Standard disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Trigger warning for drug use.

Author's note: I swear to you that this story is mostly completed, I'm just touching up a few scenes and waiting for my awesome friend to beta further chapters.


His mouth set into a hard, firm line as he felt his heart break. "Sherlock, what have you done?" John whispered as his fingers curled around the small cylindrical glass vial.

The man in question wheezed and his head lolled to the side in the direction he heard the voice. "Ne-need help, John…" he mumbled and halfheartedly batted at the hypodermic needle still stuck out of his right arm.

With the stoicism of a man whose seen unspeakable acts of war, the doctor leaned over to gingerly remove the offensive object from his friend's body. No amount of training or previous experience prepared him for this particular moment. John wasn't sure how he could possibly stay kneeling next to the half dead form of his best friend for more than the next few seconds, especially when each one felt like an eternity.

When he could bear it no further, he turned and pulled out his mobile to hastily hit the one number on his speed dial.

"No!" Sherlock whined and attempted to pull John back to him. "D't leave."

With a heavy sigh, the former solider shook his head and explained, "I'm not leaving, I'm calling for help, you idiot."

The genius gave a feeble nod. "Is good. Good. M-crof—he'll know wha-what to…"

In a different part of London, the elder Holmes offered an apologetic smile to his companion and excused himself. "John—this better be important. I'm in a meeting with the PM. What do you need?" He said in a low, smooth tone.

Without preamble, the doctor got straight to the point, just how Mycroft liked it. "Sherlock OD'ed."

The only indication John had that the politician was concerned was the sudden, short inhalation of breath on the other end of the line. "You are with him now?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes. He's in a bad way—Sherlock needs to get to a hospital as soon as possible."

"I will have private transportation arranged immediately and alert the nearest hospital. What was it?"

"I don't know—I think it's cocaine, but it's cut with something else. It's definitely not good whatever it is."

"Help will be there shortly," Mycroft informed the doctor before he disconnected. At once he began issuing orders to ensure his brother would be taken care of in the best possible way.

"Did I hear something about a hospital?" the other man asked.

With a sign, the politician gave a brief nod and explained, "Yes, my little brother seems to be in a bit of trouble and he requires immediate medical attention. I'm sorry, David, but I must cut our meeting short this evening."

"Of course—family comes first. We'll reschedule when it's a better time," the prime minister assured him. "I do hope Sherlock is alright."

"Thank you," Mycroft said before he grabbed his briefcase and was out the door.


Sherlock spent the next ten days in intensive care while he detoxed from the lethal combination of drugs that he took. Despite the rather unconventional nature of the situation, John arrived promptly at eight AM every morning and only left at eleven PM when the nighttime nursing staff started giving him evil glares. He kindly ignored them and silently wished them to all go to Hell.

During those days, he would stand outside the small room and look through the glass window as he watched Sherlock writhing in pain on the small bed. The doctor had cringed when they had to resort to thick leather bindings to strap his best friend down. The attending physician was torn about the decision, but finally made the call after the genius had ripped out the IV catheter from his hand for the third time.

The other surgeon later confided to John that he was bloody lucky to have found Sherlock when he did, otherwise the overdose would have killed him—which was nothing the former army captain wasn't already aware of.

The worst of it had been the screaming, the God-awful shrieking that would last for what seemed to be hours on end. It was truly the thing of nightmares, as John continued to hear it well into the early hours of the morning amid their eerily silent flat.

On Day 9, the bindings were finally removed, but not after they had caused considerable damage to the tender skin of the consulting detective's wrists. His blogger had to convince himself that the injuries were significantly better than what could have been the outcome of this horrific situation. Based on the severity of the wounds, he surmised that Sherlock was more than likely going to have scars from the leather straps. Again, it was a small price to pay over the possible loss of his life.

After the eleventh day in the hospital, Sherlock was moved into a private room out of ICU. John sat beside his bed, gently stroked his thumb over the stark white bandages now adorning those delicate wrists.

Sherlock finally lucid, woke to the sensation of his blogger's warm solid presence. He inhaled deeply and let a barely perceivable smile as he opened his eyes and regarded his flat mate. John gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before he sat back in the hard plastic chair he'd been occupying for the last six hours.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked softly.

The genius groaned and answered, "Like I've been hit by a bus."

That earned him a chuckle from his companion. "I'm sure you do." John sobered quickly and said, "You gave us a right good scare there, mate."

The younger man turned his head to stare up at the ceiling to avoid the concerned expression on John's face. He hated that look on his blogger.

"Was I strapped down?" he asked the overhead lights.

"Yeah, you were a bit out of your mind there for a while. Ripped out your IV—they had to restrain you so you didn't do more harm to yourself," John explained. "I imagine you'll probably have a bit of scarring on your hand and wrists as a result."

With a hum of agreeance, the consulting detective gingerly rubbed the bandages on the afore mentioned appendages.

After several moments of strained silence, John attempted to speak, "Sherlock… what happened? I don't understand. Why did you do this?"

The younger man sighed and turned his head on the pillow to look at his flat mate. "John—just leave it, please."

"No, I demand an answer," the doctor mandated, staring him down with every ounce of the army captain he once was. "For Christ's sake—you very nearly died, you berk! Do you have any idea how I would have felt if you had?!"

"I'm begging you to let this go… please…"

John inhaled deeply through his nose as he pinched the bridge, his eyes squeezed shut. Then after another minute, he asked, "Are you sure it's still just a seven percent solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage..."

"Does it really matter?"

The retort earned him a sorrowful, mirthless smile. "No, I suppose not."


The next day, Mycroft had come to see him and, as ever, was the bearer of bad news. The further into the conversation the trio got—because John was never far from his bedside—the more desolate the situation seemed to the genius.

Sherlock gnashed his teeth together in frustration, not trying to hide his utter distain for his brother. He looked imploringly to John, who was leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, a grim look marring his tanned face. The genius gestured to his blogger in a second attempt at a silent plea for interference.

The former army doctor gave a curt shake of his head, indicating that he would not argue against the elder Holmes. "No, I am in agreement with Mycroft on this one," John stated. "As a doctor I cannot overlook the fact that you've just nearly died because of an overdose."

He somehow managed to keep his tone even, despite the overwhelming urge to scream and shake some sense into his flat mate. "I know it's not something you really want to do, but since this is the what? Third time in your life you've nearly managed your kill yourself using illegal substances, I am putting my foot down. Enough is enough. I refuse to just sit back and watch you self-destruct like this."

The consulting detective looked back at his sibling, expecting to see the fat bastard with a smug expression on his face, but he was surprised to find Mycroft's usually smooth and controlled visage pulled downward in a frown, worried etched into his furrowed brow. Sherlock swiveled his penetrating stare back to his best friend. John swallowed hard, averting his eyes. The genius felt a stab of rage spike through him in light of what the felt was an utter betrayal on his blogger's part.

"John—" the genius tried again.

"Everyone always lets you do whatever you want—that's how you got in this state!" John snapped back at him.

"John, please!"

"I'm not playing this time, Sherlock! Not anymore."

After an eternity ticked by without the others budging on their position of rehab, the consulting detective resigned himself to the dismal fact that he was being sent away to the south of France. While he knew without question that wherever Mycroft sent him would be subpar to none, he felt like a condemned criminal being sentenced to life in prison.

And in this moment, he hated John for agreeing with his insufferable older brother.