"Sherlock—wake up." John tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but it forced itself in anyway.

Two hours…

He'd only been gone two hours…

So why the hell was the consulting detective sprawled on the living room floor?

John had dropped the bag he'd been carrying when he came in, and had quickly knelt beside him. He felt for breath, and pressed two fingers against the side of Sherlock's neck in search of a pulse, a frown darkening his features.

"Jesus… why's it slow…?" John muttered to himself, and glanced around the room to see if there was any sign of what might have happened—clues to an intruder, maybe, or possibly even a syringe.

But all seemed in order…

"Can you hear me?" He patted Sherlock's cheek—a little harder than he'd meant to—but there was minimal reaction aside from a slight groan. "Shit… shit…"

He sat back and hurriedly searched for his phone, ready to dial 999. But he was just in the middle of unlocking it when Sherlock groaned again, and his eyes fluttered open. John let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, as well as another curse. "Sherlock? Can you look at me? No, look at me—I need to know you can focus—"

Sherlock blinked, looking around rather dazedly for a few seconds. He turned his eyes on John, frowning slightly, and then rolled over a bit and pushed himself up to a sitting position, not without a bit of effort.

"Careful—you might have hurt something—" John watched him worriedly, ready to help but unsure of what to do.

"I'm fine."

"You're obviously not 'fine.' People who are 'fine' don't just collapse on the floor and lay there, unresponsive, and they certainly don't have a slow—dammit… your pulse is slow, that's not good. What happened?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh and got to his feet, brushing himself off and trying to regain his composure as much as possible. "I… must have… passed out."

John just stared up at him incredulously, a bit open-mouthed, too busy processing what Sherlock had just said to bother standing up yet. "Passed o—are you using?"

"No… I'm perfectly sober, unfortunately." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't…" He heaved himself up with a groan, and scrutinised the detective. "If you're not using, then what happened? Why would you pass out?"

Sherlock shifted on his feet, apparently annoyed with being trapped under John's gaze, or perhaps uncomfortable. "I suppose I must have… you know… forgotten to eat. Happens sometimes, I get busy."

"Sher—what? Forgotten to—you haven't had a case in a week and half. What the bleeding hell have you been 'busy' with? You can't do this. You just can't. You're not a robot, you've got a human body and you've got to feed it. I don't care if it's annoying. Okay?"

It was Sherlock's turn to stare at him for a moment, his expression difficult to read.

Was he paler than John had remembered, come to think of it? Or was that just the light?

And for that matter… leaner, too?

Damn it…

"…Okay."