You know how it goes when you get an idea stuck in your head and it won't go away. Well, I just couldn't help but wonder after two (or more?) thorough searches of 221B Baker Street in an effort to find illicit substances and coming up with nothing… where a clever drug addict might hide his stash… because not only was that pretty definitely stated as canon in season 2 but I'm sorry that scene of Sherlock jonz'ing for cigarettes? Yeahhhhh, not buying it, he's just way too hyped up. Anyway, so I'm thinking about if I was searching and was dealing with someone as clever as Sherlock… where would he hide them? It quickly clicked for me and then I thought about what if John found out the hard way (I know it might be a little OOC for John but I don't think entirely improbable.) It was a quick write so there might be a bit of awkward grammar. I have in mind their confrontation for chapter two if anyone has any interest.
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Bloody hell. That's what the day had been like at the hospital.
John trudged up the stairs to the second floor flat at 221b Baker Street. He was physically tired yes, but it was more than that, he was mentally exhausted. There had been a highway pile up that left ten dead and dozens wounded. The emergency room had turned into triage and just for a moment he had flashed back to hot days spent in a dirty ward, a wound in his shoulder oozing sluggishly while friends died all around him.
But those moments came more and more infrequently of late. It was hard for his past to intrude on his present when his present gave him far more to worry about. Oddly enough he didn't think of it as a bad thing, not at all. The flat was quiet. Too quiet.
**Sherlock? JW** The detective had texted him earlier that he had some leads to follow on a simple fraud case that Lestrade asked him to give a second look over, as the suspected perpetrator ended dead in a spectacularly grisly fashion. The crime pickings had been lean of late and Sherlock had been chafing for anything to occupy his time. That, in of itself, should worry him as the simpler the case the more his flatmate seemed to find trouble.
When there was no answer to his text John sighed lightly. He didn't know rather he was relieved or disappointed that he had some time to himself. While he could use some downtime from the hospital that didn't necessarily mean that he wanted to spend that time stretched out on his back in front of the television. Sherlock Holmes was by far the most infuriating man he had ever known but something inside him always quieted when the detective was around. He liked him… most of the time… when he wasn't hating him that is.
John hung his coat over the hook on the back of the door chuckling softly to himself. Next thing you know I'll be talking to the damn skull, he thought. Walking over to the chair he plopped down stiffly. Damn. His leg was aching. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Stress that's all it was. If Sherlock were here the detective would have him so wound up he couldn't even think about his leg. Yeah, ok, remind self not to mention that aloud. Too much speculation about them already.
He absently tapped his left hand against his leg, his fingers twitching. Damn. Damn. The events of the day had gotten to him worse than he first thought. He contemplated texting Sherlock again to see when he would be home. Well, that was pathetic. When will you be home honey, I'm lonely and I miss you. John could almost see the imperious stare he would get from his flatmate over that bit of self-pity. He sighed, you know, he really wouldn't mind a smoke. He'd been known to have the occasional cigar in the past, though as a doctor, he certainly knew better.
John leaned back and closed his eyes trying to relax. He could always have a drink. No. None of that, not now, not ever. He'd resolved he wouldn't turn to drink no matter what the cause. He'd seen too many go down that path, including his own sister. Wait a minute, why hadn't he thought about it before? The nicotine patches. Sherlock used them constantly and they seemed to help him mellow out. In fact, they were about the only thing that would slow him down, ostensibly to think more clearly.
John came to his feet and headed to the bathroom. Be a damn sight easier on his body than an actual smoke too. He rummaged about in the medicine cabinet but came up with nothing. Hm. Sherlock seldom went without a patch for very long so they had to be around somewhere. He glanced at all the clutter in the kitchen. He could spend years looking for a small box in that mess. Besides you never knew what unpleasantness you might find amidst Sherlock's experiments.
What the hell, he thought and went to Sherlock's bedroom door and tried the knob. It wasn't locked. Surely, if Sherlock wanted privacy he would have locked the door? It wasn't like anywhere else in the flat was private. It had taken several loud conversations before Sherlock had finally gotten it through his head that his mate's bedroom was off limits to his experiments and his curiosity. It was his one and only Sherlock-free zone. Now here he was, about to do what he told his flatmate in no uncertain terms not to do... but he didn't have nefarious purposes like some people. Why would he care? And it wasn't like Sherlock used the room much, hardly at all, he justified.
When the detective did finally sleep he usually passed out on the sofa in the living room, dead to the world for hours on end. The man had once slept twenty hours straight without moving. He'd almost considered hauling him off to the hospital but Sherlock had finally roused and eaten a voracious breakfast then was back to his usual maniacal self.
Conscience quieted, John pushed the door open slowly and poked his head in. It wasn't like there would be anyone in there, he was just being silly he chided himself. Stepping into the room, he looked around casually. The space looked as he expected it would. There were books everywhere and papers and other odd bits of paraphernalia. The bed was smoothly made but there were several things strewn across it including a large axe, what looked to be a cheddar wheel, a ski mask, a half filled bowl of water (at least it looked like water) and ammunition of various calibers. Peeking out from under one of the pillows was what appeared to be a puppet of some sort and he just didn't want to know.
Taking it all in, he didn't think it any more likely that he would be able to find the patches in this constrained madness than in the kitchen. Besides he wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock wouldn't have booby-trapped his room against possible criminal incursion. Knowing the detective as he did, it wouldn't be something as mundane as rigging a gun either. There would probably be poisonous darts or attack rats involved. He sighed lightly then turned to go and there on the bedside table next to him was a small box of nicotine patches. "Well, I'll be damned," he chuckled.
John grabbed up the box and turned it over to read the label. The prescription was made out to Sherlock Holmes with the suggested use, which of course, the detective ignored. It was a wonder he hadn't OD'd the way he used multiple doses at once, seemingly at whim. Opening the box, he found eight patches left. Good, he wouldn't be leaving Sherlock without his crutch, plenty of time to renew the prescription without running out. Tearing open a pack he pressed it to his forearm just above the wrist.
It shouldn't take long. The patches were saturated with a chemical that helped the nicotine permeate into the bloodstream. It was as effective a delivery system as a needle. He crushed the foil wrapper in his hand and headed back out to the kitchen. He already felt just a tad better, though he knew it was most likely the placebo effect rather than the patch.
Maybe he would watch some crappy telly and just wait for Sherlock to get back so they could order in. See if he could get the detective to eat something…whoa. He did feel better… all over. There was a lightness and calm settling over him like a blanket. It was nice. It was better than nice. It was great. He smiled, guess he was more of a lightweight than he thought. Light, light, light, light as a feather, light as rain, wait, what was it he was going to do? Oh yeah, chill out until Sherlock got back.
By the time John Watson reached the doorway that opened the kitchen to the living area he felt mellow as a cat… with senses equally as sharp. The room seemed brighter than usual, the colors more vivid. He could hear each intake and exhale of breath and his heart was beating loud in his ears. It was hypnotic. Why had he not noticed it all before?
He didn't know how long he stood there staring at the patterned wallpaper before he realized that something just wasn't quite right about this. What the hell? Was he having some kind of reaction to the nicotine? He took another step and found his balance was a bit off and side-stepped. He giggled and did a little jig. Ok, now he knew that something was wrong. But nothing felt wrong, in fact, he felt fucking fantastic, like he could fly so very… high. High.
His dilated eyes blazed wide. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed tearing the patch from his arm. He pulled in a deep ragged breath and stammered, "Oh, oh , oh… you… you, clever son of a bitch. All this time, all this fucking time. You…" John fell into the nearest chair, "I'm going to kill him. Yep, as soon as I can feel my toes again I'm going to kill him." He nodded absently to himself. "You just wait. I can't believe this. Lied… not even Mycroft the wiser. Oh, you are in such deep shit, Mister Sherlock Holmes."
Confident with his plan to strangle the world's only consulting detective with his bare hands John Watson decided he might as well enjoy the ride and put his head back.