Fic: Don't You Want Me, Baby?
Title: Don’t You Want Me, Baby?
Author: troublesize
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Reference to drug use, emotional trauma, coarse language, sexxings.
Summary: After one lapse too many, John convinces Sherlock to go to rehab. But how does a super-genius detective cope when his mind is cooped up and deprived of exercise for days on end?
Author's Notes: I was reminded by someone that there's a general interest out there for me to write a sequel to "She Don't Lie, She Don't Lie, She Don't Lie..." When I looked through my WIP fics scattered about my computer, I realised: I've written it! This is what happens when writing people are not organised people *innocent look* Sooo.... here I am, posting my sequel exactly when I intended to! Totally!
I hope you enjoy it! Please R&R!
----
“They tell me you’re not playing nice in the art therapy sessions.” John mentioned casually to upside-down-Sherlock.
Actually, he wasn’t sure exactly how to quantify Sherlock’s position in relation to his own. The detective was lying sideways across the bed, on his back, hands clasped over his belly, hanging his head off the edge as though he was looking out the window of the dreary little room. But John knew he probably wasn’t. He probably had his eyes shut, in a sort of block-out-the-reality attempt.
“Did you really expect that I would?” Sherlock inquired, his voice barely above a murmur.
“Not really, no.” John admitted, fighting back the urge to sigh. “But you are actually cooperating with the pharmacological regime?”
“Yes, John.” Sherlock ground out, as though each individual syllable constituted a physical effort. “I’m taking their pills. As much good as it’ll do.”
Silence reigned for a moment.
“Come here, will you?” One slender hand gestured imperiously, elegantly.
“I am here, Sherlock.” John pointed out, with a small smile he knew the other man would hear in his voice.
“You know what I mean.” Sherlock rebutted.
“Oh, do I?” John replied contrarily, climbing on to the bed next to Sherlock anyway. “Get up here.”
“Ugh.” Sherlock grunted, and shifted himself more fully onto the bed. He tilted his hips towards John, curling in for a hug.
“Visiting hours are difficult.” Sherlock admitted quietly.
“Difficult?” John prompted, stroking the detective reassuringly.
“They always finish.” Sherlock’s voice was so low, John had to strain to hear it.
“I know…and it kills me every time.” He kissed Sherlock’s forehead in consolation, and allowed himself to enjoy the soft curls brushing against his nose. “Still, better than no visiting hours at all.”
One silver eye slit open to deliver a glare. “I’d rather not tolerate the ridiculous system at all.” Sherlock grumbled, but leant in to John’s kiss good-naturedly. “And, yes, I’m aware that it’s Saturday tomorrow, so I can come home for a couple of days. Please do not patronise me by telling me what day of the week it is.”
John chuckled, and drew Sherlock closer to him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
-
Sherlock, as expected, was far less of a fan of the rehab program than John was, but that didn’t mean he was the only one suffering as a result of the program’s stipulations.
John had never thought he would use the word ‘vast’ to describe 221B, but frankly, without his whirlwind of a flatmate, that’s what the place was.
And empty.
And…hauntingly quiet.
John kept finding himself wide awake at inopportune hours of the night, simply because there wasn’t a violin being played downstairs, or a beaker shattering, or frantic pacing as Sherlock thought something out.
And his bed was cold now, even when he indulged and put the electric blanket on.
Mycroft had appeared the very same day that Sherlock had checked in to rehab; but the schedule of the all-powerful must be demanding, for Mycroft did not arrive until some hours after John returned from dropping Sherlock off.
Congenial as always, Mycroft sat and waited patiently while John pottered around getting tea sorted.
Only when John settled opposite him, did Mycroft raise his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Yes, I know rehab probably won’t have an effect, since it didn’t work before, but you can’t blame me for wanting to try, can you?” John responded to the unspoken question.
“He’s actually in a rehabilitation centre?” Mycroft asked.
“Well, he was, about…four hours ago. Signed in, got a room and everything. I helped him to unpack - or, unpacked for him, really. And packed for him at this end, too, come to think of it. Bastard.” John shook his head at Sherlock’s sway over him. “But you know all this anyway.” John looked at Mycroft in confusion. “What do you need me to tell you for?”
Mycroft’s mouth twisted oddly. “Contrary to the fantastical stories my brother likes to tell, I am not informed of all aspects of his life. Believe me, there would be greater assistance from myself or my department if only Sherlock would allow it. But he does make caring such a chore.”
Mycroft straightened his teacup on the saucer before admitting, “I only knew that the two of you left the flat at six thirty a.m. today; too early for your usual working hours, Doctor, and rather late if you were conducting an investigation. I know how Sherlock… likes to make the most of his days. Further, I was perturbed by the information that the two of you were accompanied by a single suitcase, and that you then returned to the flat alone: no Sherlock, no suitcase. This - ”
“You honestly have no idea where he is?” John interrupted.
Mycroft inclined his head. “I don’t doubt that I can find out - ”
“No.” John said stubbornly.
“Excuse me?” Mycroft’s tone was mild, but John was all-too-familiar with that particular steely gaze, that determined set to both jaw and shoulders.
“You don’t frighten me, Mycroft. And we both know that Sherlock had a tough couple of weeks ahead of him. Since the only thing you’re good at is interfering, I don’t see how that will be of any benefit to him whatsoever.”
“But - ” Mycroft began, snapping his mouth shut when Mummy’s voice, unsummoned, echoed through his mind. “‘Butt’ is what sheep and goats do, darling, it has no place in civil conversation.”
He collected himself. “Thank you for your opinion, Doctor, however I assure you that - ”
“Not interested, Mycroft.” John interrupted, waving a hand as though to physically knock Mycroft’s words out of the air. “Oh, so not interested. There’s nothing you can do to make me tell you. After all, we don’t want Sherlock’s rehab being interrupted by any distressing news about his partner, now, do we?” John’s smile was terrible; it looked as though butter wouldn’t even contemplate melting in his mouth. It was an expression that Mycroft could never pull off convincingly - he despised the man for it.
Mycroft worked his jaw for another few seconds, then discretely (so that John could see, of course), checked his watch. “Oh, my.” He said, standing.
“Such a shame you have to leave,” John remarked, accompanying Mycroft to the door. “Feel free to drop by anytime.”
Mycroft was silent as he shrugged into his coat, but before he descended the stairs, he turned back to John. “I do care for him greatly, you know.” he assured the unassuming man serenely standing guard at the door.
“I know.” John said simply, with a short nod. “And I’m sure he knows as well.”
Part Two