Hi everyone, this is my first fic so I hope it is okay! If there are any inaccuracies or errors, please tell me :)
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John Watson blamed himself.
There had been no case for over a week, and Sherlock had been hyperactive, irritable, and shouted at least seven times at John and Mrs Hudson for his cigarettes.
Given all this, the doctor should have known something was off when Sherlock stomped out of the flat at 1 am, muttering something about getting some fresh air.
John knew something was off when sherlock returned at 3 am the next morning, almost collapsing into 221B with a fresh line of track marks on his arm.
John checked the flat, obviously, and found a stash of cocaine hidden in Sherlock's sock index. John got rid of it, of course.
Next morning, when the detective was coherent and looked like he could process a few sentences, John had scolded him harshly and gave him that look of disappointment he knew Sherlock detested.
The real panic, as if there wasn't enough already, started when John was walking home from Tesco and tripped up on a human shaped lump. Especially when that lump was wearing the same Belstaff coat and blue scarf as his flatmate.
"Bloody hell, who would be lyin- Wait, Sherlock? Sherlock! Fuck. Can you hear me? Jesus Christ."
The ambulance arrived 7 minutes after John dialled 999, and the paramedics were asking him all sorts of questions.
"How long ago did you find him?"
"Was he unconscious?"
"Has he had a previous experience with drugs?"
"This may be an overdose sir, do you know his medical history?"
"Are you a family member?"
But John was like a ghost, and the comments floated through him without leaving any impact.
After several hours of hospital beds, a concerned phone call from Mycroft and Lestrade, and a rant from John about how he thought Sherlock health was 'past all that', the consulting detective and his assistant were in a cab on their way to Baker street.
The stony silence filled the cab, suppressing all hopes of a decent conversation.
When the pair arrived at their home, Sherlock stumbled past John and into his bedroom, where John could faintly hear Sherlock's body colliding with the mattress.
Half an hour later, John's web history looked a bit like this:
How To Get Your Friend Off Drugs
article/how-...
What is cocaine withdrawal like
search/php37...
Drug Withdrawal - How Dangerous?
.eu/po...
From what John could find out, the withdrawal would include agitation, depression, fatigue and nightmares but thankfully, no physical symptoms.
The Doctor fell asleep 2 hours later, sprawled on top of his laptop, and was awoken by his flatmate trying to sneak past John to the door.
"Don't think I'm letting you go anywhere, Sherlock."
"Please, John. Just one more, then I'll stop. Please!"
Sherlock looked like hell. John doubted he'd slept the other night, but he looked like he hadn't slept for a week. He still had his coat on, and was swaying faintly. If a breeze cane through the flat, John reckoned Sherlock would topple over.
"No. I'm not letting you destroy your body like that."
"Well if you're not going to give me any, get out."
John looked up from his laptop, surprised at Sherlock's statement.
"Sorry, what?"
"John, my withdrawal is extremely harmful, to me and others around me, so I would prefer if you weren't hurt. Get out, John."
"No. I am a doctor, Sherlock, and it is my job to help people, so I am going to help you. I don't care if you object, because you can't do this alone, and I am going to help you. Got it?"
Sherlock's eyes showed a glimmer of surprise, and he looked at John closely.
"But... Why? Why would you want to help me? Why would anyone want to help me?"
"Because you're my friend, and that's what we do."
So for the next few weeks, Sherlock suffered through withdrawal and John tried to help him as much a he could.
It was a stressful time for both of them. One night John woke up to his flatmate holding his gun against his head, and Sherlock even managed to crack a mirror, causing minor injuries to him and three hours less sleep for John.
Many days at a time were filled with Sherlock curled up in a fetal position of the sofa, when others contrasted hugely, John watching woth a concerned eye as his best friend paced up and down the flat for hours without stopping. He ate even less than usual, which was barely anything. If it wasn't for the doctor's persuasion, Sherlock would have turned into a walking skeleton.
It felt like years, but withdrawal for the consulting detective didn't last as long as the various internet sources said, but that was probably because Sherlock had been clean for vaguely four years before he overdosed that fateful night, and the cocaine he took wasn't contaminated. Sure, Sherlock still had mild cracings every now and then, but they weren't severe.
Three months later, 221B was mostly back to normal, or as normal as you can get with a high functioning sociopath for a flatmate.
It had never occurred to John that he had saved his flatmate's life, but Sherlock thought of it many times, just one more of the countless reasons John Watson was his best friend.
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Hope you liked it :) Please rate if you feel the need to.