John was awoken by the sound of voices. He reluctantly opened his eyes, which were aching from crying and lack of sleep. He didn't know how long he slept, but knew it couldn't have been more than a couple hours. In a way, it felt like he hadn't slept at all. There was no moment of grogginess where he wondered what happened. Sherlock pulling away from him was at the center of his thoughts, the frightened, light eyes burned into John's memory. He sat up, rubbing his eye with one knuckle, and saw Lestrade standing at his front door.

John groaned.

Mycroft was outside.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft looked at John.

John only stared back at him. He didn't know what to say. Mycroft was one of the last people John wanted to see; the only person he wanted to stay away from more was Sherlock.

Lestrade looked at John from over his shoulder, eyes sympathetic, and he looked tired, too. What time was it?

"Come with me, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said from the doorway.

"Like bloody hell I will," he muttered, intending to close his eyes and try to go back to sleep, away from this cruel world.

"You can come in," Lestrade said awkwardly to Mycroft.

Mycroft's stupid posh shoes clicked on the hardwood floor of Lestrade's sitting room. "John," he called, which was a little unusual for Mr. Proper Fucker.

John figured it wasn't fair to be angry at Mycroft, but it was easy to take everything out on someone. "What?" he snapped, sitting up, Lestrade's blanket falling to his lap. "I'm not going to ask how you knew I'm here, but do me a favor and fuck off."

Mycroft's mouth was caught between trying to look impassive and concealing a scowl. "You need to go back to my brother. Your ex-girlfriend is on the loose, and I need to keep you two as safe as possible. Sherlock is now in a flat with an elderly woman, recovering from a wound that should have been fatal. I don't know what happened between you two, although I can take a good guess," his eyes scanned John's face, uncannily similar to the way Sherlock did it, "but whatever's upsetting you will be useless if you or my brother wind up dead," he said sharply.

John felt shame pour into his chest. Fuck. He had completely forgotten about Mary. He felt horrible-he was exhausted, heartbroken, and hopeless, but he would never forgive himself if something happened to Sherlock while he was gone. What was John going to do, stay at Lestrade's forever? He wanted a little more time to himself, to at least try to get his thoughts together, but there was no rational reason he could have protested Mycroft's demand. I can't see him right now, Mycroft. Yes, I know he might be in danger without me, but he broke my sodding heart. That was nonsense. Besides, Mycroft mentioned the possibility of Mary tracking him down and killing him, and he hadn't even thought of that. Not that he was very concerned, though. He couldn't bring himself to be concerned.

But Sherlock could have been in trouble. John did not want to see him, but it wasn't about what he wanted. John would take being miserable around Sherlock than being miserable around his corpse.

So John said nothing, getting off the sofa slowly, feeling like a scolded schoolboy. He looked down at his socked feet. He just made things worse and worse for everyone around him. "Okay," he said to the floor.

There was a pause, perhaps an indication of Mycroft's surprise from his compliance. "Come with me, then," Mycroft said.

John nodded. "Thanks, Greg," he mumbled.

"Yeah," Lestrade sighed. "No problem, John. I hope things work out. You can come back here anytime."

John silently followed Mycroft to the black car waiting by the pavement, climbing inside. He was back to feeling numb (emotionally, at least; stepping outside made his feet cold).

Mycroft sat across from him, staring intensely. "I won't ask," he said, "but I expected better of you, Doctor Watson."

John couldn't retort. He just stared out the window. In any other scenario, he would have decked Mycroft right in the nose, but he was right. Christ, what had he been thinking? Even so, John was still dreading seeing Sherlock. It was going to be horrible, he knew, but he would have to see him again at some point no matter what. Maybe they could arrange something. Maybe they could agree that John would live with him until Mary was caught and Sherlock recovered, and then he would move out. They would go their separate ways and would never have to deal with the consequences of John's disgustingly naive heart.

But maybe Mycroft actually felt a hint of remorse, because he said, "Whatever you did-or he did, I can assure you, it can be fixed."

"How do you know that?" John mumbled.

Mycroft inhaled. "Because I know Sherlock finds your presence vital in his life."

But that only upset John more, and there was no way in hell he was going to cry in front of Mycroft, so he shut his mouth.

The car pulled up to Baker Street way too soon, and Mycroft handed John a key. "You left without anything in your pockets, yes? Here."

John took the key, nodding curtly, and left the car without a word. He stood in front of the door, feet on the cold pavement, the November chill biting through his jumper, and unlocked the door. He stuffed the key into his jeans pocket, and entered the building. It was dark and quiet. He slowly ascended the stairs, opened the door, and saw their empty sitting room. The clock on the cable box, though, revealed it was 3:30 in the morning. No wonder his body felt like shit. He did feel extra sorry for Lestrade, though. The poor bloke probably had work in a few hours.

As much as John wanted to crawl straight into bed and never come out, a nagging voice in his head told him to take a peek into Sherlock's room just to make sure he was okay. He had no idea if Sherlock were asleep-until he heard heavy, uncoordinated footsteps.

The light switched on, revealing Sherlock. He held his hand where his wound laid under his T-shirt. His skin looked shiny and clammy-paler than it usual, all things considered. His eyes were huge, manic, bloodshot, and his hair was a mess. His mouth dropped open. "John! John," he stumbled towards him, "look at that! You're back."

Not only was this not the response John was expecting, but it was unnerving. "Uh, yeah." He cleared his throat. There was something about the look on Sherlock's face that was familiar.

"I didn't think you'd come back-or be back so soon," Sherlock said quickly, and the hand down by his side picked at the fabric of his pajama pants. He was breathing out of his mouth, eyes still as wide as ever, "But I hurt you. Why are you back?" he demanded.

John was upset, yes, but growingly increasingly concerned. What was wrong with Sherlock? "I can't leave when you're like this. You're holding yourself. Does it hurt?"

"That doesn't matter," he insisted loudly, almost shouting. His mouth twitched. "I tried to figure it out. But I can't. Why can't I do this?" his voice cracked suddenly, and upon hearing himself, he shook his head roughly.

John was stunned. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock began pacing around the room, but he was limping, hissing in pain and holding himself tighter, muttering I can't I can't I can't under his breath.

John had no idea what to do about his emotional state, but he saw that Sherlock was clearly putting stress on his wound. Fighting past the lump in his throat, he approached Sherlock, reaching out his hands to stop his pacing.

"Don't!" he shouted, spinning around, teeth bared.

John's jaw almost dropped. He didn't listen and grabbed Sherlock hard, holding his biceps. "Stop! What are you doing? You're obviously in pain." It hurt John to touch him, but his gut instinct told him something was wrong, something worse than an emotional breakdown.

Sherlock's stared down at him, his eyes looking utterly mad, and his breathing was ever faster now.

That was when John got a really good look at his eyes. The pupils were dilated-unnaturally so in the bright overhead light of their sitting room. John's head snapped down to Sherlock's arm, turned it over roughly, and saw the indication of a fresh injection site on the underside of his arm. Ice dropping into his stomach, John abruptly let go of him in shock. "You didn't-!"

That broke Sherlock, causing him to grab John's arms, this time, and drop to his knees. He was staring up at John like he was prepared to get yelled at. "John, let me explain," he pleaded, voice shaking. "I had to, you see? I had to." He was definitely high.

And John was definitely angry. He knelt down and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders roughly. "How could you do this?" he whispered harshly. "Hm? How?!" his voice raised to a yell. John could just shake him right now. "You were nearly fucking dying to begin with! What inspired you in that massive fucking brain of yours to put your heart at more risk? Need I remind you that you flatlined less than two weeks ago?!"

Sherlock's lips worked wordlessly. He gulped audibly. "I wanted to figure it out," he choked out. "It always helped me figure things out-"

"Bullshit!" John let go of him again, nearly sending Sherlock to the ground. He was so angry-he was so fucking angry-he could smack-

John immediately stood up, placing a hand over his mouth. Oh god. No. He couldn't do that. Not ever, ever again. This was bad. The last time he knocked the shit out of a high Sherlock was flashing before his eyes. He couldn't. He couldn't.

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock rose to his feet, stumbling, hand flying to his chest, a yelp of pain flying past his lips before he could stop it. He gritted his teeth and groaned, posture curling as he held his chest.

John was shaking with anger. But he needed to make sure Sherlock didn't take a bloody heart attack. "Come on," he commanded gruffly, grabbing his hand, "you're going back to bed, and you're not moving until I say so. Got it?" His knees were shaking.

"John, I'm sorry," his voice broke, white as a ghost, mouth set in such a deep frown, it almost looked painful.

John fought past his anger and practically dragged Sherlock into his room, forcing him to lie down on the bed. It took effort not to push him down on the bed. "Where did you even get it? It was cocaine, wasn't it?"

Sherlock nodded, his movements jerky. "I had some hidden," he admitted shamefully, picking at the fabric of his pajama pants again.

That hurt to know. John was so overwhelmed, but the doctor side of him took over. "You're going to lie there so you don't put more pressure on your body until the high is over. You're lucky I'm not shoving you into a fucking ambulance right now, but if you get worse, I swear to god, I will. When'd you take it?"

"About twenty-five minutes ago," Sherlock wiped his jaw furiously, gestures completely uncoordinated. "I tried to do without it, but I couldn't." His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he looked up at John helplessly. He stared at John silently for a long moment, but his eyes were flickering. John wondered if he were spacing out, or if his brain were going faster than Sherlock could keep up with. "You cried," he started speaking softly, quickly, "I see it on your face. It's been hours, but you cried. You cried because of me, because of what I did. You ran out of the flat immediately and went-where? A pub," he concluded almost immediately, "but you left your wallet, so you searched for free alcohol." He sucked in a breath, having said all of that in a single go. He was deducing faster than normal, and for once, John wasn't impressed. "You went to seek comfort from a friend, so you went to Lestrade's and slept on his-chair? No, sofa, until you left-" His speech was cut off abruptly and a flash of anger appeared in his eyes. "Mycroft. He got you and brought you here."

"And it's a bloody good thing he did!" John yelled. "I should call him up right now and tell him his baby brother got high off his arse with a sodding hole through his flesh!"

That shut Sherlock up. He swallowed.. "But that doesn't matter," he mumbled, looking all over John's face again, "I made you cry. I couldn't do it and that made you upset." The frenzied rhythm to his speech stopped, and he pulled in a suspiciously shaky breath, brow furrowing, looking guilty. "John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything," his face crumpled. "I'm making everything worse and I'm making you angrier and I don't know how to stop. My mind," he put his hands on his head, "it hurts. It feels like a train going out of control, on the brink of crashing, and I thought the drugs would stop it-"

"You know better," John felt his eyes grow wet with tears. Why did Sherlock treat his body so badly? Why did he always do this?

"What are you doing to me, John?" whimpered, eyes squeezing shut, hands balling into fists, clutching at his hair. "I can't do this, so that's why I used." He was talking quickly again, and his chest was contracting. His breathing was so quick and sharp that it sounded like he was about to take an actual panic attack.

John knew a panic attack while high with a hole in his chest would put Sherlock in a much worse state. He still wanted to run away from Sherlock and hide, but he sat down on the edge of the bed and grasped Sherlock's wrists, prying them away from his head. "Sherlock, you need to breathe." His own voice didn't sound very comforting-all scratchy and thick with bubbling anger beneath the surface-but he was calm compared to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes shot open and he grabbed John's face, thumbs on his cheeks. "You don't get it," he insisted forcefully, his eyes invading John's very soul, drugged and alert and in despair. "I want you to do that," said emphatically, almost a growl, but the how his eyes shone took any venom out of his words. "I want you to kiss me." His lips shook and he snapped his mouth shut, jaw trembling. "But I'm afraid, John," he admitted, reminiscent of the night in front of the fireplace at Baskerville, only with terrifying rawness. Sherlock's breath hitched, and he dropped his hands and brought them to his own face, breaking down into bitter tears. "I want to stop being afraid," he wept into his hands, anguished whimpers growing into harsh sobs.

John's head was spinning violently. There was no way to feel any joy when Sherlock was here, high and pale and sobbing loudly. Why did everything have to happen the wrong way for them? "Sherlock," John took his hands, and realized he was crying pretty hard, too, albeit silently. He squeezed his hands. "Please look at me," he begged. "Try to calm down, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up, his eyes and lips swollen and cheeks bright red and shining from tears. John didn't think he ever saw Sherlock quite like this, and it was one of the most heartbreaking things he'd ever witnessed. "Please stop crying," John pleaded. "I don't want to have this conversation when you're high-"

Sherlock's eyes widened again. "You think I'm lying?" his voice grew high on the last word. "Reasonable, but please believe me-"

"No," John shook his head, sniffing, blinking away more tears. His heart was a jackhammer in his chest, rattling his ribs. He was shaking. "I just want you to be all there when we talk."

Sherlock was still breathing out of his mouth, but a little slower, now. "I didn't mean to make you sad."

It was such an innocent statement that another tear blurred the vision in John's left eye. His mind was a bloody mess, and everything was happening so quickly, but he believed this to be true. He didn't know exactly what was going through Sherlock's head, but as he just said, he wanted to hear the truth from a sober Sherlock. But I'm afraid, John. Afraid of what? Him? He needed to know, but not right this second. He needed to get Sherlock to stop crying.

"I know," his voice shook. "I know that now. What...what do you want me to do for you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked quickly, causing more tears to fall, and his frown deepened. "I think-I want-you to hug me?" he asked hesitantly, sounding completely unsure.

"Do you?" John asked.

"I'm afraid to want that."

John was reminded once again, perhaps now more than ever, that a look into the depth of Sherlock's heart was a shockingly intense experience. As much as Sherlock crushed his heart just a few hours ago, John felt incredibly sorry for him, especially if this were a misunderstanding. Was it? I want you to kiss me, he had cried. That was a rather plain statement, wasn't it? But John wouldn't try that again right now. At the same time, though, he asked in a small voice, "But, I know we said we'd talk later, but just to be clear," a furious blush bloomed all over his face, "when you pulled back-were you disgusted by me? Or no?"

For a moment, the tears stopped, and Sherlock looked gobsmacked. "What? No! No, I'm just," but then the tears came back with frightening speed, "I'm just an idiot." He grabbed and pulled at his hair again.

"Hey!" John grabbed his hands, "Stop that, Sherlock."

"I'm pathetic, an arsehole," he was back to babbling fast, tears regularly dripping off his chin, "I always make things worse-but I never wanted to hurt you, John, but I keep doing it because I'm despicable-"

John put his hand over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock looked at him with puzzled, glossy eyes. John sighed heavily, dropping his head. Was this level of self-loathing a regular occurrence when Sherlock was high? Considering that Sherlock allowed himself to be nearly murdered by Culverton, John would say yes. John lifted his head. "None of those things are true," he told him gently. He took his hand off Sherlock's mouth. "Your mind is in overdrive right now, and you're talking nonsense."

"I don't deserve your sympathy," Sherlock shook his head. "I've put you through so much in such a short amount of time." He raised his eyebrows. "I see your anger. It's there." Sherlock's eyes moved around so quickly that John was getting a headache from just looking at him. "You want to hit me."

John felt like his body temperature dropped by twenty degrees. "What? No-"

"You do," Sherlock insisted, "and that's okay. It's only fair." He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. "Do it."

John couldn't help but lunging forward and pulling Sherlock into his arms, trying not to sob into his shoulder. This was so, so wrong. The other Sherlock-that had to be it. He thought it was fair punishment. Sherlock said in the hospital that he deserved to be hurt. With the sudden statements of self-loathing, John thought that this was a building up for a long time. "Never," John breathed into his hair. "Stop this. I'm not going to hurt you." Ever again.

Sherlock's body was trembling violently in his arms, and then it was like all of the strength left his body when he wept into John's neck, shaking hands holding John's jumper tightly. "The h-highs aren't usually-this bad," he choked out.

"I think you've been hurting for a long time," John stared at the headboard. This confirmed, again, that seeing the depth and intensity of Sherlock's heart was terrifying. "Breathe. You need to calm down. You worry me so bloody much," John told him, shutting his eyes tightly. "You can't do this to yourself."

But then Sherlock started to cry apologies again, so John held him closer and told him, "It'll be all right, just don't fucking do it again." It seriously didn't feel right, holding Sherlock like this when he was high as a kite. It wasn't supposed to be like this. "I need you to breathe slowly and deeply for me," John told him. "You're putting a dangerous amount of strain on your body." His priority would always be Sherlock's health, no matter how much his mind was struggling to process everything. The Sherlock in his arms now desperately needed his attention, but he couldn't help but think of the other Sherlock, who never got to confess these things to John, who bore the brunt of his rage without question. John missed him.

But this man was still Sherlock.

"John, can we lie down?" he asked. "My chest is heavy."

"Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"No," he shook his head, curls tickling John's face. "It feels this way if I'm up too long when I'm not high, too."

John let go of Sherlock, and then climbed over his legs to sit on the other side of the bed. Sherlock lay down on his back, pale cheeks wet with tears and eyes red, but he seemed to have calmed down a little. He let out a shuddering sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "If I weren't injured, I'd be bouncing off the walls right now. I'm restless but can't move around. It's uncomfortable."

"It'll wear off," John told him. He caught a glimpse of the clock on the bedside table and saw it was nearing 4 in the morning. What a mess. "You should at least try to sleep it off." If Sherlock said he took it about twenty-five minutes before he came home, and John figured that was about five to ten minutes ago, then the high wouldn't last that much longer. He knew that was why Sherlock was drawn to cocaine-short, intense highs, which supposedly helped him think. Bollocks.

"I'm not sure if I can," Sherlock said, turning his head on the pillow and looking up at John. "You can go upstairs to sleep, though. I see you're tired."

"I'm not leaving you in here," John sighed. He was exhausted, but too mentally wound up to close his eyes. A part of him still wanted time to himself to think, but that felt out of the question.

Sherlock didn't say anything, his fingers curling and gripping his T-shirt over his chest. They fell into tense silence. John didn't know what else to say at the moment, unwilling to hear any drug-induced declarations of feelings, and Sherlock seemed to be ashamed. John spent the silence going over everything in his head, but it all left him as hurt and confused and frustrated as before. Considering how many times John woefully misunderstood Sherlock, he didn't want to make assumptions about his motives anymore. The space on his forehead between his eyebrows pounded.

Sherlock slowly sat up on his elbows, looking up at John. "I think it's mostly passed by now."

John looked at the clock. 4:27. Did they really sit in silence all that time? "You took it about an hour ago?"

Sherlock turned briefly to glance at the clock. "Yes."

That was around the normal time for cocaine highs to wear off, but John looked at Sherlock's pupils, and confirmed that they were back at their normal size. "Let me feel your pulse," he said.

Sherlock held out his wrist, and John put his fingers over his pulse. It was only a hair faster than normal, but definitely a sign that Sherlock was almost sober. "It's almost back to normal. How do you feel?" he asked.

"Like I shouldn't have done that."

"Blood right, you shouldn't have."

He sat up all the way, looking down at the duvet, the manic light in his eyes and frantic air to his movements gone. He looked guilty. Sherlock folded his hands on his lap, looking up at John from under his lashes, shyly. He opened his mouth, frowned, and then said, "Considering the time and how I treated you, I can imagine that you don't want to have this conversation now, but if you'll allow it, I'll explain myself as best as I can."

His body wanted nothing more than to get under the covers. He knew this conversation would be emotional and already felt beyond worn out, but they needed to have this talk. "Tell me what happened back there," John said. Too tired, too stressed to care about being embarrassed, he told Sherlock, "Tell me why you pulled away if you wanted me to kiss you."