A/N- For some time, I've had an AU in which John is… different. Well, you know, he still loves Sherlock, but he's something else, something… sadistic. Yeah, sadistic, and definitely BAMF. Enjoy!
John Watson was really beginning to wonder if everything was worth it. All that he'd done seemed to be making things even worse. Then he thought of Sherlock. Yes, it was worth it. And what was about to happen pained him so much, but it couldn't be avoided. But he was addicted, and his source was running out. He needed something new, and it shoved itself in his face. There was no way he could have turned it down, so he didn't. And here he was. "Tea, Sherlock?"
"Yes," replied the consulting detective. "With sugar."
"Okay," John replied, and set the kettle up. "It'll be ready soon." He walked over to the couch, where his flat mate was thinking. "What are you working on?"
Sherlock sat up, opening his crystal blue eyes. "Something boring Lestrade gave me. Life was just so dull and I needed something to keep me from eating three days in a row."
"Oh." John chuckled. "You really should eat more, you know."
"Yes, you constantly remind me of that fact," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes slightly. "But I hate eating. It's boring."
John smiled warmly. "Fine. Well, tea's ready. At least you drink." He went over and fixed up two cups of tea, bringing them over to the living room. "Do you want to see something?"
"What?"
"A film? Telly?" John suggested, sipping his tea. "I know you hate them, that was stupid of me to-"
"No, I don't mind," Sherlock said, tucking his feet up on the couch. "I'll see whatever you're seeing."
John looked confused. "Are you apologizing for something?"
Sherlock shook his head and drank some tea.
"Okay," John said. "Good." He put on some random show.
Despite Sherlock's regular inclination to insult and berate John about watching telly, he found this session somewhat comforting and calm. He wondered if he was going soft, and laughed at the very idea.
John looked over, smiled, and came to sit on the couch with Sherlock. "Listen, Sherlock."
"What?" replied the consulting detective, sitting up.
"I'm sorry, alright?" John looked upset, but in a cold, detached sort of way. "I really am. Don't blame me."
"What are you talking about, John?" asked Sherlock, snapping out of his comfort mode and scanning his flat mate's face for signs. He found none, and he felt woozy all of a sudden. "What's going on?"
"Remember when you deduced that I was addicted to adrenaline?" John asked.
"Hm," Sherlock said, half in consent and half in confusion and distress as his brain continued to turn itself off.
John nodded. "You were right, of course. And you, of all people, know how addictions work. When you keep up a habit, eventually the amount you're getting isn't enough. You know that, don't you, Sherlock?"
"John, whadidja do?" Sherlock was horrified to find his words slurring together. Then it hit him. He'd been drugged- the tea, of course.
"You aren't enough, Sherlock," John said. "And I've found another source."
"No." Sherlock managed to force out the word through the imposing barrier of oblivion.
"I said I was sorry," John whispered.
Sherlock wondered if those really were tears sparkling in John's eyes, or if it was just the blurriness of the drug as it continued to overtake him.
The doctor stood up, bent and kissed the top of Sherlock's head, and walked out the door, taking his coat and his pistol.
And Sherlock fell unconscious.