His dalliance with relapse quickly became a full blown habit. Where he once resented John for being gone so often, he was now grateful for the time he had on his own. If he was alone there would be no one to catch on and he could be high in peace. The routine and rush of it all was addicting as well, dodging Mycroft's cameras about the city was a task in its own. He had seamlessly orchestrated himself straight into addiction again and it felt like home. For hour swaths of time he was numb, his mind slowed from its normal breakneck speed. He paid careful mind to when he thought John would be around at first but as he fell deeper into the drugs he began to care less and less about being caught. When he was high nothing seemed to matter much really.

Sherlock managed to buy enough to get through most of the weekend but by Sunday afternoon he had run dry of heroin and his stash of cocaine was in short supply as well. Peeling himself from his mattress he stumbled into the shower, the water running scalding hot. He really could care less about taking the shower but he knew if he was spotted outside looking disheveled and unbathed that it would be a dead giveaway. Washing up as quickly as he could muster his muscles to move, he dried himself before putting on a crisp outfit. To the naked eye he might look like an upstanding citizen, perhaps a bit over tired due the slight suggestion of bags under his eyes but he certainly did not look like a junkie. That's what he was of course, a junkie, he always had been in one way or another. He knew better than to text his dealer ahead of time, intercepting a text message was child's play for Mycroft.

Sherlock hoofed it across the city, it took longer than it should due to his having to dodge cameras. The drugs were waning from his system and he felt the anxiety of withdrawal creeping upon him. Weaving through alleys until he found who he was looking for, exchanging money for Cocaine, Heroin and a bit of Marijuana. Sherlock was nothing short of overjoyed when he had the drugs in hand, tucking them away carefully before heading back to the flat. On the way he stopped at a corner store and bought a fresh pack of cigarettes, some rolling papers and a prepackaged pastry with an obnoxiously optimistic looking red-headed girl on it. Opiates always made him crave sweets even as it helped suppress his appetite for food that might hold some actual nutritional value.

Once he came back home he made quick work of getting his tools ready. He needed to clean them which he did hastily. When the needles were thoroughly disinfected Sherlock retreated to his bedroom. Opening the window preemptively this time so that he wouldn't stink up the flat again with stale cigarette smoke. He fastidiously began to cook up the heroin solution adding a tiny bit of cocaine and making sure that dissolved fully as well. Loading the chamber of the needle and deciding against injecting in an obvious spot this time. He slipped his shoes off and pulled of his socks, using a steady hand to get the needle between his toes. He pushed the stopper and feeling the almost immediate wave of pleasure that came from the drugs. Sherlock released an obscene low moan under his breath as he felt the toxins taking over him. Heroine relaxed his muscles so that they were loose and his limbs became heavy. The cocaine kept him awake but he knew he would need more. Once he tucked the needle inside the box and reached for the book on his nightstand, needing a surface to pour some of powder down on so he could do a few lines. Rolling up a pound note to create a make-shift straw, he took two generous, fat lines of the white powder.

Sherlock was sitting with his legs crossed together on his bed. He was slightly hunched over as if his back muscles were refusing to fully cooperate, shirt unbuttoned so he felt less restricted. He broke up some of the weed, enough for a joint. He sprinkled a thick pinch of cocaine onto the dried herb before licking the paper and rolling it closed between his thumbs and forefingers. Sherlock stood up and went to his window, turning a fan on to suction the smoke from the room. Lighting the joint and taking a deep, full inhale. It was harsh, harsher than cigarettes because it was unfiltered and he and to stifle himself from creating a cacophony as he choked and sputtered on the first hit. He didn't indulge in marijuana often but he did enjoy it on occasion; it was dull compared to the other drugs. It didn't grant the merciful stillness that heroin did nor did it energize him like the cocaine, marijuana was mellow and made his brain only mildly muddled. Smoking the rest of the joint became easier with each hit, gaging how much smoke he could take into his lungs. Sherlock snuffed it out once it was nothing more than a roach and found himself tapping his fingers against the inner curve of the arch of his foot. Drumming his lithe digits and creating his own beat, erratic in nature and doubtlessly fueled by the upper he had put into the joint. Smoking cocaine was a different high entirely, smoke penetrates the system almost as immediately as injection and right now he was rocketing from the high.

Sherlock got up, starting to do some very necessary cleaning of his immediate area. His room was normally spotless but right now it had a striking resemblance to a garbage heap. There were pastry wrappers and empty cigarette packs strewn haphazardly on the floor and filling his bin. He got rid of the trash and bagged it, taking it down to the main bins. Racing back up the stairs to his flat in under five seconds. Sherlock was a vibrant buzzing ball of energy for a good fifteen minutes. It began to become a bit too much and he decided that he needed to come down. Sneaking back off to his bedroom and preparing the needle again. Mixing uppers and downers was inadvisable to say the least but Sherlock was certain he knew what he was doing. Still, even the most brilliant of minds can make a miscalculation and once he had injected the second dose of heroin within the hour Sherlock realized that he had definitely miscalculated.

His gut wrenched and he reached for the freshly emptied garbage bin, retching into it. Awful, bitter bile flooded up his throat. Sherlock began to dry heave and he grabbed for a bottle of water by his bed and chugged it to get the taste of bile from his mouth. Tossing that up as quickly as he drank it. Too much, he had taken too much. He decided it wasn't going to be enough to kill him, no need to turn himself in by calling emergency but he most definitely felt sick. Pushing the bin away from himself and curling up on the bed, staying on his side so that if he was sick again he would not run the risk of drowning. Closing his eyes to try to block out the sensation of spinning. This was just a minor setback, he told himself, he would just have to be more careful next time.

Sherlock felt heavy, fighting a fustily to remain conscience. The drugged detective drifted off only to be startled awake by a thunderous knock on his door. Darting upright and lunging for the little black box which held his needles, tossing them under the bed. "Who is it?" he groaned towards the door.

"Sherlock…Sherlock it's me. Can I come in?" John's voice answered.

Sherlock could only hope enough time had passed for the smell of marijuana to dissipate. He called back to the door. "You may."

John stepped inside and looked around the room which Sherlock was suddenly very grateful that he cleaned. "You've been sleeping a lot lately." John said looking to his friend who was apparently still in bed in the middle of the day.

"Bored, no reason to be up. No cases to work." Sherlock shrugged lazily.

"Are you sure it's not something more?" John asked curiously as if he knew something.

Sherlock dismissed that idea, John couldn't know. He couldn't know because he didn't see the obvious signs in front of him as per usual. "I'm positive."

"Look, I don't know exactly how stupid you think I am Sherlock but something is wrong with you and I know it." John went from concerned to angry rather quickly.

"Nothing is wrong and I'm sorry that you doubt your own intelligence so much John." Sherlock replied coolly.

John looked like rage was boiling inside of him. "Sherlock I can smell the weed and you look like you're high as a fucking kite."

"Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is up to her herbals again." Sherlock dismissed his suspicions.

"No, it smells like weed right here in this room. And you didn't deny being high." John quickly responded.

Sherlock fell back against his bed. "John, honestly I have nothing to tell you. I don't owe you an explanation just because you came barging into my bedroom."

"You owe me the truth because I'm your friend." The doctor was seething, hissing the last word through his teeth.

"Friend?" Sherlock sat back up right, posturing his fingers into a steeple under his chin. "Tell me John, friends are people who see each other correct? People who spend time talking however inanely just to show affection to one another. How much time have we spent together in the past few months?"

"Sherlock, I know I've been busy but…we're friends even if I'm caught up with something else at the mo-." John sighed being cut off.

"Someone else you mean." Sherlock interjected.

"I'm getting married! I need to spend time with Mary, we have a hundred things to do and I'm sorry if watching you lay about the flat isn't one of them!" John barked back defensively.

Sherlock looked down, clearly wounded and lost for words.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean…look you are important to me. Very important. I'll make up the lost time, you know I will." John's tone had softened.

Sherlock shook his head, finding his voice. "You don't owe me anything John, no more than I owe you an explanation for what I've been doing."

"Doing?" John asked, suspicions rising. "I don't want to make it up to you because I feel I owe you or that I'm obligate. I want to spend time with you. I know I haven't been around and I miss you too, okay?"

"If you're looking for a teary eyed reunion I would rather get back to sleep." Sherlock stared up at the ceiling.

"Don't try and treat me like that Sherlock. You can't get rid of me that easily." John shut the door behind himself, going closer to the bed. He sat down at the foot. "What are you on?"

"Currently coming down from a few things actually. I'm fine. It's not a problem. I can stop any time I want." His voice a bit monotone as he spoke out the clichés, not bothering to even try and fool himself.

"When did it start?" John questioned further.

"A month ago, maybe a month and a half." Sherlock shrugged again.

John shook his head, how hadn't he noticed? How the hell hadn't he noticed for a month or more that Sherlock was using again? "I'm sorry." John whispered.

"Why are you sorry?" Sherlock was suddenly perplexed, expecting anger and accusation but instead there was an apology.

John let out a heaving breath. "I'm sorry that I have been such a bad friend that I didn't even notice that you were using. Sherlock, I know you've been alone here and I just…there's so much to get done before the wedding. I would just call the whole thing off at this point if it wouldn't break Mary's heart, it's such a hassle."

"I wish you would." Sherlock said before he could stop himself.

"You want me to call off the wedding?" John laughed in disbelief. "Why?"

"Never mind." Sherlock was flushed slightly, his normally pale skin turned pink.

"You can't just open a can of worms like that and say never mind." John scoffed.

"And you said you weren't stupid." Sherlock frowned. "Can we go back to talking about the drugs now?" Any conversation was better than why he didn't want John to marry Mary.

"No." John swallowed. "I mean…we can…is it connected. I mean the drugs and you not wanting me to get married…are they connected?" John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock remained silent for several long seconds. "Yes." He decided to answer honestly.

"Why?" John whispered, not accepting guilt for Sherlock's use but still feeling empathy for his friend's pain.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock groaned.

"It does." John replied.

Sherlock again was silent, looking anywhere in the room but at John. He swallowed and felt the unfamiliar stinging of tears in his eyes. Emotion, awful, soul crushing emotion was bubbling inside of him provoked by both the daze of drugs and John looking wounded before him.

John realized without Sherlock having to answer him this time. He felt overwhelmed by his own emotions, wanting to soothe his friend's very apparent heartache. "You love me." He stated more than he asked.

All Sherlock could do was nod, feeling childish in this action. John could not help but notice the tears that started to free themselves from Sherlock's eyes, trailing down the sharp angles of his jawline. John wasn't thinking logically in that moment, he leaned in and kissed Sherlock's tears away. "It's okay…you can feel that way."

"But you don't feel the same. You have Mary, which any sane friend would be fine with." Sherlock swallowed as he did his best to regain his composure even as a heaving sob was begging to be released.

"I knew my friend wasn't exactly sane long before this." John tried to lighten the situation with a joke.

Sherlock frowned further and shook his head. "Please…just call Mycroft and tell him if you must but leave me alone."

"I'm not going to leave you alone." John shook his head as well.

"John, I can't do this. I can't tell you how much I love you just for you to reject m-." Sherlock was cut off this time. He was cut off by John's lips upon his own.

Sherlock whimpered into the kiss, caught off entirely but he got over the initial shock quickly. John was kissing him, his mouth felt so soft and warm and exactly as Sherlock imagined it. The tickle of sparse chin hairs from the doctor's five o'clock shadow grazed Sherlock's smooth skin. John moved one strong hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb down the pronounced angle of his jaw.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, he let John control the kiss. He felt John's velvety tongue press past his own lips and entwine with his tongue. Ever a quick study the still drugged man caught on and began to reciprocate the kiss where it was appropriate. Soon they were entangled in a passionate true kiss, drinking each other in. The sound of John's muffled but appreciative sighs sent shivers down Sherlock's spine and straight between his thighs. Sex was something he considered boring and he never had given it much of an effort once he was out of the ravages of hormones that came with adolescence. John had changed his mind in an instant, he was curious now…so very curious. His body felt alive from just snogging, from lips and teeth and tongue tasting each other. He could only imagine what else John might be able to do to him. "Please." Sherlock whimpered as he broke the kiss.

"Shh." John hushed him, knowing that they couldn't stop at just a kiss. Perhaps it was the stress of the wedding combined with the realization that he was losing his friend that caused John to cave into this. Sherlock decided not to over think it, not to question it lest it all be spoiled.

John started to help Sherlock out of his shirt, lips traveling down the curvature of his neck. Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes, melting into the sensation. "More." He whimpered.

"Yes, more." John agreed as he started to strip Sherlock further. Sherlock didn't have to help him, John seemed just as eager as he was in this moment.

Closing his eyes and humming contently as John's mouth fluttered over his svelte torso. "John." He breathed out the name like it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Sherlock focused on the teasing touches as nimble fingers undid his trousers and he inhaled sharply in shock as the delicate digits started to fish him free from his pants. "John." He repeated with more of a moan in his voice.

"Just this once." John whispered as his fist wrapped around Sherlock's cock. It was hard already, incredibly interested in being in the doctors grip. "Just because you need to know what you mean to me."

Sherlock whimpered and decided that just once was too good to give up. "Just this once." He agreed.

Before he could piece together how quickly this was moving, John's mouth was wrapped around the head of his aching shaft. No matter how high Sherlock had been in the past he was convinced that nothing had ever felt this wonderful. "You need this don't you? You've been dreaming about this…I have too. I know I shouldn't but if I ever thought you wanted it too…we could have." John whispered as he removed his mouth from the head and began to drag his perfect pink tongue down the length of Sherlock's cock. His tongue was working itself up and down making expert work of licking the sensitive skin to make the detective's dick twitch. Soon he wrapped his mouth back around the head and Sherlock was lost in the ringing pleasure that came with the sensation of sucking in his most intimate places.

It was obscene and it was too much, Sherlock felt it was off. It was still the most erotic experience, orchestrated straight from a fantasy. As that thought entered his mind he realized it was just that, a fantasy. Still he came, hard when the dreamed up depiction of John Watson looked up to meet his eyes as he sucked his cock.

Sherlock felt his head pounding as he returned to consciousness. His pants were wet and uncomfortably sticky with come. He had a wet dream after passing out from the drugs, it had all been a dream. He felt something like disappointment and relief all at once but he wasn't allowed to even his open his eyes and dwell on it before he heard someone clearing their throat in his doorway. Sherlock opened his eyes to see Mycroft standing there, a pronounced frown pulling at the corner of his lips. The black box which had been thrown under his bed in the dream was in fact still out in the open in all its glory, needles visible. "Well, aren't we a sight." Mycroft said after a moment. "How long has this been going on?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. He was discovered, there was no way of going around it. This would not be a dream sadly.

"Answer my question. How long Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice stern and raised.

"A month." Sherlock answered flatly.

Mycroft seemed to be digesting that information for a moment. "And the list?" he asked.

Sherlock took the piece of paper from his nightstand and scribbled down the drugs he had taken, giving it to his brother.

"How easily you lose your way." Mycroft spoke solemnly, stepping into the room and starting to pack a bag for Sherlock.

Sherlock knew he wouldn't be sent to rehab this time, it was likely he would be holed up in Mycroft's house until he was sober. "Don't forget socks." He said apathy in his voice as he laid still on his bed, waiting until it was time to go with his brother to be reprimanded and rehabilitated.