Broken Chords
After Mycroft's hasty departure John thought it best to kick everyone else out as well. Usually he could count on being able to act as a cushion between Sherlock and, well, the rest of the known universe, but at the moment he was unsure whether he would be able to prevent murder if someone managed to annoy Sherlock even just a bit more.
Sherlock – who was at the moment high as a kite and precariously impulsive.
John spared half a second to wonder whether he himself was actually safe. After trudging through a drug den the day couldn't really get much worse, could it?
And besides, he had a major tirade to perform.
While John shrugged off his coat, Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa. His shoulders ended up on the armrest, head hanging in midair upside down. He was running a hand through his dishevelled curls. He seemed distracted and frustrated. Erratic.
John did not sit down. "So, what did you take?"
Sherlock coughed and threw the small handful of hair he'd managed to pull off onto the coffee table. John shot him a dirty look which he casually ignored. "Heroin mixed with some crystalized methamphetamine."
"Crystal meth? Bloody hell, Sherlock. Can't believe I'm saying this but that isn't very classy."
"What would you consider classy then?" Sherlock threw a cushion off the sofa. It hit the opposite wall with a thud.
"I'm not going to compare notes on narcotics with you."
"You have notes?" Sherlock's interest was piqued. He looked up at John with his slightly unfocused, glassy blueish-green eyes. Still upside down.
"No, you bloody idiot. You could have at least taken a shower at some point. You reek like a fishmonger's."
"Verisimilitude, John."
"I don't care whether you were trying to add verisimilitude by rolling around in someone's garbage or if you've actually been at this long enough to soak up the ambient stench in that hovel. The only fucking thing I care about is that you didn't see fit to tell me."
"Tell you what? You normal people! You think secrets are something you run off to blurt out to your mates the moment you hear them! The whole point of being undercover is that it's a secret!"
Sensing a lengthy, drug-addled and no doubt insulting ramble about normal people gathering strength, John grabbed Sherlock's lapels and pulled him up. "You—Just shut up, Sherlock."
"Well I was trying, but you saw fit to shout my business all over the neighbourhood!" Sherlock shook off his sweater and threw it onto the floor.
"Laundry basket!"
Sherlock actually saw fit to blow a raspberry at him. John took a deep breath. He felt more than a bit of guilt for the whole thing so he just couldn't go and punch Sherlock again, could he? Even if he wanted to - quite badly?
After a moment of silence Sherlock actually seemed to straighten his posture and assumed a more serious expression instead of the preceding mischievous grin. "You weren't available."
"You know you can always call, come over, text, comment the blog, smoke signal, anything. It's been nothing but silence for three weeks."
"I did not think it polite to disturb your sex holiday." Sherlock reached for his violin.
John grabbed his bow before he could launch into the screechy arpeggio he could sense coming and hid it behind Sherlock's back. "You're winding me up on purpose."
"Am not." Sherlock put his violin down carefully. At least he was coherent enough not to launch the instrument into a wall. "In all seriousness, John, now that you are here I was hoping-"
"Yes? Wanting favours, now, is it? Instead of 'thanks, mate, for getting me out of that shithole'?
Sherlock was staring at his shoes. "Perhaps you might offer something in the pharmacological sense now that there really isn't a need to continue my covert operation."
John was taken aback. "No. Sixteen times no. I am not getting you more of that shit. 'Covert operation' my ass. In my book, that's not work. It's throwing your life down the drain."
"I didn't mean that. What you said. About getting more of the-" It was rare for Sherlock to have to rephrase. John, however, was too angry to marvel at this.
"What, then?" John spread his arms in frustration.
"I know of some prescription medicines being used to… Shorten the detox period." Sherlock looked hopeful, somewhat pleading, even.
John was adamant. "No. You'll have to do this cold turkey. I'm not making this any easier on you. It'll do you good to remember how it feels, maybe that would deter you from doing it again."
"But I could die!" Sherlock threw his hand up dramatically.
"If taking it didn't kill you, not taking it won't either. I'll see to that."
"Isn't it unethical not to help me if you could? With your Hippocratic oaths and whatnot."
"Lessening your withdrawal would be enabling in my book which would be unethical as well. And do stop trying to threaten me with a plastic shoehorn."
Said weapon was quietly placed onto the coffee table. Sherlock slumped back onto the sofa. "You have quite a naïve idea of how this works, John."
"I don't care. If this is just for a case and not relapsing back into whatever black hole you crawled out of before we met, then prove it." John sat down next to Sherlock on the sofa. It was only then he noticed his friend's anemic complexion, his slight shivering, several lost pounds and the resulting prominent bones. "You were so stupid to do this on your own. You should've had someone to monitor things and - For fuck's sake, you could have just faked the whole thing!"
"You don't know Magnussen. He would have known."
"You can tell me all about Magnussen later when I'm less cross. Then you can try to convince me that it wasn't just an excuse, that you weren't just bored or something. Right now I'm just too bloody mad that you saw fit not to involve me in this."
"Honestly, John. Just because you go on holiday it doesn't mean the planet stops revolving." His statement lacked its usual manic vigour. Sherlock leaned back onto the cushions, turned his head away from John, and closed his eyes. Maybe the worst of the high was abating. At least that was what John hoped for. "It just isn't the same without you," he muttered into a shawl left on the backrest.
John wasn't sure if he'd heard right. Had Sherlock actually missed him? Sherlock, to whom most other human beings were a nuisance? On the other hand, he had seemed rather taken when John had referred to him as his best friend. Sherlock Holmes did not do origami swans for just anyone, did he?
A terrible thought crossed John's mind. "What if you'd overdosed? Or someone had stabbed you? How long would you have hid out there if I hadn't happened to come by?"
Sherlock flicked his wrist dismissively. "You always find me."
"I'm not telepathic, you know. It's great you have such high confidence in me, but I think you know how much worse this could've ended."
"You don't go after Charles Augustus Magnussen if you're not prepared to keep it real."
John burst into a laugh. "'Keep it real'?! Sherlock, I think you've been spending way too much time with Wiggles, or whatever his name was." John gathered his composure, still smiling. "Magnussen's got to be a demon from the third circle of hell according to what you're saying. I'll soon want to see this chap for myself."
"Hope you never do." Sherlock sounded rather exhausted now, which was no wonder after probably not eating and drinking much, constantly keeping vigilant, and attacking his brother in the hallway like a jackal.
John bit his lip, and reached over to touch Sherlock's forehead. Clammy. Chilly. It was going to get bad. Soon. He thought he could still see a faint redness on Sherlock's cheek where Molly had slapped him.
"Clonidine and naloxone."
Sherlock's eyes flew open. "What?"
"Clonidine and naloxone. That's the best I can do for you. It's not going to a lot easier, but hopefully it'll at least flush the heroin off your system a bit quicker. And with your permission I'd like to phone Lestrade to hear a bit about what I should expect in terms of insanity and mayhem."
The only reply was a groan into the now slightly sweaty shawl.
John rose and went upstairs to find his prescription pad and surgery keys, leaving Sherlock sprawled on the couch like a starfish.
Two hours later, Sherlock looked slightly more presentable. Unless you took into account the runny nose, pallor, and the fact that he was quietly talking to himself as he paced around the kitchen, sans skull.
He wasn't as agitated as John had feared. It must've been the metamphetamine withdrawal's hypersomnia part which had set Sherlock into just a slightly manic energy level which, in Sherlock's case, was quite normal.
John tried to concentrate on his book but kept one ear focused enough to discern whether he was hearing Sherlock's regular ramblings or if the meth might have been bringing on hallucinations.
John had managed to feed him a couple of sandwiches and after a prolonged nagging Sherlock had taken a shower and changed into a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.
There had been something very unnerving in seeing the usually prim and tailored Sherlock in sweatpants and a hoodie. Maybe this was how Sherlock had felt when he'd set his eyes on John's moustache for the first time.
Luckily Sherlock's faculties were sufficiently intact to shake off all attempts by his mind to venture into psychotic territory. It did, however, require some lengthy and rather unsettling monologues.
Come nightfall, mania gave way to paralyzing exhaustion, nausea, muscle cramps, and carbohydrate cravings. "It's no use feeding you bagfuls of toast if it just comes right back up again," John complained but no one was really listening.
The next morning, they both fell asleep on the floor. Sherlock in the bathroom, John in the hallway.