John hurried to the door of 221B in the whipping wind of the snowy afternoon and headed up the familiar creaky stairs to the flat he had so frequently visited. It had been months since he last was here, but the settled dust and scratches along the stairwell seemed frozen in time. He knocked quietly at the door and waited, with no response. He knocked again, waited, and sighed. "Sherlock?"
He called. He started back down the stairs, running his hand against the aged mahogany and rounding the corner to Mrs. Hudson's flat. She answered immediately, with a warm smile. "John!"
She reached out to him and led him inside, "It's been so long!"
He followed her to her kitchen table and smiled up at her familiar plants hanging by the window,
"I know." He said,
"I thought it was time to visit."
Mrs. Hudson headed to her stove and began a kettle of water.
"Oh, dear. Sherlock misses you so very much." She sighed.
"He spent the morning on the sofa reading some sort of news article and wouldn't speak a word. I worry for him sometimes, you know?"
"Don't we all?" John lamented.
"He wasn't there when you knocked?"
"No. Or didn't answer, at least."
"Hm."
Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms and stared out to the window.
"I didn't think I heard him leave." She sighed and changed the subject,
"How's Mary?"
"She's well, I suppose." John said,
"Not much to tell. It gets dreary sometimes. Working, coming home, doing it all over again."
"Looking for another case?" Mrs. Hudson smirked.
"I don't know," John pondered,
"I could go for an outing."
The two sat in silence for a few moments before the tea kettle whistled and Mrs. Hudson poured tea for the two of them, the room filling with the melancholy scent of earl grey and steam.
"You should try the door again." Mrs. Hudson suggested,
"I know he's here." John sipped his tea and eventually headed upstairs again to his old flat, thinking about the many adventures he missed and longed for. He knocked on the door again, with no response. This time, instead of waiting, he pulled out his old key and simply stepped inside. The flat was so filled with papers, beakers, jars, and books that the floor wasn't even visible beneath the rubbish and a terrible smell fumed from the kitchen.
"Sherlock?" He called. He turned towards the kitchen and scanned the packed shelves before heading down the hall to the bedroom. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't home after all.
He knocked quietly on the bedroom door twice before coming in, and found Sherlock wrapped in his sheets in bed, presumably sleeping. John rolled his eyes. For such an active mind Sherlock sure liked to pout.
"Sherlock." He said. He didn't move. John came around to the other side and realized Sherlock's hands were shaking, his eyes rolled back in his head so only the whites were showing, and he made a quiet choking noise as drool fell onto his pillow.
"Sherlock!" John shouted, reaching out to him lifting his neck onto his pillow in panic. He tested his pulse and ran to the hall, shouting,
"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! Call an ambulance!"
"An ambulance?"
"Now!" He rushed back into the room and tore back the blankets, pulling his drenched shirt off his torso and and ran to the freezer, searching for anything similar to an ice pack to press against his forehead. Mrs. Hudson rushed into the room, shouting,
"What's happened? John, what's happened? The ambulance is on their way!" All John could find in the freezer was a jar full of frozen something, and as his thoughts raced and adrenaline ran through him he barely heard her shout. As he finally reached the bedroom and pressed the jar to Sherlock's sweaty forehead he turned to Mrs. Hudson by his side, and with fear in his eyes he said
"He's finally done it."He paused, holding back tears,
"He's finally fucking overdosed."
The medics arrived a few minutes later, bursting into the room as John shouted,
"Get him up on a stretcher and prepare fluids as fast as you can. As fast as you can! He's having a seizure!" He helped lift Sherlock's dead weight from the bed onto the stretcher and bent down to feel his forehead yet again,
"Do you know what's happened?" The medic asked, securing straps around Sherlock's torso and tugging at the cords,
"He's overdosed on cocaine." John responded solemnly. The next few minutes were a blur, and despite John's significant ability to remain calm under pressure he couldn't recall a single thing that was said. Next thing he knew, he was sitting in the quiet ambulance listening to the cars rush by and looking down at Sherlock's pale face on the stretcher below him. He moved his head from side to side and mumbled incoherently and John didn't even engage him. Then suddenly his eyes shot open and he gasped. John jumped in his seat and held his arm to Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock jolted and stared right at him, his pupils mere pinpoints in the fluorescent light.
"John." He croaked, his hand shaking and reaching up to meet John's on his shoulder. John didn't respond. He held tightly to Sherlock's hand and steadied his head from the bumps in the street. Sherlock's eyes shut again and his lips trembled,
"John," He said again, then mumbled,
"I love you." Before continuing with his inhuman murmurs. John froze. His mind spun and spun and then as worry built up in his throat he said,
"Goddamnit, Sherlock. If you kill yourself, "He sobbed,
"I'll bring you back and fucking kill you myself."
John sat in the hospital room throughout the night, listening to Sherlock's perpetual nonsense and restraining him when he tried to jump up. He had contacted Mycroft a few hours before, but he left him on read. He kept scrolling over the read receipt, knowing he was scrambling up some scheme. However exhausted and worried he was, the hospital felt like home. For the past two years he'd spent every weekday in its walls and however boring his hours may have been, it became a part of his life. It became his paradigm with Mary and the new life he had forged, but in some odd way it all seemed so bleak. Mrs. Hudson brought him a sandwich around midnight and held his head against her side as he shut his eyes and took a small moment to rest. It wasn't until after she had left that he finally realized he had never contacted Mary. He was surprised she hadn't bothered to contact him either. It was at times like this that he questioned their relationship and where it had lead since Sherlock's return. It wasn't like Sherlock was doing so great either, he thought, staring at the pale blue wall behind his hospital bed. In fact, he had only seen Sherlock go downhill since his wedding last summer. Living alone wasn't healthy for him, the more time he spent alone the further he spiraled into his own messy thoughts and unsteady tendencies. It was obvious to John that Sherlock had been increasing his doses since summertime and that despite attempts by himself, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade to quell his ability to obtain drugs, he only grew more and more addicted. It came to a point where the four of them together couldn't conceive of a way to help him. "John." Said Sherlock, suddenly pushing himself up onto his elbow.
"Yes?" John hid his face in his hands.
"The neighbor wasn't the killer."
"No?"
"No. It was the landlord. Which is funny, I think."
"Hm."
"I have another case... " He trailed off. John pulled himself up from his chair and stood by the bedside table, watching the screen blink with Sherlock's vitals.
"Is Mary mad?" Sherlock's voice sounded like a child's, lost and searching for validation.
"Mad about what?" The clock ticked in the solemn room.
"Mad that you left her."
"I didn't leave her. She's at home, sleeping." Sherlock paused, staring at John in awe.
"But, but... you left me."
"I…" John looked around the room, unsure of what to say. His head ached. His mind was spinning with the myriad of half-truths Sherlock had sputtered and the trauma he had finally processed.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"Come back. I need you to come back."
"Please just try to go to sleep Sherlock, your vitals are finally stable and I…"
"I need you to come back. Come back, John. Come back." He trailed off, his eyes glassy as he stared into the dim distance,
"I can't live without you."
John's phone buzzed and he woke with a start. The sun was rising pink and orange outside the window and the room was quiet as the beeps of Sherlock's vitals echoed in rhythm.
"Hello?" John answered groggily. Mycroft answered, his voice cool and measured as always,
"Come downstairs." John sighed and rubbed his eyes, dragging his feet out of the room and scanning the hall for a nurse to replace him. When he entered the first floor foyer, Mycroft stood against the frosted window and waited as John approached him.
"Fancy seeing you here." John remarked sarcastically,
"It only took you all night."
"I was on the plane when you texted."
"Ah." John rolled his eyes,
"Of course." Mycroft stared with a squint and pursed his lips.
"I have a proposal for you."
"Oh Christ, Mycroft."
"It's for the wellbeing of as all, John. Don't pretend you won't accept."
"I don't know what it is yet, so no, I do not accept…"
"It would give us all some peace of mind if you were to move back to Baker Street." Mycroft urged,
"No." John blurted,
"No, I will not be his babysitter."
"But he needs a babysitter. Aren't you just dying for a case?" John sighed.
"But, Mary…"
"And when was the last time you truly cared about Mary?" Mycroft sneered. John stood frozen, his gaze on his feet.
"Don't play this game, Mycroft."
"I will never stop playing the game, John. The game is on, as always. And you have twenty-four hours to accept." Then he simply strided past John with a smug look on his face and started up the stairs to Sherlock's room.
"Goddamnit." John whispered, wringing his hands through his hair.
"Hello, dear!" Mary chimed,
"A long night at work?"
"No, no." He said anxiously, pacing around the room as he held his phone against his shoulder,
"I didn't work last night, Mary." He paused,
"I'm at the hospital with Sherlock." Mary gasped.
"I'm on my way."
"No." John interrupted,
"Listen, just… there's already enough going on here, I…"
"I'll be there in five." It was awful how much John regretted calling her. He didn't want her to come. It was already enough dealing with Mycroft and the nurses and Sherlock and everyone else and he didn't need her interjecting into something she never knew enough about….
"Well you've earned yourself three months of mandatory outpatient care to the mental institution, so you must be quite proud." Mycroft hissed. Sherlock rolled his eyes, unphased. When John entered the room a few moments later he followed his gaze until he came to the bedside. Sherlock expected him to say something, something witty, perhaps? Instead he stood, his arms crossed, next to Mycroft.
"Regardless, I hope you know we've been letting you get away with far too much." Mycroft said.
"I understand, Mycroft, is that what you want me to say?"
"Sherlock." John said sternly,
"I would advise you to shut up." Sherlock glared back at him and opened his mouth to respond but simply crossed his arms instead.
"Mary is on her way." John turned to Mycroft before standing in the doorway anxiously, trying to suppress his memory of Sherlock's nonsense from the night before. It was difficult to tell which things he said were true; was it possible he would truly express an emotion as deep as love? Everything was messy. How would John explain to Mary that he wanted to move back in with Sherlock, after years? He knew he had no other option. On top of Mycroft's pressure and his worries for Sherlock, he so desperately wanted to. Baker Street felt like home, and even after so long the flat was just the same as when he first moved in.
Mary arrived a few moments later, rushing to the door and greeting John briefly before hurrying to Sherlock's bedside.
"Oh, Sherlock…" She sighed,
"I'm so sorry." Sherlock snickered,
"I don't want your pity. In fact, now that you mention it, is there any way one of you three geniuses can get me the hell out of here?"
"No!" Mycroft and Mary said in unison.
"Actually," John chimed,
"I'd love to get out of here." Mary began to protest and John, with pure exhaustion in his eyes, pressed his hand against his forehead and pleaded,
"I haven't had a bite to eat and I haven't slept in over twenty four hours and I would really, really like to put everyone out of their misery and get Sherlock back home. He's recovering. It's fine. There's nothing more that can really be done regardless." He left and began chattering with the other doctors to prepare Sherlock's release.
When they returned to Baker Street and everyone had gone, Sherlock paused and peered over at John in the sitting room.
"John." He said. John turned to him and giving him a stern
"What?" Sherlock sighed, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
"I..." He froze.
"I'm sorry."
"Jesus Christ," John stuttered, emotion welling up in his throat,
"Come here." He threw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held him tightly. Sherlock lowered his head into the crook of John's neck and sniffled as tears welled up in his eyes. Suddenly he felt so guilty, and though he would never admit it, he was relieved to have survived. It only took a few short moments for John to notice Sherlock's hot tears against his neck. This wasn't like him - crying, apologizing, vulnerability. He froze, not knowing what to do.
"Listen, Sherlock." He started,
"I don't know how to help you, but I… Mycroft asked if I…"
"Mycroft can fuck off"
"He had a valid point, though… He asked me to move back in to Baker Street. In fact, he required it."
"Hm." Sherlock sighed and stepped away from John, surveying the room.
"That's not the worst of his demands." He smirked.
"Don't get any funny ideas," John cut him off,
"I still haven't made up my mind, with Mary and all…" Sherlock stepped an inch closer,
"Oh please, Doctor Watson…
Let me convince you."