John stood there for moments that seemed to stretch on into hours.
The rain's harsh fingernails dragged down his back. The wintry air kissed his skin with a fervid burn. It was cold— so cold— but John was more than immune to the weather by now. It had weathered his skin until he could feel nothing but the roughest of touches.
The cold came from the blackness that scratched behind his eyes, forcing the persistent tears out. The vacant street continued to conjure up mental images of Sherlock's impossibly frail body sprawled in the street and it was with this image that came the sudden burst of adrenaline to take action. He ran up the stairs, taking more than one of them at a time into the flat. Whilst inside the apartment he wasted no time in searching for his phone and once he had it in his hands, he struggled with his frost bitten fingers to put pressure on the keys of the cellphone that, at the moment, seemed too small.
John decided to call the only person that he knew could help in a situation like this. Greg.
It was then that he realized that he hadn't the other man's number. John nearly threw his phone down in frustration but halted when he thought of another possibility. He searched around for Sherlock's phone. The consulting detective rarely ever used it and therefore had no reason to hide or lock it. In fact, Sherlock had lent him his phone numerous times in order to solve an errand.
John found the phone under Sherlock's pillow, a rather satisfying find after disrupting the neatness of the room. He opened Sherlock's phone and his breath caught in his throat.
It was ordinary, a few texts and calls from Greg and other people John didn't know. What was unusual however was the fact that most of them came from Mycroft. What could Mycroft possibly want to say to Sherlock? Was that another reason why Sherlock was so distressed?
His initial reaction was to check what they said but he instantly stopped himself. His inquisitiveness had gotten him into this situation and he wasn't about to repeat it.
John found Greg's contact and entered it into his phone then proceeded to call him.
"Greg!" John managed to breathe out through his panting, letting more emotion out than intended.
"Hello? John? Is this John?" John heard a sluggish voice say on the other end.
"Yes, Greg listen. I need your help."
The brisk air bit into his lungs. He paused to swallow in his best efforts to hold in his emotion. He didn't want the man on the other side of the phone know how upset he was, but he was willing to put his ego down in order to save Sherlock.
"John do you have any idea how late it is? If Sherlock told you to call me about the papers than tell him—."
"No Greg," John paused to catch his breath while shamelessly letting his emotions pour out onto the phone. There was no room for his stupid pride when Sherlock was in trouble. "It's Sherlock. He left and I don't know where he is and he might be...oh God. This is all my fault—."
"John, what are you saying? What is it?" Greg asked, finally sobering up from the haziness of sleep.
"Sherlock," John screamed into the phone not realizing how loud he really was. "You have to come quick."
"Wait, John tell me what's going on—."
"Please just hurry Greg!"
Greg, still in a state of confusion replied. "Alright okay I'll be there soon." John felt as if Greg's arrival couldn't have been slower. The silver haired man was met with a frown.
"John!" Lestrade instantly came out of the car when he arrived, shouting out John's name. He had pulled up to the front of the complex with a look of sincere concern. "John, what happened?"
John for a moment was in a daze. He stared at the silver haired man who currently resided next to his car with is body paused in a position to get out of the rain as soon as possible by entering back into the safety of the car. John ran into the passenger side of the car. The instant feeling of warmth overtook him almost immediately.
For some reason that put him slightly at ease.
Greg let himself back into the car, closing the door and turning to look at John. Before he could open his mouth to ask again, he decided to explain everything. "Sherlock ran outside about half an hour ago and I don't know where he is or if he's okay— ."
"Yeah, well it's Sherlock," Greg reassured in a tone that seemed slightly confused at a seemingly pointless situation.
John gulped. "Yes, well he seemed frightened— terrified."
Greg glanced at John's state for a moment before replying, "Sherlock, terrified?"
John nodded, feeling the sting of tears come out before he could hold it in.
Greg continued to stare at John and John could feel his face start to burn. Why was Greg leering at him so much? He hoped it wasn't because he looked so distressed. John rested his gaze on his own fidgeting hands. Finally, the silver haired man spoke.
"John," he whispered.
John looked up at him.
"Why do you feel guilt?" Greg asked. "What exactly happened before he ran?" John knew that Greg, although not as good as Sherlock, had abilities in deduction as well. They went to the same school after all. They knew each other the most.
"He...we…" John's couldn't create a congruity out of all the statements he was making.
"Nevermind," Greg barely yawned. He started the car and started driving. "How long ago did you say he ran again?"
"An hour ago," John choked.
They drove for what seemed like hours even though it had only been a few minutes before they left. As they drove, John noticed Greg whispering to himself out loud. His forehead was wrinkled in thought as he drove recklessly in the night.
John wanted to know how Greg could possibly know where to go for he drove with both determination and speed but before he could ask, they found Sherlock outside, lying motionless on the ground.
"There!" John heard Greg say. He ripped his thoughts away from his mind and looked at Greg sho had his finger stretched out towards John's side of the window.
John followed Greg's finger until he gaze fell upon a figure lying down on the street. John was entranced by what he saw, only snapping out of it when he heard Greg say "Come on," while he was already opening the door to run towards Sherlock's body.
"Sherlock!" Greg shouted as he lept from the car into the misty downpour.
"I'm surprised he made it this far," John whispered to himself. He felt his cheek tickle and it was then that he realized that a tear was gliding down its turn.
It took John a while to finally respond as the full force of the situation hit him. He walked out of the car slowly. He was teetering towards the ground with every step and only made it halfway when Greg called out for him to hurry. John picked up the pace until he reached Sherlock's body. Greg was placing his head on the detective's chest as if he could hear a heartbeat while the rain thundered around.
John knelt next to Sherlock. He tried feeling his pulse on his neck but his frostbitten fingers did little to determine the state of the man lying down. He felt his guilt grip his heart as he stared down at Sherlock's state.
"John," Greg called out to him, breaking him from his thoughts. "Get the car over here. He's been lying face up in the rain for God knows how long."
John was about to comply when Greg covered Sherlock's mouth with his. John's breath caught in his throat, positioned ready to get up, as Greg's actions persisted. The former army doctor hadn't realized that Greg was performing CPR on Sherlock until he started pumping his chest.
Regardless, John looked away. He was jealous. The one he considered a best friend or even a...a lover was lying in the middle of a street with nothing but a weak pulse and John was still jealous. What the hell was wrong with him.
He stood up hastily and ran back towards the car. He was now fully aware of the situation and his main goal now was saving Sherlock. When he reached the car he twisted the key that was still in the ignition.
Greg was still performing CPR by the time John returned. It was then that he heard Sherlock cough and spasm from beneath Greg; John nearly jumped at the convulsion.
"Sherlock?" Both men said instantaneously.
As quickly as he started twitching he halted and for some reason the sudden stillness was just as frightening as the detective not having a pulse.
"Sherlock!" Greg shook Sherlock violently.
"Greg!" John yelled, stopping the silver haired man from potentially harming him. "That won't help."
"What do you expect me to do then?" Greg asked, annoyance lacing his tone.
It was then that John finally saw Greg besides his stoic and joyful manner. He looked as if he finally reached his breaking plot and the emotion in his eyes were one of genuine concern.
If it wasn't for this, John would have yelled at the man. "Help him into the car. We have to take him to the hospital," John replied.
Greg stared at him for a while before nodding.
John got out and helped Greg drag the lanky man into the back seat. They arrived at the hospital no later than half an hour and the next few moments were filled with nothing but running, panting, and anxiety until Sherlock was finally put to bed in the hospital.
It was when John stood outside the glass window to the room looking in for minutes when Greg came to him from behind with two cups of coffee.
"S'colder than a witch's kiss out there," Greg said. With this sentence John finally got a closer look at what the silver haired man was wearing. Greg Lestrade answered his request for help without any hesitation...or a jacket. The man stood with a thin shirt and a pair of slacks equally hugging his skin from the cold water.
When John reached to grab a cup, the other man looked puzzled. "Hey ...are you alright?" Greg asked.
John laughed disbelievingly. "I should be asking you that. But yes. Why?"
Greg pointed to John's lip. The whole entire time he was there, he hadn't realized that he had been biting it. The awareness was triggered by his lips suddenly warming with his blood.
"Yeah...uh. Cold weather, my lip just cracked." John nearly stumbled over his words as he hastily wiped his face.
Greg didn't seem too convinced but let it go as he took a sip from the coffee. John followed suit. The two men stood looking at Sherlock's states as he lied on the bed until Greg asked the question, "What could have caused all this?"
John dragged his eyes from Sherlock's body. The question was slow to register. "Pardon?"
"Do you know what happened before he ran out into the street?" Greg asked.
"No." John's voice began to tremble as shame took over him for he didn't know how easy it would be for him to lie so confidently. But it was not a full lie was it? He knew that the fight had made Sherlock upset but the consulting detective had a fear of thunder previous to the domestic. Regardless one thing was evident.
John could have helped.
If the fight hadn't occurred they could have stayed together that night and that was a fact John could not even try to negate and deny.
"Then could it be…" Greg creased his eyebrows in thought as he stared at John then at Sherlock.
"Mr. Lestrade?" One of the doctors approached him. "May I have a word with you?"
The silver haired man turned around and replied "Sure."
The two walked away and continued to converse, leaving John alone to stare into the room where Sherlock lied. He was barely moving accept for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
John sat down on the hospital bench, remembering what it was about a place like this that drove him mad. It was all the white. He had nothing to occupy himself with except for standing up to go check on Sherlock and sitting back down.
He was nauseous but everytime he went to the restroom nothing would come out. He would bend over onto the porcelain sink staring at the drain and just when he felt that the sick would come lurching out, it suddenly receded. It was a constant battle. He was not one to deal well with such anxiety— though he should be.
John decided that it was because he needed to face his ghosts. He had to walk into the room. He didn't know what he'd do when he got there but he had to see Sherlock up close.
The room seemed to have a vacuum like effect on the sound from the outside for not only was it noiseless, it was overwhelming. As he approached Sherlock's sleeping form he could taste his stomach acid. He looked worse than he imagined. The detective's skin was far more paler than usual and he seemed to be slightly shaking. It was in this light— the washed out white illumination— that Sherlock's thin figure became more apparent and even harder to look at but regardless he stood staring for God knows how long.
He walked closer to him in his best attempts not to make any noise. He didn't know what he would tell Sherlock once he woke him up. He knew that Sherlock would be very irritated but regardless John cleared his throat to signify his presence. He may have been already well aware. He said his name, not knowing if it was out loud or not.
Sherlock groaned and suddenly he regretted ever walking into the room. He felt nauseous and was getting ready to leave before he saw Greg approaching the door.
"What did the doctor say?" John asked Greg as he walked into the room. John didn't even try to hide his growing concern that watch etched into his voice.
Greg turned to look at John as if he had just realized that he was in the room. It was something that would have offended the shorter man if the silver haired hadn't had such a look of emotion on his face. It was an emotion that John couldn't pinpoint.
Whatever he was feeling, John could tell that he wasn't amused. Not in the slightest. "He was delirious."
"Delirious?" John asked. "From what?"
Greg ignored the question and walked over to Sherlock who seemed to be in deep slumber which was like how he slept before John came up until Greg shook him. Rather violently. Sherlock's groans illuminated through the room and his body twisted awkwardly as he stretched in an attempt to escaped Greg's actions.
"Sherlock." Greg called his name disregarding the apparent discomfort in Sherlock's face.
Sherlock opened his eyes slightly in a moment of a mix of annoyance and surprise before shutting them with another groan.
"Get up you bloody idiot!" Greg commanded, further shaking the injured man.
"I'm up! I'm awake Lestrade…?" Sherlock finally opened his eyes completely but they were soon narrowed into slits to block out the bright light. "What do you want?"
Greg laughed incredulously. "What do I want Sherlock?"
John put his face in his hands, sighing as Sherlock's indifference continued to annoy Greg. Suddenly Sherlock's scream pierced the room.
John looked up to see Greg holding Sherlock's limp arm with a vise grip.
"Greg!" He exclaimed as he walked closer to the two men. "Greg what the hell are you doing?!"
"How come?" Greg asked as he looked up at John. "He doesn't care if he's in pain so why should I?"
"What are you talking about?" John asked.
"Think John. What fucking reason would there be for him to run in the middle of the street?" Greg snapped. "At night no less."
John stood there, still confused. Greg's eyes were so intense that it almost hurt to be in the way of their gaze. "Greg, let's talk this through ok?"
"What does Sherlock Holmes do when he's put into a situation that he can control? He thinks of a logical way out of it," Greg eyed John as if he was supposed to know where he was going with the interpretation. "But,when he's put into a situation where he feels that he cannot control, logic unfortunately no longer becomes a factor in his manner of escape."
"What do you mean?" John asked as Greg's gaze intensified.
"He ran out into the street without even thinking twice. He was trying to escape the inescapable. He was scared but that's not enough to make him stop thinking rationally. Fact is, he couldn't thinking rationally," He sighed. "And this was the reason why." Greg yanked Sherlock's arm up in an awkward position once again causing the man to writhe in pain. John was about to protest before he saw the reason why.
Garnishing his arm was a fresh wound the sickly color of purple. It didn't take John long before he realized what it was.
"A needle wound," John whispered. He had no idea how he could have possibly missed it.
Greg twisted Sherlock's arm around in a disturbingly mangled manner. John saw Sherlock shudder violently; he gave a hiccoughing yell then began to claw furiously at Greg's hand. "That's not the first one is it Sherlock?"
Something hit John like a brick. He now knew why Sherlock's hand was shaking for the past few days.
"I…" Sherlock gasped between breaths of pain.
Greg squeezed Sherlock's wrist harder.
"Greg stop!" John screamed.
"He's high." Greg confirmed with such sureness in his voice that John chose not to go against his opinion. His knowledge and Sherlock's was far superior. Afterall, they did go to the same school. "He's fucking high. I bet he's so high right now that he can't even tell whether or not we are really here."
"I...I am very well aware that both you and John Watson are here." Sherlock confirmed sluggishly.
Greg spoke harshly "Oh he can talk!"
Sherlock interrupted him. "Greg...please try to understand — ."
"You don't care about who you hurt do you? God, Sherlock, you're just like Mycroft." The last statement was enough to send everyone in the room shivering.
"Greg, calm down," John whispered.
"You said you wouldn't…" Greg choked still focusing on Shelrock. "You promised that you'd stop."
It was at this moment that Sherlock showed genuine signs of guilt. "Sorry."
Greg eyed Sherlock for a long time before laughing incredulously. "No. No. You're not Sherlock. At all."
And with that the silver haired man left the room leaving John in there with him. With only one word he could think to say.
"Sorry." John said. "I'm so sorry Sherlock."
Sherlock sighed. "You weren't the reason, John."
"Excuse me?"
"You give yourself too much credit. I didn't do this— take cocaine— over you. So you can put your mind at rest now."
"Too much credit?" John said astounded. "Sherlock, that's not what I was implying— ."
"Oh but you were. Why else would you stand in the room for 20 minutes without saying a word until Lestrade walked in? Tell me again why are you in here?"
20 minutes? That's how long he had stood there?
"My intentions weren't to find out if I— ."
"Yet they were."
John felt so many emotions that he couldn't take. He felt relief. He felt guilt for feeling relief. He felt anger towards the latter two.
Finally relenting and showing that yet again Sherlock Holmes was correct, John asked "I...really wasn't the reason?"
"Of course not— so damn simple minded," Sherlock mumbled in aggression then silently snapped "Not over you!"
The statement burned John's chest so much that he almost didn't say "Then…then what—."
"Then why did I take it?" Sherlock laughed like a maniac. "You should know the reason."
His tone was playful but his glare was frightening, so frightening to the point where John stuttard to speak.
"I...I"
"Oh come on John. Have a go at it. You've read the journal. Tell me what you know."
"I...I can't." John gulped. It was a futile attempt in getting the pain in his chest to subside. "You can't expect me to do this."
"Do what? Make you own up to your actions? You can read through my personal belongings but you have no courage to even speak of such things."
"I— Sherlock that's not fair!" Dammit why was Sherlock doing this? Trying to provoke him? John couldn't stand the fact that he was genuinely trying to apologize to a man that wasn't doing anything to find a positive outcome out of the situation. The detective would rather point out every flaw of his until John begged for mercy.
"Your fists are clenched and your jaw is tight. Very telling considering— ."
"Sherlock!" John breathed out almost in pain. "Just stop it. Please, just stop. I'm so very sorry. Just...stop."
"Of course, I know you are." Sherlock said his final snarky reply before he shifted to face the other direction. "Now stop mortifying yourself— it's not only annoying to have to pretend to fall for it but also offensive to watch." John, angered by Sherlock's continual rambling on John's intentions finally took its long toll. Maybe that was the reason why John had the courage to say what he did.
"Fuck you Sherlock! " Sherlock turned around to look at John with wide eyes. John's became heavy as he unleashed his rage. "If you had just told me maybe I wouldn't have had to look through your bloody journal in the first place! Sherlock, was it so bad that I wanted to know more about you for the reason being that I was one of a unsurprisingly miniscule group of people that actually gave a damn about you in that fucked up universe of yours? Was it so surprising that soemone who cares so much about you would go out of their way to learn more about you...to try to HELP? Because you never open up. You never open up. Why don't you ever open up? Why do you always have to be so damn secluded all the time!"
There was a pause, a shock for someone of Sherlock Holmes's stature. He looked at John and pursed his lips, taking in a deep breath before speaking.
"I... Opened up," Sherlock said in the same tone of a child trying to prove themselves correct.
John laughed incredulously. "Really? Do tell me when! The time you play the violin hours on end not letting me speak to you? The time you refuse to eat or sleep whilst your friend literally had to shove it down your throat? No, you don't open up...in fact I feel like you do this in a pathetic attempt to feel some type of dominance over anyone because you're so used to being forced to submit!"
As soon as the last statement left his mouth, he regretted didn't say any harsh sarcastic comments or yelled. "Okay."
He just lied there and if it hadn't been for the heart monitor, it would have seemed liek the sudden silence from a man that could never keep his mouth shut because of his harsh opinions, it would have seemed like the man was dead. And John felt a sudden guilt worse than before.
"Sherlock I...I'm— ."
The door opened behind him. Greg stepped in once again— this time with something in his hand.
"Here," the silver haired man said as he handed a small piece of paper to John. "Take this. Make sure he takes the correct amount." Greg was about to turn to leave as quickly as he came until John called after him.
"Wait...what is this?" he asked.
"It's a prescription from the doctor."
"Hold on. Where are you going?"
"Somewhere that's not here," Greg snapped in Sherlock's direction. His breath was quick and he was filled with utter rage. In a mix of discombobulation and nervousness he opened and closed his mouth until he said in a more tame voice, "I-I...I can't stay here now. I'll discuss anythign you like later John."
The door slammed shut behind him.
