Chapter 2

John stood in front of his old flat at Baker street and was immediately hit with a wave of nostalgia. Even though it had only been a month, the place seemed like a phantom image from the back of his mind. It didn't help that a considerable gloom had settled around London, promising a bout of rain before too long. That only heightened the imaginary drama of John's mind.

"Well, no use in stalling,"John said out loud to no one in particular. And he walked up the steps to 221B.

"Thank God you're here," Mrs. Hudson said as soon as John walked in. She was on her way down the stairs from Sherlock's flat. "He's gone completely mad! I don't know what to do, John. Honestly, the man has been a wreck since you've gone. All day and night, sawing away at that bloody violin! I'm at my wits end!" Mrs. Hudson said, nearly trembling.

"Right, Mrs. Hudson, I'll have a word with him," John replied, suddenly dreading walking up the last flight of stairs. He could hear a string of nonsensical musical notes and what sounded like a shelf being knocked over.

"See that you do...but it is so nice to see you, dear. How are things with Mary?" She asked, snapping back to her former self in an instant.

"Things are going well, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'm going to go..."

Another huge bang echoed down the stairwell.

"Right," Mrs. Hudson said, and bustled off into her own flat.

John took the stairs two at a time and paused at the door when he finally reached it. He was not prepared for what he saw.

All of the furniture had been tipped over and made into an impressively symmetrical dome in the center of the living room. It was almost like a child's fort but somehow...refined. Everything else that might have been on bookshelves or tables was scattered haphazardly across the floor. Including Sherlock's poor skull that was tipped over onto the top of his cranium. John resisted the urge to right it.

The kitchen was a complete disaster area. Experiments had completely taken over every free space and something bubbling on the stove was beginning to burn. John turned off the burners and the noise of the violin ceased.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, suddenly appearing behind John. "Are you trying to ruin my experiment? They sent you, didn't they? To ruin it. To ruin everything. Why else would you be here? You haven't been here in four weeks, two days, thirteen hours, seventeen minutes. Of course what else could you take from me? WHAT ELSE?" Sherlock prattled off in a riot of words and clicking teeth. His eyes were shifting back and forth at a furious pace.

If ever there was a mess, Sherlock Holmes was one. His hair was a wild birds nest sticking out in all places, clearly unwashed. As was his skin. A clear sheen of sparkling sweat covered over the milky-pale skin of his uncovered torso. That, by the way, was nearly skeletal now. He was wearing pajama bottoms low on his hips and his dressing gown untied. In one hand was his violin, in the other a zucchini. And his eyes, well, they were bloody blown out, fixed, and dilated. No question about it, Sherlock Holmes was high as a kite.

"What have you done, you prat?" John asked in a voice so angry he hardly recognized it. It was like the voice of a disapproving father finding his son smoking behind the garage.

"What have I done, John? Oh, John, did you bring me a case? I'm sure it's rather obvious but I've been so booooooooored," Sherlock actually bloody laughed at his own voice and threw the zucchini at the tower of furniture across the way.

"Now what is the point of all this?" John asked, unable to conceal his outrage. His arms flew out into the air as though he was gesturing at everything.

"Well I'm testing the structural integrity of my fort, John. And vegetables make very suitable projectiles. You see, judging by the weak points in the architecture, if I hit it at just the right point, I should get the whole thing to collapse outwards. Of course," Sherlock explained, picking up a wooden spoon and throwing it so hard that it missed the pile and embedded itself in the fireplace.

"Not that, you massive idiot, this! The drugs! I thought you were clean. After all this time, really, Sherlock?" John asked, becoming exasperated and emotional. He blamed himself. He wasn't here to check on Sherlock. He wasn't here at all. It was as though John had checked out of real life for a few blissful weeks of marriage. Tears were rapidly springing up to his eyes and he tried to choke them back.

"Don't be dense, John. I was clean. Although I will admit to doing drugs, I am not an addict. And I assure you it is for a case. A very. Important. Case..." Sherlock seemed distracted momentarily as though listening to something. "Come inside, quickly," Sherlock said, suddenly getting down on his hands and knees and crawling into the furniture domicile.

"No, Sherlock. Come out here. We need to have a talk about what we are going to do about this," John said, crossing his arms.

"Shhhhhhhh! Quickly, John! It's a matter of life and death." Sherlock said quickly, motioning frantically to him. John surrendered and got down on his hands and knees to squeeze himself into the tiny opening of the fort. Maybe Sherlock was just acting, maybe this was all for a case...It certainly wouldn't be the most extreme thing he'd ever done.

"Sherlock, I think we need to call your brother. He can get you some help and-"

"No, no, no, no, no, John. You see, that's why I built this. Mycroft has spies. EVERYWHERE. Probably even bugged the flat. But in here, he can't see me. No Mycroft, no malicious government tracking. Safe," Sherlock explained. "Oh and do be careful, there are quite a few sharps three inches from your left hand, some of which are loaded,"

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted and finally had enough. He pushed over the upturned sofa and all of a sudden everything in the fort collapsed outwards in a neat little circle.

"Well done, John. See the point of leverage was-"

"Shut. Up. Now. Just shut up so I can think about what to do with you," John said, lifing up the sofa so it was right way up, and sitting down with his head between his hands. "My fault, all my bloody fault,"

"What is that racket? It sounds like the whole building is about to come down!" Mrs. Hudson said, entering the flat with considerably less shock than John had.

"Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock isn't mad. He's doing cocaine," John explained, giving Mrs. Hudson a weary look.

"Yes, dear, I know," Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head.

"If you knew then why didn't you call me?!" John asked, staring at her wide-eyed.

"Well I promised Sherlock I wouldn't tell. He can be quite convincing, you know. I think he and his brother have quite a mean streak. That's twice I've been threatened by a Holmes. But, I never said anything about not letting you into his flat while he was going bonkers," She said sweetly, shooting Sherlock a saccharine smile. He stuck his tongue out at her like a child and flopped down on a pile of blankets, unwashed shirts, and damp towels.

"I don't even have Mycroft's number. He always just appears out of the bloody fog..." John murmured to himself.

"I'm sure he'll turn up before too long, dear," Mrs. Hudson said on her way down the stairs. Comforting. Because once Mycroft found out Sherlock was doing drugs again...Sherlock, John, or both would probably be tortured in some abandoned Russian nuke chamber 50 feet below the snow.

John looked over at Sherlock who was all of a sudden very mellow. The initial effects of the cocaine had apparently worn off and he was staring absently at the ceiling. Before too long he would probably fall asleep. Either that, or go into a fit of unprovoked rage. John favored the former.

"So what are we to do?" John repeated at Sherlock, who looked like he was concentrating very hard on something.

"What?! About what?! What do we DO? I was perfectly fine before YOU entered the picture, both before we met and now. I didn't ask you to become involved in my life," Sherlock was standing now, nearing John with wild eyes, scratching at his neck feverishly. "Before you made me FEEL things. Feelings! For the weak and the stupid! Why would you make me feel? FELLINGS JOHN, SENTIMENT," Sherlock ranted.

"Calm down now, Sherlock. Everything is going to be fine," John said, putting a hand out at him like he was trying to calm a wild pony. Sherlock got very close to John's face now. John was sincerely hoping he wasn't going to have to punch his best friend in the face.

"I was fine until you came into my life, but you dug down inside me like a parasite, niggling and and eating away at my clarity, at my...sanity...now I can't get you out. You changed me and you left me...John..." Sherlock's lips were mere centimeters away from John's now and his heart began to beat faster. Some overwhelming burn cast itself into John's stomach, a feeling altogether too familiar having lived with Sherlock's beauty for so long. John buried the feeling, as he always had, knowing it was inappropriate. Especially at this juncture. However something inside John longed to close that gap between them. Just a breath away...

"N-now Sherlock, ahem, I suggest you step back and calm yourself down," John said, putting a strong and steady hand on both of Sherlock's shoulders.

"CALM! I AM CALM!" Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs. He put his hands into fists and yelled at the top of his lungs a scream that sounded like it was bellowed from the depths of Hell. Then, all at once, Sherlock went red faced and passed out directly on the floor.

John ran over to check his vitals to ensure Sherlock wasn't overdosing. Without knowing how much cocaine he had consumed, John was hesitant to let him lay there. But his heart rate was steadily calming down now that he was horizontal. It was most likely Sherlock had only exhausted himself entirely.

So what now? Do I try to contact Mycroft? Surely he knows by now what Sherlock is up to. Not much gets past him. Do I make Sherlock stop taking drugs? Well that's obvious. But can I stop him is the better question.

"You changed me and you left me...John..." Those words echoed in John's head. Maybe...well maybe John needed to move back into Baker street for a while. He would explain it all to Mary, she would understand. In fact, she would probably encourage him to do it. That would clearly be the best way to monitor Sherlock's recovery rather than send him to a treatment facility. Imagine all the bad press they would get from that...still...would Sherlock consent to it?

John could only wait until he was sober to find out.