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It took more time than it should have, but Sherlock eventually managed to clean up the majority of his mess- there were several times where John needed to step in to redirect Sherlock's focus from attempting to work, back to the task at hand. At last, the spills managed to get wiped up and papers gathered into semi neat piles.
It would have been nice for Sherlock to properly tidy the place while he was on the drug fuelled rampage- he certainly would have had the energy to do so, but John knew that this was as close as he was going to get. The current state of the flat would have to suffice.
Sherlock stood pouting in the middle of the kitchen, an air of finality about him. John could tell that there was no chance that he'd be able to get him to do any more work.
"I'm done," he stated plainly.
With a sigh, John spoke. "Right. Good. Now go to bed. I don't care if you're not tired, I don't care if it kills you to lay in that bed and you don't sleep a wink, you're staying there until morning, and I'll not be joining you. Not tonight."
Almost immediately, Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. To what part of his instructions, John wasn't sure. He didn't care. He was too upset with the detective to sleep in the same bed as him as they had been for some time now. He'd sleep in what had become the spare bedroom.
"No. I'm not changing my mind. And, you're going to hand in your phone and laptop to me over the night. I don't want you working. We'll deal with any drugs you have stashed round here in the morning. If I don't have cooperation."
Sherlock scowled, making no attempt to hide his disdain for the situation. Any fragment of a filter that he had had been entirely dissolved under the influence of the cocaine. He hated every part of this and he wasn't about to lie. John couldn't confiscate his things. He wasn't a child. Admittedly, he acted like one, but it didn't happen all the time. This wasn't fair. None of it was.
"I won't give them to you. When else do you suppose that I'll be able to get any work done?" He shouted.
"You should have thought of that before you decided to pump your veins full of that toxin. You have to deal with the consequences of it."
"I was prepared for physical consequences, but not for this." He muttered, glowering.
The icy stare that he was focused on giving John was interrupted as the doctor suddenly reached into his pocket, snatching his phone.
"Bed. Now. Go."
Silently, and miraculously without protest, the taller man shuffled in the direction of his room. John could hear the unmistakable sound of Sherlock throwing himself down on the bed. It was a sound that usually indicated bad news- that Sherlock was in one of his moods, but this particular night, it was relieving. At least it meant that he was obeying, if only to a certain extent.
John stood still where Sherlock had left him, countless questions flooding into his mind. He closed his eyes for a long moment, pinching the bridge of his nose.
How had this happened? Sherlock had been doing so well… Or so he thought. How long had this been going on? Had he been hiding it for a while? Was his reckless behaviour, and lack of fear for being caught the result of escalation of the drug habit? It was hard to tell how severe this truly was, and part of him didn't want to know.
Had it in any way been his own fault? No. John couldn't let himself think like that. It was Sherlock's decision. Even if it was something he'd done to trigger it, Sherlock was the one who had decided to use drugs instead of talking to him, or using a healthy coping mechanism.
Forcing himself to stop his train of thought, John opened his eyes and headed to the kitchen table, where Sherlock's laptop was sitting. He grabbed it, and with the phone and a heavy heart, he went to bed alone for the first time in a long while.