Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and James Moriarty are the intellectual property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.
A/N: Sherlock is having trouble with an old habit of his, one that only he and his brother knew about before John came into Sherlock's life. But maybe John will be the one to help pull Sherlock out of that habit? Rated M for a reason, it will be slash but not until later on... There is also heavy references to drug use which may be disturbing/triggering. Keep yourself safe - and enjoy!
The rain spattered onto the screen of Dr. John H. Watson's phone, despite his best efforts to protect it from the downpour; 17:37pm, he was later than usual. His last patient at the surgery had been a particularly problematic one – an older gentleman who was convinced that he required urgent aortic valve replacement surgery, when there was absolutely nothing wrong with him other than a fondness for whisky and a passion for daytime medical dramas on the tv…
John had been serving as a locum doctor in a surgery, just a ten minute walk away from the flat in Baker Street, for the past two and a half weeks as one of their regular GP's had been forced to take her maternity leave early and they needed someone to fill the stop gap before their arranged maternity leave cover could arrive. John hadn't quite believed that his name had been found by chance by the surgery, he definitely wasn't on the locum register because he hadn't been keen on being requested from surgeries all over the country for maybe only a couple of days work… Not that he objected to the position, they were paying well for the four weeks cover that he was going to do for them. He had a suspicion that Mycroft probably had a hand in securing this job. Cases had been thin on the ground lately and John reckoned that Mycroft was trying to be nice to John and take him away from the infernal moods that had been encapsulating Sherlock… but if that was the actual truth then John would have to talk to Mycroft, because giving some kind of activity to stimulate Sherlock would be much more productive! This was the longest stretch of time that Sherlock had gone without any cases at all, for as long as John had known him. Since the closure of his last case, he had received a few visitors in the days predating – none of them had pertained to enough intellectual interest for him to do anything about. This lack of interest by Sherlock had presented itself as a decline in his mood, which had impacted consequentially on his daily life. He had spent many hours curled up in his armchair, knees tight to his chest and his head rested down on his breast, with a vacant look filling his eyes. On the occasion that John had first met Sherlock in St. Bartholemews, Sherlock had been forthcoming in his "bad points" as he termed them at the time, he had mentioned that he sometimes had black periods where he wouldn't speak to anyone and would sulk for days on end, and he was certainly living up to that first statement… A black mood was gripping Sherlock, wrapping its long dark tangled legs around his mind and his person, and dragging him down into its mirky depths.
On several instances in the past John had had reason to believe that Sherlock had dabbled with some less than savoury substances – the supposed drugs bust and Sherlock's reaction to it had planted that idea firmly into John's mind. Then several offhand comments that Sherlock had made since that time confirmed that in some point in his life – for reasons that Sherlock described as "purely intellectual" – that he had dabbled with drugs and, by the sounds of it, cocaine was his drug of choice. Living with Sherlock as John had been for some time now, he could understand that the great intellect that Sherlock was endowed with and the need for stimulation that occupied him did pose certain problems when cases of interest were lacking. He was convinced that this old drug habit had reared its ugly head once more and was becoming a more common occurrence in Sherlock's day to day life… not that anyone would really be able to say with Sherlock – the man's brain worked in such a peculiar fashion anyway that any further obscurities were difficult to distinguish as separate. It wasn't hard for him to be convinced; twice in the past two weeks John had noted that Sherlock's personal hypodermic needle had been out of it's black leather case and was being sterilised, which signalled that it had been used for one purpose or another… that purpose became more suspicious when Sherlock had suddenly started behaving in ways which, although could not be said to be unusual in his bohemian lifestyle, were certainly out with the "norm" of what John was used to putting up with. It was familiar to see Sherlock staring into space, but normally with an intent concentration present in the swirling grey mist in his eyes, but not recently… Recently his gaze had been vacant, there was no sparkle within his eyes; his eyes had hollowed out and John sometimes felt like he was gazing into the cavities of Sherlock's skull. He seemed to have lost interest in everything that was going on and had retreated back into his own mind. It unnerved John not to see Sherlock in overdrive because of boredom, or on the tail of a case, just because he seemed to have lapsed into a horrible disposition. There was a full catalogue of signs that John had noticed about Sherlock's conduct in the past couple of weeks that had sent alarm bells ringing in John's mind, which he had tried to silence.
The rain had been drifting on and off all day' in the morning it had looked as though it was going to shape up to be a fine day – the sun was shining, with a light breeze blowing through the trees, but no heavy dark clouds at that time. It had looked so fine that John hadn't bothered to put his big outside coat on, but just a couple of minutes into his walk to the surgery the rain clouds had descended from the blue sky and the downpour begun. John had been very wet by the time he reached the surgery, and as he got inside the sun broke through the clouds and it had cleared up. It seemed like his walk back home from work was becoming a repeat of the morning – getting out a little later due to that hypochondriac patient – the clouds had been beginning to portray a threatening atmosphere. Now the rain had started again, just lightly at first, but as John replaced his phone into his pocket he could feel the drops becoming larger. Reluctant as John felt to be thoroughly drenched as he had been that morning, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and sped up his pace. Most commuters were in cars, or making their way hurriedly to the tube station, no one would notice if John broke into a gentle jog as the rain began to come down harder.
As John rounded the street corner which led into Baker Street, he delved into his pockets in search of the keys to the door of his flat. Slamming the door and eradicating the traffic noise from outside brought an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion and relief over John. He pulled his wet jacket off, hanging it up on the coat rail as he headed towards the staircase. He was looking forwards to a cup of tea and a period of time in which he could remain seated and not have to do anything or move – being out of work for a while had re-impacted him with how tiring it was to work from 8 to 5 every day. As he reached the first landing of his stairway a strange noise reached John's ears, a strangled cry not specifically pertaining to a man or a woman. The first thought in John's mind was that it must be that of a client, and maybe he should hold off until they were finished, but the cry was proceeded by a large bang from inside the room. All of John's military training suddenly sprang into action, he bounded up the last set of stairs and burst into their sitting room. The room was, there were no other words for it, trashed… Some of the carpet was crumpled up, one of the chairs that usually sat around the work table was on its side on the floor, the desk and all the papers and books were in a state of complete disarray spread all over the room. John's mouth fell open at the state of the room, and he stared around in a paroxysm of horror as different reasons for this scenario – violent clients, burglars – so many wild theories shot through his head faster than he could prevent them from doing so. But words failed him, John's heart leapt into his throat so violently that he felt it throbbing through his skull; the long thin frame of Sherlock was in among the rubble strewn all over the floor. His face was hidden from the direction that John was standing, but the rest of his body looked like it was twitching and writhing in some kind of pain.
"Sherlock?" John pushed aside the chair that was lying in his pathway to reach his prostrate figure of his friend. John couldn't understand why the highly honed level of nervous tension that he had acquired through his army training had been shattered the instant that he was next to his friend lying on the floor. Kneeling down beside Sherlock, he placed his hands upon the shoulder nearest to him and rolled him from his side onto his back. His face was a stark white colour, in great contrast to the dark circles that were present around his eyes and the pupils that were staring up at John were dilated and hollow. But what made John the most uncomfortable was the appearance of childlike terror and unrecognition which was overwhelmingly present all over Sherlock's features. A Shaking hand reached out and grasped the front of John's knitted jumper, John could feel the long thin fingers gripping through the material as tight as his trembling hands would let him, and peering up into the face of the man whom he was holding onto. Sherlock's breathing was coming in wheezing gasps, highlighting further the extent of his distress, and when he spoke his voice was weak and higher pitch than John had ever heard it.
"My…" Sherlock rasped, his words trailing away as his throat sounded dry, he pressed his eyes shut tightly for a few seconds, before opening them even wider so they appeared to bulge out of his face. "Mycrr… Mycroft?" John was slightly bemused by this, and felt himself growing instantly more worried about why Sherlock was in this state.
"Mycroft's not here Sherlock… what have you been doing? Has someone been in here?" John replied, trying to keep his voice firm and calm. Sherlock groaned piteously, his back arching as though he was in agony and the grip of his hand on John's jumper relinquished. "Are you ill?" John had bent down and threaded his arm underneath Sherlock's shoulder blades in an effort to be able to raise him into a sitting position. As he tried to do this he realised that his friend was so weak that every muscle in his body seemed to have lost their control to contract and hold him in any other position than supine. Sherlock's head flopped backwards, rather like a newborn baby whose muscles are not developed enough to hold it upright, and his eyes were firmly closed. Fixing his hand around Sherlock's chest and fastening his grip enabled John to hoist his friend to his feet; Sherlock's frame had always indicated a light, wiry composition, but John became aware that his hand was pressing firmly onto a set of ribs that were projecting from the skin, his weight was a lot less than John had reckoned for. John basically had to carry Sherlock to the couch, as his ability to stand up was greatly depleted, he collapsed down onto the couch and lay. Apart from his left foot twitching in a regular fashion but the rest of his remaining deadly still. "Sherlock?" John said, as he was hit by the feeling that his skills as a doctor were needed by Sherlock at this moment in time. He took a second to bring his mind into the correct frame before beginning to act, he placed one hand on Sherlock's left shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" Indistinct mumbling was the only thing that came from Sherlock's mouth, so at least he was conscious enough to respond to John's voice. John gave Sherlock's shoulder another squeeze and a tiny shake to try and rouse him to consciousness. There was a light beading of sweat forming upon Sherlock's face; John placed his hand onto Sherlock's forehead and was instantly aware of a fever that was raging internally, even though Sherlock was still shivering profusely. "Sherlock, open your eyes for me?" John tried to command firmly but Sherlock seemed incapable, so John lightly raised the upper eyelid of each of Sherlock's eyes to check the dilation of his pupils. The hairs on the back of John's neck stood on end and he knew that he had to do something immediately. It was clear to John that Sherlock was very ill.
"Mmmmff…" Sherlock opened his eyes blearily, seemingly unable to focus on anything. "Mycr…" Sherlock suddenly sighed extremely heavily and his eyelids snapped shut once more.
John stepped out of the room, retrieving his phone from out the pocket of his still damp jeans, he stared down at the keypad for a moment. Mycroft… he kept asking for Mycroft… It was highly unusual for the younger Holmes to request his brother ever, but maybe that was the sign that he was really ill. Mycroft would never answer a phone call from John, he was always much too busy for that, but yet he was always efficient in replying to any messages that were sent to him – possibly because he had Anthea or someone similar going through them all. John was hovering uncertainly, considering whether to call an ambulance to take Sherlock to A&E – he was torn between his two dispositions, one as a doctor who knew that Sherlock appeared to need urgent medical attention, the other as Sherlock's friend who knew that Sherlock would be infuriated to find himself in a hospital. The message to Mycroft had been sent, and in that brief pause where John was torn between his vocation and his friendship a startling even occurred which gave John no time to call for medical help. A spine tingling shriek was omitted from the room in which John had left the semi-conscious Sherlock lying, then there was a scrambling, frantic sound of feet.
On entering the room John was bombarded with a barrage of incoherent noise proceeding from Sherlock, who was perched precariously upon the back of his armchair. Through his yelling he was waving his arms around wildly; his eyes had lit up from the few minutes previous – they were alert and on edge – so much so that it looked bizarre, but the flushed, feverish appearance had not disappeared.
"Sherlock!" John ejaculated in utter surprise, "What the hell are you - ?" John's phrase was cut short by him noticing the jack knife, which usually fixed the unopened correspondence to the mantelpiece, was being held in Sherlock's right hand. Sherlock's gaze settled upon John, but it was still rather blurry and unfocused. John felt the vague impression that Sherlock was looking through him rather than at him. His eyes bulged in his white face and he bellowed:
"Moriarty!" His voice was still slurred, but the name was clear to make out, especially as his proclamation was followed by a further brandishing of the knife. "Moriarty…!" He growled, hunching down so he looked like a cat about to pounce. John stood observing this bizarre display, personally transfixed, his heart being sent in thrills of horror as Sherlock seemed to be swinging from a tightly drawn thread, tugging him internally from conflict to conflict.
"Sherlock." John addressed his friend, who was still perched upon the back of the armchair, in the calmest voice he could muster with his insides feeling like they had turned into live rats. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Moriarty's not here, it's me – John."
"No, no, no, no, no, no! Moriarty!" Sherlock raised a trembling arm and pointed over John's left shoulder. "No! No! You can't! I won't let you!" Sherlock's voice was raising into hysterics, John double checked all around him to make sure that the ghastly Moriarty wasn't lurking in any corners – the only people in the room were himself and Sherlock. John made to move closer to the detective, but a new outcry halted him. "No! Stay away! Don't move an inch closer!" John's bewilderment and frustration was rising, even more so when he saw that Sherlock wasn't even looking in his direction. As John watched, Sherlock slid down from his place atop the armchair into the seat, with his hands over his face, still repeating: "No, no, no, no, no…" The jack knife had been dropped and landed with a clatter on the floor. John saw Sherlock shudder violently; he gave a hiccoughing sob then began to claw furiously at his skin. "Get off me! No!" He swiped at his arms first, but then he turned his attention to his neck, raking his fingers as though trying to detach someone's grip from around it.
John couldn't stand it any longer – not as a friend or a doctor – he bounded forwards towards the chair which Sherlock was thrashing around within and commanded:
"Sherlock! It's John! Stop!" He could hear Sherlock struggling to draw oxygen into his lungs with the ferocity that he was ripping at this throat. John deftly outstretched his hands and grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrists, forcing them away from the neck and holding them firmly in the air. For an extremely thin man it was incredible the amount of strength that Sherlock was able to enact, John was hard pushed to secure his grip around the wrists and hold them out of where they could do any damage to either of them. "Sherlock, as your friend and a doctor I need you to calm down so I can help you!" John grunted through the continual effort he was having to displace trying to keep Sherlock's resistance at bay. It was several minutes as Sherlock fought against John, still making nonsensical outbursts. John struggled fiercely, using one of his knees to secure that Sherlock's legs didn't kick out and make contact with him. Even through the struggling he could hardly fail to notice how close in proximity he was to Sherlock. He could see the wildness in his eyes – like an inhumane shine full of paranoid action; the pale skin of Sherlock's face was drawn tightly over the bones of his face, which added to the menacing impression of the way he was acting; his lips were parted because of the effort he was expounding in his fight against John. In all John wasn't sure whether this closer look at Sherlock had made him any more or less sure about the condition of his friends' mental sanity. He looked like a wild animal – and he was certainly acting like one. "Sherlock, stop fighting me! You need to calm down so I can call an ambulance and get help!" John's frustration was becoming clear through his voice.
"I don't think that will be necessary…" The cool, calm voice of Mycroft Holmes announced itself from the doorway.
