Warnings: Continued warnings for references to drug use throughout the story.

He was beyond expecting answers from Mycroft. John learned long ago that if he wanted the truth he had to get it out of Sherlock himself, and he learned the perfect way to do that: through guilt. Sherlock's eyes locked with his, and he could already see the consulting detective was ridden with guilt.

"John-" Sherlock tried, but he couldn't get passed the dryness of his throat.

He stood perfectly stiff. Too much was going through his mind to worry about some secret from Sherlock's past.

"Can we just fast forward to the part where we find you inside a drugs house?" John asked quietly. "A few doors down from where my sister was passed out."

Judging by his eyes, which were stretched with horror, Sherlock didn't understand.

"Do you not know or do you not remember?" John shot.

"That's not fair!" Sherlock protested. "John, I swear- this was all for a case. If I knew Harry was there-"

A knock at the door interrupted him, and Lestrade's head poked into the room. Sherlock threw his head back against the pillows, groaning dramatically in frustration.

"Are you here to lecture me too?" Sherlock shot, glaring daggers at Lestrade.

Lestrade simply slipped into the room and leaned against the wall, unaffected by the state Sherlock was in. Crossing his arms, Lestrade remained calm as he replied:

"Not yet. I actually would like to get your take on what happened."

"Is this an official statement?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Off the record," Lestrade offered.

John glanced to Mycroft, who was clearly annoyed with Lestrade's casual perception of what was happening.

"Nice of you to joins us, Detective Inspector. Sherlock was just telling us about how he was hanging out with Hugh Boone."

"Boone?!" Lestrade exclaimed, so loudly footsteps scurried to a stop outside the door. "Christ, Sherlock, that's what this is about?"

"No!" Sherlock cried. His hands balled into fist, grasping at the bed sheets. Then he admitted: "Yes…but not like that. As I was trying to say, Hugh's gone missing, and me being a decent human being decided to go after him."

"Go after him?" John repeated.

He breathed slowly through his nose, wanting so badly to not lash out at Sherlock. But every instinct in his body was trying to do otherwise. He didn't understand how Lestrade was keeping so calm- but he suspected it was for the same reasons Lestrade remained Sherlock's only friend in his old days as a drug addict.

He could only hope they were just old days.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth. He was obviously upset no one was catching on. "He's a recovering cocaine addict going through a terrible divorce, with no support from his so-called friends because no one wants anything to do with him. Where would he go but back to his old habits?"

The room fell silent, and John knew he wasn't the only one who caught the double entendre.

"I asked around with some of the Homeless Network, and they admitted Hugh had been around the streets," Sherlock continued, "apparently he and his wife are going through a rough patch, though she'd never admit it. It spooked her when Hugh went missing…I guess she realized words can have consequences."

Sherlock stopped again. He stared at his hands, as though trying to hide from the three pairs of eyes studying him. At last he looked up- to John- his eyes filled with regret and fear. It was enough to make John anxious. He was desperate to know what was really going on.

"I'm sorry, John," he pleaded. "I had no idea about Harry, I swear."

Deep down, John knew Sherlock was right. He knew there was a high probability that it was just a coincidence that Sherlock ended up at the right place at the right time- and didn't know he should be stopping something tragic from happening. But he couldn't accept that this would leave him with no leads. He was terrified to admit this left no one to blame but himself.

So he nodded, wrapping his arms tightly around his check. He swirled around, shoving past Mycroft as he turned toward the door.

"John!" Sherlock called, his voice nearly trembling.

John refused to meet any of their eyes, as he mumbled:

"I'm going to see my sister."

When he first stepped into Sherlock's room, he was shocked. As angry as he was at his friend, John would have never wished upon him to look that bad, that ill. That close to death.

But Sherlock was nothing, nothing compared to Harry.

If he blinked, she would stop breathing. John repeatedly stood up, rushing to check her vitals, just to make sure she was really there. The beeps of the machine were so painstakingly slow he wondered if he were imagining them.

Harry's skin was a yellowish pale, from head to toe. Her hair, a similar shade to his dark blonde, was frail and un-human. Her eyelids looked plastered into her skin, as though there were never eyeballs there, never those bright green eyes everyone always complimented her for. Dozens of tubes and wires crushed her. But what bothered him most was the smell. The stench was like someone had poured alcohol all over her and sprinkled it with vomit. The smell was suffocating, and he choked on his own breath more than once.

It was almost too frightening to be here. Part of him wanted to disappear, go back to Baker Street, hide away and bed and convince himself this wasn't happening. That both his sister and best friend weren't in the hospital.

But he couldn't move. He only sat there, his entire body trembling as he rocked back and forth, unsure of what to do.

There was a quiet knock at the door and John looked up, startled to see Mycroft's head in the doorway. John tried to say something, but his words came out as a stifle sob. He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the tears rushing down his cheeks.

"I'm a mess," he whispered.

It was embarrassing, to say the least, to be shaking like a leaf while Mycroft Holmes remained perfectly still, perfectly composed.

"Understandable," Mycroft offered softly.

His eyes drifted to Harry, but there wasn't a shade of emotion in them. Judging by his outburst in Sherlock's room, Mycroft had probably reached his emotional limit for the day. John couldn't help but to note Sherlock's brother was a shade paler than he normally was.

Perhaps this affected him more than he thought.

His hand shook madly as he brought it back to his lap. He clenched his fists against the seat of the chair, pushing himself back a bit, trying to remain steady. He was crying so much he was becoming dizzy.

He knew it went without saying that he owed Mycroft an explanation.

"She's in a coma," you could hear the tears in his words. He let out another choked sob as he raised his hand to his mouth, completely stunned by the shock he was in. "They say she'll come out of it, but they don't know when. Her body…it's too damaged."

Mycroft didn't say anything for a long time. He stared at the floor, and blood boiled within John as he realized Mycroft must be deciding if the situation was worth being concerned over.

Then Mycroft said something completely unexpected.

"Have you notified your parents?"

John looked up at him, shocked. The tears stopped for the first time as he realized no. He hadn't even thought of that.

"I can call them."

Mycroft sounded so sincere that John didn't even know what to think. Maybe it was his flatmate's brother's way of apologizing for all he had been put through. Maybe it was his way of acknowledging that he understood what John was going through. Whatever the reason, Mycroft withdrew his mobile.

"No," John stammered, holding out a hand to stop him, "they should hear this from me."

With a simple nod, Mycroft fell silent, as though he had done his part. It was then that John realized if Mycroft was here, it must have been because of something Sherlock did or said. He stole a glance toward the elder Holmes, who was staring at the hands rested in his lap, looking utterly defeated.

"Is Sherlock okay?" He asked quietly.

Mycroft cleared his throat; his voice sounded sore and exhausted when he spoke again.

"He threw me out," Mycroft admitted, "understandably. I am the one footing the bill for this latest hospital visit."

John let out a dry laugh. All of this and Mycroft was worried about money.

"I think he's telling the truth," Mycroft announced suddenly. John stared at him. Without looking at him, Mycroft explained: "I think he was being a good friend in the only way he knew how. He went to Swandam Lane looking for Boone, and somehow he ended up at the wrong place at the very wrong time. Perhaps he ran into an old enemy, or even St. Claire himself."

"He didn't tell you?" John asked.

Mycroft shook his head, looking more helpless than ever before.

"He's in there speaking with Lestrade."

"Sherlock trusts him?" John said. Mycroft nodded.

He never considered the relationship between Sherlock and Lestrade. John always took Lestrade as someone who simply put up with Sherlock and reaped the benefits: put up with a little weirdness, get a case solved. He never actually considered them as being friends. And he definitely didn't think Sherlock sincerely put much trust in Lestrade.

"Lestrade's given him a lot of second chances," Mycroft explained. "Which means if anyone's going to have a hard time forgiving him, it's the D.I."

Of course. If Sherlock had gotten into trouble with drugs before, and therefore probably the law, it was very possible that he crossed paths with Lestrade back then.

"I'm truly sorry about your sister," Mycroft said. "I feel like I should tell you, brother to brother-"

John let out another laugh, unable to believe what he was hearing. He rolled his eyes. His face was dry now, only tracks of tears remained.

"Oh please," he replied, "don't go soft now."

Mycroft smirked a little, but then his face fell. He looked almost gray in the face, much worse for wear than John had ever seen him before.

"Don't blame yourself," Mycroft stated quietly, "it's just not worth the pain."

With that Mycroft let out a slow breath and stood, heading toward the door. John stared after him, realizing the implications of his words. He never considered until then how alike they were, both of them with siblings on the wrong side of the tracks. Suddenly he felt sorry for Mycroft, and he almost- almost- began to understand him.

When Mycroft stepped in the hall Lestrade was there to meet him. He looked just as tired as Mycroft did and just as exhausted as John felt. He lingered by the doorway, never looking toward Harry, as though he was physically unable to handle that pain at the moment.

"I believe him," Lestrade admitted, "I'm bloody pissed off at him, but I believe him. God help me." Closing his eyes briefly, Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his cool. "He says that he found Boone when he got to Swandam Lane, but Boone didn't believe he was there with good intentions. He knew Sherlock was working with the police, so I guess he was paranoid. Somehow- he didn't say- Sherlock convinced Boone to trust him, and Boone admitted he was there for a drug deal. He was working for St. Claire."

John swore under his breath, and Mycroft's face was officially now as white as a ghost.

"Sherlock got himself involved with a drug deal?" John said. He didn't know why his voice was shaking- anger, fear, or still the shock from Harry. Or all three.

Lestrade nodded, his body still stiff as though he were in a bit of shock himself.

"Boone was a bit on edge. Apparently he really needed the money from this deal," Lestrade said, "he had been out of work for months, and he was afraid of ending back up on the streets. Sherlock said it was probably an irrational fear, but he could tell Boone was truly going through a hard time. Sherlock agreed to hang around, he was worried about the state of his friend-"

"Wait," John said, holding up a trembling and, "are you telling me, that this guy sells drugs and Sherlock was trying to help him? And he calls him a friend?"

Lestrade shrugged. John felt sick inside. Maybe being considered a friend by Sherlock didn't mean as much as he thought.

"Whatever his reasons, Sherlock felt obligated to help him," Lestrade said, "apparently he owes Boone a few favors, but I don't even want to know that story. Anyway the two went to meet the client out back in the alley. All Sherlock remembers is the guy's eyes growing wide and him taking out a knife."

John swore again.

"A knife?" Mycroft repeated.

Though he tried to hide it, John could still see the fear dancing in his eyes.

"Next thing Sherlock remembers, he was in the hotel, high as a kite. He knows he made some kind of connection about what was going on, but the next thing he remembered was being threatened…and then blacking out."

John truly thought he might be ill. Between the stench of the room and picturing the scene in his mind, he felt like he was caught in a surreal, alternate, reality.

"Do you think they forced him to take the drugs?" John asked quietly.

Even Mycroft looked like he might be sick at the thought. Lestrade sighed, raising a hand to his forehead as he admitted quietly:

"I don't know."

John let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. He didn't know what to think, where to look, because he was too afraid to see the state his sister was in. Another knock on the door drew him back to reality for a moment. A nurse walked stepped in, looking out of place and uncomfortable.

"Are you the family of Harriet Watson?" She asked quietly.

Bad news.

His heart sank. A sickening bile filled the pit in his stomach.

"I'm her brother," John announced, getting to his feet.

His legs felt entirely too weak, and the room suddenly felt entire too cold.

"Dr. Watson, isn't it?" The nurse said, offering him a sad smile. She must have talked to the doctor. "We found traces of chloroform in her system."

She handed him a page from Harry's file. He accepted with trembling hands as his breath became trapped in his throat. He wasn't exactly sure why relief was washing over him. Maybe he was that desperate for this to not be Harry's fault.

"After we ran her tests we took another look at your friend's results," the nurse explained. Lestrade was the one who accepted Sherlock's file. "We found traces in his system as well."

Lestrade's eyes grew cold. Mycroft stood beside him glancing first at Harry's files and then Sherlock's. The nurse announced she would be down the hall, and the room fell silent for some time. He could see the wheels turning in Lestrade's eyes. John himself was too in shock, too confused to even begin to search for answers.

"That's it then," Lestrade said quietly, at last. "This is an official police investigation."

"Actually-" Mycroft began, reaching for Sherlock's file.

Lestrade snatched it away, like a child protecting his toys.

"No!" The D.I. snapped. "I will not have the government intruding on something as rudimentary as a drugs case."

"This is a kidnapping!" Mycroft shot. "My brother's kidnapping! His sister-"

John tried to speak up, warning him to not involve Harry in his games, when Lestrade protested:

"We don't know what happened!" Lestrade said. He took a step toward Mycroft, not intimidated by the elder Holme's dark, looming, eyes. "Who is Sherlock going to trust? He's the key to this. Tell me, who's he going to talk to?"

Mycroft drew in a few deep breaths, as though battling with his own mind. Then, in unison, both men turn to John. John pointed at himself, stunned.

"Me?"

Both men nodded.

"My brother trusts you with his life," Mycroft said. "I think Sherlock genuinely doesn't remember what happened. And we have to consider, if it happened to both of our siblings, it could happen to someone else."

"I agree," Lestrade stated. John glared at him, and the D.I.'s eyes narrowed, warning him not to interfere. "John, it's fine if you're angry. No one's going to blame you for that. But both of them went through something this week, and we have no idea what."

"Not to mention, Sherlock's friend is still missing," Mycroft added.

"Sherlock's friend got him into this!" John pointed out. "Sherlock's friend is a drug dealer, remember? Someone he pissed off probably recognized him and thought Sherlock was in on it! There, case closed!"

"And your sister?" Lestrade asked.

Once again John stopped breathing. His eyes carefully trailed toward Harry. He forced himself to stare at her, to take in the stark white skin and mess of wires and tubes.

"You've got to take lead on this, John," Mycroft said. "I know it's asking a lot, at a time like this-"

"It bloody well is," John muttered.

"But there's too much history here, between me and my brother," Mycroft continued. "Sherlock trusts Lestrade well enough, but with you he cares."

Closing his eyes, John fell back into the chair. He lowered his head in his hands. Exhaustion shook him to the bone.

"What do I have to do?" He finally said, looking up.

Mycroft paced the room, every ounce of emotion suddenly wiped from his face.

"Once Sherlock is well enough, offer to help him solve the case," Mycroft said.

"'Once Sherlock is well enough?'" John shot. "Do you have any idea what detox is going to be like for him this time? Do you have any idea how painful this is going to be for him? Not to mention the fact that he can't remember anything will drive him insane!"

"You'll need to watch him closely," Mycroft agreed.

"I'm not his babysitter!" John exclaimed.

"No, you're supposed to be his friend!" Lestrade snapped.

John looked at him in surprise. Rarely did Lestrade lash out at him.

"I'm trying to be!" John insisted. "Look, I'm just as worried about Sherlock as you two- trust me. But I'll be damned if I put his life or my life at risk to save some drug dealer and fight off a drug lord!"

Lestrade's eyes fell to the ground for a moment. A sea of memories seemed to pass before him, and somehow it made John regret what he said. He knew he didn't know the full story of what was going on.

"John, as selfish as it may sound this may be our best chance of taking down one of London's most dangerous drug lords," Lestrade said, speaking quietly. "If Boone is involved- if there's any chance St. Claire may be involved…we've got to get these men off the streets."

"John," Mycroft muttered, echoing Lestrade's desperation. "These are the men responsible for Sherlock's battle with drugs. These men are the reason there are drugs bust in your flat every few weeks. These men are the reason my brother ended up on the streets for so long. If these men are still out there, Sherlock's life could be at risk. Even your sister's could be. We don't know what happened."

His wished they would stop making so much sense. If he agreed, he knew how horrible and terrible the news few days- maybe even weeks would be. But if he refused, both men would be right. And the consequences…he couldn't be responsible for those.

"Fine," John whispered. He looked from the D.I. to Sherlock's brother. Drawing in a deep breath, he finished: "We'll do it. Me and Sherlock. We'll end this."

Author's Notes: Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!