John Watson unbuttoned his coat as he took the stairs at 221B Baker Street. A light snow had been falling all day, but he didn't mind. He liked the whip of cold air in his face and the smells of winter. He dusted the white powder from his sleeves, pulled off his knitted cap and knocked only once at the door to his old flat. Sherlock didn't answer so he walked in uninvited. He figured it didn't matter too much. There wasn't a great deal he could walk in on that would surprise him regarding his dearest mate.

The flat was a mess, per usual. When John had lived here he tried his best to keep the place tidy a bit, and Mrs. Hudson did her best as well, but Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with. His rubbish knew no bounds! His "experiments" had no proper place. Cleaning at 221 B was an exercise in futility. John immediately noticed that the drapes were drawn against the dim evening glare of the white dusting outside. The wooden table, huge as it was contained papers strewn everywhere with four separate cups of half-consumed tea sitting precariously about. Sherlock lay on the sofa in his bathrobe, curled up, face to the wall. His shiny black curls hadn't been groomed in quite a while. John called softly to his friend.

"Sherlock?" No answer, no stirring. "Sherlock, are you awake?" a little louder this time. Sherlock shifted his shoulder a bit, but nothing else.

John stepped closer to the sofa, meaning to bend down and touch Sherlock's hair, brush it back and around his ear as he was fond of doing while his friend slept. But, he stepped on something that made a cracking sound and he stopped in his tracks. 'Shit, what have I broken now?' John thought , as he stepped back, revealing what was under his shoe. A needle. A hypodermic needle that Sherlock had picked up from God knew where. It was empty and discarded on the floor.

Anger rising in his chest, John fairly shouted "Sherlock, what the hell is going on here?" The sheer volume of John's voice did its job in raising the body on the sofa out of it's slumber, or stupor, or... . Sherlock's thin bony fingers touched at the tips as he slowly positioned himself on his back. Then, his hands came together in the familiar gesture of prayer. He rested the hands on his chest and opened his eyes reticently. Seeing John's face in front of him, he moved one hand laconically up to his eyes and swept it across and down in an attempt to clear his vision.

"It would seem I've been dozing for quite a while. It's snowing out," Sherlock remarked in a matter of fact tone.

"Dozing for a bit?" John retorted hotly. "Really , Sherlock, you think I'm buying that? Me , a man of medicine and your closest friend? I know what you've been up to. I can deduce all I need to from the state of this flat and of you!" Then, he emphatically threw his knit cap at Sherlock and hit him square in the face, little flecks of snow puffing up into his tangled curls above his eyebrows. It was childish, he knew, but since he didn't have the heart to actually strike Sherlock, it was the next best thing.

Sherlock let out a long 'this is the most boring day of my existence' sigh and swung his gangly legs around and set his bare feet firmly on the floor. He took John's cap in his hand and tossed it beside him on the sofa cushion and then ran his hands through the back of his curls, his fingers getting caught up in the tangles. He gave up and shook his head to rid it of the remaining snow flecks. Sherlock's hands then went to the back of his neck as he turned his head toward John, blinking expectantly, waiting to be lectured on the dangers of drug use by Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. But, John said nothing. He simply stood there behind the armchair strumming his fingers and shifting from one foot to the other, in what could have been nervous concern or blinding disgust. Sherlock found it difficult to pinpoint exactly what John was thinking and feeling these days. So, he waited.
Blink.
Blink.
Raised eyebrow. He used that as his ever unspoken "What, John?"

John stubbornly refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. He stood there half holding his breath wishing that he'd tried to phone instead of barging in on this mess that was someone he cared about. He moved in his slow, almost mechanical way around the side of the chair, paused for a moment and sat down. With his legs crossed and his chin in his hand he fixed his eyes firmly on the cushion beside Sherlock's hip. He drew in a deep breath and said, "Sherlock, we've talked about this one too many times in the last few months. It's getting tiresome and it's wearing me down. I worry about you. Most of the time I worry a lot. I can't make you do anything you aren't willing to do, obviously, but...do you think you could make an effort for me? Take care of yourself, Sherlock, for me?" John's words were said slowly and with great emphasis. Even though he was angry and that usually made him speak quickly, it was more than anger this time. It was pain; great pain over so many unsaid things. The pain was what made him have to choose his words carefully. He always had to be so careful around Sherlock which in itself was a huge strain.

Sherlock waited, and coming to the conclusion that John was through speaking, leaned back against the sofa, thinking. He picked up John's cap and absent-mindedly twirled it on the end of his skinny index finger. He watched the knitted patter twirl around and around until his eyes couldn't focus any longer on the object. He stopped and brought the cap to his face, letting the turned up rim which had rested around John's ears and hairline touch his nose and lips. He inhaled deeply, smelling wool and morning toast and John's shampoo. He had a satisfied smile on his face as he turned once more in John's direction, thinking his friend would have his eyes on him by now, but he did not. John was still staring in the direction of the floor, looking more than a little pained. Sherlock's smile dried up faster than lightning. The satisfied feeling of cozy warmth that had filled him just moments before evaporated and he felt suddenly anxious and angry.

Sherlock literally bounded off the sofa, with more strength than John would have thought possible in someone so lifeless and seemingly uninterested as he had been only minutes before. John watched him move like a swift cat to the window, his bathrobe trailing out behind him. John noticed Sherlock had on nothing but the bathrobe and cleared his throat more loudly than he meant to. Sherlock's eyes darted to John quickly with a puzzled expression until he realized...and pulled the bathrobe around his waist, cinching it with the tie and peeking out of the window.

When Sherlock spoke, he made an attempt to sound as aloof as he possibly could. "John, it will be dark in no more than forty-five minutes. I see you've walked here from your flat. If you want to get home before the dark sets in, you'd better start now."

John coughed and replied, "Yes, well I-"

"I'm going to get a shower now," Sherlock interjected. "You can, I suppose, see yourself out?" And with that he hurried across the room, down the short hallway to the bathroom and shut the door with a loud 'BANG!'

John stood, grabbed up his coat and hurried out the door and down the stairs that lead to his old home. As he hit the outside air, he noted that it was getting colder. The twilight air cut his eyes with an icy sharpness. When he finally realized he'd left the knitted wool cap his wife had made him at 221B Baker Street, he had tears in his eyes. Whether from the cold or from the encounter, he would never admit.

John walked swiftly half of the way home, but rather suddenly snow began to fall again so he hailed a cab and jumped inside, relishing the warmness. When the cab arrived at his flat he was so deep in thought regarding the state of Sherlock that he didn't even realize the driver had stopped.

"Here we are, Sir!" the cabbie called behind him, breaking John's thoughts and momentarily the ache in his chest. He hopped out and hurried inside calling "I'm home, dear...are you around?" He found his wife on her mobile talking quickly and professionally. She gave him a perfunctory wave of the hand and half-smile which he knew meant she would talk to him in a minute. He waited patiently for her to hang up, only to hear that she had to go into work for a few hours.

"Suspected suicide...it will probably be quick work, but I'll have to go in tonight. I'm sorry, John."

"It's alright, Molly. I understand," he replied. "They only want the best ME's on duty for night-time suicides," he quipped with a playful smile. They both laughed and John bent forward to kiss her hello and farewell all at once. Suddenly, Molly's face went dark.
"You've been visiting Sherlock, haven't you?" she asked. "I can smell that flat-formaldehyde-on your coat."

"Yes," was John's simple reply. He never liked to talk about Sherlock with his wife nor did she like to talk about Sherlock with him. He was the unspoken sore point of their relatively happy marriage. John always imagined that with enough conversation between the two of them regarding Sherlock, the sore would turn into a festering wound. Exactly how John was able to still have strong feelings of intimacy and attraction towards Molly after knowing all she'd done to aid Sherlock in faking his death, he could not understand. Yet, she had been there for him at a time when no one else was and she understood him like no one else ever would. It went both ways, really...their mutual understanding. Both John and Molly had a safe haven in each other: a place of comfort, support and even love. Also, John suspected they both loved the same man-Sherlock Holmes-with a passion that was overwhelming, almost other-worldly.

John watched Molly through the doorway as she gingerly took the snow-slicked steps outside of their flat. She slid into her small, economical car and started down the road to St. Barts. As she drove past their doorway she turned to him and simultaneously scrunched her nose and gave him a smile through the window glass, and then she was gone.

Ah, Molly, John thought to himself. My Molly...so precious and caring and so unassumingly sexy. He thought of the way she relaxed when she was around him, like she did around no other...certainly not around Sherlock. With John she laughed easily, she smiled indulgently yet never in a fake way and she moved with a grace that was not natural to her. It was obvious that she felt comfortable around him, and that made John happy. It had always made him happy, ever since he could remember, to know that he was pleasing someone else.

He had felt that satisfactory feeling no more so than on the day he had wed Molly Hooper. He knew that day was something she'd dreamed of for a long while. She knew that John would make her happy: that he would never say hurtful things to her on purpose, he would always consider her feelings and he would always take care of her to the best of his abilities. She had been right. But, for John that wedding day had been half contentment in the thought of merging his life with someone else's and half anguished pain and resentment. The pain and resentment was all due to Sherlock, of course. Sherlock, standing up with him at the front of the church as if he were happy for the day's ceremonies. Sherlock, in his crisp white shirt and striking black suit. Sherlock, with his eyes never leaving John's face...searching. John, flush-faced and refusing to even risk a glance at his friend's face. Even now as he thought of the tumbling curls, the aquiline nose, the pink lips nervously twitching into an awkward half smile his chest tightened. A lump rose in his throat and a warm stirring started deep in his belly.
John cleared his throat. He took in a deep breath. He let it out slowly and as quietly as possible, even though no one was around to take notice of him.

John made his way to the bathroom where he quickly undressed and even though the temperature outside continued to drop, he turned the shower over to cold, stepped inside and lunged into the cleansing water. He made sure he kept his hands outstretched in front of him, glued to the shower wall, holding his trembling body as upright as possible.

*******************************
When John finally got out of the shower, he dressed again in clean, dry clothes. He didn't know why exactly, it was just a feeling he had. He felt it was too early to slip into his pajamas and wait around for Molly, yet once dressed all he did was wander around the sitting room. Dressed with nowhere to go. His thoughts began to wander. He thought of Sherlock, as always, for a few fleeting seconds before his eyes rested on his mobile. It was laying on the coffee table. He'd forgotten it when he'd left his flat earlier. It was front-side down and he could clearly see the inscription that would forever proclaim that the phone had once belonged to his sister, Harry. He hadn't talked to Harry in a long time. She hadn't even shown up to his wedding, but he hadn't expected her to. She would have no reason to share in any happiness regarding his personal life. He had always kept that part of himself closed off from her, as he'd done from most everyone else. Also, he had kept Harry at arms length since her split with Clara. He had just begun to become used to his sister's relationship with another woman, used to Clara and her bright smile and charming wit. He had come to realize that Clara was the glue that kept his sister from falling off the wagon more often than she did. But, he had wrestled with the feelings of love and acceptance a bit too long and now Clara was gone. Harry was God knew how drunk by now-God, it's 9 pm already, he thought, she's probably properly pissed. He found himself brooding and sat down hard on the sofa.

Relationships are so difficult and easily broken no matter who's involved, he thought. Again his mind returned to the flat in Baker Street. He thought of how thin and pale Sherlock looked today; how he'd lain on the sofa like a ragdoll. He figured that his friend had to be in a very desperate place in order to fall back into the habit of illegal drug use. Also, he wondered what it was Sherlock had injected this time. Cocaine? He didn't think so. He'd known that Sherlock had used it in the past, before John had come into his life. It was something Sherlock had said he used in order to allow his body to keep pace with his brain. There was a definite "coming down" with the use of this drug, but not the kind of utter numbness he had witnessed in his friend today. No, he thought, more likely some kind of homeless network heroin or other opiate concoction that allowed Sherlock to sleep through his emotions...the ones John knew were too awkward and probably foreign for him to express. "Not that I'm much more together regarding all that," he spoke aloud to the empty room.

John glanced at the clock on the wall above the fireplace. It read ten minutes after nine. John rubbed his thumb across the engraving on the back of his phone.
Eleven minutes after nine.
Twelve minutes after nine.
Thirteen minutes after nine.

The phone in his hand began to sound. It was a downloaded ringtone. The humming of violin strings. John stared at the phone in his hand for seconds that seemed to stretch out forever, his hand trembling over the "accept" button. He fought the impulse to answer with his usual "Hello, Sherlock? You okay?" With a pressing weight on his chest he quickly declined the phone call. He thought about how Sherlock was undoubtedly rolling his eyes towards heaven at being ignored. 'Well, he's made me worry about him enough lately...now he can wonder (and maybe worry) about me instead,' John thought. The inside of the flat had suddenly become inexplicably hot and opressing. John felt stifled and a bit ill. He decided he needed cold, invigorating night air in his lungs. He pulled his coat on over a button up shirt and knit jumper. He searched for his knit cap he'd had on earlier but couldn't find it, so he plundered around until he found an older one and put it on instead. It wasn't as warm as the one from Molly, but it would do. He stepped out into the night, locking the door behind him. He knew Molly wouldn't be home for at least another two to three hours, so he didn't even bother to leave her a note.

John stood at the curb outside his flat taking the fresh air into his lungs in gulps as if he were a drowning man. The air was frigid and went straight through to the bone. Being overseas in Afghanistan had caused him to be acclimated to extremes in weather and he was able to control the urge to shake and shiver. He started walking without a clear idea of where he was headed, but he was steadily thinking of Sherlock and the phone call from him which he'd just refused. Lost in thoughts of words that could have passed between the two of them had he been clear-minded and courageous enough to answer, John wandered for over half an hour up and down the streets of London. Eventually, he came upon a sidewalk bench and sat down. He noticed with a grimace that the bench was situated across the street from the restaraunt where he and Sherlock had shared their first real conversation together. John remembered every detail of that night, and recalled it often. He remembered with a slight embarrassment the way that Sherlock had thought he'd been hitting on him. At the time he had felt more awkward than perhaps even Sherlock. Tonight he thought of what might have been if he'd reacted differently. God, to have that kind of strength! John was completely lost in a feeling of angsty nostalgia when he imagined he heard hurried footsteps. He chalked it up to his brain playing tricks on him. He laughed to himself and thought, maybe it's the ghosts of me and Sherlock, running the back alleys as we did that night. His heart did a funny flip-flop as he thought of how exhilarating that had been. A moment later, John was startled so much that he literally jumped to his feet. Sherlock's voice spoke to him out of the fog.

"John, yes, good. I knew you'd be right here."

"Sherlock? Where did you come from and how in the hell did you know I'd be here? I didn't even know that myself!" John's heart was beating high up in his throat, radiating down through his ribcage with a power that felt like thunder. He wondered stupidly if Sherlock could hear it.

"John, can you not figure out my methods easily by now?" Sherlock inquired with a tired sigh. He was standing just behind the bench in his dark coat which allowed him to blend into the darkness all around. Only a glint in his eyes and the shine of his silky curls could be clearly made out. Sherlock talked as he walked around to where John stood.

"I called your mobile once and you didn't answer. I assumed you were ignoring me because I knew you'd be home by that time and that your phone would be close by. I rang twice more, thinking you'd eventually pick up because...well, because you're you, my friend. You're too kind-hearted and too much of a worry-wart to decline three phonecalls from your best mate. So, I naturally concluded that you'd gone out and forgotten to carry your mobile with you." He was right of course, John realized. The explanation was so simple, too.

"Okay, I can understand all that but how did you know I'd come here, to this particular bench?" John asked, bewildered.

"Not everything can be logical, John. I found myself thinking of this place after your visit earlier and hoped you somehow were as well." This was all Sherlock offered as he sat down slowly in the middle of the bench, pulling his scarf tighter around his slender neck. John could feel his face flush with embarrassed confusion. It made him feel ridiculously transparent, despite the darkness that hid him. What was Sherlock playing at?-that last remark was so unlike him.

"Why were you try reach me on the phone?" John queried.

Sherlock laughed a deep, throaty laugh that seemed to shake the bench. In an amused voice he answered, "Well, to tell the truth, I've always been lost without my blogger." He laughed again, although it had a sad, hollow quality this time.

"Sherlock, what's gotten into you?" John asked with more anger in his voice than he actually felt.

"You tell me, you're the doctor," Sherlock replied as he shifted his weight. He was staring straight at John now. John stared back. It was the first time he'd met his friend's gaze, purposefully, in weeks. The streetlight sent shadows cascading down Sherlock's angular face. John took in Sherlock's skin. It had always been unusually pale, but tonight he looked white as a sheet-ill. Sherlock's eyes were shining at him. John observed the pinpoint pupils and the bloodshot whites. Wild, he thought, wild and desperate.

"Sherlock, you're high...again," he spat out the words like so much poison in his throat.

"Mmmmmmm," Sherlock mumbled as he closed his eyes and let his head fall backward as far as it would go.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You really are stoned, aren't you?" John said the words aloud, although he expected no reply. He got none. "How's your breathing," John wondered aloud. He slid down the bench, closer to Sherlock. In the darkness he couldn't see the rise and fall of his friend's chest. Without thinking twice, he took his hand from his coat pocket and reached across his own body. He fumbled with the top two buttons of Sherlock's coat and got them to open. Then, he slipped his hand inside the heavy coat and rested it on Sherlock's thin, hard body, just where his ribs began. John counted the breaths.
In, out. One.
In, out. Two.
In, out. Three.

Suddenly, Sherlock interrupted with, "Are you so very cold, John? You're shaking awfully hard."

"I-hmm-no, I'm fine. Your respirations are slow, heartrate is down as well. You shouldn't be out in this ridiculous weather. But, neither should you go home and sleep. Fancy a coffee or something? There has to be somewhere around here still open." John waited.

"Come back to the flat-our flat, John. We can make coffee there and warm up. You could get your cap back, too. The one from your wife," was the quick reply.

John stood up, stiff and straight. He turned on his heel toward the direction that would take them to Baker Street. "Come on then, you lunatic," he said, shaking harder than ever. "I'll need that cap and you'll more than likely need a doctor before the night's out."

The familiar flat at Baker Street was within sight. Somewhere between the last two blocks, Sherlock had begun to fall behind. He walked slowly and without purpose, seemingly lost in thought. His mind palace. John had to take him by the sleeve of the coat and literally pull him along. At last, thoroughly frozen, he passed the door to the flat beside 221B. Mrs. Turner and she's got married ones. This thought flitted into John's head. He stopped abruptly, letting out a small laugh-like a bark. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers. With Sherlock at his side, he opened the door to 221B and went in. He was as quiet as possible, conscious that it was probably close to eleven already. Wouldn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson.

Inside it was warm, even without a fire in the grate. John walked over and put a few logs on and poked them around until they began to burn yellow and deep orange. Sherlock had wandered into the kitchen. He was standing with his backside up against the counter top and his head resting on the faces of the cupboards. Still thinking.
"Sherlock, what are you doing in there? Come sit by the fire."

"Tea, John," he answered back, eyes still glassy and faraway, "I'm putting on the kettle."

"Then get on with it," John said, getting his tone of voice worked up for what he needed to say next.
The fire was burning quickly now.
Snap!
Crackle!
Snap!
Each sound the wood made was like a small conversation highlighted by the lack of communication between the two men.

"Sherlock, where are the drugs? You may as well tell me now or I'm going to rifle through your sock drawer. I'll have the index out of order quick as you please," John threatened.

Sherlock looked back at John with one of his half-smiles playing with the corner of his lips. "I don't have some secret drug stash, John," he stated, matter-of-factly. "I've taken all that I had. That's the reason I went looking for you tonight."

John's brow creased in confusion. He cocked his head to the side, drew a deep breath and said, "Sherlock, I don't understand. What does your drug use have to do with me?"

Sherlock fiddled with the tea spoons beside him on the counter and looked at the floor. When he spoke it was in a hushed voice that sounded pregnant with emotion. "I took all those things to get rid of...information...to block it all out."

"Information, Sherlock?"

"Information concerning you, John. Even you've noted before that once I get fixated on an object I won't stop until I find out everything there is to know. Like an obsession. Usually it's to do with solving cases and facts like 243 types of tobacco ash. But, for a while now it's only been about you."

"M-Me? Sherlock, why?" John asked. He still had on his coat and he felt so very hot. I could be standing in the fire and I wouldn't even notice, he thought.

"You married Molly. I needed to forget that. I needed to not feel that. I needed to forget all the time that preceded my "death by suicide," because to remember it as fondly as I do and then to know that you're not here anymore...," he trailed off as he pressed the heels of his hands into both eye sockets.

"And, so, you went looking for me tonight because you wanted to tell me...this?" John asked.

"Yes. I've never been good at...emotions. I thought the drugs might...God, nevermind. This is madness." Sherlock pushed himself away from the support of the countertop and walked toward the fireplace where John stood, incapable of movement. He stopped a few feet away and crossed his arms over his chest. They stood that way for a long while, neither moving nor speaking. Both thinking.

"I'll go get the cap you left, John," Sherlock mumbled and walked into his bedroom.

John stood, baffled. He was vaguely aware that he hadn't moved since he'd first asked Sherlock about the drugs. He couldn't get all of what Sherlock had just said to fit into his brain. He certainly couldn't get all the feelings to fit into his heart. God, it hurt so much! Sherlock's face and the way he'd given up explaining himself left John wishing he'd said something. Anything, you shit, would have been better than standing like an uncomprehending block of firewood! There were so many times he'd, secretely, wanted to let Sherlock know how much he cared, but he never had. Not really. He'd always been too shy, too unsure. Now, of all things, Sherlock had beat him to it! Sherlock had expressed emotion...strong emotion...like John was always wishing he would. And, he'd just stood staring as if he didn't understand. Now, the moment had passed, surely. Sherlock had broken it by going to fetch his stupid hat out of the bedroom. The bedroom? Why does he have my hat in his bedroom? He made up his mind to ask these questions out loud as soon as Sherlock came back into the sitting room. John waited.
Crackle!
Crackle!
POP!
The fire was raging. Sherlock wasn't coming back out.

John waited as long as he could. When the first unsettling thread of worry started creeping into his brain, he managed to move his feet. He walked the length of the sitting room and stuck his head around the doorframe leading into Sherlock's room. The door had been left wide open. Sherlock sat on the foot of his bed. He was doubled over at the waist, knees apart, hands dangling between his legs.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John asked as he started forward. He walked closer to the bedside and could see that Sherlock held his knit cap in one hand. His other hand was tightly closed into a fist. As John watched, Sherlock brought the hand with the cap in it up to his face. He stared at it, smiled and brought the thing to his face. He took in a deep breath but before he got halfway through it, his chest hitched and he let out a sound. John wasn't sure what it was meant to be. It was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. John's heart contracted painfully in his chest, then started racing. He could hear it beating out an unsteady rhythm in his throat, his ears, his temples. He felt mad with worry. It was so unlike his friend to behave in this way-so...undone. The sight of Sherlock's gaunt, defeated profile made him desperate to do something, anything to make it better. John reached out his hand, as he'd done so often while Sherlock was asleep, and touched one shining, unruly curl beside his left ear. Ever so softly he wrapped it around his finger and brought it down and around, tucking it safely behind the curve of Sherlock's earlobe.