The BBC owns Sherlock. I don't.

Not that I'd really want to, truth be told - far too much pressure.

Hope you enjoy the story!

*hands out cookies and hot chocolates for reviewers*

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6am Sunday

"Used them after uni a bit. Purely for research purposes, of course," Sherlock said tiredly, head lolling against John's shoulder.

"Of course," John agreed, pretending that he couldn't see the shadow of craving lurking in the blood-shot eyes, that his heart wasn't aching in his chest because you should have never had to carry this alone.

But Sherlock wasn't alone, not now, and John had never been more grateful for that fact.

6pm Saturday

He didn't like the idea of Sherlock going off alone, but if John was honest with himself, he'd probably be more of a hindrance than a help on this operation. He was dead tired, and Sherlock would just be slowed down by having to keep an eye on him. Without John there, he'd be in, chat up the right people to get the information they needed, and be out in a matter of hours.

Besides which, the bed looked luxuriously comfortable: it was a super king size, or whatever the equivalent was for the Netherlands, and was made up with a silk sheets, a thick down duvet, and half a dozen pillows. The hotel had certainly gone all out for them, or rather for the people their current passports said they were: an influential English diplomat, Eric Montgomery, and his husband, Charles.

Husband.

John bit back a smirk. It wasn't the first time they'd used the 'partners' excuse: a single room was much better for both security and their limited funds than adjoining rooms would be, and sharing a bed - on the few occasions that they were both sleeping at the same time - was hardly a big deal. John had helped invade Afghanistan, after all - the sleeping quarters there had generally consisted of shared bunk rooms, a mattress on the floor, or a single blanket out under the stars, depending on the mission. One time his squad had spent the night curled into a bivouac built out of a half-size tarpaulin propped up at one end with a pole: there had been a significant number of elbows in faces and legs getting tangled, not to mention the near-smothering of the lone snorer.

No, sharing a bed was no hardship. They were so used to it by now that John was almost dreading the return to England, with Sherlock's bedroom an entire floor below his own - much too far in case of emergencies. It took a full thirty seconds (twenty seven seconds if he jumped the last four steps) to reach one room from the other, and thirty seconds would be worlds too late if Sherlock was asleep and someone broke into the flat bent on revenge.

John shivered and resolutely squelched that line of thought.

They'd also discovered, shortly after leaving England, that sharing sleeping space had the benefit of calming the worst of any nightmares they might suffer. Sherlock had gone on at some length about subconscious feelings of security and physical reassurance of another (live, warm, breathing) human body:John had listened with good-humoured interest until he fell asleep, and when he woke up during the night he was tucked under a blanket, Sherlock warm and silent at his back.

None of which made him feel any better now, of course.

"You'll be alright by yourself?" John didn't bother trying to hide the thread of concern woven through his voice.

Sherlock looked up from buttoning his shirt cuffs, head tilted at an angle somewhere between 'sincere' and 'sardonic', and replied firmly, "Yes, Eric. I will be absolutely fine. It's really a very simple operation."

John crossed his arms defensively, "I know it is."

"Then why are you so worried?"

"Because I won't be with you, Charlie, and - " so many things could go wrong when I'm not there to watch your back. He huffed a breath and changed the topic slightly, "Alright then. Tell me the plan again."

"Oh, for - " Sherlock cast him a look that was equal parts irritated and amused, "What are you, my brother? No, actually, you're not, because if you were - him - " no real names, not even in a purportedly soundproof room on the top floor of a five star luxury hotel, " - I wouldn't have to articulate the plan even once, let alone twice."

"Humour me," John said flatly.

"Eighteen thirty: leave the hotel. Nineteen fifteen: arrive at the club. Spend the next four or five hours talking to the right people and finding out as much as I possibly can about their supposedly secret operations in Amsterdam. Be back at the hotel by oh three hundred hours tomorrow morning - " Sherlock's tone was scathing, but there was an mischievous light in his eyes, " - so that my darling husband doesn't worry himself sick."

Reassured, John bit back a rueful grin and nodded, knowing that Sherlock would see it for the thank you it was. It was probably pointless, but he might as well offer… "I could come with you - "

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "You need to stay here. Finish up your notes, check our supplies, and then get as much sleep as you can. You'll need your energy for the trip to Amsterdam."

"You need to sleep too, Charlie. You've been awake for three days now, and it'll be another two before we leave Rotterdam."

There was a flash of white teeth, "Why do you think you're the one driving on Monday?"

5am Sunday

"You're an idiot," John sighed.

They were in the bathroom adjoining their bedroom at the hotel. John had gaped when he had first seen it: the marble-tiled floor shone under the bright lights, as did the gleaming countertops with their complimentary baskets of soaps and body washes. The shower had at least six different water settings including Light, Pulse, and Massage, came with optional neon lighting from the shower-head, and was spacious enough for four people. And then, of course, there was the sunken bath - actually a jacuzzi - which was roughly the size of an Olympic swimming pool.

Alright, that last one might have been an exaggeration, John had conceded when Sherlock caustically told him the actual measurements of an Olympic swimming pool. But not by much.

Right now, though, his mind couldn't have been further from the fancy surroundings.

Sherlock had stripped down to his pyjama bottoms half an hour ago, and then as the chills crept back over him, had appropriated one of John's new jumpers. The resulting picture would have been amusing if it were not for the fact that he was currently hunched miserably over the toilet bowl. His grip was white-knuckled, his pale face accentuating the dark shadows under his eyes; he made an awful whimpering sound as he finished the latest bout of heaving and slumped wearily, leaning his sweaty forehead against the cool porcelain.

John rested a hand on Sherlock's back and rubbed slowly, up and down and up and down and round and up and down, feeling the muscles shift uneasily beneath the skin.

"You're an idiot."

8pm Saturday

John had finished checking both his notes and the supplies within an hour of Sherlock leaving. He'd then double and triple-checked the supplies, just for something to do, and was now prowling the suite looking for an excuse - any excuse - to not go to bed so horrifically early.

There was nothing. No excuses to stay up, and no point caffeinating himself: he was under orders to sleep tonight, after all.

He was stifling yawns every minute or so, and the bed was looking even more tempting than it had at six o'clock. At ten past eight he gave it up as a bad job, set his phone to Vibrate - it was all that needed to wake him, and it was a sight less obtrusive than any blaring ringtones - and crawled under the covers.

He was asleep by eight fifteen.

4am Sunday

Sherlock was awake. And… eating?

"Charlie, what are you doing?" No real names, not even at four in the morning on a Sunday.

"Eating," was the brief reply between bites of peanut-butter-and-banana-sandwich. Obviously he couldn't spare the time and/or breath to add a condescending insult.

"Let me rephrase that," John corrected, standing up and making his way over to the kitchen, "Why are you eating?"

"Because I'm hungry," accompanied by the requisite eye roll - a nonverbal addendum of you idiot.

John caught his eye and held it, letting him know with a half-raised eyebrow that that wasn't an acceptable answer.

"And marked increase in appetite is one of the expected after-effects," Sherlock concluded, swallowing the last of his sandwich and reaching for the milk jug.

"Along with anxiety, paranoia, fatigue, dizziness, and so on," John nodded, "I am a doctor, you know. Complete loss of appetite is much more common than experiencing - this."

Sherlock sprang from his perch on the kitchen counter and made for the fridge, shooting a glance back over his shoulder as he did so, "You can hardly expect me to be common, Eric."

"Yes, well, that's true," it was John's turn for a eye roll as he slipped onto a stool at the counter, loose-limbed and relaxed. His doctor's instincts were content that there was no need for immediate intervention, and his soldier's instincts were content that the door was locked, windows bolted, curtains drawn, and no one was getting into the suite without his permission.

Supervision of his 'husband' in his forage for sustenance wouldn't go amiss, though; John leant an elbow on the countertop and watched as Sherlock raided the fridge for anything and everything edible.

10pm Saturday

Cocooned in a nest of blankets and pillows, John slept on.

1am Sunday

They'd moved to the country once Sherlock had finally accepted the fact that he could no longer go careering around London as if he were still thirty. They found a small cottage, two bedrooms and a sunroom in case of guests; Greg visited monthly, his daughter dropping him off Friday evening and picking him up again Sunday night. John spent the mornings writing up the everlasting backlog of notes from their cases, and in the afternoons was content to putter in the garden, keeping an eye on Sherlock's lean form as he tended his bees… he could hear the buzzing even now…

John came awake, one hand reaching for his mobile even before his brain registered it as the source of the buzzing.

Sherlock.

+I need you to come and get me, Eric, please.+

John was out of bed and groping for his shoes. Proper grammar and spelling, good, and it was a text, not a call - it wasn't a complete emergency then; the presence of his alias meant Sherlock's phone was possibly being monitored, either through digital means or by good old fashioned spying; and the please… John's jaw clenched. Sherlock was either hurt, in danger of being hurt, or had done something monumentally stupid and was hoping to placate him in advance.

John couldn't say which of three he wished for: he was concentrating all his wishes on please God just let me reach him in time.

Two minutes had him out the door, into the elevator, and slamming the button for the ground floor. Halfway down he realised he should have called the front desk and asked them to get a cab for him; no time for that now, he'd just have to find one himself, and quickly.

John made it half a block at a dead run before he spotted one, and dashed out into the road to meet it. Groping for his wallet, he breathlessly gave the address for the club as he tumbled into the backseat, and waved a handful of notes at the driver in hopes that he would understand - Get me there fast and I'll up your pay.

Thirty minutes of tire-screeching corners, running red lights, and John generally feeling like he was about to burst with fear that he wouldn't get there in time, and they were pulling up outside the club. John could have wept with relief at the sight of the lanky silhouette slouched against a lamppost.

"Charlie!" He flung the door open and leapt out, hurrying toward Sherlock, "I got your text - are you alright? What's wrong?"

The lean figure slowly straightened and turned toward John, face thrown into shadow by the streetlight at his back, "Nothing's wrong."

But it was wrong, the voice was wrong - it was still Sherlock, but it was Sherlock when he was trying to reassure John, Sherlock when he was trying to make light of a situation. More than that, something was just wrong in his tone: it was too happy or too fatigued or - or - John couldn't put his finger on it. It was just plain wrong.

"Charlie? What is it?" tentatively questioning backed with a slew of emotion, confusion uppermost at the moment. It was reminiscent of the time he'd come home to find Mrs Hudson weeping on their couch and a bloody-nosed CIA agent gagged with duct tape and tied to a chair, Sherlock flipping his mobile in one hand while keeping the gun trained steadily with the other, "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Not here," was the muted reply as Sherlock brushed past him to slip into the backseat of the waiting cab. The light from inside the vehicle caught his face as he did so - and John caught his breath.

Sherlock was sweating; his pupils were blown wide open.

Drugs. John's mind stalled. Drugs drugs drugs you did drugs Sherlock drugs. Sherlock you did drugs at a party drugs Sherlock at a party. Sherlock did drugs. Sherlock. drugs Sherlock drugs drugs drugs drugs.

Not here. Right. John swallowed the tumult of confusion and anger and blind rage and slid in beside Sherlock, sitting close enough that he could feel him trembling.

One of them gave the address of the hotel, and the cab drew away from the curb, leaving at a much more sedate pace than it had arrived.

They sat in silence for the entire forty-five minute ride. At one point early on, Sherlock slouched so that his arm was pressing against John's. His cheek was almost brushing John's head, breath stirring uneasily in John's ear, skimming his hair; and a slim hand crept across the seat to curl around John's wrist, two fingers coming to rest on his pulse point. The trembling was more pronounced with the concrete body contact, but John, even angry as he was, didn't move away. You didn't become a doctor in central London without witnessing a few thousand drug comedowns, and he knew that Sherlock needed the contact to ground him, knew that he was fighting every second for control, knew that he was using John's pulse to try and regulate his own heartbeat.

He should have gone with Sherlock - stupid, stupid, you don't let a former junkie wander off by himself in the middle of the Netherlands! This shouldn't have happened, wouldn't have happened if John had gone with Sherlock instead of giving in to the demands of his body. John had been sleeping - sleeping! - while Sherlock had been off getting into who knew how much trouble. Don't split the group, that was one of the basics of training: don't split the group and always watch your partner's back. And John had blown it.

Sherlock been clean since before John had met him, he'd sworn off drugs completely, and John had reinforced it by way of promising that if Sherlock did drugs and John found out about it, he would leave the flat, leave Sherlock, and never look back. As their friendship had deepened, the question of whether he really would leave should Sherlock relapse had become something for John to privately question; but at the time it had been meant sincerely, had carried the weight of one hundred percent certainty behind it, and that was enough. They had never redressed the issue.

But now it had become living breathing reality, a living fire-breathing nightmare, and the worst of it was that the situation was partially John's fault. He'd taken Sherlock's strength for granted, had forgotten that he was going to a party at night in the middle of the Netherlands, most notorious drug legalisation nation in Europe. The man hadn't slept in three days, of course his defences would be down. And John had just let him waltz off, had curled up in the bed and slept while Sherlock was battling the old urges with everything he had.

He'd failed. That was the simple truth of it. He'd failed.

Sherlock's hand tightened on his wrist suddenly. John tilted his head to meet the taller man's eyes, body tensing in preparation for the next turn in this madcap adventure. What would it be? Calling for the cabbie to pull over so Sherlock could vomit in the gutter? Jumping from the cab while it was still moving because the scar on the cabbie's left wrist actually meant he was an enemy agent? Not being able to escape the cab because it was a very well designed abduction vehicle, like that time in Berlin?

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John let himself relax. No immediate danger, then. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock - Thanks for scaring me.

Sherlock replied with a raised eyebrow. I needed to get your attention.

Head tilt. Aggressive. You couldn't have done it some other way?

A shrug. This way was as expedient as any other.

Steady gaze. Well? What did you need my attention for?

A pause, and as Sherlock's gaze flicked out the window, John felt the cab slowing to a halt. They'd reached the hotel. A ghost of a smile played at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and then he was out of the vehicle and - wonder of wonders - reaching for his wallet to pay the cabbie.

They were soon in their suite of rooms, John carefully locking the door behind him. "So?"

Sherlock drew the curtains across the floor-to-ceiling windows before replying, "Stop blaming yourself."

John opened his mouth -

"And don't say you weren't."

- And closed it again.

"What I did was my own choice, Eric. I still would have done it even if you had been there. Your presence or absence had no effect on the desired outcome."

The rage that swept over him was blinding in intensity and fleeting in duration; it left him numb, exhausted. John repeated dumbly, "The desired outcome."

Sherlock half-turned from where he was pacing at the far end of the room: his brows twitched, and then he was striding back to John, exhilaration in every step. "The desired outcome, yes!"

There came the flash of white teeth; Sherlock laughed, dark and rich and wild (it reminded John for one mad moment of the recording of the Fall, Sherlock turning back from the rooftop to mock Moriarty, you're not going to do it), and he grasped John by the upper arms and stared at him intently, eyes gleaming in triumph, pupils still dilated, and his voice emerged elated, victorious: "I got them, Eric! The whole network, not just here but in Amsterdam - aliases, names, addresses, meeting places and passwords - everything! This has saved us months, Eric, months of work!"

He was trembling still: John could feel it shuddering down his arms, affecting his normal facade of stillness.

Whether draped fluidly over a couch or standing tall, neck craning inquisitively or staring haughtily down his nose, Sherlock was always in complete control of his body. There was a certain motionlessness inherent in the man, even in the thick of a chase; perhaps the form of his features - the angle of his cheekbones, the line of his nose, the curve of his long neck - contributed to this, adding to the impression of chiseled stone, rather like that of a Greek statue.

But there was nothing of that control, nothing of that motionlessness now. It reminded John of the time he'd gone cold turkey before the Devon case, but oh-so-much worse. Pupils dilated, sweat beading on his temples and dampening the hair there, fingers moving restlessly where they rested on John's shoulder; every breath belied the racing mind beneath.

John became aware that Sherlock was waiting for a reply, but the loss of poise from the ever-contained man had thrown John off-balance, and all he think of to say was, "You re-"

His voice stuck. He cleared his throat and started again, "You remember, don't you, that I said if you ever did drugs again, I'd leave and wouldn't look back?"

Sherlock dropped his eyes from John's, and a shiver passed across his face. "I remember," he said quietly.

The tipping point, then. Oh, he'd promised, yes; promised that Sherlock doing drugs meant John leaving. But as the saying went, that was then and this was now. Sherlock hadn't done drugs out of boredom or curiosity or some perverse emotional blackmail: he'd been in a social situation that had demanded it, and he'd done it for the sake of mission. They had the information, and Sherlock was safe and unhurt, broadly speaking, and that was what mattered in the end.

And in all honesty, John couldn't walk out on Sherlock: not now, not ever.

John shut his eyes with a defeated sigh, and let his head fall forward to lean against Sherlock's. "Was it worth it?"

Some of the tension leached from Sherlock's frame; he nodded as much as he could with their foreheads pressed together, "Indubitably. We could have spent months chasing dead ends in Amsterdam: even with all the information, it will take us at least a week. One night of - this - is worth it."

It wouldn't only be one night, though: withdrawal symptoms took around three days to fully wear off, and there was no telling what the extended symptoms of relapse would look like, or how long they'd take to sink back into hibernation. It would be more like three weeks, at a minimum. But John was in it to the very end: he wasn't about to back out now.

John sighed wearily. "Alright."

He could feel Sherlock start slightly in surprise - and it hurt, to know that the man's every reaction was written across his face and through his body language, his inhibitions were drastically lowered, all of his natural reserve discarded under the influence of the drug.

"Alright?" Sherlock queried. Not asking if John was alright; just repeating John's 'alright' back to him. Confused. Startled. Hadn't expected John to give in so suddenly.

John opened his eyes and took a step back, meeting Sherlock's gaze squarely, "Alright." He hesitated a moment, and then asked, "You'll keep me updated?"

Sherlock nodded, mouth twitching in a quiet half-smile, "Of course. You're my doctor - I'd be daft not to."

"Good," John made for the kitchen, "As your doctor, then, I need you to drink a full glass of water, and then sleep. Do you have a headache?"

Sherlock shook his head in the negative, held out a hand for the glass John passed him, and quaffed it a one long series of gulps. "I thought this was your night to sleep?"

"I've slept," John assured him, "and I'll need to keep an eye on you, anyway."

"You can keep an eye on me just as well from the other side of the bed," Sherlock muttered, shucking his shirt and sitting down to take off his shoes.

He was still trembling, though the shakes had lessened in intensity, and at the apprehensive look in his eyes as he drew back the covers, John realised he wasn't looking forward to sleeping alone. Whether it was nightmares, or residual effects of the drug, or even memories from earlier drug-related incidents, Sherlock didn't want to sleep by himself.

"Fair point," John agreed affably, and almost before Sherlock had time to look surprised they were changed into pyjamas and tucked under the covers. The bed was warming rapidly under the combined heat of two bodies, and Sherlock was visibly relaxed, curls dark against the white pillow, face peaceful as his breathing rate settled in preparation of sleep.

And if a slim hand crept across the mattress to curl around John's wrist, two fingers coming to rest on his pulse point - well, John wasn't about to say anything.

Or perhaps just one thing.

A soft whisper snaked out into the night, hung motionless for a moment, and was gone.

"Sleep, Charlie."

And Sherlock slept.