John wasn't sure what woke him up at four twenty-three in the morning, but it was something that kept him from falling back to sleep. He rolled over in bed, staring at the walls that used to be so familiar. He'd long since moved all the files that had been piled onto the bed since he'd gotten here last week, but he'd barely slept in bed because of his constant urge to check in on Sherlock. Now that Sherlock was better, John had been getting possibly the best night of sleep he'd had in a few weeks. He stared into the darkness, and narrowed his eyes slightly.

He had hoped to drop right off again, but after about a minute, realised it was a useless endeavour and pushed the blankets away. He'd check on Sherlock and use the loo and then, with any luck, crawl back into bed and sleep until six or so.

He made sure to skip the squeaky step on the staircase so he wouldn't wake Sherlock, tying his gown around his waist loosely. He yawned and rifled his fingers through his hair, peering around Sherlock's door.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting - okay, he was expecting him to be sleeping - but he didn't expect Sherlock to be wide awake and puffing away on a cigarette.

John marched across the room, plucked the cigarette from Sherlock's fingers, and flicked it into the mug of tea on the nightstand.

"John!" Sherlock protested, glaring up at him in the darkness. John couldn't exactly see the glare, but he knew it was there. "That was my cigarette! And my tea!"

"I don't care how you feel, if I catch you smoking again, the water'll be in your face," John retaliated, flicking on the lamp.

"It wasn't water, it was tea!"

"Then I'll throw tea in your face! Are you serious right now? After everything you've just done to get clean- what you're still doing-"

"It's just a cigarette," Sherlock retorted, turning away.

"'Just a cigarette' does not reassure me." John crossed his arms.

"I smoked before the detox."

"On danger nights."

"Danger nights? There are no 'danger nights'. There's occasional smoke nights. Because I occasionally smoke."

John stared down at Sherlock, who glared up at him lividly for a moment before looking away.

"It was just a cigarette," Sherlock repeated sullenly, staring off into the distance.

"Not a good place to start," John said shortly, grabbing Sherlock's mug. "I'll get you some more tea."

"I don't want tea," Sherlock retorted without looking up.

"What do you want?"

"My cigarette."

"Sherlock," John said warningly.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "That was the last of the spares I'd hidden under the mattress, what did you do with the rest of them? And where are my nicotine patches?"

"You don't need nicotine patches, either."

"I need something," Sherlock snapped. "Besides tea. I need a case!"

"Yeah, we're not doing that already. I'll get you tea."

"Soda, then," Sherlock grumbled, sinking a little further down into the blankets.

"Soda?" John raised his eyebrows, glancing over his shoulder.

"It's... fizzy. It's got bubbles and stuff. And caffeine. Or a sugar high."

John decided to let the choice of words go, although rationalised that this was exactly the reason that he wasn't leaving yet. Symptoms didn't go away for a week to a week and a half, and even then, they didn't just go away. It was about control and staying clean afterwards, and rebuilding what had fallen away in the midst of the detox.

John grabbed a can of soda from the fridge to take back to the bedroom. Sherlock mumbled his thanks and popped the tab with one hand, slumping back against the headboard. John watched him for a moment before turning away without another word.

Speaking of rebuilding what had been taken away.

That was how he found himself carrying a microwaved bowl of chicken noodle soup into Sherlock's room at four thirty in the morning.

Sherlock glanced at him, did a double take, and groaned. "John. That smells amazing and I'm still-"

"Vomiting, I know," John interrupted. "But you have to start somewhere, and since you're handling liquids pretty well, I thought we'd pick up here."

"I'm handling tea," Sherlock mumbled. "And soda," he muttered, flicking the can before setting it aside. "But I'd kill for pasta, or pizza, or chips. Or soup," he added, more to himself, reaching out for the bowl.

"You don't have to eat all of this, it's only half, but..."

"I'm starving," Sherlock said, wincing slightly at the burn of the bowl against his fingers. "Which makes it all the more frustrating that this is equally tempting as it is nauseating."

"Slow," John advised, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"I know." Sherlock blew on a spoonful and took a bite. "I do need to edge back into solids, though. Vitamins only get you so far, and I could walk to the sofa without feeling exhausted if I ate something."

"This is not something that you can push."

"I know."

John watched Sherlock complete the spoon to bowl to mouth circuit a few more times before he felt the repetition of the movement lulling him back to sleep. He didn't want to fall asleep at the foot of Sherlock's bed again, but he wanted to make sure that Sherlock was going to go back to sleep before he went back to bed himself.

"I know I hit you at least once."

John pulled his eyes open, blinking the sleep away. "What?"

"I hit you." Sherlock pointed slightly with his spoon. "In the face. Probably resulted in a bloody nose, at the least... I don't remember."

John shrugged. "It wasn't you."

"Stop using that excuse; it doesn't help," Sherlock said brusquely. He licked his lips. "... So... I'm trying to say..."

"It's okay," John interrupted.

Sherlock glanced up. "... You don't know what I was going to say."

John tilted his head. "Yes, I do."

"... Okay." Sherlock looked back at his soup. "Good. Fine." He cleared his throat.

John shifted uncomfortably in the silence that followed.

"Well..."

"Yes."

Sherlock sat up slightly, while John got to his feet.

"I think I'm done here," Sherlock said, putting his spoon back in the bowl. "Or, I probably should be. It's starting to make my stomach churn, anyway. Carbonation from the soda probably isn't helping."

John took the bowl while Sherlock shuffled down under the blankets again, yawning widely. "Are you going back to sleep now?"

"I suppose." Sherlock folded his arm behind his head. "I've nothing else to do. And I might stave off the nausea if I do." He rolled over so his back was to John. "You, too, then?"

"Yeah, if I can trust you not to do something stupid in the meantime," John muttered, turning off the lamp.

"I wasn't doing anything stupid. Not too stupid," Sherlock amended, but then raised his voice. "I really am going back to sleep."

"Good. Get some rest." John received a mumbled assent in return and he left the room, giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt for a couple of hours. He had to trust him sometime. It was another one of those things that he was going to have to edge back into.

Lestrade showed up with three boxes of varying amounts of evidence and manila folders two days later.

Sherlock positively lit up at the promise of cold cases to while away the hours, even if they were ones that he could solve from the flat.

John met Greg's gaze behind Sherlock's back and smiled. Greg gave him the same kind of smile back, slightly guarded but pleased nonetheless, as Sherlock flung the cardboard lid out of the way to dig through the folders.

"Thank you," John mouthed.

Lestrade gave him a thumbs-up.

"You didn't solve this? I remember this one." Sherlock fanned through a folder, sinking to his knees on the sitting room floor. His dressing gown fell in silky blue folds around his skinny frame and his hair stuck out in a wild disarray. "How did you not solve this?" he asked, looking up at Lestrade.

Greg shrugged. "I don't know. We didn't have you on case, probably. That's just when you were starting out. And I think I recall having to arrest you because you stole our files."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before recognition lit up his eyes. "Oh! I remember." He smiled tiredly and looked back at the file. His hands only shook a little bit.

"Bigger fish to fry, John," Sherlock commented, over the babble of the television in the background.

"Huh?" John glanced up. "Oi, is that my laptop?"

"Mine's upstairs," Sherlock replied flippantly, crossing his legs at the ankles. "I just needed to send an email."

"Why is your laptop in my bedroom?" John inquired, wrinkling his nose. "Why were you in my bedroom?"

"It's my bedroom," Sherlock said. "Both of them. Which brings on the original topic of conversation; we have bigger things to do."

John frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm kicking you out."

John stopped, staring across the room at the detective. "What?"

"Mycroft knows that I've sufficiently gone through the worst part of detox, and is tediously taking precautions to make sure that I don't slip back into old habits within the period that follows." Sherlock closed John's laptop. "Which means he's got surveillance on me. Wave at the cameras," he said sarcastically, but from the way that his eyes flickered around the room, John wasn't sure if he was actually being sarcastic or not.

Sherlock sighed, looking back at John. "And you've got other problems to handle."

"I'm really-"

"Go home, John. Mary's waiting."

Now it was John's turn to sigh. "But you-"

"I have done this by myself before, and you've been here through the worst parts. I've managed to go out on a case with you, and I haven't acquired any more secret cigarettes." He rolled his eyes. "But I'm not stupid. I know what you're doing," he said bluntly. "So go home."

His voice was clear, but his eyes were clearer.

He was right. He knew he was right. Hell, John knew that he was right. He'd been staying with Sherlock afterwards to keep an eye on him, but it had gone past that now. He couldn't stay with him twenty-four seven. And John did have other problems. At home. His home home, not his second one.

"... Okay," he relented. "But you call me if anything changes. Anything. Do you understand?"

"I know, John." Sherlock smiled slightly. "... You'd kill me if I didn't," he added, then pushed himself to his feet.

"Damn right I would," John muttered, getting up.

"I already told Mary that you'd be home today," Sherlock continued, pouring a tea.

"Thanks for that," John said under his breath.

"I told her what was happening with me, and why you'd been gone."

"You really didn't have to do that."

Sherlock handed the tea over to John. "Talk to her."

"Thanks..." John frowned at his reflection in the surface of the tea before taking a drink.

Sherlock cleared his throat, turning back to the teapot. "You'll work it out. I'm sure." His back was to him, but his body language was stiff.

John raised his eyebrows. "Are you trying to give me relationship advice?"

"No," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm not."

John laughed slightly. "Well. We'll see."

"Yes." Sherlock looked at him over his mug. "But if I can get through detox again, you can figure out your marriage, one way or another."

"Really?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly and turned away. Yes, he was using that against him. Somehow, it didn't surprise John, but neither did it offend him. Because he was right. He was really right. Bloody git, he was always right.

"I'll take care of it. Or try to," he said shortly.

"If you need help."

"I'll keep you in mind."

Sherlock headed back into the sitting room. "Oh, I was going to say 'don't come to me'."

John managed a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "Thank you."

Sherlock smiled slightly, sinking into his chair. "You're welcome."

John shook his head in mock disappointment. Really, he was glad that Sherlock was back to his normal self, at least, to this extent. He was glad that he could joke with him again. That he didn't see pain and confusion in the blue eyes that were always so keen and intelligent. That Sherlock was back to being Sherlock.

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, was also a know-it-all.

And, like he said, John had bigger fish to fry. New problems to move on to, or rather, old problems to now resolve. It was time for him to rethink his and Mary's situation. Think about it, really, because he hadn't thought about it too much; he'd been trying to ignore it. Because Sherlock was right. If he could get clean from the drugs, it was time for John to get clean of the darkness covering his marriage. And he'd need Mary's help for that. Just like Sherlock had needed him to get through detox, John needed Mary to work through their problems.

Together, or not at all.

It was a scary concept.

Was the fact that it was scary answer enough? John wasn't sure.

"One down, one to go," Sherlock commented absently.

"Yeah," John muttered. "One to go..." he echoed.

And seeing as how I'm not opening the can of worms that always has been JAM/Jary(whatever the ship name is nowadays), that's the end of this story! Clearly, Sherlock's not as well as he needs to be, but detox just doesn't POOF and it's gone. He's better, and that's where I'm leaving it off. :) Thank you all for the support for this story, it's been amazing. It's been a fun, angsty roller coaster ride~

I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading! :D