The needle's breaking your skin
The scar is sinking in
And now your trip begins
221b was eerily quiet. John had the late shift and wouldn't be home for a few hours. Sherlock was taking advantage of the alone time.
The little tray beside him held two needles, a rubbery tourniquet, and a small brown bottle full of an unidentified milky substance. Sherlock tied the tourniquet (7.5 cm above the venipuncture site,) a little too tightly and filled the first needle. Precision, Holmes, he thought to himself. Make a fist. find the vein. Tap vein to encourage dilation. He smirked. Medical precision. John would be proud. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he pushed it away. John wouldn't be proud. John would be angry. They would fight, Sherlock becoming defensive, John becoming uncharacteristically loud.
The needle stung a bit more than usual. Sherlock had lost his focus. He growled something inaudible, filled the second needle, and began again. With his mind a buzz, he couldn't help himself; he filled a third needle. Something in the back of his mind said, "Too much, Sherlock," but he wasn't listening. He didn't care.
The warmth within him grew until it was a fire. He heard the door open and familiar footsteps on the stairs. He stumbled into the bathroom and drew a cold bath, his limbs like liquid and barely holding him up. The icy water felt glorious.
I know what runs through your blood
You do this all in vain
Because of you
My mind is always racing
And it gets under my skin
To see you giving it
And now your trip begins
But it's all over for, it's all over
For you, for you
John sighed heavily and dropped onto the couch. He heard the clink of glass as a small bottle rolled off the cushions and across the floor. "What the hell...?" He muttered as he stooped to pick it up. The doctor recognized the name on the bottle, he knew this drug.
"Sherlock!" He yelled, anger rolling over him. That bloody- He heard the sound of the bath running upstairs. He threw the bottle into the trash with a sigh. They would talk once Sherlock came down off this idiotic high.
It's all over for you, for you
When you're on the edge and falling off
It's all over
The first thing that registered as wrong in John's mind was the sound of water. Not just upstairs, in the tub, but... dripping? "Leaky pipe," he muttered and dismissed it. Oh well. After a few minutes he gave up on trying to ignore it and stood to investigate. He made it to the stairs and frowned. He was standing in a growing puddle from the tiny river dribbling down the staircase.
Click.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!" He took the stairs two at a time, following the stream to where it flowed from beneath the bathroom door. He threw his weight against it and it opened easily. The detective lay still fully clothed in the old tub, on arm hung over the side, the other tucked beneath his head. It looked as if he was sleeping. John almost threw his hands up in defeat and walked out. Almost.
He couldn't quell the fear in him as he watched the detective draw another shallow breath.
"Sherlock..." He took him by the shoulders. Sherlock didn't wake up. "SHERLOCK!"
-
Hospitals are terribly cold, John thought as he rubbed his hands together. What a thing to be thinking about at the time. His best friend lay in a bed beyond that door, and here John sat, considering the temperature of the place. He felt a twinge of guilt, wondering briefly if this is what Sherlock felt like all the time. So many distractions. So many better things to focus on than worry. Sometimes John honestly wondered if Sherlock could see the forest for the trees.
"He'll see you now," a soft woman's voice startled john from his reverie. "He's tired, so let him sleep, but I'll warn you, he's a bit cranky."
"He's always cranky." He stood and took a breath, almost afraid of what lay beyond the door.
"Close the door, John," Sherlock drawled as he came inside. "Don't let that daft nurse back in here."
"Leave the nurses alone, you git."
"She is the git. Has no respect for my busy schedule. No idea that I have so many better places to be than here-"
"Then you shouldn't have shot up." John let the comment hang in silence for a moment before continuing. "You shouldn't have done that while I was out, you shouldn't have done it at all- and you definitely shouldn't have overdosed."
Sherlock didn't meet his eyes, guilt flickering across his face and breaking his familiar stoic façade. John pressed on. "You almost died."
"That I did."
"And you're happy about that?"
"Obviously not. As I said earlier, I have things to do," Sherlock glanced up at john, puzzled by the anger that was rolling off of the army doctor in waves. "What's the matter with you?"
"You have no regard for your own life, Sherlock. And in case your other stunts haven't proved it, look out the window. You don't, but others do."
Sherlock pulled himself up slowly and walked to the window that let out into the hall. In the distance he saw the receptionist's desk. She was in a heated argument with… was that Lestrade? Of course it was. Sherlock watched him sit his coffee down and weave his fingers together, leaning across the desk as he expressed his displeasure. John almost felt bad for the poor woman. He had heard the viscous tone before.
Then another person came into view, a tiny old woman coming to stand beside Greg. He stopped his onslaught long enough to greet her. "What is Ms. Hudson doing here?" Sherlock asked finally. "Why is Lestrade so angry?"
"They came to see you. The receptionist won't let them in. Says you're only supposed to have one visitor at once. I'm going to get going, then, so they can see you. Watch your tone- Greg's all worked up. You might not be discharged as soon as you expected."