Some days, I feel like I'm completely useless to Sherlock. On those days, I wish I could help more.
The days that he's on cases, I feel incompetent, even though he tells me (sort of) otherwise, sometimes.
And then there's the days when he gets bored.
Sometimes I can entertain him pretty well.
But sometimes I'm not home. Sometimes I'm at the clinic and have been working overtime to pay the rent. Sometimes he hasn't had a case in a couple of weeks. And always it gets to him.
Especially today.
I hadn't had time to go shopping that day. I had somewhat cryptic sounding texts from Sherlock.
BORED! If you don't hurry home, I'm going to get TOO bored. –SH
Sherlock, I have clinic work. I can't just drop everything to entertain you. I'll be out soon.
You're taking too long. –SH
I still have an hour or so to go. Come on, seriously.
Too long. Too late. –SH
Sherlock, what did you do?
Sherlock?
Sherlock! Answer your phone!
Needless to say, I tried to get out early. It didn't really work out. I was mostly just worried he'd blown apart the flat. I would have preferred it, actually, to what he actually did.
When I entered the building itself, Mrs. Hudson was just going outside. She stopped me.
"Oh, dear, Sherlock's up there and he slammed the door pretty loud earlier. He seems huffy, I think he's upset because nothing's going on!"
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know," I had sighed. "Did you hear any explosions? Gun shots? Screams of the innocent?"
"No, no. Well, I heard a thud, but he probably just tripped."
"Tripped? Yeah, not likely. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I had said, giving her a hug. I rushed up the stairs and opened the door to a very odd sight.
The flat was torn apart like someone had been looking for something. The wall had writing on it in spray paint, but only a few words like (surprise surprise) "BORED," "WHERE," and something that looked like it could say my name, but I really couldn't be sure. I looked around for a second before my eyes settled on the couch.
Sherlock was spread out on it, limbs splayed everywhere. He didn't seem to notice me yet, but his brow was furrowed and he looked like he was deep in thought about something.
And, sort of suddenly, his legs sort of flung themselves off of the back of the couch and he sat up. I heard something fall on the ground, but I was too busy staring at Sherlock's face. His mouth was wide open in a shocked sort of way, and it was obvious to me that he was dizzy. His eyes looked confused and a bit horrified. He looked down and stared at his shoes.
I looked to what he dropped and, yes, I was right. A syringe. Perfect. Something caught my eye and I looked at the desk – only to see more. I gave a small groan and Sherlock turned his head towards me, mouth closing.
His eyes didn't find me for about a minute.
"Who are you?" is what he had asked me, in the softest of voices. He immediately looked down at his chest in confusion.
"What have you done, you bloody idiot?" I groaned quietly. He looked up at me again.
He squinted at me, he flexed his fingers, he squinted harder, he opened his eyes wide. He couldn't see me well enough. I heaved a sigh.
"You are in my flat," he had said very matter-of-factly before looking down at his chest again. He looked up quickly this time. "Where are you?" I shook my head frantically, becoming a bit hysterical.
"Where am- I'm right in front of you, Sherlock," I had replied. He watched me and watched me for a good minute or so. I didn't know what to do.
"I meant who," he said before staring at me with his mouth open again. I shook a little bit, I shivered a lot from the sight of this god-like man being completely incapacitated. I walked over to him and held out my hand for him to take. His eyes didn't follow me, they were still staring at where I was. He looked up at me. "Where are we going?"
"Take my hand," I said softly. God, I felt like dying. I felt like it was entirely my fault. I wanted to… Alright, I wanted to cry. This was horrible, my best friend was sitting here… Like this. Everything he usually worked for thrown away by a couple of needles.
But his hand immediately went to mine. He didn't look pleased, however.
"You filthy sneak," is what he hissed at his hand with a sneer. I took a deep breath and pulled him up carefully, taking his other arm and then wrapping my arm around his waist until he seemed like he could stand on his own. He looked dizzy again, like he was watching the world spin around him and found it to be the most horrifying thing he had ever seen in his life.
"Help."
I was shocked at his tone. He had whimpered it, nearly. Squeaked it, maybe. He sounded helpless and – not like Sherlock. He gave a huge gasp, and his eyes were filled with tears. He blinked and they fell. He looked really surprised by that, his finger going up to catch one.
But he was looking at me with the oddest expression. He looked sad, I don't know, it was just horrifying to see on his face.
"John," he had said. "John, that's you, that's John. It's John, John."
I hugged him carefully, tightly, as if someone could snatch him away at any second. His arms loosely wrapped around me in turn. I felt him give a small sob.
"I'm here," I had said soothingly, or I hoped so.
"Nice to meet you."
"You… too," I had replied. Sherlock gave a very joyous laugh. I pulled back to look at him with a sort of startled, horrified giggle.
It seems my laughter caused a sort of chain reaction, as Sherlock began laughing louder. He was laughing so loudly that it was kind of scary, and after a while, he was clutching at his chest and stomach as he laughed a booming laugh. He was gasping and laughing. It was loud and then it was suddenly screams. He was screaming so loudly, as if he was being lit on fire.
I quickly pushed him down onto the couch and leaned over him. He stopped screaming and stared at the ceiling, giving gasps of breath and looking completely horrified. His eyes found my face.
"John," his voice came out in a croak.
"Sherlock?" I asked back. I was worried. God, I was. Was he dying? Had he had too much? Granted, any would qualify as too much, but had he had so much that it would kill him?
"Is my chest voice friend gone? He was hurting me." It took me a second to figure out he was talking about his voice. The laughter, or maybe it was the screaming. "John?" His voice sounded frantic, lost. My throat clenched up.
"Yes, Sherlock. Yes. He's gone, he won't hurt you," I had said in a very choked voice. I watched his eyebrows furrow and I knew he could see the tears in my eyes, but, God, I couldn't help it!
But his face scrunched up and I could tell he was about to cry, even if I've never seen him cry, personally. He clutched at his chest and I immediately knelt down and hugged him the best I could without awkwardly lying on top of him. I turned his body slightly and held him close, and he buried his face in my neck, his knees pulled up, and he began sobbing.
I hushed and soothed.
"It's fine," I had muttered. "It's going to be okay. You've lost touch with reality. It's fine, I'm right here." I was just saying things to say them, at this point. And he was just sobbing because he had too much. He was confused, for once. And he hated it.
His sobs calmed down and he went limp, every so often he would clutch me a bit tight. It took a while before he let me get up. He was still. I panicked, immediately checking him over. He was breathing, his heart rate was fine.
Of course, I called an ambulance.
Of course, he woke up in the hospital and was extremely angry with me.
He didn't remember it.
But I did. And the next time he was out, I called Lestrade in to help me find any drug Sherlock could possibly have in the flat.
Needless to say, any time he was bored from that point on, I rushed to his side.
I would never let him be bored again.
Not like that.
