He knew John wouldn't be home for a while yet, it was too early for the surgery to close for the day. He had time, plenty of time. Things hadn't been going well for Sherlock recently, and he was feeling the stress of it all, cigarettes just wouldn't do the trick. He wouldn't indulge in alcohol, vile liquid. He had time to find his old, abandoned equipment and have a quick hit. He needed it he told himself. 'Watson will never know, he's to blind to notice'. He found his solution, his needles and set to work. Working with his old tools brought himself to shake, preparing it all made him crave it. He didn't just want it anymore, he needed it. He needed the hit that brought him pleasure, relieved him from his bored state. John had worked hard to get him off the stuff as he called it, he never wanted to refer to it as drugs, he thought it best to not label it like that, thought it would make it easier. But things had been down for Sherlock, there were never any cases, and when there were they were easy, he never even had to leave the house. He could solve it by the facts that Lestrade told him alone. He was bored, even Mycroft was too busy to annoy, John was at work every day. He tampered with the idea of going as far to see Anderson, but no matter how bored he was he could not be able to put up with that man. So he had resorted back to old habits, one that he knew he could rely on whenever he needed it. Sherlock had told John he'd gotten rid of all the 'stuff' once he stopped feeling the cravings, after he became, what John called 'clean and sober', but Sherlock had kept some back. Reasoned it with himself it may come in useful one day for a scientific experiment.
"Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll conduct an experiment with it. How much can I take without John noticing? This could go on for days, relieved of boredom for days on end." He thought to himself. Although Sherlock's 'thinking to himself' really meant talking out loud thinking there's someone there. The amount of conversations he'd had with John when John hadn't been around was a number Sherlock would never be aware of, he did it too often. The shaking progressively got worse, the more he prepared his equipment the more the cravings set in, telling him he needed the hit, he needed it more than anything, he couldn't work without it. The shaking got worse, making it harder to sterilise the needle, he wasn't stupid enough to not, making him believe in the cravings telling him he needed this hit to function properly. This was all he wanted now, he didn't care if John walked in now; he needed this. It'd been too long since his last use. Finally everything had been set up. He brought the needle to his arm, shaking. He started to feel guilty, for wasting John's time and effort on him, but his mind was screaming at him. He needed this hit; he could deal with John later. Here and now, is what he needed. He couldn't fight the needle off any longer. He plunged the needle into his vein and pushed the solution into his bloodstream. He couldn't feel any effects yet, it had only been seconds, but the psychological aspect gave him a mini high all to itself. He laid back against the sofa, dressing gown falling over the edge, arm falling alongside. He closed his eyes and waited for the hit to kick in.
But when it did, it wasn't enough. Sherlock had promised himself he'd limit himself, but he couldn't help it he needed more, he craved it. The months without this had built up, and now he just wanted to indulge himself in it. He injected himself with more, starting to feel more of a rush, of a high. Finding small things amusing, relaxing into total abyss. More, and more and more. He kept going until it had all gone. He hadn't kept enough back to kill himself, or had he? He couldn't remember, but it had all been used up. John would be in for a shock when he came home, Sherlock's dressing gown had fallen completely now, revealing the bare chest beneath it. He wouldn't move it. He could barely move himself, the drugs had taken effect fully now.
"You'll be home soon John". To many people this would be a junkie's gibberish, but this was normal, all he ever did was talk to John when he wasn't around. The drugs started to work even more now, the full extent of them kicking in, his heart rate slowed dangerously slow and his pulse weakened, his breathing few and far between, eyelids half closed with the eyes themselves rolling backwards. Anybody on first sight would think this man dead, any man but John Watson. He was a doctor after all.
Sherlock could hear the man come up the stairs, he tried to call out to him, knowing he was in danger, knowing he had pushed the limit to far once again. He knew his flatmate would anger at him, shout and lose his temper with him after all this, but for now he needed his friend to get through this. Too much too quickly. He couldn't help it the cravings had set in, he needed this.
"Sherlock I'm back, where are yo... oh dear lord..."
The doctor quickly rushed to his side grabbing the detectives hand in his.
"There's a pulse but not strong, at least you're alive. Hearts weak, breathings slow, weak pulse, closed eyelids. Sherlock please tell me you haven't done what I'm thinking." He murmured to himself under his breath, but as he did so his eyes full upon the needle and equipment. He felt his heart drop and the anger rise, but he would have to push that aside. He couldn't bring Sherlock to the hospital, not after last time. Sherlock had actually accused the nurses of drugging him; he couldn't remember doing it to himself, or the things he said to John...
Sherlock could wait a minute while he made sure everything was safe for the path he was going to take to get Sherlock up to his room. He put the needle in the needle bin ( living with a man like Sherlock had these quirks about them, and a needle bin was one) and made sure there was nothing sharp or damaging Sherlock could hurt himself should John drop him.
"Come on you, up you get" Struggling on the word 'up' as he pulled the full weight of the much taller detective onto him, slumping one arm around his own neck and practically lifting Sherlock off of the ground. How can he be so heavy when he never eats? He carried Sherlock up to his room, bumping him into walls along the way, this was defiantly an accident, or so he told himself. He'd look after Sherlock, but it wouldn't stop him feeling so angry at him. Especially after how close they came last time.
"John... John thank you..." great here we go John thought to himself. More babbles that I can only half understand.
"You know, you're a dick? All I've done, all day is look after people, I'm not complaining- it's my job. But it would be nice if I didn't have to come home to this, to seeing you half dead. Especially after last time! Why did you have to be so stupid Sherlock? I thought you were off the stuff! How long have you been lying and hiding this from me!" John shot questions out at the detective like a gun. He couldn't help it, he knew he'd have to wait till morning to get an answer but he had to get it off his chest. He slammed the detective into his bed and closed the curtains. He knew if he let the sun blind him in the morning, John would be the one in for a telling off, but John wasn't willing to let this one escape him.
"Go to sleep Sherlock, I'll be next door if you need me. We need to talk about this tomorrow, so no running off. I mean it. Ok?" John made sure that Sherlock was safely in his bed then went to leave.
"John, I love you. You know this right?"
John sighed; they'd been through this before. He went back over to Sherlock and sat on the bed beside him. Sherlock turned himself to look at John, even if his eyes weren't focusing.
"John I do really, I love you."
"No you don't Sherlock; we went through this last time. It's the drugs talking. Now go to sleep."
"Yes we went through this last time; months ago. Yet I still say the same. Does this not render my thoughts to be held true?"
Even a stoned Sherlock could outwit John, but he knew full well that Sherlock didn't feel this way, he'd seen him and DI Lestrade one too many times. Even a high functioning sociopath needed a release once in a while. He knew that words didn't mean a thing, he said it when he was in this state, but never remembered any of it. John cast his mind back to the first time Sherlock had confessed his imaginary love for the doctor, he had half laughed half panicked. Now he just found it a bore.
"Oh come on, you're not going to bring Lestrade up again are you? John I'm sorry. Now please... I lov..."
Passed out. Finally. The doctor checked his pulse which was back to a regular strength. He needn't stay by his side tonight. Sherlock had panicked John that night, and he wasn't willing to forgive him anytime soon, he knew Sherlock would feel guilty, and that they would have to slowly take him back off of the stuff but he didn't care. Life was never boring with Sherlock, not for John anyway.
"Night Sherlock, I really, really hope you feel like complete shit tomorrow."