A/N: There's drug use in this chapter, so if that bothers you, sorry. Don't read it if you think it could trigger or anything, I'd hate to be responsible for something like that.

Chapter One

Sherlock had been sprawled across his bed when John had let himself into 221B Baker Street. The doctor had been aware that his friend hadn't been sleeping lately and initially felt relief that this pattern had been broken. It wasn't until he noticed that Sherlock's eyes were open that the panic set in. Symptoms: uncontrollable shivering, glassy eyes, unresponsive, sweating. John listed off the things that were wrong with Sherlock in his head.

Obviously he had taken something, John just didn't know what. So he gave the flat a cursory check, not really expecting to find any of Sherlock's stash. He'd been looking for about half an hour when a strangled coughing noise came from the bedroom. Once John had rushed to his detective's bedside he immediately saw the problem; Sherlock was choking on his own vomit.

John rolled him into the recovery position and sat on the edge of the bed. It was a sad state of affairs when the smartest man in London was choking on his own vomit. Sherlock Holmes has never been smart, John found himself thinking, He's just observant with a good memory. That doesn't make him smart. John got up and opened the curtains and windows. He cleaned up a bit and made himself a cup of tea. Then he carried a chair through to Sherlock's room from the kitchen, fetched the detective's latest case file and settled down. He was resigned to the fact that Sherlock might be out for some time, and clearly he could not be left alone.

The case was boring. If even John found it boring her wondered why Sherlock had been spending his time on it.

It was probably another one of his 'linked' cases. Sherlock had been absolutely captivated by seemingly random cases ever since Moriarty's network had broadcast that video of him still alive. He kept telling John that there was something wrong with the cases and that they were somehow linked to Moriarty. Unfortunately nobody knew exactly how they were linked to anything.

John had complete faith in Sherlock though. If he said the cases were linked, then John didn't doubt for one second that they were. What John doubted was that Sherlock would ever find the links. He had been gradually increasing the number of nicotine patches he wore until his arms were covered in them. He hadn't been eating or sleeping more than John forced him to, and John hadn't been able to force him to enough. Hopefully that could change soon though, now that he might be coming back to 221B.

John closed his eyes and let himself doze.

When Sherlock started to come back to his senses they, as usual, refused to cooperate. His head pounded, his eyes were fuzzy, his ears were ringing, and all he could taste was bile. And it was so bright. He was sure he had left the curtains closed. Slowly, so as not to make his head spin anymore that strictly necessary, Sherlock sat up.

The first thing he noticed was obviously John. The doctor was asleep on one of the kitchen chairs that had been brought into the room. Sherlock mentally cursed himself for not putting the chain on the door. The one time I forget, John, really? Then he swung his legs off the bed and attempted to leave the room without waking his former flatmate. If he could just get a few paracetamol and a cup of tea, the inevitable conversation he was to have with John would seem a lot less daunting.

As Sherlock started to put his weight onto his feet, two things happened at the same time: the floor skidded away from him, and the ground slid towards him. It was very disorientating and by the time he had scrambled to a shaky upright position, he was aware of John's eyes boring into him. He straightened himself out as much as possible and walked unsteadily towards the living room.

John, unsurprisingly, followed closely behind him. Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa with his hands covering his face. He desperately needed something to dampen down this sensory overload.

When he felt a hand bat his own away from his face, he didn't resist. John was standing above him holding out two paracetamol tablets. Sherlock took them gratefully.

"You opened..." He started, but quickly trailed off. There was no point in insulting John's intelligence by stating the obvious, it would be dumb and hypocritical. He was surprised that, of all the things John would do while his friend was high and unresponsive, he would open the curtains.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes I did. I opened your curtains. I didn't want to sit in the dark while I waited for you to wake the fuck up." Clearly John wasn't as calm as he had been acting.

Sherlock groaned as the shouting seemed to saw through his skull, but he forced himself to answer in the strongest voice he could muster, "You didn't have to be there, I wasn't expecting you to be."

"No, you're right, I could have left you. Who cares if the great Sherlock Holmes dies as his airway is blocked by his own vomit? I honestly can't believe you. I can't believe that you would start using again. Jesus, Sherlock, we spoke about this! How long has it been going on for?" John looked at Sherlock like he was expecting an answer, but the detective was still trying to decipher what he had said. It was all too sharp and loud for him to understand. "Fine, but we are having this conversation later. Just - just sort yourself out."

With that John grabbed his coat and left the flat. Sherlock closed his eyes again and sank into the sofa.

James stood in front of a full length mirror and, for the hundredth time since he had returned to London, missed Jim. He hadn't had a chance to use the character since his little broadcast. James had been busy planting petty crimes around the city to draw Sherlock in. He had estimated that the detective should have worked out the pattern last week, and now James was just bored.

The criminal knew that something must be wrong with Sherlock, he had never been disappointed by the man before, but as long as he kept himself locked away inside that blasted flat James couldn't find out what was going on.

Doctor Watson was much easier to track, so James had been receiving regular reports about his activities. It seemed that he had recently left his wife, Mary, and was planning to move back into 221B Baker Street. James knew it was none of his concern, but he was bored and Sherlock wasn't playing, so he dug a little deeper into the matter. He read a few emails here, accessed a few personal files there, and got straight to the issue.

Mary was trying to get pregnant; she had stopped picking up her birth control pills from the local chemist. James almost laughed out loud. By reading their emails it seemed that the relationship had been on the rocks since John had told her that he didn't want children. So, she had taken matter into her own hands, and tried to trap John with an accidental pregnancy. She was always a good liar, James thought, and Doctor Watson still seems to catch her every time.