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Chapter Text

The weight settled in his gut didn’t ease in the slightest as Sherlock succumbed to the sedative, falling into what he could only hope would be the first restful, dreamless sleep he’d had since the start of the Rochester case.

John Watson stood up slowly from his friend’s side, reaching over to pull down a nearby blanket over the young detective. Like this it was apparent just how young Sherlock truly was. A young man, to be sure, and one that often exuded an air of confidence in his knowledge and powers of deduction, a certainty in the world around so long as logic was on his side. Always impeccably dressed, always ensuring he was the picture of perfection and etiquette.

Though certainly not lately. Sherlock had seen things that John had not, of that he knew. As the case dragged on and the puzzle grew larger, wider, daring to err on the side of the unknown and occult; neither of them could ignore the horrors they were both utterly unprepared to deal with. They came out on the other side changed men, each gaining knowledge that, perhaps, they could very well have gone their lives without. Yet where John found himself unnerved, he had come out with his mind and body whole.

It was not the same for his dear friend. Plainly so.

He brushed a strand of hair out of Sherlock’s face before he stood, setting his syringe down upon his desk once more with another pang of guilt. The way his friend had pleaded for him not to drug him…

He shouldn’t have done it. Not like that.

He scrubbed a hand down his face as he took a seat, ultimately burying his face in both hands.

Yet what else could he do? His friend was plainly suffering. Sherlock hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since they’d returned months ago, outright refusing to sleep in his own room. The first few nights he had wrecked both of their sleep schedules cruelly and thoroughly, and John was having a hard time himself dispelling the horrors he’d seen himself from his mind. It seemed to help, to a degree, for Sherlock to rest on the fainting couch behind his desk, but he was fairly certain the man was only doing so when John was there.

The doctor glanced back at his friend at the sound of a small whimper, wincing before drawing his chair and a book closer. He suspected it would be a rough reawakening by the time the sedative wore off, and he would just have to accept it and pick up the pieces.

How stupid of you, he told himself.

Truly, he had done this to himself.

Yet so long as it allowed Sherlock even a few hours of restful sleep, he would gladly weather the impending storm.

Chapter Text

Daylight turned to sunset, the evening sky beginning to change from hues of purples and navy blues and blacks. Clouds continued to threaten to engulf the night sky, hiding what little could be seen of the skies above. John would count it as a blessing, for surely a night of rain and thunder would do neither of them any good. It was the first calm night they’d had in weeks, and he certainly wasn’t going to frown upon what could only be a gift from the heavens.

Maybe their God was finally answering his pleas for some semblance of mercy.

He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he had dozed off. He only knew that he was startled awake by a heavy crash, a scrambling, and it had him jumping out of his chair by the fire — when had he moved there? He nearly stumbled over his own feet and the chair, his attention drawing towards the young detective detangling himself from the blanket he’d gotten trapped in.

“Easy, easy , Sherlock,” he attempted to soothe, careful as he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

“John?”

Grey-blue eyes had drifted up to him, wide-eyed and panicked but quickly coming down from it. “How… How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours,” John confirmed, trying not to wince with how cautious his friend’s voice had come out. “It has just turned to evening.”

Sherlock managed to untangle himself from the blankets as his panic faded, his hand drifting towards the crook of his elbow, and the doctor recognized it as where he had injected the sedative.

His gut twisted into yet more knots.

“Holmes, I—“

“—Don’t.”

John clamped his mouth shut as the young detective drew himself up onto the fainting couch. He pulled his hand away as he did, moved to draw the nearby chair so he could face his companion. Had he broken the trust they’d so carefully crafted during the events of the Rochester case? Why, now, was he recalling the tale of Sherlock’s mother and not prior to his choice to sedate the young man against his will?

He wouldn’t trust him if he was in Sherlock's shoes.

The doctor glanced up from his shoes, only to meet the detective’s own gaze. He swallowed past the lump trapped in his throat.

“I apologize,” he blurted out before he could be stopped. “I was not thinking past trying to give you some semblance of rest for the eve. Yet in administering to you the sedative, I did so against your will— something I am not proud to admit. You are supposed to be my friend, and instead I treated you as… “

He trailed off. He struggled to say it.

“As a mentally unstable patient.” Sherlock finished the sentence for him, and the doctor winced as he nodded his confirmation. He could no longer hold his friend’s gaze, and the guilt may as well have swallowed him whole.

“… I am not angry, Watson. You needn’t look like a dog that's just been kicked.”

… Oh. John was cautious as he lifted his gaze from his lap, back to his friend, though their gaze no longer met as Sherlock leaned back and cast his own gaze elsewhere.

“… I cannot deny that it… helped, to an extent. I would not say I am rested, but I appreciate at least the dreamlessness of the state.” He sighed as he brought that blanket up to his shoulder, nestled into it some. “However, I would rather not rely on such methods to sleep. Certainly not employed in the same manner.”

The good doctor didn’t know what to say to that. His heart twisted as he realized how much more guarded Sherlock was by now, his grey eyes focused anywhere but on John.

“… I understand, Holmes.” He clasped his hands tight together where they hung between his knees. “But perhaps we could at least… you did rest , in spite of it. As you once told me, your mind is incredibly active, and that seems to be working against you these days.”

“My mind is my life and my greatest tool, Watson. I refuse to allow myself to be placed in a drugged up stupor.”

“Then we can reduce the dose! Just enough to ward off the worst of it all, but not enough to render you unconscious.” The skepticism that he saw did little to deter him from his suggestion. His dearest friend needed something . He couldn’t continue like this: neither of them could. “At least for two weeks? And if there is no improvement whatsoever, I will lay the matter to rest.”

John waited with baited breath as he saw Sherlock debate with the idea in his head. Certainly he knew how to be stubborn in the face of a defiant patient but this was Sherlock Holmes . Not even his brother Mycroft was able to get him to act in the way he wanted. What hope did he have?

“Fine.” John thought he could pinch himself. Had he heard correctly? Though those grey-blue eyes still weren’t meeting his, Sherlock’s posture had relaxed, to an extent.

“I will try your… treatment.” He wrinkled his nose before focusing his gaze on John. “But only for two weeks, and only the minimum possible dose. And I do not want to hear you bring it up again if it doesn’t work.”

“I can work with that,” the doctor conceded, already wondering just how on earth he was going to convince the man this was meant to be a benefit. Baby steps, he supposed.

“For now,” Sherlock declared as he stood from his place on the couch — John couldn’t exactly ignore the stumble in his step, the way he reached to help steady the detective, “I need to wash up and change. Have Mrs. Hudson bring us up some tea, if you would, Watson.”

“Maybe some food as well?”

“If you are hungry.”

John tried not to sigh out loud. Baby steps indeed.