Still The Addict

Proverbial Rehab

Author's Note: I know that an update for this story is long overdue. I apologise. But the next part will be quicker I promise!

"A few months..." I admit honestly, just to get John off of me and out of this more-than-compromising position. Slowly he releases me, standing up fully and backing away a little, letting me turn around to face him. I watch him seethe, and I don't understand why he's so angry. But I do understand the rest of his emotions; he is shocked, his eyes searching me for answers as to 'Why? Why? Why?' Clearly he blames himself for my cutting, and I briefly wonder if he's right to do that. I step forward, close to John, maybe the closest we've ever been for this length of time. Just standing there looking at each other. I can feel my hand almost brushing his, the warm fog of our breaths melting into one.

"Right," John finally decides as he clears his throat, pulling back a few steps and walking into the bathroom. He starts rustling around and grabs some things that I can't see because I haven't moved from my position by the armchair, standing half-naked. He shoves whatever he just grabbed into a plastic bag and comes back out, pushing past me into my own bedroom.

"Hey!" I protest his intrusion, but John starts gathering up all of my things, at least anything remotely sharp, and walks back out, the bag in his hand as he walks up the stairs to his room, presumably to stash it all. I see the razors from the bathroom peeking through thin plastic; the idea that taking away all the sharp things will stop me cutting is ludicrous. But it'll certainly make it inconvenient. He even found my CD that I use; I guess months of unsuccessful drug searches in my room made him wise as to where I hide things. But still. Ludicrous. Eventually he comes back down, standing in front of me with his arms folded and his legs spread like a police officer. I defiantly copy his position. "You do realise this means you have to shave me every morning, don't you?"

"Yup," John agrees, and I sigh. I was kind of hoping that after realising this that he was going to give me them back. I don't use razors to cut anyway. "And you'll be sleeping in my bed,"

My heart does somersaults and my legs and arms begin to itch, needing to feel that familiar sharp pain, that coldness of the blood. "W-What?!" I'm not used to being surprised; I usually hear things properly the first time and believe that anyone who doesn't is just slow. But I can't have heard that properly...can I? I hate being so unsure.

"Clearly this is an addiction Sherlock. And addicts go to rehab," John insists. I raise an eyebrow in my confusion at this absurd notion.

"So basically you're going to turn this friendship and the whole house into a proverbial rehab?" I ask with a scoff, trying to hide how truly uncomfortable I am with the whole thing. I can still feel that itch, it's nagging, the sensation gradually building up to crescendo, like ants are crawling all over my body. I begin unconsciously scratching my left arm with my nails, hard enough to draw blood but stopping when I notice John's hard stare. "This is stupid even for you, John,"

"Shut up," John barks back, and I do. I like to see that intensity in his eyes. "Now get into the living rom. I'm gonna fix you,"

"You're not that kind of doctor John," I smirk. I like the dominant tone he is using, as he gets angrier and more riled up. I'm not intentionally making him angry, but I'm doing so all the same. I wish he wouldn't be so damn hot when he gets mad! Dammit Sherlock get a hold of yourself. I take a deep inhale of breath and sit in my chair, watching John fiddle around as he makes tea. I noticed how his pants hug gently around his ass, lining the crack and slowly coming to a strained rest at his scrotum. And I slap myself, using the tips of my fingers so they don't make a noise and alert John. I need to get a hold of myself here.

"No, but I've had my fait share of experience with a addiction," he reminds me. How can I forget? He means his sister of course. And that time I relapsed and he made me piss in a cup.

"Right," John brings some tea over, two sugars in mine and milk in his. I watch him stir them. He's doing it wrong. "You need to realise what you're really doing here, Sherlock,"

"Trust me, you and Molly made it very clear how much I'm hurting the both of you when I hurt myself," I drone sarcastically, remembering the last time I relapsed and Molly slapped me. My cheek still fucking hurts. Or maybe that's from the fact that I just slapped myself. "If you want to tell me how I'm killing myself, or how you hate to see me this way, do us both a favour and leave it out. I'm not hurting anybody John. You would still be happy if you hadn't been so nosey,"

John sighs, realising that he'll get nowhere by pulling the 'guilt trip' bit he usually does. I'm practically immune to it by now. "Remember when Molly said that you looked sad when I'm not looking? You didn't think I heard her say that Sherlock but I did. After that I guessed that you wanted to kill yourself because you were depressed. I spent nights wondering what I should have done, what I could have done differently to make you feel happy. You've never been truly happy Sherlock, have you?"

I run my hand through my curls, staring at the floor and wondering how to answer that. "No John. I haven't,"

"Tell me why,"

"No," I shake my head, letting my hair fall out of place and into my yes a little. I've never much liked having perfectly combed hair. Just another discrepancy between Mycroft and I. I remember when I was a child, and I attended a family party or something, the one thing I hated was having my hair done, all combed out of my face. It made me feel so vulnerable, so exposed. And I hate feeling that way.

"You see Sherlock, I think I've been going about this whole 'make sure Sherlock doesn't relapse thing' all wrong," thankfully he is talking sense for once. Words coming from his full, puckered lips..."Everyone, Myself, Mycroft, Molly etcetera all just make you stop taking the drugs, or in this case, cutting. We've never really tried t tackle the cause of the disease; just the symptoms,"

"Stop pretending to be smart John," I laugh. "I watch House too; you stole that analogy from House,"

"Shut it," John warns, and that tone makes me feel all warm and tingly again. "So Sherlock, what really makes you unhappy?"