Nodding Off

As John dove through the doorway after the man he'd been chasing, he wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings, he was only focused on grabbing the man they'd been searching for all day. There was no way he was spending another day listening to Sherlock complain about the above-average hiding abilities of a petty drug smuggler.

So, when his running tackle hit the man mid-back, he was less concerned with the table they crashed into and more mentally celebrating his victory – already planning ahead to a dinner at Angelo's and the peaceful night of sleep he always got after a case was finished, when Sherlock was as tranquil as he ever got.

It wasn't until the white powder filled the air that he thought there might be a problem.

Bit not good. Bit not good, at all.

He coughed and choked as he inhaled a mouthful, but that just made him suck in more. Soon, fresh air became more of a priority than keeping his grip on the drug smuggler, so John released him in favor of searching for the exit.

Then time seemed to… slip a little.

John found himself sitting on the floor of the slowly clearing room, blinking slowly and feeling decidedly relaxed about… well, everything. He wasn't so worried about the guy he'd been after getting away anymore, but was still pleased to see he was sitting only a few feet away from him. Eyes half-lidded and pupils shrunken to pinpricks, he gave John a slow grin.

"John?" He heard Sherlock call from down the hall.

"Hmm?" He answered. Forming actual words just seemed like so… much… work.

Shoes slid into view a second later. Nice shoes. Must be comfortable, too. Didn't look like they would be - looked a bit stiff. But Sherlock ran all around the city in them, so they must be. With as much as he probably paid for them though-

"John!" Sherlock barked in his face.

"Where'd your shoes go," he asked in bewilderment, staring back at the detective who was suddenly right there.

His eyes really were an amazing color. Like an overcast day. But… Shiny…

Hands were on the side of his face, thumbs pulling at his eyelids. He felt like he should complain, but… nah. Sherlock was smarter than him, probably had a really good reason to poke at his eyes like that. A chill worked its way down his spine, giving him goose bumps and making him shiver. It was gone as quickly as it started, but the muted doctor part of him fuzzily hoped he wasn't getting the flu.

Sherlock's hands disappeared, leaving John's cheeks feeling oddly cold. He was going to look for him, but his eyes didn't seem to want to leave the smooth layer of settled powder they'd landed on next to him. Looked like snow, really. Like when he and Harry were kids and would go out into the field behind the house… All smooth and untouched, they couldn't help themselves, they'd have to run through it yelling and creating chaos in perfection. He smiled and walked his finger through the little unspoiled heroin field.

"What's it cut with?" He heard Sherlock growl from his right, followed by a scrambling.

The answering giggle made him curious enough to finally tear his eyes away from the floor next to him. Sherlock had the man he'd been chasing up against the wall, hands twisted in his shirt front. But he was just laughing and smiling back like he didn't mind at all. Nice guy, there, to not mind being manhandled like that.

"It's not," the man said, his laughter gaining speed. "It's not cut with anything. All pure, baby! Can't you feel it? It's making the fucking air buzz."

John joined his laughing, even as another chill ran through him.

"It really is buzzing," he said defensively to Sherlock's sharp look.

But his laughter died away it occured to him that the buzzing wasn't really pleasant. It was giving him a bloody headache, actually. He brought a hand up to rub at his face, but was stopped by strong fingers wrapping around his wrist.

"Let's wash up a bit first," Sherlock suggested, making John realize his hand was covered in white powder.

He wondered about the oddly soft tone to his friend's usually razor-sharp voice, but the flexing of his own fingers was incredibly distracting. The way they curled in and out, in and out, in and-

Sherlock was tugging on him and, uncaring, John went along - listening with half an ear as his friend snarled into his phone at someone while John continued to watch his own fingers.

Resigned to the fact that his hands were really amazing, he moved on to other, more important matters as Sherlock ushered him forward awkwardly. Like how heavy his legs felt. Or how thirsty he was. And how his chest was starting to feel kind of achy. He shivered again. Actually, it was more of a whole body shudder this time, making his head pound even worse.

He really wasn't feeling very well…

They'd only gotten three steps out of the room when he vomited the biscuits and tea he'd had earlier all over Sherlock's nice shoes.

"Sor-"

The room tilting wildly and his stomach twisting painfully cut off his words. He could hear a siren in the distance and Sherlock bellowing for Lestrade as he kept John from hitting the floor.

All John could think about, though, was how nice Sherlock's coat was pressed against his face and how he really hoped he didn't throw up on it, too…