A/N: So, here is the continuation of Chapter 13. I'm really sorry (yeah, okay, I'm not) for the cliffhanger , but I hope this chapter will make up for it. I'm not entirely happy with the beginning, but I really like the end. So let me know what you think.

Also, on a different note, the wonderful SherlockandJohn221B volunteered to collaborate on some of the 365 chapters. And because she's simply amazing, the updates should come much more frequently in the future. :)

Warnings: mentioning of drug abuse, (probably) slightly OOC Sherlock, a bit of fluff, a bit of angst, the usual :)

L …

a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"

John walked the so familiar streets of London for hours, trying to think about what had just happened. At the same time he desperately didn't want to think about it. Every time he remembered his last conversation with Sherlock, his anger came back in full force, making his left hand tremble and his leg hurt. On the other hand, every time his memory provided the picture of the dark-haired man, sitting curled up in a tiny ball behind the sofa and practically begging him to keep him safe, something else stirred in the doctor. Guilt. Rationally John knew he shouldn't feel guilty. It wasn't his fault. Sherlock had done that to himself, just to prove a point. Just to prove his brilliance. Stupid idiot.

Night had fallen, and the early spring air grew colder each passing minute when John finally slumped down on a wooden bench in Regent's Park. Still torn between anger and guilt, John honestly didn't know what to do. He was hungry and cold, but his options were very limited, given all he carried with him were the clothes on his body, his keys and his mobile phone. He couldn't buy dinner, or check into a hotel, because his wallet still was at the flat. He sure as hell didn't want to go back to Baker Street. He didn't want to go to Sarah or Lestrade either, because he didn't want to explain the situation. On second thought though, the DI probably deserved to know the new information.

Sighing John fished the mobile out of his pocket and typed a quick text message to Lestrade.

21:39 - Just to let you know, the drug is probably Ketamine and S. claimed the syringe has been clean. Pls check anyway! JW -

Only a minute later the phone - still in the doctor's hand - buzzed.

21:40 - Will do. How is he? Greg -

Another stab of guilt and fury twisted John's stomach.

21:41 - Last time I saw him he assured me he is 'perfectly fine', no reason for me to doubt that! JW-

21:42 - Last time you saw him? Where are you? What happened? Greg -

John sighed. He knew he should tell Lestrade the truth. He deserved it, for all the times he defended Sherlock. This unbelievably, stupid idiot! John thought again, before typing a reply.

21:43 - Regents Park. We had a bit of a fight, well a major fight really. Needed to get out! JW -

There was a long pause, before the next message arrived. A pause in which John, once again, tried to figure out what to do next. Lestrade saved him though.

21:49 - You did, didn't you? Care to tell me what it was about? Maybe over a pint or two? Greg -

John didn't have to think about that.

21:49 - Oh god, yes. You'd have treat me though, I'm afraid. JW -

—

More than two hours and a couple of pints later John stood in front of the black door to 221 Baker Street. He'd filled in Lestrade on everything, and after talking to the DI for a while the concern about his flatmate soon had dominated the fury. Not that he wasn't still angry, far from it, but first and foremost John was a doctor and he just couldn't leave Sherlock alone in his current condition. God only knew what else the detective was going trough in his intoxicated state. Not to mention all the ideas he could get. Leaving Sherlock alone in the flat was always a risk, even if the man was thinking straight. John really didn't want to imagine what the detective/genius/idiot might come up with at a time like this.

Taking a deep breath, John finally unlocked the front door and walked up the stairs to 221b. The flat was pitch dark and eerily quiet. John took a few moments to listen. Nothing. Not a single sound.

"Sherlock?", John asked quietly into the darkness. When he got no reply, John inched his way forward into the living room. He didn't want to startle Sherlock so he just switched on the desk light.

The room was utterly deserted. The spot where Sherlock had been hidden before was empty of any lanky detectives. The only indicators for what had happened a few hours ago were a slightly crumpled coat and the abandoned bin. The empty bin, John noted.

Slowly the doctor made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. On his way there he spotted a half full glass of water on top of the fridge, but nothing else out of the ordinary. Knocking cautiously on the not entirely closed door, John swung it open completely. A small light illuminated the room, but just like in the living room, there was no sign of Sherlock. Still, John strongly suspected that his flatmate had been here. A pretty clear clue to that were the missing duvet from the bed and the crumpled shirt on the floor, which currently served as bedding for the cat.

John realised that the bathroom door also was standing slightly ajar.

Entering the small room the doctor finally found, what he was looking for, or rather who he was looking for.

Curled up as tight as possible, given his tall complexion, Sherlock lay sandwiched in the tiny space between the bathtub and the toilet. Covered from head to toes in his dark duvet, John couldn't make out whether the detective was awake or not.

"Sherlock?", he asked carefully. His flatmate murmured something unintelligible.

'Not asleep then' John concluded."What was that?", he asked.

"Are you real?" The question caught John off guard. Wondering what Sherlock had been through the last few hours, he approached the man and slowly peeled the duvet from Sherlock's face. To say he was pale would have been an understatement. Sherlock's face was ashen, his slightly damp, black curls a sharp contrast to the unhealthy pallor. John extended his hand to Sherlock's forehead, feeling for a temperature, but finding none. Instead the skin was cool and clammy. Sherlock didn't flinch away from the touch, but opened his eyes and looked at John sceptically. "Tell me!", he urged, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me you are real!" John sighed. Never before had the detective appeared that … lost.

"I am.", John finally assured him. "I am real, Sherlock. I'm here." Sherlock nodded and seemed to relax a little bit. Very slowly the tall man tried to unfold his stupidly long limbs, but failed miserably when he got tangled up in his duvet. With an unnerved sigh he sank back to his former position. John took his cue and helped Sherlock to sit up, with his back against the bath tub. The longer the doctor was in the presence of his friend, the more his previous anger ebbed off. He still thought it was an incredible stupid idea to inject a drug, just for a case - especially with Sherlock's history - but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to scold the younger man for his idiocy. Instead he felt the desperate need to get Sherlock off the floor and somewhere comfortable. Preferably in his - Sherlock's, mind you - bed.

"How are you feeling?", John asked, when his friend seemed to be able to sit on his own, without falling over. Sherlock shrugged.

"Come on Sherlock. Give me something to work with here!"

The detective shrugged again, but answered the question this time. "Tired, my fine motor skills are terribly lacking, the head hurts… well in fact EVERYTHING hurts… the usual things."

"The usual…? What the…No, forget it, don't answer that. I really don't want to know now. What really interests me though is: What are you doing on the floor in the bathroom? Still feeling nauseous?", John said.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No nausea."

"Then why are you in here?"

Sherlock seemed to think hard about that, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn't come up with an explanation.

"I don't know, John. Can't remember.", he answered at last.

"YOU can not remember?", John asked surprised.

"Memory loss is not uncommon with Ketamine. Really John, shouldn't you know these things? That's one of the reasons I hate it so much."

John accepted the explanation and ignored the minor insult completely. No sense in getting angry again, wasn't it.

"Fine. However. Do you think we could perhaps move you to your room or something?", the shorter man asked.

Ten minutes later and after a lot of shoving and dragging from John, Sherlock lay in his bed, with Ginger possessively resting on the man's legs. His eyes were closed, and John was pretty sure that Sherlock was an the edge of sleep, when his dark-haired companion raised his voice again.

"I was almost certain. That you were real I mean. None of the others touched me."

"What others?", John asked cautiously, afraid to agitate his friend.

Sherlock just shrugged, resigned. . "All kinds of people. Yarders, clients … corpses. Animals, colours..."

"Corpses…?", John parroted.

Sherlock nodded. "Hallucinations, John. Optical, acoustical, olfactory, gustatory, sensory even. A common side effect of the drug. Most of them are easily to identify as that. Hallucinations. Familiar people are much more difficult though. Anyway, they seem to be gone now."

Once again John was half fascinated half shocked about the level of clarity Sherlock had been able to retain on his little 'trip'. But then again, it WAS Sherlock.

"So… by gone, you mean…?" John pried further.

"The effects of the drug are gone, yes." Sherlock confirmed, his voice still quiet and exhausted. John nodded, though he was pretty sure that Sherlock couldn't see him, because he had shut his eyes tightly once again.

"So it's all back to normal then?", John asked with uncertainty in his voice.

"Hm…Not entirely, but in a few hours the aftereffects will have worn off too, I guess.", Sherlock answered tiredly.

"That's… that's not what I meant Sherlock. Will it…? Will THIS…?" He just couldn't do that. He couldn't ask Sherlock outright about the specifics of his former addiction - and John genuinely hoped the term former still applied here.

Sherlock opened one eye curiously. It took him a minute to get John's meaning, but then it clicked.

"Will it trigger a relapse? That's what you want to know.", he stated. John just nodded. He didn't trust his voice at the moment.

Oddly Sherlock smiled a bit at John's confirmation.

"You never asked me before. About the addiction."

Now it was John's turn to shrug. "Well I thought that… It didn't seem as if you wanted to talk about it. You told me you started doing drugs, when your grandfather died and…" Sherlock flinched visibly when John mentioned his grandfather, so the doctor didn't dare to continue. Still. Sherlock hadn't answered the question yet. The only thing John desperately wanted to know right now.

"So will it trigger…something?", he asked at last.

Sherlock slowly shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"You don't THINK so?", John asked dumbfounded. "So it IS possible?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Everything IS possible, John. There are thousands of possible triggers and I won't lie to you by telling you that I never thought about taking cocaine again. No addiction is cured. Ever. You know that. But I don't want to lose all I've worked for, therefore no. I don't think this episode will trigger a relapse. I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

John didn't know how to respond to that. He really didn't know. He felt relief and dread at the same time at the words. Of course John knew, that an addict would never be considered cured. Someone could go for decades without relapsing, just to turn back to the drugs for some reason or the other. He was glad that Sherlock knew that his current life wouldn't be possible if he hadn't stopped taking drugs. On the other hand there obviously still were times, when Sherlock was entertaining the thought of using again, which worried John on some level. 'No!', John swore himself. 'No. I won't let that happen.'

Clearing his - suddenly very dry - throat, the doctor broke the burdensome silence.

"All right. Good. That's… good to know. Thank you. Well, I think you should probably try to sleep. I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

Switching off the small lamp, John turned to leave the room, when Sherlock's voice made him stop.

"John?"

"What is it Sherlock?"

There was a long pause. Long enough to make John think Sherlock had already fallen asleep, but then the detective spoke up again.

"Would you mind, staying here for a little while?"

Surprised John looked at the curled up form on the bed. The darkness making it hard to tell whether Sherlock's was looking at him or had his eyes closed. Either way, John couldn't bring himself to deny his friend's request. Pulling up a chair next to the bed he said, "Fine. I'll stay. Just try to sleep, will you? You gigantic idiot!"

"I'm not an idiot, John. I'm a high functioning genius. Do your research!", Sherlock mumbled with a smile on his face. John chuckled quietly.

"Thank you, though." Sherlock said after a while.

"Hm..?", John didn't understand.

"Thank you … for coming back!", Sherlock clarified and a bit reluctantly he added, "I am lost without my Blogger."

Really smiling for the first time in many hours, John settled into the comfortable chair.

"Yes, you are!", he whispered and watched over Sherlock when the detective finally succumbed to sleep.

Keyword: Lost