Note: Don't laugh, but I knew next to nothing about drugs and had to actually do research to write this chapter. Then I started getting adds about re-hab clinics... Lol.

10. Caving in

'Sherlock!'

He ran to his side. Sherlock was laying on the sofa, shirtless, with his gown crumpled underneath him. His eyes were partially open, but he did not seem to be conscious. His skin was clammy and paler than usual, the hair around his face wet. John knew immediately what this was. Sherlock had finally caved in! I knew I should've stayed home tonight! He lifted an eyelid and called his name again. The pupils did not respond to light, but remained tiny pin pricks. His breathing was slow and weak. John was desperately trying to think. He checked for pulse and it was also weak. He turned Sherlock's arms, looking for needle marks and found one. So possibly morphine, heroin or cocaine! Heturned him sideways in case he vomited, to avoid asphyxiation.

Frantic, John called for an ambulance, constantly checking Sherlock's breathing and pulse, always calling his name. He also looked for the syringe; the hospital might need to know what he had taken. He found it under the sofa and noted that the syringe itself was an antique, made out of glass, with a huge needle. It seemed like ages before the ambulance finally arrived. He felt helpless and useless. The only thing that kept him from despairing was the knowledge that he needed to stay in control in order to help Sherlock. He tried to push away thoughts of life without him. That would be unthinkable. He blinked away the threatening tears and continued monitoring his pulse and breathing.

...

He called Mycroft from the ambulance. When the elder Holmes arrived, it was almost one in the morning. The man looked tired, but still impecably well dressed. He seemed to be his usual unflappable self, but there was definitely a hard edge in his eyes. John was sitting bent forward, with his elbows on his thighs, palms together, staring down at the floor. He was trying to control his shaking hands.

'What happened?' Mycroft asked quietly, sitting down next to him.

'I left on a date. He was very hyper, and in such an alarming state that I almost canceled it. He said he'd be fine and told me to go. I came home around midnight and found him unconscious. I called for help and called you once we were in the ambulance. There was a needle mark on his arm, so I suspect morphine, heroin or cocaine. I found the syringe and gave it to them. What did he take when he used drugs?'

'Mainly morphine and sometimes cocaine. He took morphine whenever his brain had too much energy, but nothing to occupy it with. This was the only way he had found to stop it.' Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. 'I was hopeful that he was over it. What was the trigger? There must have been something more extreme than usual. Has he been under pressure or without cases for long?'

'Nothing out of the ordinary. It's been only a couple of days days since his last case.' After a pause, he added 'I had noticed though, he has been acting a bit different lately.'

'How so?'

'Subdued. I'd say almost as if he were sad. I feel awful, I should've known! To be honest, I'm afraid I've been too distracted with the beginnings of a new relationship. So it took me a while to realize he hadn't even been bored between the last couple of cases. Today was the first day he complained about it.' After another pause he remembered, 'he didn't say he was bored, though. Only that he needed a case or his brain would explode.'

Mycroft paused to think. 'Just like old times,' he sighed tiredly after a while. He was visibly upset (visibly for him). He also bent forward with his elbows over his thighs, his fingertips together in front of his mouth. Apparently a Holmes trait, thought John.

'Once Sherlock is stable, I would like to move him to our family home, with our family physician.' He straightened up, shaking his head. 'But I know he'd only run away. Unless I keep him under guard, which would most definitely make him run away.'

'Mycroft, I can look after him at home. I'll take time off work next week, for however long he needs care.'

'I know, John. I appreciate it. I'm grateful that he has you as a friend. Please let me know if you need anything.'

John didn't know what to say. That was as emotional as Mycroft would ever be. But he understood he had meant it. He looked away, embarrassed.

After about an hour wait, a doctor came in to tell them they had been pumping Sherlock with Naloxone to counteract the effects of the morphine. According to the doctor, hadn't Sherlock been brought in when he was, he could've died of respiratory depression. He was coming out of it, and his vitals were getting back to normal. They'd be able to see him soon. 'Soon', or rather, forty minutes later, they were taken to see Sherlock.

He still looked very pale, had dark circles under his eyes and looked small, weak and... embarrassed. His eyes flitted up, then down again when they walked in. He turned his head away from them and closed his eyes, a petulant tilt in his chin.

'Sherlock, you scared us! Are you all right?' John spoke relieved. He wanted to say much more, but held himself because of Mycroft's presence.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. 'Mycroft, go away,' he said flatly.

'Sherlock.' That was all Mycroft said. John couldn't tell what he had meant it to convey, as there was no inflection. He had expected Mycroft to show anger or disdain, but was surprised with the lack of emotions in this very instant. Whatever it was, both brothers seemed to have understood each other.

John broke the awkward silence that followed. 'The doctor said they'll keep you overnight, but that you should be able to go home tomorrow. No, don't protest. You are too weak to move. Please, Sherlock. Try to get some rest tonight.'

Sherlock met his eyes but quickly looked away, asking flatly, 'Are you going home?'

'Only if you want me to.'

'Stay?', he said quietly, still avoiding eye contact.

John guessed Sherlock was acting like this because of his brother's presence in the room. He tried to talk in a neutral tone, but John knew him well enough to recognize the need for reassurance in his eyes. 'Of course, Sherlock! I just don't think I'm allowed in the room, though.'

Mycroft had watched the exchange impassively. At this, he sprang into action. 'I'll go arrange for a private room that accommodates a guest. There will be no issues with Sherlock's doctor staying in the room. I'll get someone to bring you extra clothes.' He swept out of the room, already pulling out his phone. He knows, Sherlock thought closing his eyes, disgusted at himself for showing weakness in front of his brother.

John approached the bed. 'Sherlock... I'm sorry. I should've stayed home. I felt something bad was going to happen.' He touched his friend's shoulder. Sherlock recoiled slightly in surprise, opening his eyes. 'If there's anything you need, please tell me. Now and at any other time. Why didn't you text me? I would've come home. I wish you'd trust me.'

He gave him a penetrating stare. 'I do trust you, John.'

John couldn't think of what to say, so he just gave him a small smile and a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. Sherlock looked away again. 'I didn't mean to give you a fright. I was mislead about the substance's purity and consequently misjudged my dosage.'

Even in the private room, John only got a few hours of sleep. The nurses came in constantly, so he couldn't really relax. Sherlock seemed to have slept, with all the different drugs battling over him.