Set like three days after the wedding. (it was a short honeymoon, 'kay? Go with it)
Warning for: Drugs, bit of blood,
"He's upstairs." Had been Mrs Hudson's grim greeting to John as she opened the door to him. She moved back, as he almost ran past her.
Sherlock had texted him a garbled message, more of a keyboard smash than words, and maybe it was just that his phone was messing up, or he was sitting on it or-
Or worse.
And that was what got John racing up the stairs to 221b, on this Saturday afternoon, heart in his throat and blood pumping.
He flung the door open, hitting the wall with a slam that shook a fine dust of plaster down from the ceiling and the detective sprawled on the sofa didn't even flinch.
"Sherlock!" he yelled, and the detective raised his head groggily.
For a split second, he thought- he hoped that Sherlock had just been sleeping, but he could see the rings around the detective's eyes, the red whites and the sickening paleness.
"'Ohn," he slurred, and John's eyes took in the half-bottle of pills on the coffee table, next to a bottle of vodka that had maybe three mouthfuls left and the scattered needles on the floor, where they had been thrown through hazy eyes and had fallen short of their target.
He had relapsed.
John's heart shattered and tears sprang to his eyes.
He had relapsed.
"Sherlock?" he blinked hard, turning from where he stood in the doorway, wanting to turn around and find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, as normal as he got, maybe with a few nicotine patches and a cup of tea.
But it was real.
He found himself next to Sherlock, legs working without his brain telling them to. He swiped teh pills off the table, noting that he obviously hadn't taken them all.
Thank god.
He threw them somewhere behind him and moved the bottle out of Sherlock's reach.
"Why?" and he was shocked at how his voice cracked.
He saw that the dark-haired man had another syringe in his shaking hands, and his stomach lurched.
"Give it to me." he said firmly, holding his hand out.
Sherlock gazed blearily up at him, and John held back tears at the fog in the other man's eyes.
Jerkily, Sherlock shook his head and tried to pull his sleeve up, spots of blood soaking through the fabric.
"Sherlock." he said, anger bubbling up in him.
Sherlock was too clever for this, he could- should've resisted. Why?
"Le'e me a'one, 'ohn." he protested, tongue too thick to make coherent words.
"Sherlock," he warned and darted for the detective's hands, assuming he had surprise and agility compared to the other man, but he was surprisingly fast, tilting away from John's grasp.
However, he over-shot and tipped further than expected, falling back on the sofa, trying to hold the drugs away from John.
"Give it to me." John yelled, tussling the high detective.
After a few minutes, John had his arms locked around Sherlock, who had attempted to huddle over the drugs, and was trying to scrabble at Sherlock's hands.
"Please Sherlock." and his voice broke again, tears forming.
"Leave me 'lone, John!" the fight had sobered him, his body twitching as it demanded more drugs.
"I'm perfectly capable of surviving without you!" he yelled, and John was thrown back to two year prior, struggling to find work, find money, find a reason to live without Sherlock.
The detective may be able to survive without John, but John sure as hell needed him.
But he didn't say that, he didn't say how much Sherlock had been missed, how much John had cried into the bottom of a glass only wanting his best friend back.
"This is not living." he growled, instead, anger replacing sentiment.
Sherlock trembled for a second, before slumping, hands releasing the drugs.
John immediately seized and threw it onto the kitchen table, well away from them, and where he would remember to pick it up when he finally left.
Then his gaze was caught by the detective again, who was sobbing into his blood streaked hands.
John's heart was doing a lot of crumbling in grief and pity today.
Completely putting their 'platonic' friendship and Mary out of his mind, he sank to his knees next to the detective, wrapping him in his arms.
Sherlock twisted around, and John let go, moving back in respect. But the detective had turned to face John and when the sandy-haired man didn't move in again, he surged up and clung to his chest like a limpet.
John was tilted off-balance for a second, but managed to lean them forward, curling his body around Sherlock's trembling form.
Sherlock lifted his head, and John could see the tears were still running down his pale, streaky face.
In a voice that barely cleared a whisper, he said "I'm sorry I came back too late."
John swallowed thickly, and lowered his head to murmur nothings into the man's curly hair.
"Me too." he said, and Sherlock shuddered beneath him.
"Me too."