"Are you ready to discuss your plan for the outside world?"

"No."

"Sherlock, we're not having this conversation again. You know you can't stay here forever."

Silence.

"All right, tell you what. Your brother had arranged for you a job at the local morgue. It's just a small janitor-style occupation, but promotions are possible and you'll be around dead bodies all day. You said you enjoy dead bodies, right?"

Still no response.

"Your brother has also purchased a flat for you not too far from the morgue. I've visited the flat myself and I can tell you that it is a very safe and cozy environment where I'm sure you won't feel compelled to relapse."

"I'm going to kill him."

"Sherlock," John warned him. "If you keep threatening to murder your brother I will be forced to label you as a threat and refer you to the psychiatric ward."

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Please," John sighed in exasperation. "You're acting like a child."

"And you're acting like my mother."

"Well stop acting like a child and I'll stop acting like your mother."

Sherlock pouted.

John rolled his eyes.

"I want you and your sober companion to visit me once a week. Then I want to see you once a week for a month or two after your sober companion leaves."

"Only once a week?"

"An argument can be made for twice."

"Deal. I'll have Mycroft pay you double."

"For God's sake, Sherlock."

After five months of rehab, Sherlock became a free man. The bracelet that labeled him as a sex and drug addict was cut off like a chain and Sherlock could really feel anew again.

His sober companion was Mike Stanton, a portly man with no particularly distinguishing features. Excruciatingly dull.

"Sherlock, will you please eat something?"

"No."

And Mike never forced him.

"Sherlock, you know I have to give you a sobriety test today."

"No point. I am irrevocably clean."

Mike didn't even know what 'irrevocably' even meant.

"Mike is a good sober coach," John tried to explain during their counseling session.

Sherlock heaved the greatest groan. "He is the dullest creature in existence."

"Two more weeks, okay? Just two more weeks with him and you'll be on your own. Do you think you could handle that?" John asked.

Sherlock gave him a pained look, as if just thinking of Mike Stanton drove a million daggers through his heart. "I suppose I'll have to."

And he did.

Sherlock passed his probation with flying colors.

Three days after Mike Stanton left, a call came to the mobile phone of Mycroft Holmes.

His younger brother had been discovered in a drug house batshit high off his horse.

Sherlock was immediately fired from the morgue.

"I don't believe you!" John cried out. After hearing the news from Mycroft, John had requested to see Sherlock immediately after he had recovered from his high. " I can't believe you did this! We worked so hard on this! After everything I've invested into you, after all the progress you've made and you've gone and compromised everything!"

"I didn't compromise anything," Sherlock spat out. "Whatever the fuck I do, I do on my own terms. Your job is done, you shouldn't have any right to interfere in my life anymore!"

"You told me you wanted to be clean! You wept and groveled on your knees and begged me to fix you!"

"Spur of the moment. Peer pressure."

"I'm just trying to help you!" John shouted back.

"I don't want your help. I don't need any help! I was fucking fine on my own until you walked into my life!"

"Fine? Your brother found you unconscious on the floor of your flat! With a fucking needle in your arm! You almost died!"

"Well maybe I wanted to!"

Both parties instantly went silent.

"I…" Sherlock started. "I wanted an escape. This world is so dull. Its inhabitants are all idiots. I had no one. Without you. Without Mike, however hideously boring he was. I was just…lonely. I had nobody of equal intelligence to talk to anymore. I thought I could handle it, but the truth is, in the end, you're my only reason to stay clean, John."

Another period of prolonged silence dawned upon them. That was a love confession. Or, as close as Sherlock would come to admitting it, at least. And both of them knew it.

And then, John gave a short nod. "Okay then. What if I made you a proposition?"

"What kind of proposition?" Sherlock asked, legitimately intrigued

"Well, technically for as long as I'm your therapist and you're my patient, any sort of relationship between us would cause me to lose my job. However, once you've been completely freed, nobody will be allowed to meddle in our business. So, how about this? You continue attending therapy sessions. I'll continue monitoring your progress and, when I deem you ready, no shortcuts, I'll release you from my care. From there, if you still wish me to be a part of your life, we can exchange personal mobile numbers. Until then you are not allowed to touch me, ask me personal questions, or so much as gaze into my eyes longingly."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if bewildered. "Seriously?"

John shrugged. "When am I ever not serious?"

Suddenly, Sherlock pounced, hands supporting his body weight on either side of John's armchair. He bent forward so that his face was mere centimeters away from his therapist's. "Are you sure?" he asked in a gruff voice. "Because I tend to become very possessive over what is mine. If you truly wish to become my lover, I will not let you go. If you ever try to leave me, I will lock you in my closet and tie a collar around your neck for as long as we both shall live."

"Oy," John warned, both hands on Sherlock's chest to push him away. "You're still my patient and I'm still your doctor. Now sit down and stop hitting on me."

Sherlock reluctantly pulled back to sit across from his therapist.

"Now then," John began with a clearing of his throat. "Explain to me in your own words how you felt about Mycroft having to pick you up from the drug house."

"Of course, Doctor Watson."

END.