Warning: Reminder, this story has serious warnings for drug use, which includes discussion of addiction and withdrawal.
He and Lestrade chased the paramedics as they entered the lobby of the A&E. John struggled to keep up as his eyes flashed from his sister to Sherlock. Both lay equally as still on their separate stretchers. Both already had a team of nurses crowding them, checking vitals and asking questions.
"Does the patient have a history of drug abuse?"
John looked up, surprised to find a young doctor walking beside him. Did Harry do drugs?
"No," he said. He had to take a step back and remember that the doctors needed information to help with treatment, not to judge either of them. "Not that I know of. But she does have a history of alcohol-"
"No, I'm talking about the man," the doctor interrupted.
Eyes falling on his unconscious flatmate, John froze. He remembered clearly Lestrade's drugs bust and how terrified Sherlock looked the night. But he always had some hope that maybe Sherlock was simply worried about the police finding something else- like the experiments in the fridge.
"Yes."
A hand rested on his shoulder, and John looked up to find Lestrade standing beside him.
"Can you tell me about it?" The doctor asked.
Lestrade nodded, and then turned to him.
"I'll look after Sherlock," he promised. "Take care of your sister."
John nodded and covered his eyes with his hands. His skin was cold and clammy, and he shaking with anxiety.
"Are you alright, sir?" The doctor asked.
"He's fine," Lestrade lied. "John, it will be okay.
"Yeah," John said, "yeah, okay…just, keep me posted."
"Of course."
With that he noticed Harry's doctors turn a corner.
"I've got to go," John announced.
He fled after the doctors, but as soon as he caught up with them he was pulled to the side once again.
"I'm Doctor Wiseman." A hand was held out to him, and John shook it. He couldn't help but to notice how young the doctor was- younger than Sherlock's doctor, and younger than he himself. "I'll be taking over your sister's case. Did I hear you say she had a history of alcohol abuse?"
His eyes flashed back to the group of nurses taking care of his sister. He was able to get one last glance of Harriet's stiff, pale, hand hanging over the stretcher before they wheeled her into a room.
"Yes," he admitted. "She's off and on, clean and abusive. We actually just started talking again for the first time in weeks…she promised she'd clean up her act again."
The doctor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, but John ignored the fake sympathy. Why hadn't he taken her more seriously? Why did he not get her help immediately?
"Just take a deep breath," the doctor said, much more calmly this time. "We'll take good care of her. But I have to warn you, heroin overdose-"
"Wait, what?"
His heart rate increased so rapidly he was sure he'd break. His hands grasped at his head; his palms pressed against his forehead, trying to squeeze out the pressure.
"How- how do you know it's heroin?" He managed, stumbling over his words.
"Her heart rate, which is almost non-existent. Her lips and fingernails, already a shade of blue. Her pupils, her low blood pressure. And the fact the paramedics brought back sample of what is, without a doubt, heroin."
"But Harry wouldn't do that," John said, searching desperately for reasoning. "She can be thick, and her history with alcohol doesn't exactly make her a saint, but-"
"Trust me, Mr. Watson, we see cases like hers every day."
"Doctor. It's Dr. Watson."
This didn't earn him any sympathy. Arms crossed, Dr. Wiseman glared at him, not amused.
"Right. Well then, Doctor, surely you can understand that we're simply trying to do our jobs. So either you can cooperate and help us figure out what happened, or you can remain in the waiting room."
The beeping drone of hospital machinery did no favors in his fight to stay awake. It was now well into the afternoon, and John sat alone in Sherlock's room, gazing at his best friend's still body. After the doctors refused to allow him to assist with Harry's case, he had better luck helping with Sherlock. Now that Lestrade was back at the precint, he was left alone. Left to wait.
The door suddenly opened, and John jumped, head spinning at the sound. Mycroft Holmes appeared in the room.
"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, his voice soft and lacking its usual strength. "But I was told this is where Sherlock is."
John nodded and stood. He wondered over to the monitors as Mycroft stepped into the room, with almost a child-like hesitation.
"Thank you for calling me," Mycroft stated quietly.
Mycroft lingered by the end of the bed, hand hovering above his brother's feet. As his eyes roamed Sherlock's stiff body, taking in the jungle of tubes connected to his face and arms, John couldn't help but to admit he felt bad for him. After all, he knew what he was going through.
"Any idea what Sherlock was doing on Swandam Lane?" John asked.
"The last I heard from Sherlock he was working on a case," Mycroft admitted. "That was Sunday."
John nodded, but didn't reply.
"I take it you haven't seen him since?"
He shook his head, and the guilt returned.
"It's not like it isn't unusual for him to run off," John sighed.
"Trust me, I know."
John reached for Sherlock's chart and began filling Mycroft in.
"He didn't OD, but he came close. He was extremely lucky. The heroin is what really got him-"
"Heroin?"
He looked up to meet Mycroft's stunned, confused, eyes.
"Heroin's not his style," Mycroft explained.
John stared at him.
"His style?" He shot. "He almost killed himself by taking a mixture of cocaine and heroin. Stupidity is apparently his style."
Mycroft snatched the file out of his hands and began browsing through it, with expert eyes. He began shaking his head desperately.
"None of this, none of this is Sherlock," Mycroft said.
"Look, I hate to have to accept it as much as you do-"
Mycroft took a step toward him, throwing the file at him. Their eyes met, and he couldn't recall ever seeing Mycroft so afraid. Until that moment, he never would have thought that possible.
"Did Sherlock ever tell you how he got into drugs?" Mycroft asked, speaking quietly, as though afraid his unconscious brother might overhear. John shook his head, never taking his eyes off him. "One Christmas break during university he was in an…accident of sorts. The doctors put him on a heavy dosage of pain killers, which he soon became addicted to. He got curious, and of course it was more than easy for him to find ways to experiment at a university. He never finished school. He dropped out, refused my help- and he'd long since stopped talking to our father. This Homeless Network of his, they're not just a group of kids who like to be around him. They're his old friends."
"You're telling me Sherlock was homeless?" John said softly.
His eyes trailed to his flatmate, who suddenly seemed further away than ever.
"Yes," Mycroft replied coldly, "and they were nearly the death of him."
Crossing his arms, John leaned against the counter. Mycroft browsed through the file as John remained silent. How could Sherlock never tell him about this?
Then again, how many of his own secrets did he keep from Sherlock?
But this…
"You know, it's usually preferable to inform a potential flatmate if you're a drug addict. Or were, anytime recently. Or…ever."
Mycroft only smirked.
"Sherlock never considered himself an addict," he replied. "He considered addicts people who had no control over themselves."
"And he had control?"
"Does it look like he has control?" Mycroft said.
Both of their eyes fell on Sherlock. Mycroft crossed over toward his brother and placed a hand on his arm.
"I thought we were passed this," Mycroft admitted, quietly. "Sherlock ended up in hospital on more than a couple occasions. Eventually he scared himself, I think. When he met Lestrade and started helping the police he swore to Lestrade he would stay clean. There have been times when we have wondered…but as best as I could tell he kept his word."
Mycroft fell silent, looking sick with guilt. The more John studied the monitors behind Sherlock, the more he took in the bruises that littered his friend's arms and ghostly white skin, the more none of this made sense.
"I just don't understand how he could just end up at that…that place," John said. "I mean, you watch him like a bloody hawk and you didn't know?"
"You're his flatmate, and you didn't know."
Their eyes met, and John was met with the cold realization that Mycroft wasn't as forgiving as he thought.
"And tell me, John, how long have you known about your sister's habits?"
John stood up a little straighter and took an accusing step toward Mycroft.
"That's not fair."
Suddenly, Mycroft's eyes softened, and John realized he was testing him.
"I'm sorry about your sister, John," Mycroft's words were more honest than he had ever heard before. "I promise, I am just as concerned about Sherlock as you are of Harriet."
John paled at the sound of his sister's names. Being so detached from her only made him more desperately anxious to see her.
"I just don't understand it," John sighed, turning back to Sherlock. "I don't care what those files say. This isn't him. And it isn't her either."
He placed a hand on Sherlock's scared arm, but as soon as he did so the beeps of the machines sped up a bit. His heart pounded as he checked his friend's vitals. He grabbed onto Sherlock's hand, willing him to regain consciousness.
A finger twitched against his palm.
"Perhaps we'll get some answers soon," Mycroft said. They both watched as Sherlock's eyes began to flutter open. "He's waking up."
Author's Note: We will get to the mystery of the story soon! You heard one version of Sherlock's history with drugs...you'll hear Sherlock's version later. Thanks for all the support so far! Let me know what you think of the new chapter!