"Sherlock? What's wrong?"
John placed a hand against the bathroom door frame. The lights were off and John could barely make out his flatmate's skinny frame. Sherlock was on his knees in front of the toilet, his face hidden by his curls and the white porcelain.
"Experimenting." was the muffled reply. "Just need some samples of vomit."
"Lair. You need to eat to be sick." John tapped his foot, a reaction of both annoyance and fear. "You haven't had a bite of anything in days, what with The Missing Boxcar case."
Sherlock groaned and jerked his head up to stare at John, or more specifically the wall next to John's head.
"You've already named it and everything. Wonderful." Sherlock spat and then stood up with a speed that startled John. "Why don't you go whine about my habits on your bloody blog! I'm sure you and Mycroft and Lestrade have the best of times bitching about me and my fucking quirks and whatever."
Sherlock collapsed back down to the floor, still muttering. John took the chance to review some of Sherlock's obvious symptoms.
Paranoia.
Hostility.
Excessive talking (for him anyway).
Nausea.
Vomiting.
Purposeful movement.
"Oh god..." John went ahead and decided it would be best to fear the worst in this situation. He struggled to calm himself before talking.
"Sherlock... Are you high?"
Sherlock was back on his feet before John could even react, their noses inches apart, and his breath hot and raspy on John's face.
"Why? Who asked you? Did Mycroft tell you to spy on me again?"
John shuffled back out the door. "No, Sherlock. No one sent me, and I'm not spying. And I think it's time to go to bed now."
Another mental checklist:
Get fluids in him.
Make sure he doesn't slip into a coma.
Prepare for the withdrawal tomorrow.
Above all, do not provoke him. No one likes a hostile Sherlock, let alone one as high as a kite.
Sherlock purred, leaning closer to John. "Just what are you suggesting Doctor Watson?"
Heightened sexual desire. Check.
"That you need to go to your bed and sleep. Feel free to interpret that how ever you like." he knew the thought would be out of Sherlock's head soon enough, and decided just to play along for the moment.
John grabbed Sherlock's hand and dragged him off to his room. He sat Sherlock down on his bed and glanced over him once more.
Dilation of bronchioles.
Increased heart rate and blood pressure.
Palpitations.
Chest pains.
John shuddered and tried not to think of what could happen if any of these reactions to the drugs got worse.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me."
Sherlock looked up from staring at his lap but still didn't meet John's eyes.
"Sherlock, I need to go get some stuff to check on you ok? So I need you to stay here in bed, don't move."
"Why? Don't leave…" Sherlock moaned. "I feel so sick. I want you to stay here…"
Sherlock flopped down onto the messy bed on his back, his curls splayed across the dark sheets. He threw his arms up into the air and began waving them around. It looked like completely random motions, but John knew Sherlock wouldn't do anything at random. Everything had to have a purpose or it was just a waste.
"Stay there. I'll be back before you can say who the prime minister is." John smiled at his little joke and hoped Sherlock might too, but he didn't move.
John rushed to his room to grab what little supplies he had. He cursed under his breath. He would need to raid the clinic, or maybe Molly would be nice enough to give him a few things. He ran back to Sherlock's room with just a stethoscope, a roll of gauze (though he was unsure how that would help at all) and a few extra pillows in case Sherlock went into shock or had a seizure.
"Sherlock?" John stepped into the dark room, but Sherlock was no longer on the bed. "Shit! Sherlock where are you?"
John dropped all of his equipment on the bed and began pacing in and out of the room and the hallway, still calling Sherlock's name.
"John, do shut up." a muffled voice called from somewhere in the bedroom. "You won't believe some of the things I found under my bed. They're fantastic, why did I ever stuff them under here?" Sherlock's disheveled black curls, now covered with a fine coat of grey dust, sprang up from the opposite side of his bed. John sighed in relief and even giggled quietly when Sherlock sneezed.
"I thought I told you to stay in bed." John chastised, half annoyed, half amused.
"Yes, but it got so boring." Sherlock whined. "I wanted to explore."
"What, go exploring in your own room?" John chuckled.
Sherlock stood up to his full height, glaring at John from across the bed. "Are you mocking me?" he hissed.
"No, I'm not mocking you; you can do whatever you want." John shrank back involuntarily. He had never seen Sherlock this angry at him before. But furious or delusional or whatever, he still needed to examine Sherlock. "I need you to do something for me, please."
Sherlock's face seemed to soften slightly at the last word. "Depends."
"It's nothing bad, don't worry." John forced a smile, preparing himself. "I need you to sit down on the bed and take your shirt off, that's all." He probably could have worded that better, but he didn't have time to work it out in his mind.
Sherlock walked across the bed and sat down in front of John. He started unbuttoning his shirt as slowly and seductively as possible.
"Is that all John? Why didn't you just say so?" Sherlock purred. He undid the last button and began to slide it off his shoulders.
"That's why." John muttered quietly so Sherlock wouldn't hear him. He sighed and returned to his normal voice. "I just need to check your heart and breathing alright? And you'll have to answer a few questions for me too."
Sherlock looked skeptical, and started scratching at the skin on his wrist.
"Don't try to argue. And stop doing that." John smacked his hand lightly away from his arm.
John placed the stethoscope against Sherlock's bare skin. Sherlock winced and hissed quietly, and John pulled the instrument away.
"Sorry, should have warned you it was cold."
John looked back down at Sherlock's chest, wincing himself at the detective's disturbingly visible ribs. Ignoring that for the moment, he focused on Sherlock's heartbeat.
Extremely fast heart rate, and palpitations as well.
He reached up to feel Sherlock's forehead with the back of his free hand.
Burning up, of course. Very flushed.
John wished he had a sphygmomanometer as well to see his blood pressure, but he already knew it would be dangerously high.
Sherlock started to hum, snapping John out of his thoughts.
"Right. Sherlock, I need you to listen to me. I need you answer my questions truthfully ok? It's very, very important that you don't lie."
Sherlock's eyes widened. "How important?" he whispered.
"A matter of life and death." John knew this wasn't too much of a lie. "Do you have any chest pains? Especially near your heart." He pointed to the left side of Sherlock's chest.
"I know where my heart is John." Sherlock scoffed. "No, I don't."
"Sherlock."
Sherlock glanced down at his hands. "Yes." He muttered.
"What about a headache? And if you have one how bad does it feel?"
"Like I've had to listen to Anderson lecture me about forensics for two hours." Sherlock smiled and looked at John. John tried to keep his face blank, but he was sure Sherlock could see the fear showing.
"Yes, it's bad." He whispered.
John sighed. "Last question then. How long ago and how much?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know damn well what I'm talking about!"
Sherlock stared at John with wide eyes, looking hurt.
"Oh…"
Sherlock really didn't seem to know.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that." John sighed again and sat next to Sherlock, almost taking comfort in the warmth radiating off his bare body. "I should have said how long ago did you take the cocaine and how much did you use? And how you administered it as well."
Sherlock drew a hypodermic needle out of his trouser pockets and held it in his slender fingers.
"About twenty minutes ago. 25 milligrams. This." He started to toy with the needle, spinning it in his palm.
"Give me that." John grabbed it out of his hands. "Sherlock, that's a seriously dangerous amount to be injecting. Even with your no doubt high drug tolerance."
"But I knew you would be here to help in case..."
"In case what? You had a seizure or a stroke? I can only do so much Sherlock! I'm not God!" John yelled the last part far more harshly than he had meant to and stood up with his back to Sherlock. He felt so frustrated and unsure what to do, which was a very rare feeling for him.
"No, but you wish you were. All your life, ever since your mother died in front of you, you've wanted to be God."
"Shut up." John whispered, unshed tears stinging his eyes.
"Or at least as powerful as a god. That's why you enlisted in the army; to have that feeling of power over life and death. Same for become a combat medic; the ability to save the lives of people you know without question should die."
John ran his hands over his face and turned around slowly.
"What the fuck do you know anyway?" he coughed, his voice rough. High or not, Sherlock could go to hell. And John was going to make sure he knew that. "What the fuck do you think you know about me? So you can read a person's past in the way they walk or what food they like, but you don't know a thing about people, Sherlock! You still can't understand how they feel and how they're affected by things! You think you understand their emotions, but it's just a trick. It's what you observe about people. And you don't know a damn thing about me!"
Sherlock didn't move, only stammered as John stormed out of the room and slammed the door to his own bedroom. They both lay in their beds, minds racing, hearts pounding with adrenaline or drugs or both. And they both wished to be able to take back what they had said. They both wished to be God.