong to Gatiss, Moffat and ACD.

Enjoy! :)

My only addiction

John Watson suffers from nightmares. Horrible dreams that make him wake up sweat-covered and heavily breathing every single night from his light sleep.

Everything had started back in Afghanistan after he had killed someone for the first time. He actually didn't want to murder people, he simply was the doctor. But still, before he became part of the company they told him to act immediately when he would be threatened – if necessary he was told to pull the trigger of his revolver and shoot.

And in the night between the 4th and the 5th of May 2010 he had done just that. In his nightmares he can still feel the weight of the weapon, the pressure and hears the horrible scream of the man who had attacked him.

John's nightmares torture him. Every single night. He is almost scared of going to sleep, knowing what he will see. When he closes his eyes, his hands are already shaking. He tries to suppress the urge to get up again and crawls under the sheets. His breathing becomes slower, more rhythmic. He sleeps.

And then there are those films playing in his head again. Dangerous, bloody, terrifying. Gunfire, crimson wounds. John screams. He tosses and turns.

Downstairs, Sherlock Holmes can hear the yells of his friend. He can't sleep but he doesn't even want to. Sleeping is overrated and boring, a waste of precious time. He'd rather shoot some holes into the wall but he doesn't, for the sake of John.

He is worried about John. Every night Sherlock quietly climbs the stairs and sits down in front of John's bedroom door. He would love to help him but can't get himself to push the door handle and pull his flatmate into a soothing hug.

That's not how Sherlock works. He ignores feelings. They are dangerous disadvantages.
Except those for John. John is his friend. The only person he can rely on. It's him he cares about. He is important to him.

But he still doesn't go into his room. John could probably not like his attempts to soothe him, to make him feel better. Sherlock doesn't want to be rejected, John is too important for him. So he just sits next to the door, listens and thinks about John.

John can hear the steps on the stairs when he was rudely awoken again. He knows that it is Sherlock. He also knows that he won't come to him. But he feels his presence. It helps. It helps him to sleep peacefully, at least for awhile.

It's midnight. John is awake, sweating and panting. He can't go to sleep anymore. John gets up and opens the door. Sherlock is not there. John is a little disappointed. He would have liked to see the familiar face. John goes downstairs, tugging his sheet behind him.

Sherlock sits on the sofa, fingers folded like a tent, floating in front of his face. He is thinking. When John enters he looks up. He frowns, concerned. A quiet question.

"I can't sleep", John says by way of explanation. Sherlock shifts a bit sideways so his friend can sit down. He opens his arms. Without saying a word, John snuggles closer to him and takes in his crisp familiar scent. He feels soft curls against his temples and his sheet over his body.

Sherlock's warm breath breezing softly on his skin and the gentle rise and fall of the taller man's chest. Then slender fingers begin gently stroking his hair and his shoulders to relax him so that maybe, just maybe, he will be able to sleep. And he does. For the first time in many years John Watson sleeps without nightmares.

John is relaxed the next morning. He and Sherlock receive a call from Lestrade who orders them to come to Scotland Yard to help with an investigation. The usual.
But today, John is concentrated, focused. Sherlock is proud of him.

When Sherlock examines the body, the sleeve of his purple shirt goes up a bit. Three nicotine patches are on his pale skin. That's Sherlock's only problem; drugs. Sometimes he refuses to eat and sleep for days, focusing entirely on brainwork. Then he uses stimulants, cigarettes, cocaine. He has tried a lot. John has tried to get him clean, but hasn't been successful. His usage has dramatically decreased since John's arrival, but not halted completely.

Sherlock is trying to get clean. His fights his cigarette addiction with nicotine patches. Only the cocaine still bothers him. He wants to give it up, for John, and he is progressing.

Two men with problems. They don't talk about them but still know everything about those topics. They know each other very well and communicate without words.
A look into John's eyes and Sherlock can read him like a book. When Sherlock looks into them sharp, pleasant shivers run down his spine. He doesn't know why.

When John looks into Sherlock's eyes, he gets goosebumps. It seems like Sherlock can look right into his soul. The detective's eyes soften when he looks at John. They are not as cold as usual. John likes that. He doesn't know why.

They find themselves trading glances at the crime scene as well.
"Everything alright?", Sherlock inquires and John knows that he is referring to last night and the nightmares.
John nods and whispers "Thank you."

Sherlock smiles, happy to know that he was finally able to offer comfort. A lovely and rare sight, with crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes. John smiles back. Only the two of them count at this moment. The body, Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade – they have forgotten everything.

Sherlock is thankful that John is his friend. Truly and completely grateful. This is rather unusual as he's rarely thankful for anything, and certainly not for a person.

John, too, cherishes his friendship with Sherlock. Even if he is eccentric and difficult at times, stores human body parts in the flat, and speaks with a sharp, abrasive tongue – John still likes the Consulting Detective. A lot.

And that's why he wishes that Sherlock gives up the drugs. It's more important to him than a night without nightmares. Sherlock has neglected his problems. They're unimportant. He just wants John to be fine. More than anything in the world.

They know about their problems but not about their desires, their wishes. They can only guess what they are when John hides the cigarettes or Sherlock sits next to the bedroom door. But they don't know about the feelings of the other. Although they are feeling the same.

John is very emotional, Sherlock knows that. But opening himself to those same emotions and experiences is a foreign concept to him. They're something he's long sought to stamp out, just distractions. But John has made that rather difficult for him.
The thing is that all of this is still so new and he's not really sure what he feels. He doesn't have enough data. He still has to check some things.

John does know what he feels. Somehow he doesn't believe it. Refuses to. Yet, deep inside he can't ignore it, can't fight it. And honestly, he likes it. But he still doesn't feel ready and he also doesn't want to risk rejection. He knows there is no way that Sherlock feels like him. It's just not how Sherlock works.

When they catch each others glances like this it's obvious that there is something stirring within each of them. Their eyes show both their desperation and also the sensation of warmth and the desire for mutual attachment. And it really is painfully obvious. To everyone. Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson – they all can see it. But the two who need to see it most can't.

They neither see the expression in their eyes nor the fastening pulse on their necks or the dilating pupils. Even Sherlock who notices everything doesn't. A grave oversight. Unfortunately.

"What've you got?" Lestrade inquires, breaking through their thoughts. Sherlock starts imperceptibly at the sudden interruption and clears his throat.

"She wasn't hung although it was made to look like it. She was beaten to death. The culprit is probably one of her co-workers from the supermarket who was acting on jealousy due to her recent raise in salary. Check the workers. If one of them wears red nail polish, she's the one who did it."

Lestrade holds up a hand "And how do you know that?"

Sherlock sighs and points at the body that is hanging down from the ceiling.
"The clothes. She definitely got new clothes; her blouse is definitely new and expensive. Her shoes, though, are worn down; she must have had them for quite a long time. That's why I think she received an increase in salary. Also, there is a corner of a salary cheque poking from out of her pocket. It is obvious that she works in a supermarket because there are a lot of bruises and scratches on her hands and wrists – pressure marks from working at the cash desk and from arranging the wares. And if you compare the blouse and the shoes it must've been a quite high increase of her salary, thus I deduce that the motive was jealousy."

"And what about her not being hanged but beaten to death?", John asks.

"A hanged body usually has a blue skin colour, busted blood cells in the eyes and so on. You as a doctor will surely agree with me there." John nods.

"Those signs are missing here. Also, the marks on her neck where the rope has been do not show sore corners. So she must have been alive and there should be an ignition if she really had been hanged. But that is missing. So it's obvious that she was dead before she was hung up here."

"What's the cause of death then?", Lestrade asks.

"Blunt trauma. Don't you see the fracture at the back of her head? Somebody must have beaten her under the urge of passion. While doing that, a bit of nail polish took off in small pieces. There, do you see the red crumbs? This is typical for a woman, so are the actions under the urge of passion. There you've got your killer."

Sherlock turns on his heel and heads for the door. John feels a smile creeping onto his face at Sherlock's work, throwing him a look of admiration. He loves it to see his friend in action. He's just brilliant and it never ceases to amaze him that someone like that actually exists. You see stuff like that on the telly, but to live with it is entirely different.

John knows he isn't that special. He's nothing out of the ordinary. You can find hundreds of army doctors. It kind of bothers him. He's uninteresting and will never be unique enough to satisfy for Sherlock, although he would love to be.

It is as if Sherlock has read his thoughts. He half-turn back to John, tossing him a smile and saying "We're done here. Coming? You know I'd be lost without my blogger."

At those words John grins. The bit of playful affection he reads in the words makes him feel a bit better. A warm sensation courses through his body, causing his heart to pound.

They leave the crime scene, John following closely behind Sherlock. As they're reaching the street and cab whirs past and Sherlock hails it, fastening his pace to reach it. John's limp suddenly decided to act up again. This isn't an unusual occurrence after a nightmare, especially when it cool and damp like today.

John can't keep up with Sherlock, his strides are too long. Suddenly warm, gloved hands wrap around his own, pulling him along "We'll get that cab, come on."

He holds John's hand during the whole cab ride. Nobody wants to let go. The sensation feels too good. Sherlock is happy he's wearing a long coat – John is not supposed to see his goosebumps. He enjoys the moment but is unsure what his friend would think about this reaction. John himself considers the pleasant warmth of Sherlock's hand more than just nice. He hopes that the ride would never end.

But it does and they arrive at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock and John get out, pay the driver and enter their flat. Sherlock had let go of John's hand in the meantime but he still feels the hand of the Consulting Detective in his own, lingering like a ghost.

Sherlock spends the rest of the afternoon with playing the violin. It's usually an excellent distraction from his emotions and thoughts but it doesn't work today. He plays a longing melody and yearns more than ever for John's nearness.

The smaller man is sitting in front of his laptop and blogs about the new case. He listens to Sherlock's violin and perceives that the notes sound melancholic and seems to ache with want. For what? If he were to hear anyone else compose such a song he would surely say it was a lament to a broken heart. But that's not possible. Not for Sherlock. John lets out a heavy sigh.

When John goes to bed that evening he's exhausted and hopes fervently for a nightmare-free night. But no such luck. As soon as he begins to doze off the nightmares start again.

He doesn't dream of war though. No gunfire or desert sun. Instead it's inarguably worse. He dreams of Sherlock. Dreams that he is attacked and killed. Watches him bleed out in front of him and is unable to help. John tosses and turns in protest. Not Sherlock!
A last look into Sherlock's eyes, then they become lifeless and glassy, waking John with a scream.

Downstairs Sherlock can hear how John cries of torment. It has never been this bad.
He rushes upstairs and eavesdrops at the door. He can hear the pain, the fear and the sheer panic John feels. He knows – he has to help now, no matter if John likes this or not.

He quickly opens the door, sits down next to John and pulls him into a tight hug. He soothingly strokes his back that is covered in sweat, buries his nose in the crook of his neck and murmurs comforting words.

"John, I'm here, everything is going to be okay."

John continues staring wildly around in panic, his mouth open and emitting a strange whimper against his will. When he feels Sherlock's body against his, he slowly calms though. The whimpers subside and the tears, of relief mainly, begin to run.

"Christ, Sherlock. You were dead!" he tries to explain shakily. "Yo- you were right there, bleeding, dying and I cou- couldn't' do anything. Nothing at all." He gasps out. Drawing a deep steadying breath he fixes Sherlock with a firm look saying "That must never ever happen. Don't you dare leave me."

Sherlock's heart stings and he winces at the mental images that are conjured within his mind. His initial reaction is that it's foolish for John to say such a thing. He certainly has no intention of dying. And when he does it won't really be a choice. But he senses that won't help John, so instead he does what he can to reassure him.

Gently stroking his head, he says "I won't leave you, John. Never. I am going to stay here tonight. And if you want, I'll stay the night after and as many more as you desire."

John nods, almost completely calm and reaches for the box of tissue on his bedside table.
His problem is solved. Sherlock takes his face in his hands, wipes the tears off his cheeks and strokes him softly. John calms down and gives Sherlock a thankful look.

A final, stray tear runs down his cheek. Sherlock doesn't know why but he leans in and kisses the drop away. It tastes salty and it tastes of John. Sherlock likes that. He runs his tongue over his lips. How would it feel to kiss John's mouth? Taste him, smell him, feel him?

John doesn't pull back. He smiles. Sherlock's soft, cool lips feel good on his heated skin. He snuggles closer to his friend and closes his eyes. Together they lean back and doze off. John's arm is placed over Sherlock's chest and keeps him where he is. John sleeps without nightmares this night, too.

Sherlock is already gone when John opens his eyes. He assumes that he is investigating again. John is fine with that; as he has to work today. A dull day at the clinic is what awaits, but the bills have to be paid somehow.

As he readies himself for the day he recalls last night, cuddling with Sherlock, the warmth. His whole body tingles at this memory. And then there was this little kiss. He hadn't expected it but he found it wonderful. If only it meant what he wished it would...

John gets up and ready and goes to his work. His thoughts drift off to his flatmate the whole day long.

When he arrives at home in the evening his heart pounds startlingly fast. He just wants to thank Sherlock for everything he has done for him and that he has overcome his fears – only for him.

Sherlock sits in his chair, holding a cocaine bottle and cigarettes in his hand. He stares at them with hatred. He curses himself for being addicted to them. Now that he feels so close to John, he doesn't want to be addicted anymore. He makes up his mind. His gaze wanders to the bin.

The moment he wants to get up, John enters. He catches him with the drugs. Of course he doesn't know what Sherlock was intending to do and his automatic reaction is anger.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" He demands, snatching the drugs from the detective's hand.

"I – but – John!" Sherlock protests, attempting to explain. But John isn't listening. He's furious. Well not really, it more fear and concern for Sherlock manifesting itself as anger.

He rants and rages, his tongue running away with him, spitting venom. He isn't under control anymore; he is not himself, not the easy-going John Watson. He is someone else. He is worried about his flatmate, who he's also in love with. Not to mention his nightmare ravaged mind. This combination has turned him into a desperate man.
A heated argument flares up between them.

They don't understand each other. John doesn't know that Sherlock wanted to throw the drugs away. Sherlock doesn't understand that John is concerned about him. None of them wants to tell the other about his feelings and the continue arguing.

Finally, John disappears angrily and rushes outside, he needs some air. Sherlock breaks down. He feels horrible. It's like his heart is breaking. Sherlock feels a tear in the corner of his left eye. He swipes it away and pulls himself together. He doesn't want to lose John.

He is angry at himself, hates the fact that they have been arguing.

He is afraid to lose his best friend.

Sherlock throws the drugs in the bin. It's final. He takes a picture with his blackberry and sends it to John. He must know about his decision.
He writes,

I planned to dispose of them. Come home. John, please. I can't be without you.

SH

John is sitting in his favourite pub and drinks his pint. His mobile makes a noise. A text from Sherlock with an attached picture. Opening it, he realizes he has made a mistake. He swears to himself and rushes home as fast as possible.

He finds Sherlock sitting in front of the fireplace. Traces on his cheek show where the tears have been running down. It hurts John, that's what he has done to his Sherlock. He immediately regrets everything he said.

"Sherlock", he whispers and when he doesn't react, he walks up to him and slings his arms around him. He buries his nose in the soft curls and smells the pleasant scent.

"I'm so sorry, please, forgive me", he murmurs, "I didn't know you wanted to throw them away. I was worried about you. I know what this stuff does to people. I don't want to loose you", he explains

John opens to his friend, explains what he is feeling. Sherlock listens carefully, enjoys being close to his blogger despite their argument. He has forgiven him already; he isn't as cold as everyone says. With every sentence John says, his heart feels lighter.

"Sherlock, I don't want to lose you. You are important to me, so unbelievably important. That's why I'm so worried about you, do you understand?" Sherlock nods.

"I'm so grateful for everything you have done for me – like yesterday night. Really. I feel safe around you, Sherlock and you know that you are my best friend."

"You too...", Sherlock whispers, admitting once more that he has only one friend that is John,

"That's why I wanted to throw the drugs away. I don't want to let you down and leave you alone because I'm foolish enough to risk my health by taking them" Sherlock Holmes never admits that he has made a mistake. However, he does now.

"I know", John assures and lets his hands run down his chest. "I want to stay with you. Forever. Right here, in this flat, solving crimes and making you eat. Can I do that? Am I forgiven?" Sherlock nods and pulls him into a hug

They stay like this for a little while. John kneeling, Sherlock still sitting in his chair, they don't want to let go. They enjoy the warmth of the other and understand that they have forgiven each other. They realize that they need each other.

The second problem, the one with the drugs, is solved, too. John loosens the hug and looks at Sherlock. Their eyes are on the same height. John puts his forehead against Sherlock's. His heart beats fast. He has a warm feeling in his stomach. Sherlock feels the same, his pulse fastens. He takes in John's scent. He now knows what he is feeling. Definitely.

They look each other deep in the eyes. For the first time they feel that there is a certain longing for each other. Sherlock snuggles closer to John who is pressing him tight against his body.

"I have to tell you something, John", Sherlock says in a hoarse voice, "It has started some months ago... I felt something I have never felt before. I finally realized what it means and..." He sighs. He can't manage to say more and averts his eyes.

John smiles. "Look at me, Sherlock", he says softly, "I understand what you mean. I've got the same problem. I feel more attracted to you, closer to you than I did when we first met but I thought you weren't able to … love, you know? To love the way I do. To love the way I love you..." His voice has trailed off; Sherlock had to strain to hear the last few words.

But he can hear them. Sherlock looks at his friend in disbelief. Did John just tell him that he loves him? Does he really feel... the same? He swallows, his heart beats so hard that it seems it will jump out off his chest soon. He tries to say something, to whisper, anything, but his voice breaks down. John smiles.

He leans in, nudges Sherlock's nose softly with his own. "I love you, Sherlock", he breathes, hoping that Sherlock feels the same, "What about you?"
"I love you, too", he croaks, happily. They smile at each other.

John still can't believe that Sherlock Holmes is capable of feeling human feelings, especially not love. But he has always hoped he would and now that he does, John is immensely happy. It does seem unusual for Sherlock to admit it but he doesn't care. He is glad that they have forgiven each other and feel the same. He doesn't want more. He just wants Sherlock around him.

Sherlock carefully lifts one hand up to John's face, cups his chin, strokes his jaw line, his cheeks, his lips. He tilts his head a bit to the right and closes the little gap between them.

When his lips meet John's, his whole body seems to explode. It is a soft kiss, his first, and he enjoys it completely. John kisses him back, loving the touch of Sherlock's warm lips, how he tastes, how he smells.

When they eventually stop the kiss, they hug immediately afterwards again. They are happy. And they know they'll always be.

"I love you", Sherlock whispers as if he has to ascertain that everything really had happened, that it's real.
"I love you, too", says John and pulls him even closer.

Sherlock smiles slyly.

"What?", John asks.
"I think I still am addicted", says the detective.
He can see a hint of fear flicker in John's eyes. "What? Addicted to what?"
"To you. You're my only addiction", Sherlock whispers and kisses him once more.