Sherlock and John are not mine, i just like to play with them.
It had been a long day at the surgery. His patients that day had been anything but routine, or just extremely difficult to deal with and he'd ended up staying an hour late. Walking up the stairs to the flat, he wants nothing more than to sit down and watch crap telly with a nice cuppa for an hour and then go to bed.
Throwing open the doors, he saw Sherlock lying on the couch. "Hey, Sherlock." he said, not surprised when he was ignored.
He went right to the kitchen, tossed his cost in the back if a chair and made his tea. He collapsed into his chair with a thud and reached for the remote on the table. That is when he noticed something was not quite right.
He'd glanced over at Sherlock while grabbing the remote. He'd been silent the entire time he'd been home and he'd assumed he was just in a mood.
But now that he really looked, he could see that Sherlock was pale, almost translucent, covered in sweat, and he could see his pulse racing at his neck.
John scrambled from the chair, dropping to his knees in front of the couch.
"Sherlock," John said, shaking him by the shoulder, getting no response. "Come on Sherlock, open your eyes." the detectives head just lolled to the side. Fingers at his carotid confirmed his heart was racing, and his breaths were much too shallow for his liking. He pulled up Sherlocks eye lid, pupils still responsive, which was a good sign.
He didn't see any reason Sherlock should be in this state, visibly anyway. A hand on his forehead told John he had a fever, but not one high enough to render him unresponsive.
John pulled up Sherlocks t-shirt, revealing nothing out of the ordinary, but when he pulled up one of the sleeves on his dressing gown, his stomach dropping. His arm was plastered with nicotine patches. He slowly lifted the other sleeve, revealing more patches on the other arm.
"Nicotine poisoning. Fuck, Sherlock. What the hell where you thinking!" he whispered. He tore off all the patches, hoping it wasn't too late, that too much nicotine had been absorbed. He'd been home almost 30 minutes, he should have noticed something was wrong. Should have realized.
There was nothing to do for nicotine poisoning. No cure or treatment, it just needs to run its course. The only thing he could do is wait and hope. He wouldn't even bother calling an ambulance, and wouldn't unless absolutely necessary, anything the hospital would do, he could do here.
He got up, pacing through the living room, one hand running thought his hair in agitation. His eyes kept drifting back towards Sherlock. He was going to have to watch him all night. Make sure he didn't stop breathing and didn't start seizing.
He pulled in a chair from the kitchen, sitting in front of the couch. He was in for a long night.
—
Sherlock awoke in the morning feeling like absolutely horrible. He was nauseous and his head pounded, and opening his eyes made his vision swim. It also felt like he had a boulder sitting on his chest, restricting his breathing. But he couldn't remember what he'd done the night before as to why'd he should feel like this.
When his vision evened out he looked over, surprised to see John sleeping in a chair next to him.
"John." he said, his voice nothing more than a whisper. He moved to sit up, but he felt so weak. The rustling roused john, who was alert instantly, and mentally berating himself for falling asleep.
"Sherlock, are you ok?" he asked, feeling relief wash over him. He reached out, checking Sherlock's pulse, thankful to feel that it had resumed a normal pace. He'd also gotten what color his skin had back.
"I have been better..." he whispered, looking at John. He was clearly very worked up and was visibly upset.
"What were you even thinking? You had almost 20 nicotine patches on when I got home last night and you were unconscious. What if I hadn't noticed? Or had to stay at work later then I had?" He asked, his voice wavering a bit. "What if I had just assumed you were in a not talking mood went up stair and went to bed?"
"John…" he started, remembering now what he'd done. John was late coming home. He had tried waiting for john, but he just couldn't handle it any more. He'd been having a not good day, and he'd just wanted to calm down so badly, and his normal three patches weren't doing to the trick. He wasn't sure himself what had come over him, but he'd just started applying patch after patch.
"No Sherlock, you'd be dead right now! I was terrified you were going to stop breathing on me a few times last night! I don't want to lose you to nicotine patches." He yelled voice full of emotion, on the verge of breaking down.
Sherlock just looked at john, the doctor near tears. He tried sitting up again, not being any more successful this time, so he rested a hand on johns' knee, squeezing weakly. "I'm sorry… I don't know why I… "He murmured, his eyes sliding shut. "I just wanted to stop… my thoughts to stop for a while…"
John heart clenched, Sherlock looked so helpless. He sighed, placing his hand on sherlocks, he had a feeling that if he hadn't been late, then this wouldn't have happened. He knew Sherlock had his moods, this was definitely caused by one of them. "Sherlock…" He sighed, rubbing the top of Sherlock's hand with his thumb. "Why didn't you just call me? Or text?"
"I... I don't know, John." He replied, shifting on the couch. "The patches usually help, but they didn't this time… I just used on all the patches left in the box… I couldn't stop."
John softened, his free hand smoothed Sherlock's hair back, stopping to rest on his cheek, Sherlock leaning in to the touch. "Next time, just please call me. I should have called saying I was going to be late in the first place."
Sherlock just nodded his head against johns' hand, closing his eyes. "Just rest Sherlock, you'll be tired and probably weak for a couple days, but you'll be fine." He moved his hand to Sherlock's chest, just feeling the detective breath.
Sherlock, finally calm in his mind, with the weight of johns hand on his chest, gave himself over to sleep.