Favourite Poison
[A/N] This story came to me and I just had to write it. It might be a bit staggered and I probably won't update it as often as I should. But I like it, and I hope you will too. R&R
Disclaimer- I do not own Sherlock. (Oh how I wish I did.)
Sherlock's eyes shot open as he inhaled sharply, the drug making its way into his system. He exhaled and closed his eyes, making the most of the short burst of brainpower before his favourite poison rendered his brain useless. He cherished both the numbness and the rush of thoughts. One thing entered his mind as he crossed the threshold: John.
"Sherlock," John yelled up the staircase, "Sherlock! Can you give us a hand with the shopping?" There was only a strange, gurgled giggle as a reply. John dropped the plastic bags and bounded up the stairs two at a time, his mind racing, the doctor in him preparing for whatever was happening. Sherlock was splayed across the sofa, eyes unfocussed and flickering. John quickly surveyed the room, looking for any evidence of what Sherlock had done. A syringe, plunger all the way down, was lying on the coffee table, its point gleaming with traces of the detective's blood. Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell onto the floor, his head producing a cracking sound as it made contact. A dark puddle began to form around Sherlock's head. Ohgod.John fished in his pockets for his mobile, and dialled for an ambulance.
Half an hour later, John was seated in a cheap plastic chair at Sherlock's bedside, head in his hands. The ambulance John had called had been redirected by Mycroft, and they were now in a private hospital of an undisclosed location. Mycroft was stood in the doorway of Sherlock's room, leaning on his ever-present umbrella. "I believe you are somewhat aware of my brother's," he paused, searching for the right word, "problem."
"Yes, Lestrade mentioned it vaguely, soon after I'd met Sherlock. Sherlock, he said," John slumped even further into his hands, "he said he was clean."
"Yes, well it seems we have had a slight relapse." Mycroft hesitated on the last word. "Do you have any idea what might have triggered it?"
"No, sorry, I just never thought he'd..." John trailed off, shaking his head. Mycroft nodded at John, turning on his heel and leaving. John didn't look up. "Sherlock..." His voice was muffled by the sleeves of his jumper.
It was the middle of the night when John awoke to the sound of muted sobs. It took him a moment to realise where he was, "Sherlock? Sherlock, what is it?" Silence greeted him. Sherlock had buried his head into his pillow, but John could still hear his breathing, erratic and staggering. "Sherlock, I'm not angry at you or anything, just what is it?"
"Just..." Sherlock subsided into another fit of sobbing, "Just go." He managed to choke out between retching and hiccupping. John's soldier instincts kicked in,
"Sherlock I will not leave you here. You don't need to say what happened right now, but I will not just get up and leave you like this." Sherlock could hear that there was no use in protesting anymore, when John entered a soldier's mind frame, he would not be swayed. Sherlock attempted to press his face further into his bedding, he couldn't make John leave, but he could at least hide from him. "Stop that," John commanded, "you are going to smother yourself." He reached over and moved the pillow so that Sherlock's nose was free from the starched cover. Sherlock's eyes were red and inflamed, and there were tear tracks down his face. Sherlock scrunched his eyes tighter, tears clinging to his eyelashes.
Mycroft was standing behind a desk chair, eyes fixed upon one of many monitors. The screen displayed the figure of John Watson slouched in the visitor's chair, his posture betraying the fact that he was asleep. Sherlock was seated upright in his bed, watching John. "Zoom in on his face." Mycroft instructed the man sitting in the chair. Sherlock was staring intently at John, tears pooling in his eyes before spilling down his pale cheeks. Mycroft's face pinched into a slight cringe. He sighed through his nose, knowing that his previous assumptions were correct. It was a rare moment, when a Holmes wished he were wrong.
John awoke early the next morning, his back stiff from sleeping sitting up. He looked over at Sherlock, who was still asleep, his breathing rasping but even. John stood up and stretched, eyes not leaving the detective. Clothes,heneedscleanclothes,John thought. He scrawled a message on the notepad that was on Sherlock's bedside table- I'm getting you some clothes: I'll be back within an hour. – John. He rushed out the door, narrowly missing both the frame, and the world's only consulting detective looking intently at him.