Author's Note: Drugs and addiction have always fascinated me and I felt inspired to write a fic about John dealing with Sherlock's addiction, and the consequences of making him detox. This will be my first Sherlock chaptered fic (as well as probably my longest fic to date) so I'm excited.
I hope you enjoy
Step Two of the Twelve Step Recovery Program:
2. Come to believe that a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity.
Something Greater
He could hear the blood pounding in his ears just under the dull roar surrounding him. A muffled cry broke into his cocoon of static.
What was that?
A shout. John?
Yes, John.
Calm statement.
Someone else.
The white noise grew louder, clouding his ears.
Where was everyone going? What was –
Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. Everything around him had stopped. Taking a look at his surroundings he recognized John, forehead wrinkled in worry, as the only familiar face. A young woman stood beside John while an older man was positioned across from him.
What are they gathered around?
Ah. Stretcher.
Looking down at its occupant, Sherlock's brow furrowed when he identified the body as his own. He was still lying down, eyes closed, face calm. He looked back at his conscious self, ran his hands across his skin to see if he existed. He seemed to still have a physical presence; he just appeared to be the only one who noticed it.
Fascinating!
Shrugging and intrigued with the current situation, Sherlock swung his legs off and stood. His feet still held him up. He could still stand, still feel the cold, sterile tile beneath him. He took an experimental step. Yes, motor capability still intact.
Sherlock rounded the stretcher to stand next to John.
"John? John, can you hear me?"
No reaction.
He prodded at his flatmate's arm, each jab of a boney finger becoming successively harder. "John. John. John. John. John!"
Still nothing.
Well then.
Sherlock moved on to the young brunette. He childishly waved his hand in front of her face, snapped his fingers, pranced around in a circle – anything to try and get someone's attention. After what Sherlock guessed to be a good five minutes of antics, he huffed down on the edge of the stretcher. That's when he noticed it. Halted above his unconscious self's chest was a defibrillator.
Cardiac arrest.
-Cause?
Arrhythmia.
-Well clearly Sherlock. Just because your heart's stopped doesn't mean your 'out of body' brain has to. What caused the arrhythmia? Think!
Sherlock screwed his eyes closed to concentrate. The absence of information that would have flooded his brain by now alarmed him.
Think harder!
The first thing he could remember was shouting, most of it belonging to John. Then taste of vomit in his mouth, movement like that of a cab. Ambulance, logically.
Rolling, other voices, John still yelling. Then the information stopped and he was on a stretcher in the hospital.
He frantically scanned through the bleak records of the events leading up to his heart failure. Nothing was complete; everything came in snippets of barely coherent information. Random phrases and sensations. Very little visual information to work with and that which did exist was blurred.
Ah.
When Sherlock's eyes opened again he was back at 221B Baker Street, lounged on the sofa in his dressing gown, per usual. He was bored. John had confiscated the gun, there were no experiments that readily interested him, and there were no pressing crimes to pique his interest. Low crime rate: wonderful for London, absolutely horrid for Sherlock.
There was only one cure left for his boredom.
After mustering enough energy to remove himself from the couch, Sherlock strolled back to his room and opened the closest door. His hand blindly felt around the top shelf, shoving away meaningless miscellany that impeded his search. Finally he felt what he was looking for. Sherlock pulled the small rectangular case from its hiding place and sat down on the bed to examine the contents.
The small glass container shone in the afternoon sunlight that filled the room.
Plenty left.
The tourniquet was secured, the mixture prepared, the needle loaded. Sherlock sharply inhaled while euphoria quickly washed over him. He could feel, literally feel, his brain become engaged as the solution flooded his veins. He could hear the noise dissipating until only what mattered remained. When his steely blue eyes shot open, he was surprised by the darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.
Get up. You're fine. Slight side effect. It'll clear up.
Sherlock forced himself from the bed. He stumbled to the door and had to brace himself for a moment before he dared continue down the hallway. The consulting detective made it an astonishing five steps before his legs gave out.
Alright. You may begin to worry.
He pressed himself up onto his knees, trying to steady his breathing and focus on the simple task of returning to the sitting room.
There was an alarming disconnect between his crumpled body in the hallway and his sudden stumble into the flat's main room. Sherlock didn't remember managing to drag himself the remaining distance, but didn't bother to question it in his now manic state. Something was wrong.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, I'm home."
Ah, John!
John!
Sherlock felt his mouth open, knew his brain formulated the word, but heard no result. Footsteps moved further up the stairs. Sherlock attempted to stand once more.
Futile. His legs seized up and he felt his head crack against the corner of the coffee table as he returned to the floor.
John must've heard the crash. His hearing fading in and out, Sherlock faintly registered falling groceries, rushed footfalls, and worried shouts.
"Sherlock? Sherlock! Oh God, Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock? Can you hear me? It's going to be alright. I'm going to call an ambulance. Just stay with me..."
-x-
"Sir, please. We asked you to wait in—"
John pushed against the woman's arm attempting to restrain him. "No! Get his heart started again, damn it!"
"Sir, he's trying. I think it might be best if you—"
"I'm not leaving until I'm sure he's okay!"
What the hell have you done to yourself now, Sherlock?
-x-
John walked into the flat. "Sherlock, I'm home." He waited for even the subtlest of responses, when he got none, he called again. "Sherlock?"
He heard something large hit the ground in the sitting room. "Sherlock!"
John dropped the groceries on the floor before darting to a collapsed Sherlock. Just as John reached him, the detective began to shudder violently. The lean man was a convulsing heap, eyes rolling in his head. "Oh God… Mrs. Hudson!"
Medical training taking over, John placed a hand on either side of Sherlock's head to keep it stable. He shouted over his shoulder again. "Mrs. Hudson!"
Terror curled in his gut as warm red leaked over his hand. He sucked in a deep breath to steady himself. "Sherlock? Can you hear me? It's going to be alright. I'm going to call an ambulance. Just stay with me."
-x-
Sherlock jolted into consciousness, dragged from the living room floor of 221B and rejoined with his physical form. His eyes flew open and the world that had just been muffled and dampened shot into focus. The time previously frozen rushed at him from zero to sixty in close to naught.
He had heard John.
Where is John?
Sherlock strained his neck only to be pushed back onto the stretcher.
John was visible from behind the brunette. She was using one arm to keep a frantic John at bay and the other to keep a freshly alive Sherlock from leaping up and sending himself into a worse condition.
"See sir? His heart is back. I am going to ask you again to please wait here while we finish with him."
He wanted to lash out at her, tell her she had no right to shoo John. Clearly he was far better educated in medicine than she. Though when he tried to speak his mouth couldn't even be bothered to open. He was trapped in his own head, hoping he could at least still glare to convey his discontent.
Wait… why had John stopped protesting? Why was he suddenly moving?
No. Stop!
John!
John! Don't let these idiots take me!
John!
-x-
When Sherlock's pulse returned and blue eyes jarred open, John let out a sigh of relief. Then once more the nurse began harping on him that he needed to leave. John looked between the nurse and Sherlock, who managed to look completely dazed and livid at the same time.
He didn't want to leave his best friend like this, but he knew that he couldn't win the current argument. He also knew he didn't have much right to be angry with her; she was just doing what she was supposed to. Giving Sherlock one more glance, John stepped back and nodded.
"Just tell me when I can see him again."
The nurse smiled and nodded. Then Sherlock was gone. But John certainly didn't miss the fear that registered, if only for a brief moment, across his friend's face as he was wheeled away.
To be continued! I'm going to try my best to not make you wait too long (though I'm not sure I can absolutely promise that, silly real life!)
Hope you enjoyed. Review, favorite, etc.
Much love,
~Bex