Word Count:221 B
Notes: A continuation of yesterday's drabble, still angsty though, sorry!
Sherlock hated every moment of his drug counseling sessions, but he'd chosen to be admitted to the private rehab clinic after his drugs had cost him the only thing that mattered. Not the work, not even Mycroft had noticed he'd gone back to his little habit, but John.
John, who had done so much for Sherlock that the genius hadn't even noticed until John had left. John had believed in him, admired him, made sure that he took care of himself (or took care of him if he did not), laughed with him, enjoyed the adventure and puzzles with him and made Sherlock happier than anyone or anything had ever made him. Sherlock had taken him for granted...
So if listening to the dull and useless advice from the therapist was the only way to become the friend that John deserved, then Sherlock would attend every session and participate in the horror that was group therapy.
Sherlock stared at the wall, not expecting any letters from the mail being delivered. He'd written an apology letter weeks ago and he didn't expect a letter in return... and so far he hadn't got one.
The envelope addressed to him from Afghanistan was a shock, what was John doing back in a war zone? Panic canceled out the joy of John writing him back.