John had been here for exactly 35 hours, 12 minutes and 21 seconds. He knew for how long but the real question was why. Why was he willingly slouching in the asphyxiating, sterile hospital room for days on end sitting by the woman who had betrayed and lied to him since day one? Why was he allowing himself to feel sorry for her as she writhed in pain? Why did his to-be-newly born daughter have to be born premature? Why was his life falling apart?

His tired head lolled up against the plastic-y wall as Mary gripped his hand and he dreamt of black front doors and spray painted smiley faces and ducking under blue police tape. He's seen none for over two months and he was getting agitated.

Two Months Ago…

Bring bring, bring bring! It wasn't a contact saved to his phone but he recognised the number. Mary. A few weeks after they separated he'd deleted the number; she hadn't phoned since. Until now. Her rattling breaths echoed through John's head as she unsuccessfully concealed her sobs that John needed to come over to discuss legal matters regarding the baby's home and school.

"Mary, what's really going on" John's voice was softer than he'd wanted, he couldn't' be angry with Mary forever, he realised. Mary's shoddily maintained smokescreen shattered as she burst out sobbing and pleading for John to just come over and that she'd explain.

As she opened the door, it was as if the phone hadn't happened at all. She was friendly, too friendly, like they were just a couple of mates, hanging out. Sceptical, John sat down in her sparsely furnished front room (She'd allowed him to take most of their furniture out of guilt) and confronted the blonde about their conversation earlier.

"I'm sorry, John. I was… just panicking and everything was overwhelming me I just… needed to cry a bit. Sorry that you were there to witness it, heh."

"You're looking away and picking at the skin between your thumb and forefinger. You're lying, come on. Spill"

"That bloody Sherlock, he's got you deduc-"

"Oh! You meant the one you shot?"

Mary looked down.

"John, I'm sorry. I never in a million years—"

"Okay, Okay. Just tell me what's wrong" John reassured exasperatedly.

"I'm ill. They say it's unlikely that I'll live through the birth." A tear dropped into her lap.

Without saying anything, John got up and enveloped his ex-wife in a rigid hug; it was completely detached but he hoped that she would stop crying at least. They sat down and Mary began to explain the circumstances while John ran his hand through her short tresses.

John ended up staying in the spare room for few days; Mary said that it would be practical to finish up all the paperwork but John saw that she was scared. He'd never seen her as scared as the day her disguise was removed in Leinster Gardens. The day John left her.

The army doctor tried his best to keep conversation to a minimum and only about their daughter, Caitlyn. His life was colourless and dismal as he carried out the same routine day after day: wake up in ex-wife's home, go to work and take on extra work after, return to Mary's flat to staple and sign, sleep. This happened again and again and again until the fateful five-in-the-morning.

"John, I'm having the baby!"

"But she's not due for another month!"

"I know!"

Now as John Watson held the clammy hand of the woman he wanted nothing to do with and his ears annihilated by the whir and the beeps of the machinery keeping her alive piece by piece, he could think of nothing that he wouldn't do to undo the three years of his life.

"John…" Mary breathed shakily. She looked awful; her usually bright hair was lifeless and limp and her face was grey. Her ashy skin was fractured with jagged crow's feet engraved by lack of sleep.

"You've been here for days…"

"So have you." He replied curtly.

"I'm okay, I have a whole medical team with me. You're not. Go outside for some fresh air, please"

"B-"

"Please John. We're not even together. You don't have to."

John reviewed the past two months in his head. Meeting no-one except his co-workers and doing nothing but work. Suddenly, a thought popped into his head. Sherlock. He hadn't been with him for so long! He needed to make sure he wasn't overworking himself too much on the Moriarty case- at least he wasn't bored though. That could be disastrous.

"Okay." He reached down to kiss her on the cheek then got out his phone to text his best friend. Out of Charge. It must've been like that for days without him noticing. Never mind, Sherlock could only be in two places, 221b or Scotland Yard. He betted on the former. John Watson left the room.

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It had been two month since John had left. He tried to understand the situation but he couldn't so Sherlock dumped the answer into the catch-all of sentiment. He was no closer to finding Moriarty than the day his plane was turned around because of the bone chilling taunt he had sent. He was getting anxious.

He hadn't spoken to anyone since John left too, Sherlock realised. He thought his skull was the perfect company but even he couldn't deny that hearing another human's voice was pleasant. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Just. The. Work.

The gaunt detective faced the wall upon which was decorated with an armour of maps, headshots and files. Any passer-by would think that he was some sort of omniscient mastermind; anyone who could understand would see that he was grasping for straws.

There was nothing. Nothing at all. No taunting clues, no strange occurrences. What the hell is Moriarty doing?!

"You really are thick aren't you…? Ha-ha!"

Sherlock spun round to see a translucent, dark haired, Westwood decorated young man with a mouth full of laughter and tortured eyes. Blinking hard, Sherlock opened his eyes to find Jim Moriarty gone. If the body hasn't experienced REM sleep in four days, it starts to hallucinate. Just ignore it; it's all transport. All that matters is the work.

"Don't ignore me, sweetie. I don't like to be ignored…"

"Shut… up…" He growled as he returned to his work.

"Oh darling, you really are stupid. Why don't you just give up now? The joke's run dry I'm afraid…"

"I said… Shut up!"

The voice began to grow harsher and lost its Irish lilt.

"You always were so stupid. Why even pretend? You're… Just… A… Freak…"

Mycroft waltzed around the room with the aid of his umbrella. Taken aback, It took a few moments for Sherlock to adjust to his concentration.

"Freak. Psychopath. Boring." Sherlock growled as he covered his ears with his hands and let the names ricochet around his head.

"You… Machine." He looked up. John stood in front of him, eyes glistening.

"Look at you. You are just a waste of space really, aren't you?"

"J-John N-n-no!" Sherlock's voice quivered.

"You're a bloody psychopath and I have never loved you. You've just been a funny little distraction but I've got on with my life. Why don't you get on with yours? Oh yes… That's right! You don't have one. Machines… Don't… Have… Lives…"

John's ghostly apparition disappeared out of the door. He always does that. In the dreams, walks out. That's why he stopped sleeping.

As he sobbed into the crook of his arm on the floor, Sherlock evaluated his life. He really was a psychopath. And a freak. John was his heart, his moral compass, he brought warmth and laughter into his analytical and chrome being and now he's gone. All he has left is his mind.

He looked up at the wall. You are stupid. You can't solve this case. You can't do anything! You're just the condescending junkie who knows a bit of chemistry. You're stupid. You're worthless. You're a psychopath. You're a freak. You're a machine. You're an addict. Still the addict.

He sent the text and broke down the drywall. Just an addict.

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BaBRIIIING. Greg Lestrade put down his morning coffee. God knew he needed one, today was going to be a boring day. He picked up his phone. Sherlock. Oh thank god, I was getting worried about that kid! He opened the message.

Thank you for everything, Greg

-SH

Greg was at a loss for words. Was he drunk or something? Then it hit him. The four words that made his stomach drop into bottomless pit. GREG. Something was up. Something big.

"SHERLOCK?" The butch detective hammered at the door. Oh god, please don't let him have done something stupid. After sighing in exasperation, he leaped up at the door shoulder-first and stumbled into the now opened doorway. Bounding up the stairs 3 at a time, panic and dread dispersed into every fragment of his body. As he pushed open the door of 221b, his heart skipped a beat. Alarm were scrambling his senses as he let his body bound towards the frail man's strewn and limp body on the floor.

He found a pulse, Thank god, but it was thready and shallow. He was breathing too, so far so good then. Whipping out his phone, Lestrade instinctively dialled John but it rang out. Shit!

"Sherlock please. Sherlock! Wake up!" He pleaded to no avail. There wasn't a whole lot he could do for a man he didn't know what happened to but remembering and ancient mandatory first aid course, he gently slid Sherlock onto his back to level his airways. There was something under his shoulder though. Reaching to grab whatever it was, he recoiled and held his hand protectively, noticing blood forming on his finger. Lifting his arm up, he could identify the object.

Oh no. Oh Sherlock no! Lestrade's eyes misted with tears. If the bloodshot eyes and red, raw nose weren't enough evidence, the shattered glass of a used syringe made the answer concrete. Sherlock had overdosed on cocaine again.

"999, what is your emergency?"

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