Do you have any medical needles in the flat? –SH
Because I am really trying to trust you with that, I am not going to ask why you would need them. But no I don't have any at the flat. -JW
Dammit. –SH
When are you coming home? –SH
Not before 5. Are you okay? -JW
Yes. No. Maybe. Not sure. –SH
I'm going out. Be home tomorrow. –SH
Sherlock? What's going on? -JW
Don't worry about it. It'll be fine. –SH
You can't just tell me not to worry, you know I already do. -JW
I can be home in half an hour, please wait for me! I'm worried about you. -JW
Sherlock threw his phone against the wall, tearing at his hair in frustration. John was coming home. That was the last thing he wanted. Part of him wanted John to stop him, but the other half wanted to just run before John got home. He paced the floor, muttering to himself. Dammit, he just needed a fix. It wasn't supposed to be this complicated.
John had a bad feeling, like a knot in his stomach. He didn't want to think about why Sherlock was looking for a needle and although he really wanted to trust him, in the last few days Sherlock had been a very dark mood. So he decided to leave the surgery to Sarah for the rest of the day and head home as quickly as possible.
Sherlock cast a disparaging look at the empty box on the floor. He had found an old stash under the floorboards where he had hidden it when John moved in and he hadn't been able to resist. But now the high was wearing off and he needed more. Now.
The traffic was slow and John's fingers were tapping restlessly against his thigh. When he finally reached Baker Street, he threw some money at the driver and almost jumped out of the car, running the last few meters to the door.
No, Sherlock decided, he couldn't let John see him like this. The look of disappointment would be too much. So he staggered towards the door and ripped it open only to come face to face with the very man he had been trying to avoid.
"Sherlock?" John gasped, surprised, as he stared at his flatmate. The man looked awful, panicked and exhausted. Strung out, John quickly realised. Sherlock reached out as if to touch Johns face before pulling back his hand. Pain and confliction danced in his eyes. "John," he whispered in a broken voice, "John... I didn't mean to... I'm so sorry..." It was like all the air had been pressed out of his lungs. John stepped back and just stared at Sherlock in shock. He wasn't even sure what to feel; he was angry, but also very worried, and torn between screaming and leaving or dragging Sherlock back up to the flat.
Sherlock stared at John, concerned. John hadn't said anything. John always had something to say. What was going on? He bit his lip. This was all wrong. He didn't know what to do. It was best if he left. So he stepped to the side and tried to pass John, his mind reverting back to the one-track plea of an addict. John suddenly lashed out and firmly grabbed Sherlock's wrist, a bit harder than intended. "You're not going anywhere. Up to the flat. Now." Sherlock stared at John as a million emotions coursed through his mind. He knew John was doing this for his own good, but... He shook any thoughts of drugs from his mind and mutely followed John into the flat.
"Sit down. " John looked around the flat and saw the contents from the box spilled on the floor. He let out a lout sigh, before he shrugged of his coat and turned around to face Sherlock again.
Oh dear. The Doctor voice. The I-was-in-the-army-and-am-not-afraid-to-show-it voice. Now he was in trouble. Sherlock sat on the couch and looked at the floor like a child caught behaving badly. His hand subconsciously began to scratch at the veins on his arm, craving a needle and the sweet release that would follow. John closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to shout and scream but he knew that wouldn't to any good. "I don't know what to say…" he admitted and closed his arms in front of his chest, biting his lip. "That's a first-" Sherlock cut himself off. Stupid stupid stupid. He knew that would come off as an insult and now was most definitely not the time for that kind of rubbish. He winced, hoping against hope that John hadn't heard that.
"Bloody hell, fuck this!" John snapped. His hands were shaking now and he clenched them into fists. "I tried to keep calm, really I did. But what the fuck were you thinking?" Sherlock put his hands on either side of his head, rubbing his temples as he tried to abate some of the vicious pressure that was building there. "I wasn't, John. It was an impulse-" He broke off as a new kind of discomfort overcame him. Nausea ripped through his body like a white hot blade but as he rose to go to the bathroom, the world went black. He was vaguely aware of his head hitting the floor before everything collapsed into nothingness.
"Sherlock!" John immediately dropped to his knees next to Sherlock, his hand gently sliding over his head as he checked for injuries. He wasn't bleeding but a big bump was forming, and the blow to the head had knocked him out. "Sherlock?" He murmured, more gently now, cradling him in his arms.
When the world started to fade back, coming into veiw with fuzzy colors and vague shapes, Sherlock was aware of warm, strong arms around him and a gentle voice talking to him. Sherlock tried desperately to pull himself back to consciousness. He couldn't die. Not now. He had to tell John. Tell John what he had always needed to tell him. Tell him that he loved him. Sherlock was unaware of exactly how much of this he was saying aloud, but it was actually quite a bit.
"Sherlock you're babbling, but I don't understand a word of it..." John said softly, all his anger flushed away by the worry about Sherlock and what Sherlock was muttering. Logically, he knew it was drug-induced madness, but maybe there was a glimmer of truth there? No, he couldn't let himself hope. Not now. Back to business. "Do you still feel sick?" Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He touched Johns face with one shaking hand. John thought he saw tears in Sherlock's eyes; something virtually unheard of. But the glimpse was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Sherlock bolted upright and was rewarded with immediate dizziness. The craving returned with a vengeance and suddenly it was all he could think about. He had been thinking about John, but what about John? It didn't matter anymore. Then another thought struck him; Sedatives. John must have some. It wasn't cocaine, but it would do as a cheap substitute. He whirled around to face John, ignoring the persistent nausea. "John, you have- you have to have- I need-" He growled in frustration at his inability to form coherent sentences. John let his finger smooth over Sherlock's cheekbones and tried to calm him down. "Shhh. Stay here, you're still feeling dizzy. When you think you are ready to get up, I'll help you get to bed so you can sleep it out." "NO! I don't want to sleep it out, John, I need..." He trailed off and leaned his head against Johns shoulder. "You won't give me anything, will you?" He murmured in disdain. "No, I won't." John said a bit bitterly, but kept stroking Sherlock's cheek with his finger in an attempt to sooth the craving addict. Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh, pouting. "That's infuriating, you realize." Sherlock sighed, nibbling on Johns fingertips without realizing what he was doing.
"I think you're confused," John murmured, with a confused glanced to flatmate. "You think you can get up? We can settle you on the couch then." He wanted to get Sherlock up from the floor, and maybe give him some water and let him sleep out the aftermath of his high. Sherlock stood up shakily, one hand on Johns waist to steady himself. As he settled on the couch he looked up at John. "Why do you think I'm confused? I'm perfectly fine..." John just shook his head, he was still worried about why Sherlock had let himself go so far as to shoot up. Had he been depressed? Bored? Upset? He sighed and let his hand slide through Sherlock's curls before he turned away. "Let me get you some water." Sherlock groaned and fell back against the couch, his eyes glazed over with the lingering effects of the drugs. "I don't want water. I want cocaine. Or you. Either would do." John stopped and turned back, one eyebrow up to his hairline. "Well, I am sorry, but you won't get neither of those things now, so lay down and rest!"
It was then that Sherlock's drug-addled mind decided to throw him into fits of manic laughter. He lay down, tears running down his face as he laughed psychotically. John clenched his jaw and walked off to the kitchen. He knew that this wasn't Sherlock but the withdrawal from the drugs and so getting mad at him wouldn't change a thing. But when Sherlock had shown that soft side, that hint of (was it romantic?) interest, his calm, doctor-like demeanor had dissolved, leaving him confused and with a curious ache in his chest. He had always harbored feelings for Sherlock that went far beyond friendship, but had never dared to hope that the detective returned the sentiment. So now, instead of clinging to that impossible dream, he dismissed Sherlock's behavior as delirium and went about making some tea.
When the laughter subsided it left Sherlock with an aching stomach and feeling like an idiot. This was getting him nowhere. And yet he had no clue what to do. For once the great detective was at a complete loss. His usually organized mind palace had descended into madness, the contents strewn everywhere. Nothing was in its proper place, with drugs taking obscene priorities over John. John. The doctor, his doctor, was usually first and foremost in his mind, but he was currently losing this battle. He remembered the days of addiction, the days before God had had pity on him and sent John into his life. They were days of bitter hatred and pain dispersed intermittently between frighteningly euphoric highs. He didn't want to go back to that dark time, mostly because he knew that if he did, he would lose the one person who mattered most.