Since it's unlikely that we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."
"Say what?"
" Sherlock is actually a girls name."
John had laughed at the time, thinking nothing of it. It was just Sherlock covering up his emotions again with humour. Nothing new there.
John was used to his ex-flatmate brushing off his feelings with sarcasm, or witty remarks, but he couldn't help but feel that he should have noticed something was off colour with him. Perhaps then he could have prevented Sherlock from overdosing, and they wouldn't be in such a mess.
The aeroplane had dropped in temperature significantly since they had boarded it. John could blame the chills running through him on the cooling down of the metal, but deep down he was aware that it was almost nothing to do with that and entirely to do with the fear that was currently gripping him tight.
Currently, John was leaning over Sherlock, face so close to the other man that he could feel the short, ragged breaths escaping him.
He ignored everything else going around him. Paid no attention to Mycroft, or Mary, as his focus was solely on his best friend. If either of them had any objections to his close proximity to Sherlock, they did not voice them.
It should have been a comfort to him that the man was still breathing, but it did little to qualm his anxieties. He was too motionless. Sherlock Holmes was a man who usually overflowed with life, and equally he was a man who usually had such control over his body.
He currently looked two shades of white away from death, his lips verging on a pale blue. Between the long bouts of stillness, a seizure would posses the man's long, slender body and without notice he would begin to shake and sweat uncontrollably.
In each of those moment of madness, John found himself reaching forwards to grip the man tight by the shoulders, in an attempt to stop the man from hurting himself.
His heart ached inside his chest as he prevented his friend from gaining any physical damage. He couldn't bear to hear the sound of Sherlock's skull colliding with the bed. With each twitch, and ripple of muscle, he felt another one of his nerves snap under pressure. Increasingly, he was more on edge.
Back in the field John had been profoundly known, and respected, for his steady hands and quick wits when it came to reacting to a person's injury or ailment. His skills were still there, lingering beneath the surface, but no matter how hard he tried, his sense of calm was fast draining out of him.
Sherlock was no ordinary patient. He was…well…he mattered. John already knew what it felt like to lose Sherlock. He knew the pain that would course through him. Could only imagine the nightmares that would plague him. The strain that his friends death would put on every aspect of his life.
Would he and Mary last? Probably not. Lately, it felt like Sherlock was the only thing holding them together, like the glue in the cracks of something very broken.
The leg upon which John was kneeling on; the one that had been affected by his PSTD, was aching painfully. And the intermittent tremor in his hand? No matter how hard he clenched his fist, or dug his finger nails into his palm, he could not get it to stop.
Sherlock was the key component in ensuring John's PSTD was at least held at bay. Now that component was breaking right in front of his eyes, and there was nothing that he could do. Just watch and feel hopeless.
John had seen Sherlock high before, but always under controlled dosages, and never so severe that the he had passed out from it before. There was a real concern at the moment that Sherlock might drop into a coma and never wake up.
John shuddered at the thought. Trapped in a coma? That was no sort of life, especially not for a man like Sherlock.
He kept on thinking back to the moment before Sherlock had stepped on the plane. He hadn't been able to detect a problem with the detective back then, but upon reflection he should have done.
They had shaken hands. Said goodbye to one another. John had firmly believed that he would never see Sherlock again. That the game was finally over. There had been a hazy expression in Sherlock's eyes that John hadn't been able to place at the time, but an hour later, as he was monitoring an overdosing Sherlock, it all made sense.
Sherlock had said goodbye to John in the way that he did, not because he was being sent away on a mission that would 'end' in six months, but because the detective very clearly planned on dying on the way there.
He was already high. The idiot had taken enough drugs to kill himself.
He was a doctor, for crying out loud! He should have known. He should have been able to tell Sherlock had taken something with one sweeping glance. Where Sherlock could read people, John prided himself on being a vigilant doctor who noticed whenever something was awry with someone.
But when it came to his best friend? It appeared that he had been blind sighted. Sherlock, if he were in any fit state to do so, would comment on how sentiment had clouded his judgement.
John didn't often agree with the way Sherlock viewed matters of the heart, but this time it was very apparent that he was right. Had it been any other junkie getting on to that plane, John would have noticed, and would have insisted on sending them to hospital.
But this was Sherlock. The Master of disguise. He was too good at pulling the wool over everyones eyes, and so talented at hiding the warm beating heart John knew existed.
When had this started? Not the drug addiction. Mycroft and Greg had already insinuated that Sherlock had been taking drugs from an early age.
No, don't want to think about that. I don't want to think about a teenage Sherlock overdosing in a scummy drugs den.
John had to physically shake his head to remove that particular image from his mind. He needed to be living in the moment, if he was to be any help whatsoever to the current overdosing man.
What really mattered to John, what he was really concerned about, was when had Sherlock turned from addict to active OD'ing junkie? When had things gotten this bad?
Since Mary shot him? Or before that? When he was working a 'case' in order to get close to Magnussen? Janine had mentioned she knew what he was really like. Did that mean that Sherlock had been lying about the status of his addiction for a while then?
He couldn't imagine what had been going through his friends' mind at the time to lead him to such lengths. But he knew one thing for sure, he was going to make his views on the matter very clear. There was no wriggling out of this situation for Sherlock Holmes. John wasn't going to allow him the dignity of escaping without consequences.
But all John could think for now was: Don't die Sherlock, please don't die, be OK. One last miracle for me, Sherlock. Please.
He would save the lectures for later, but right now, he was too busy pouring all of his concern into making sure Sherlock wasn't going to die. If his friend lived, then by god, John would not allow his friend to go a day without hearing a piece of his mind.
If, John thought. If he lives.
"Why?" He found himself asking out loud, to no one in particular. His voice was so small that he barely recognised it, and he had to swallow down the saliva that was filling his mouth.
No matter what Sherlock had said, this wasn't about Emilia Ricoletti, it wasn't even been about Moriarty's apparent 'return'. There had to be something more to it than that. This was Sherlock, for crying out loud! The sleuth, the famous detective, a genius, and despite all of his pretence to be a cold-hearted man, a very fragile individual. It had to be something more than they were seeing, surely. It was a thought that John could no longer contain in his own mind.
"Why not?" Mycroft retorted, his voice a tad more controlled than John's own. "My brother does not need an excuse to get high, Dr Watson. Getting high is his version of golf. It passes the time."
"No." John said firmly. "Not like this. Never like this."
"I think he was going to die."
John snapped his head around when he heard Mary's voice. His eyes were round with surprise, and then a flash of anger spread across his face. The tone in her voice told him that Mary was certain of her words, and although he believed that she would not try to harm him again, there was still a glimmer of paranoia that shone in his eyes.
"How can you possibly know that?"
"Because I've seen men that are being sent to their deaths before," She needn't say any more, as the heavy weight of Mary's past still hung heavy between her and John.
His thoughts must have been as plain as day on his face, because Mary just barely hid her flinch. He swallowed down the lump of guilt forming in his throat. It would do him no good to feel guilty right now. He would apologise to Mary later, once he was certain that Sherlock was going to be OK.
John turned his gaze to Mycroft, and scowled. It seemed logical that the Elder Holmes was sitting on a well of knowledge that only he was privy to. "Have something you'd like to tell us?"
"Dr Watson, I do not deem it wise to discuss-"
"Mycroft, I swear to god, Sherlock could be dying right now. You know that? He's overdosing as we speak. Answer the damn question."
"Very well," Mycroft licked his lips, and let out a weary filled sigh. His eyes drifted down aimlessly to the point of his blasted umbrella. A tactical approach, John thought, as it would mean he didn't have to make direct eye contact. "My brother was to be sent out on a mission that would last six months. I estimated that the mission would prove fatal to him."
"Wait." John held up a hand, his scowl deepening further in his brow, as he allowed the Elder Holmes's words to sink in. " You were going to send your brother out there, knowing that it would prove fatal to him?"
"I would have found a way to get him out. I would have waded in before the mission could prove fatal." Mycroft seemed so nonchalant with his words, so utterly unaffected by the thought of his younger brother in the path of danger, that John was tempted to punch the man's beaked nose just to prove a point.
Sherlock might like that…would approve even, and should the man be in a condition to do so, would probably join in the fight. The thought forced John's lips to twitch into something that resembled an attempted smile. John would give anything for Sherlock to wake up and fight with Mycroft. At least it would mean that he was OK, that he wasn't slipping into an inescapable crevice in his mind…
It was Mary's hand on his shoulder that stopped him from doing anything drastic. She still looked hurt, but her eyes were filled with genuine concern. She shook her head silently, as if to say 'it won't help, you know?'
So instead of punching Mycroft, John just settled on a glare that put the man in his place. "Did he know that?" John jerked his head over to Sherlock. "Did you tell him you were going to get him out?"
"My brother and I have had various conversations over the past week."
"Yes, but did you tell him you were getting him out? That he was going to be OK?"
"It's not as simple as that. He would have been far too obvious, John. He would have blown our cover straight away! I tried to signal that I would see him in six months time. It is hardly my fault that he envisioned himself as a corpse in a body bag, rather than…"
"Rather than what?!" John snapped. " Rather than a chess piece in one of your games, you mean? Your bloody mind games. Where you try to control everything. This is just like the fall. This was your plan and it's killing him! What did you tell him? Because it clearly didn't send a strong enough message!"
"Enough!" Mycroft roared, with a finality in his voice that shook John to the core. The man's face was caught in a fierce, bitter snarl, and there was such raw emotion in his eyes that John had to do a double take.
"No." He said, with just as equal firmness. "What did you tell him?"
"Not that you should be privy to such information, Doctor Watson, but I told him that his loss would break my heart. I hoped that it would be clear enough, blatant enough, that I could never let him die like that."
"Great," John huffed a laugh of disbelief. "Years of bitterness, arguments, resentment, and what? You actually expected him to believe that bullshit?"
"Language, Doctor Watson. If you bothered to observe instead of making rash judgements, I do care. I have always cared for Sherlock. Hence why I ask him to write a list."
Mycroft's snarl deepened. It made him look positively animalistic, like a wild creature protecting its own. Under any other circumstance John would have laughed at the sight, would have made some witty comment about being in a nature documentary, but he was feeling far too sullen for that.
God, the list, don't remind me. Please no.
John moved a hand up to his head and rubbed his fingers along his temple, where he could feel the pulsing sensation of a headache setting in. He did not want to think about the list right now. He could not bear to think about how many narcotics Sherlock had taken, or how fatal the items on the list would prove to be to any normal human being.
Sherlock was in no means normal, but he was human all the same, and John could only imagine how little the detective's body appreciated being abused in such a manner. He could picture the damage taking place, and it made him wince even thinking about it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
How could you Sherlock?
Why?
"We all care about Sherlock," Mary spoke up, acting as a wedge between her husband and the man he very clearly wanted to murder. Her voice was soft, and she kept her sentences short, like she was trying to calm a child down. "We wouldn't be here if we didn't care. We should stay calm. We need to stay calm for him. Panic won't help. Nor will arguing."
John, although irritated and shaking with pent up rage, could have kissed Mary in that moment. It was times likes these that reminded him of what had attracted him to Mary in the first place. She was the calm in a storm, and could remain level headed, even under such dire circumstances. Then again, he supposed, that came hand in hand with her original career path.
His stomach twisted with guilt.
He loved Mary.
He also loved Sherlock.
Sometimes it was bloody painful to love both of them.
Yes, Mary had shot Sherlock, but she had been scared and pregnant, and fearful of losing him. He could only imagine what that combination did to a person. Actually, he didn't have to. He'd shot men in the face of fear before too. You need only look at his first case with Sherlock to confirm that he would do anything in those kind of conditions.
And seeing as Sherlock had seemingly forgiven her… had even killed another man to protect her…John hadn't the heart to cast her out of his life. He reached out to her and squeezed her hand, uncertain of who he was trying to comfort more; himself or Mary.
"Thanks, love." He murmured. "I needed that."
"I know," she whispered. "I always know."
John gave her hand one more final squeeze, before he let go and swivelled his body around to face Sherlock.
" He didn't know, Mycroft. He thought he was a dead man walking. Had you not gotten the call about Moriarty when you did, your brother would be overdosing half way across the ocean by now. I hope you're happy."
Silence.
Fine. If that's the way you want to play it Mycroft Holmes…. Fine by me.
John found himself once again zoning out from everything around him. He knelt closer to Sherlock so that he could monitor each rise and fall of his chest. The man's breathing was erratic and each gasp of air that burst out of him was accompanied with a harsh and unhealthy rattle. With each twitch of Sherlock's slender body, John felt bitter acid rising up through his throat.
John's fingers pressed against one of the man's closed his eyes as he felt for the man's pulse beneath his fingertips. As he did so,the lids of his eyes begin to ache, and the thought of sobbing great ugly tears seemed altogether too tempting.
Can't have that, Sherlock would hate that, crying over him. Ha!
I can almost hear him now.
Caring is not an advantage, John. Crying is not going to save me. What you are feeling goes completely against logic.
God, I've never wanted to shake someone awake as much as I do now.
You sod. I hate you. You planned this didn't you? You had this planned for a whole week, before you were even due to fly. You were trapped in solitary confinement. I heard Mycroft. That's what he said. Solitary. You must have gotten bored. So bored, you planned your own suicide? Or were you scared? No. No. Of course not, because Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't get scared, right?
I was in denial at first. I thought you were just immersed in your mind palace. But Mycroft told me that it wasn't a party trick. You can't travel to an entirely different world in your mind palace. No. Of course not. That was all down to drugs.
The mindpalace excuse is just an act, isn't it? I'm going into my mind palace, my arse. This is just you being a drama queen. Arse. How could you? How could you? How could you?!
The pulse that he found was far too fast for his liking, thready, and erratic. His friend's heart was working overtime, and it was a wonder that the man hadn't suffered a heart attack. He needed to get Sherlock's system to calm immediately, or they really would lose him.
Not this time. You arse. You're going to survive this. Or I swear to God, I will drag you back from the grave myself.
"We need medical supplies, Mycroft." John snapped, whipping his head around to scrutinise the impeccable man. How the Elder Holmes could look so well put together under the circumstances, John had no idea. "If we don't do something, we're going to lose him."
"The plane is well stocked with medical supplies." Mycroft stated. He pointed to one of the overhead cabinets. In response to John's raised eyebrows, he continued to say "My brother is an accident waiting to happen. I did not predict this exact scenario, but it pays well to be prepared."
John immediately leapt into action, not wanting to waste any more were up against the clock. If Sherlock didn't wake up soon, his chances of ever opening his eyes again were becoming increasingly slimmer.
The fear that thought instilled in him was great enough to clear his mind of everything irrelevant.
He needed to save Sherlock.
He immediately began rummaging through the medical supplies. Mary helped him in his search, with just as must desperation as he it seemed, and was able to locate various items that would prove useful. Mary, despite everything, was a nurse, and John gladly accepted her help.
Drugs to counteract the ones Sherlock had already taken and an IV drip were quickly sourced. John hated the idea of pumping more drugs into his friends body. The thought made him feel physically sick, but as a doctor he knew that it was his best option.
"Mary," He said her name urgently, his voice raspy and caught with emotion. She looked over to him and smiled knowingly at him. Her hand moved to his shoulder and gave it a tight, comforting squeeze.
"We'll save him, John." She said firmly, in a no-nonsense kind of voice. "We'll do this together."
John's lungs expelled a large gasp of air. He hadn't even realised that he'd been holding his breath. He was grateful that Mary was feeling confident, because right now John was feeling shaken and unsure of himself.
He nodded his affirmation and hurriedly lunged into action. His well practiced hands removed Sherlock's jacket, and moved to unbutton the cuff on one of Sherlock's sleeves. He rolled the crisp material up until it reached the man's elbow. His fingertips danced over the track marks he found there; some were years old, others were freshly made and were beginning to bloom with purple bruises.
He should have expected the marks, but he found himself caught off guard by them. It was the first time he'd been able to examine the extent to Sherlock's drug addiction up close. Knowing that there were so many times Sherlock had fallen into his ways, without telling anyone that things were that bad, or consulting in John himself, well… it didn't bear thinking about.
John had to force himself to ignore the continuous pang of pain his his chest. He could dwell on the hurt he was feeling later. When Sherlock was in the safe zone again, he'd be able to roll around in his self pity and hatred for as long as he liked, but not a moment sooner.
"Mary, I need you to hold him still."
Mary nodded and used all of her required strength to stop the detective from shaking. At least now, John had a chance of penetrating the IV through a vein.
Meanwhile Mycroft Holmes was hovering like a useless spare part.
"Can I be of any assistance?"
John snorted. "No, you've done quite enough. Shouldn't you be working on getting your brother a pardon? You know, so that when he wakes up, we can take him home. That's what a proper big brother would do."
Mycroft shrivelled up his nose like an insulted child, but he seemed to have taken on board John's words, as he stood and straightened his suit out. John couldn't bring himself to care about the Elder Holmes's feelings. In comparison to the hell Sherlock was in, John couldn't give a toss.
"Very well," The Elder said as he made his decent from the plane. "Should you require anything else, do not hesitate in contacting me."
John grunted in reply, and felt relief flood through him as he watched Mycroft leave. Finally. At last. Whereas he had no doubt Mycroft did care on some level for Sherlock, there was no question about how badly the older sibling had miscalculated in this particular scenario, and now that he was gone the anger pulsing through John was beginning to dissolve.
"Sherlock. Come on, John. Focus."
Mary brought him out of his head and he swallowed reflexively. He'd very almost gotten lost in his thoughts. That was something that would prove fatal to Sherlock. Can't allow that. He thanked Mary with his eyes and set to work on his patient.
It took him a long time to find a good vein to penetrate with the IV. All the substance abuse Sherlock had put himself through meant that he didn't have many good veins suitable for an IV drip. Again, the thought of how often Sherlock took drugs made John feel sick. When Sherlock came out of this he was going to help his friend get better. He wasn't going to let this go on for a moment longer.
When he finally was able to insert the IV drip, it felt like the tense atmosphere around him had shattered, though every one of his muscles was still wrought with tension. One battle was won, but they were still up against the war going on in Sherlock's body.
He held the IV as Mary inserted the counteractive drugs into the drip via two vials. Time ticked by at a monotonous, heart faltering pace. It seemed like their mission had failed, and with each drip of the solution into Sherlock's veins, things were looking less and less hopeful.
When there was a change in Sherlock's appearance, it happened in a split second. Fast. Like anything the man was renowned for. He lurched upwards, but Mary had a firm hold of his shoulders, and his attempt at sitting up too quickly was prevented. His eyelids fluttered between open and shut, but a another moment later and Sherlock was wide awake, or at least he was conscious.
He was talking. Mumbling something under his breath. Seeming hyper alert yet not all together there in the room with them. They both leaned in closer to try and listen to what words Sherlock's deep baritone was carrying.
The arm not attached to the IV drip reached upwards, and the man placed his hand beneath Mary's chin. He was gentle with her, as though afraid to hurt her. "For, Mary, always. Never doubt that Watson."
John and Mary exchanged a glance. Dreaming. Sherlock had to be dreaming still. Mary squeezed the hand caressing her face gently. Her expression spoke of both relief, confusion, and concern.
The arm moved from Mary and tried to reach for John. John moved closer so that Sherlock could feel him, know that he was there and that everything was going to be OK. Sherlock rubbed his callous thumb against John's two day old stubble, and smirked a great big, drugged smile.
"Smarter than he looks. Pretty damn smart."
John allowed himself to smile for the first time since he'd stepped on the plane, though there were still tears shining in the corners of his eyes. "I'll remember that the next time you insult my intelligence, you great sod."
The silence that Sherlock dipped into after his compliments was worrying. For a moment John was concerned that the man's condition was reverting, but just as he was about to check Sherlock's pulse once more, the detective's body jerked violently.
It was like watching a car thrumming into life after a long struggle with its engine starting. Suddenly, it was apparent, Sherlock was very aware of both his surroundings and John and Mary. He was spluttering like a man coming up for air, his eyes wide with panic and distress.
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock's face flashed through a myriad of emotions. He blinked twice. Then he smiled at John in a manner that really should be illegal. His dimples lifted in a way that left John feeling overwhelmed with relief.
"Yes, why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, you probably just OD'd." Mary released her grip from Sherlock's shoulders, happy in the knowledge that he no longer seemed to be twitching uncontrollably. Instead her hands settled on the damp curls sticking to Sherlock's head, fingers running gently through each soft strand.
Sherlock didn't seem to disapprove of this entirely, as he pushed his scalp into her hands and hummed. The sight warmed John's heart and was just what the doctor ordered after the scare Sherlock had just given him.
"My head feels…" Sherlock waved his free hand in a wild gesture. "Awful."
Mary paused the motions of her hands and bent down to kiss Sherlock's forehead. "Go back to sleep. We'll move when you start feeling more yourself, OK?"
Sherlock hummed in agreement and began to drift away into a distant place. Though this time John was glad to see the man's breathing pattern had returned to normal. This time he did appear to be sleeping and the slack look on his face spoke of peace. He especially seemed to be liking the attention he was receiving from Mary, who seemed quite insistent on petting Sherlock and occasionally burying her face in his curls.
John wanted to get Sherlock back to Baker Street as soon as possible. The man would be able to start recuperating there. But for now…he couldn't bear to break the tender moment between Mary and Sherlock.
It was a rare sight to see Sherlock accepting affection. The two people he loved most in the world exchanging such a sentimental, loving moment was enough to unbind every tense, uncoiling nerve in John Watson's body.