John sits in his office, listening to one of his more regular patients ramble on about how her cousin's boyfriend's neighbour's sister's ex-husband's nephew had exactly the same thing and he had to go into hospital, and thinks of Sherlock.
No-one would ever call John an emotional man, by any means. He gets angry with himself and his leg, worries about Harry, but he is not what one would call 'emotional'. He doesn't over think things, he tries to approach the world with a certain British practicality, and he certain doesn't worry about his flatmate when he should be working.
Except, John does worry. John always worries. He finds himself worrying whenever Sherlock leaves the house, a feeling akin to fear gripping his heart when his head tells him that Mor- that that man is still out there. He worries when he sees Sherlock's shoulders tense at the word freak, when he leaves Sherlock alone in one of his black moods, when Sherlock twitches and lights up at the world, and John knows he's fallen back on his old habits. John wonders if Sherlock knows this, if it's something he's managed to read in the way he stands, the way he snaps and occasionally storms down the stairs at three in the morning, shouting 'I've had enough', before returning an hour or so later. He must know, John thinks. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes.
"So then, y'see, I tried using this homeopathic remedy my niece's boyfriend's mother recommended, only it didn't get any better, so now I figured that maybe I should come and see you, not that…"
John writes her a prescription and refers her to an arthritis specialist, before calling the next patient in. It's going to be a very long day if his mind keeps wandering like this.
It's a couple of hours later when his phone buzzes, and he ignores it like usual. Except, unlike the quick buzz it does for a text, someone is ringing him. People never ring him on shift. He excuses himself, and answers the phone to Sherlock.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"Are you still at work?"
"You know I am, why?"
"I...actually, nevermind."
"Why, Sherlock?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Go on."
"I was hoping you could go down to the station to pick up some results for me."
"Do you need them now?" There's a short pause.
"No."
"I'll get them on my way home then." There's another pause, longer this time. "Sherlock?"
"Okay." And with a click, the man hangs up. John starts to return to his waiting patient, looks down at his phone, and stops.
Sarah rolls her eyes as he leaves.
Just over an hour later, he returns to Baker Street. "Sherlock!" he shouts on his way up the stairs. "I've got the results for you!" There's no response, and John's thoughts race –what if he's here, what if Sherlock's gone, what if…
He reaches the living room, and sees Sherlock sprawled on the floor, syringe in hand, eyes glassy. Instantly, the file is on the floor and John is kneeling uncomfortably among test-tubes and acid-spills. "Sherlock, you bloody idiot!"
"You…you're doing that…you're interrupting!" the man says, and John lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.
"Interrupting what?"
"M'experiment…" Sherlock slurs, and John leaves for his bedroom. Sherlock doesn't follow.
Time passes. John isn't sure how long it takes, but eventually there's a knock on his door. "What?" he says, not moving from his bed.
"I…uh, that is to say…"
"What, Sherlock?"
"Can I come in?" John relents, and opens the door. Sherlock is white, shaking, and there's vomit staining his skin and clothes.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, let's get you cleaned up."
"No, I…" He reaches towards John, and John takes hold of his wrists.
"We'll clean you up, then we can talk, alright?" He leads him to the bathroom, removes his jacket (thank God, John thinks, it didn't get on the shirt or trousers), and wipes his face. Sherlock doesn't speak, doesn't even respond – he just trembles and stares at John like a trapped animal. When he's sufficiently cleaned up, John sits him on the couch and makes him some toast. "Eat it." Reluctantly, trying not to gag, Sherlock does.
"You're an idiot," John says.
"You weren't meant to be home." John presses his palms against his forehead, squeezes his eyes shut, and sighs.
"Are you going to tell me what the experiment was for?"
"They all did it."
"What?"
"The cases. They all did it John, some kind of drug, I'm sure of it, so I tried to trace it."
"And?" Sherlock stays silent, and stares at the floor. John pushes himself out of his chair, and picks up the file. A few pages in, he looks back up.
"Well, they were all on something, that was right."
"Of course I'm right."
"How did it work?"
"It…I thought it was a way to -" he pauses, breathes deeply, and John notices the tear-tracks on his cheeks, "…induce a violent response." John's heart begins to beat faster, and he leads close into Sherlock's face.
"You. Thought. That?" Sherlock tries to lean away, to back into the couch, but John's eyes are hard and his heart is pounding in his ears. "And you tried it anyway?"
"John, I…" John presses his hand hard on his shoulder, and Sherlock throws himself backwards. There's silence, and John takes a step back.
"Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I just. You can't do these things, you know?" Sherlock is trembling more violently now, the little remaining colour in his cheeks draining away. "I'm sorry." John walks away, eyes fixed on Sherlock, until he's on the opposite side of the wall to his flatmate. "I didn't mean to…listen, I…" Sherlock heaves forward.
"John," he says weakly, and then John is hovering anxiously by his side. "I…" His hands grasp wildly, and John feels himself dragged to Sherlock's side. "Don't go."
"What?"
"Don't want to -" Sherlock's words are slurring into each other, and John can feel the man's heartbeat, fluttering like a hummingbird. Sweat cools against his skin, and Sherlock heaves again. John fumbles for his phone, trying desperately to stop Sherlock falling forwards. Three numbers later, and he's spelling out an address to a soft-spoken he can barely hear over the retching. He pulls Sherlock to his feet, into the bathroom, and sits him on the edge of the bath. "Sherlock…hey, hey Sherlock," he says, trying to ignore the disconcerting lack of focus in his eyes. "Stay with me, yeah? Because I need to kill you later, and you have to be around later for that to work." Sherlock mumbles something incoherent, and John finds himself all but holding the man up.
By the time the paramedics reach the scene, Sherlock has passed out, and John is holding him awkwardly, trying to ensure he doesn't choke to death or land in his own filth. He recognises one of the drivers, who merely raises an eyebrow. John shrugs, and follows Sherlock into the back of the ambulance.
