Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.

Written for auction prompt - Other fandom, Sherlock.

My first attempt at a Sherlock MC. Please don't expect updates on a schedule because I don't want to disappoint anyone. I'll update as and when I have a chapter ready.

Warning - Addiction, Character Death (not Sherlock or John).

Word Count - 2706

There's No World For Me Without You

John watched the familiar streets pass him by as the cab sped towards St Barts. It was the first time he'd been in London for almost four years. Tapping his fingers on his thigh, he tried to hide his impatience when the driver began whistling cheerfully.

This was quite possibly the last place in the entire world he wanted to be, but with Harry on life support and him her only family, he didn't have a choice. It didn't stop him from silently cursing every deity that she had to be in this particular hospital.

Paying the driver distractedly, John climbed out of the cab, his eyes already straying to the roof of the hospital. Blinking hard, he shook his head at himself and hurried inside.

"Harriet Watson," he said to the reception nurse, who offered him a tired smile. "I'm her brother, John Watson. I was told that the doctor wanted to speak to me before I go and see her?"

"John?"

Turning around at the familiar voice, John came face to face with Greg Lestrade. Giving him a tight smile and a single nod, John turned his attention back to the nurse, who gestured to the closest waiting area.

"If you'll just wait there, Dr Watson, Dr Marsland will be with you shortly."

"Thank you," John replied politely, stepping over to the waiting area. He was fully aware of Greg following him and he barely managed to bite back the curses flying through his mind. He'd hoped to get in and out of London without running into anyone he knew.

"John. S'good to see you, mate, what're you doing here?"

"Harry. My sister. She's on life support, I've to speak to her doctor," John muttered after a slightly awkward pause.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Nothing can be done?"

John shrugged. "I don't know much yet. She's an alcoholic, fell off the wagon a few months ago. It's… well. I'll see what the doctor says, I suppose."

"If there's anything you need…" Greg offered, trailing off.

"Thanks."

"Sherlock -"

"Doesn't need to know that I'm here," John said sharply, cutting Greg off.

Greg chuckled despite John's glare. "Sorry to tell you, mate, but he'll likely already know. Mycroft, you know?"

"Doubt it. Mycroft shouldn't have any interest in me now."

"Sherlock is still interested in you, therefore, you automatically gain Mycroft's interest. Surely you remember how that works?"

Leaning against the wall with a heavy sigh, John just shrugged again. "At this point, I don't even care anymore. Sherlock can't damage me anymore than he already has, so really, what does it matter?"

Before Greg could answer, a man in a white coat walked up to them, offering John a sympathetic smile. "Dr Watson? Would you accompany me to my office, please?"

"Of course. It was nice to see you Greg. Look after yourself."

John followed Dr Marsland from the waiting area without waiting for a reply, and he didn't bother looking back at his old friend either. He just wanted to get all this over with, so he could leave London again. Simply being in the place that had ruined him was hurting.

"Dr Watson -"

"John is fine," John interrupted, sick of hearing his title.

"Antony," Dr Marsland replied, smiling. "As you're aware, Harriet has slipped into a coma, and is currently on a life support machine. Honestly, at this point all we can do is monitor her and hope."

John nodded. As the doctor explained that the likelihood of Harry ever recovering was extremely slim, and that the next forty eight hours were critical, John could only think that his sister was bloody selfish. She'd made him swear up and down that he wouldn't do anything stupid and now this.

"Can I sit with her?" he asked when there was a lull in the explanations. He knew what she'd done to herself, he didn't need the long winded monologue.

"Of course."

Leaving the hospital, John planned to walk the four blocks to the hotel he'd booked. He'd been there for hours, and with every passing minute of no change, he knew his sister was slipping further and further away from him.

Instead of the peaceful stroll he'd hoped for, directly outside the doors, a black mercedes pulled up alongside him, the back window winding down to reveal 'Anthea-or-whatever-her-name-actually-was'. Rolling his eyes, John ignored her and continued walking, pulling his coat tighter around his neck.

"Get in the car, Dr Watson."

"Tell Mycroft to fuck off," John replied quietly. "I'm not interested in anything he has to say, back off."

Surprisingly, he was allowed to enter his hotel without protest, though the car followed him the entire way. John showered quickly before he pulled the bottle of whisky from his bag and poured himself a generous measure. Popping the cap on a pill bottle, John shook two onto his hand and put them in his mouth, washing them down with the whisky.

He cursed himself for his weakness, but as he settled back onto the pillows and the effects of the Oxycodone took effect, he couldn't help but feel grateful for it. Without them, the very thought that he had to get up and head back to the hospital the following morning would have left him tense and angry and unable to relax at all.

That he needed them as a sleep aid at all was a bit not good, but John was perfectly aware of the effects the pills had on his body and he was fairly certain that for the peace, it was completely and utterly worth the damage.

After all, what was a little more damage when you were already broken far beyond repair?

The black car was awaiting him outside the hotel when he left, but he ignored it. The pill he'd taken as soon as he'd woke had taken the edge off his tension, and he couldn't be bothered arguing with whoever was stalking him as he walked to the hospital.

He'd almost made it to the hospital when the car suddenly sped up, cutting him off from crossing the road. As the window rolled down to reveal Mycroft himself, John rolled his eyes.

"You should eat something if you plan to sit with Harriet for the day. Allow me to entertain you for breakfast."

"Hello to you too, Mycroft," John replied, before he deftly stepped around the car. "Do me a favour and kindly jog on."

"Sherlock will be at the hospital, John. He knows you're here."

John shrugged and carried on walking. What did he care if Sherlock was at the hospital? What did he care about anything, really?

"John! Dammit you cannot avoid this forever. You're going to have to speak to one of us at some point, you can't continue to run away like a child!"

Snorting his amusement at Mycroft actually sounding irritated, John continued on, walking through the doors before Mycroft could say anything else. He nodded to the attending receptionist and headed straight for Harry's room.

Sherlock sat in front of the door.

Their eyes met.

John's entire body tensed and he winced as the ever present pressure on his chest seemed to increase exponentially. Sherlock stood up as John walked closer.

"John…"

John didn't even react, simply walking past Sherlock and closing the door behind himself. He couldn't bring himself to speak, in fact he was fairly sure that if he even opened his mouth, he'd vomit. How was it that after almost four years, he still couldn't deal with the sight of Sherlock Holmes without feeling like he was going to completely fall apart?

Retaking the seat he'd had the day before, John passed a few hours staring into space, occasionally glancing at the monitors on Harry. There had been no change from the day previous, and the hope that she'd fight her way back was slowly dwindling away.

"You have a friend waiting for you outside, dearie."

John blinked, surprised to find a nurse looking at him kindly.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You've a friend, sitting just outside the room. I wasn't sure if you were aware he was here. He's waiting on you, he said."

"Tell him to leave, please. I've no wish to see him."

"Are you sure, dearie? He's been there for hours, he must be a good friend to sit there for so long so patiently."

John snorted. "Perfectly sure, thank you."

The effects of the pill he'd taken that morning were slowly wearing off, and his hand was beginning to shake. He tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair in an attempt to control it, but he knew the shakes would spread soon enough.

Cursing Sherlock for remaining, and in doing so stopping John from escaping the room to take another, John stood up, pacing himself to the window. He needed out of the goddamn hospital, hell, he needed out of London altogether.

He'd been doing just fine. Barely even using the Oxycodone during the day in fact. Being back where his pain stemmed from had put him right back to square one. Unable to fight the need any longer, John swept from the room as quickly as he was able, heading down the corridor towards the closest bathroom.

He'd barely managed to lock himself into a stall before Sherlock was in behind him, calling his name.

John shook a tablet from the bottle, dry swallowing it quickly. He leant his head against the stall wall, waiting for the familiar relief to set in. Thankfully, it was a fast acting tablet and it was only minutes of listening to Sherlock repeat his name before the effects began to take hold.

He let himself out of the stall, stepping around Sherlock to wash his hands.

"You… John. What did you just take? John? Dammit, answer me!"

Sherlock took hold of John's shoulders, spinning him around to face him. "What did you just take?"

John stared at him passively. "Let go of me."

Wincing at the flat tone of John's voice, Sherlock released his shoulders as though his hands had been burnt.

"John, what did you just take?"

Drying his hands on a paper towel, John left the bathroom without answering. He wasn't quick enough to stop Sherlock from whipping the bottle from his pocket.

"Oxycodone? What are you taking that for? Have you been hurt? No…" Sherlock fell silent, his eyes tracing over John, a dawning look of horror taking over his face as John snatched the bottle from his loose fingers.

Putting the bottle back in his pocket, John walked calmly back to Harry's room, content to close the door once more, to sit in the chair for hour upon hour until the sky went dark and he could return to his hotel room.

"He's addicted to prescription drugs," Sherlock muttered, a pained expression on his face. "He needs a rehab, but getting him to admit he even has a problem would be impossible, not to mention that he won't even speak to me."

"You hurt him," Greg replied quietly. "Some people don't recover from pain like that."

"He chose to leave," Sherlock growled. "We'd have been fine if he hadn't run away the way he did. I should have followed him, made him come back, but everyone told me I needed to give him time. Time. He's had plenty of time and look what good that's done him."

"Sherlock, you faked your death, and chose to leave John in the dark for two years about it. You can't have expected everything to go back to normal just because you came back?"

Sherlock leant back against the wall and closed his eyes. "That wasn't the worst thing I did. Not by a mile."

Greg frowned, taking a drag of his cigarette. "What could you possibly have done that was worse than that?"

"I had sex with him. Hours before I jumped, I had sex with him and told him I loved him. I thought, I don't know what I thought." Sherlock pulled at his hair, shaking his head at himself. "I thought that it would be easier if he didn't have any could haves, or should haves, while I was gone. Obviously I miscalculated immensely. Anyway, when I got back… I, uh. I climbed into bed with him. While he was asleep. He thought he was hallucinating or still dreaming when he woke up and… I'm sure you can use your imagination."

"Jesus christ," Greg breathed. "When you fuck up, you certainly do it with flair. You wonder why that poor bloke is broken? I wouldn't have blamed him if he'd shot you, never mind punched you."

"Hmm. Quite. Like I said, I realise now that I was mistaken, but… I didn't lie to him, you know. I did, do, love him. With every single thing in me, I love him. It might have taken me a long time to realise it, but for me, there is only him, and even if he isn't with me, I need him to be alright."

Greg sighed. "I don't know what to suggest, mate. He clearly didn't want to talk to me when I saw him yesterday, and I doubt Mycroft had any more luck than you did. Short of having him admitted against his will, there isn't much you can do to force the issue. Frankly, Sherlock, I'm really not surprised he's struggling to even look at you. This is a mess."

"You think I don't know that?" Sherlock snapped. "I should go back in. I'm hoping to speak to him before he leaves."

Greg nodded. "As much as you don't deserve it, good luck."

Sherlock threw his cigarette butt into the closest ashtray, and headed back into the hospital. He glimpsed John through a small gap in the blinds and let out a sigh of relief that he hadn't escaped while Sherlock had been distracted. While he knew where John was staying, he didn't particularly believe that turning up at the hotel room would be any better received that sitting outside Harry's hospital room.

John found himself vaguely surprised that for the six days following his first sighting of Sherlock, the man continued to sit outside the hospital room. The Sherlock John remembered certainly didn't have the patience for such a continued monotony.

"John… As much as it pains me to say it, the only thing left is to turn the machine off. You're aware what the lack of results from the brain means. Harriet, she's gone."

He'd taken three tablets before his walk to the hospital that morning, knowing exactly what was coming, and yet they didn't seem to be helping. His hands shook uncontrollably as he nodded his head at the doctor's words. He knew, knew that the body on the bed was no longer his sister, but it still felt like he was betraying her.

"I'll stay with her. While you turn them off. Until…"

"Of course. We'll be along in an hour or so. I'll leave you alone with her until then."

John held her hand. He squeezed it, praying for a response all the while knowing he wouldn't get one.

Harry died at seven minutes past four in the afternoon.

"This isn't the way to get him to forgive you," Mycroft warned quietly. He was sitting in the back of a car with Sherlock, eyeing the hospital.

"I know. I accept that but… he needs help, Mycroft. I can't… he's going to do something if he's left alone, I guarantee it. He can't, I can't let him. I know it's selfish, but… with me or not, John Watson can not be allowed to die."

"Very well, brother. The hospital is ready for him, my men are in the car behind us. Would you prefer to try and convince him to take the ride under his own volition?"

Sherlock shook his head sadly. "It would do more harm than good, I fear. Just… look after him. Make sure they know that he's important, and he's to receive the best treatment."

Mycroft nodded. "I've had the room you recovered in held for him."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock leant his head back against the seat. "Just take care of him, Mycroft."