"Are you still seeing her?"

Watson was pulled from his thoughts, surprised he had been able to get lost in them. He blinked a few times, still getting used to the once familiar surroundings of 221B Baker street. He put down his now cold cup of tea and looked up, surprised to find the sun had set while he wasn't paying attention. "Hmm, sorry?"

"Mary." Sherlock supplied, his voice uncharacteristically soft, as if he was treading carefully for John's sake.

The doctor shook his head. "No. Not since." He cleared his throat, maintaining his facade. "No."

The detective nodded pensively. He felt more concern for Watson than he would have thought he was possible of. He spent most of his life ignoring the human race and their fascination with attachment. With all his deduction he wouldn't have ever predicted a friend like John to come into his life. He found himself now trying to catch up and make up for the weeks spent apart. While he was on his own drug bender, it seemed his mourning former flatmate had been struggling with his own inner demons in a more sort of literal sense than expected. Sherlock tried to busy his jittery mind with exploring John's problems, and focusing on his well being for the moment.

John was doing precisely the opposite at the moment. Having drawn himself out of memories, he glanced at the clock and then back at Sherlock. It was reaching the 24 hour mark and things seemed on schedule. Sherlock was doing well to look calm, but he could do little to mask the shaking that was starting to take root. His breathing was shallow enough that the doctor knew he must be in discomfort if not outright pain. He felt a twinge of concern knowing how early in the process they were, and how bad it was likely to get.

And yet, it still didn't feel real that it was coming. Nothing felt real. The word disassociation flashed through his mind, but John made a visible face at the terms of his first therapist. He couldn't believe he was back in this flat. More than that, he couldn't believe he had ever left in the first place. He was a bloody idiot. Sherlock didn't kill his wife. He stood at gunpoint in a room full of a dozen witnesses, and Mary chose to jump in front of him when the trigger was pulled. The honest truth of it was the only thing that would have changed if he had been there was it'd be him dead on the floor and Mary left a single mother. John couldn't help the strong twinge of longing that that could have been the way events unfolded.

He stood, his own agitation somehow even stronger than Sherlock's. "I'm putting a fresh kettle on, do you want anything?"

"Morphine would be nice."

John shot him a look that made Sherlock regret the joke. Bad timing, he supposed.

"I'm fine." He tried.

John strode into the kitchen. The counter at least had been cleared enough to make a cup of tea without danger to his own personal safety. He pictured the room the night Mycroft had been combing through it. The needles everywhere, the tourniquet, the lighters. It still didn't feel real. He had been on watch through a "danger night" as Mycroft called them, looking for the signs in the hopes of preventing it. They always turned out alright. And It wasn't that he hadn't been around the man when he was high before. He met Sherlock on that plane, watched him kiss the very slightest of overdoses before coming to. But it had been an isolated event. He hadn't relapsed. Mycroft's stories felt like fairy tales, just as far off and fictional. The elder Holmes wasn't one to divulge details, but over the years he had alluded to long stints of addiction, withdrawals, and overdoses. But to John, Sherlock just seemed somehow above all that. It felt too human.

Then again as the last few years took their course, John had watched Sherlock long enough to know how incredibly human the man was beneath all the deduction and invention. He cared a great deal about a limited number of people. This was just too… vulnerable for the detective. Watson couldn't connect the situation to the present. He acknowledged with a sigh, that it'd probably mean he was wholly unprepared for how bad this situation could get. He had to try to ready himself for the worst, because who knew how out of control Sherlock had really gotten.

He flexed his scabbed over knuckles. He had to put aside his recent anger too lest he let it get the best of him yet again.

John brought his cup of tea, and Sherlock's unasked for cup of tea to the parlor and took his seat once again. He managed some small talk in an attempt to keep questions off of his personal life, and was pleased to see Sherlock drink some of the offered drink. He managed to think to himself right there that things might just not be so bad as he feared.

xxxxxxxxx

The next two days were a blur for John. He watched Sherlock pace the house probably enough times to wear thin the floorboards on his path. He developed a fever on day two that never seemed to peak, but never wanted to break. The shakes were more noticeable than before, and he swung wildly from unbearably hot to needing a blanket every few moments. Even then it was the temper that John found most unbearable. He had moved a collection of items to his room for safe keeping, after cleaning up glass from a broken frame or mug one too many times. Irreplaceable items. The skull, almost all rare items from the parlor, and after much deliberation even Sherlock's violin. He couldn't play with his trembling hands anyway, and John had imagined it smashed to pieces after he tried.

Three days in and John awoke to the sound of Sherlock being sick. He rubbed his tired eyes, lifting his sore body from his chair where he must have dozed off. John knocked on the bathroom door. "Are you okay?"

"What do you think?" Snapped the response from the other side of the door.

"Would you like some water?"

"Fuck off and leave me alone."

John put his hands up in a show of surrender even though he couldn't be seen. "Alright. I'll be on the couch if you need me." He wouldn't risk going back up to his old bedroom. Too far for Sherlock to call if he needed him. Not that the doctor could imagine any scenario where Sherlock called for help. These last days had been terribly isolating even when he was here with the detective. The worse Sherlock got, the higher the walls he built were, and the absence had made John particularly slow at breaking down those barriers. He had decided to let Sherlock determine the distance between them, it was easier than a constant fight.

John felt a twinge of guilt leaving Sherlock alone to his ills as he simply lied down on the sofa and pulled a blanket over him. Sleep came without it's usual difficulty, perhaps the stress being more familiar than the quiet. John Watson found rest.

xxxxxxxxx

John woke up with the feeling it had been a noise that woke him. He listened in the stillness for what the source could have been, but the flat was simply quiet, save for the cars outside and the ticking of the mantle clock. Looking up the bathroom door was open and the light was off, so it wasn't that. He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face to try to shake some of the sleep from his mind. Groggily, he pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. A little past three in the morning.

He took a deep breath, pulling himself up. Sherlock's door was closed, he must've gone to sleep. Still, the doctor felt a nagging need to check on him, make sure he was alright after he spent the evening ill. He turned back and went to the kitchen, fetching a glass of water, both for the benefit and also the excuse to come into Sherlock's room.

He knocked gently, not wanting to wake him if he was asleep, but wanting to warn him if he was indecent. He received no response and turned the door handle gently to keep quiet and let the man rest. He would just leave the glass, check his vitals, and head back to his couch and much wanted slumber. He frowned when Sherlock wasn't on his bed.

Pushing the door open further to allow more light, he nearly jumped as he made sudden eye contact with the Detective sitting on the floor. He paused. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Mmh." With a nod.

John put the glass down on the bedside table and came to kneel beside his friend. He put the back of his hand against Sherlock's temple. Warm, but not flushed and sweaty as had been the norm for the last few days. He frowned as he took Sherlock's pulse. Fast, faint, and a little thready. "Sherlock how are you feeling?"

"Fine." Came the response. "Go back to bed John."

Watson's heart felt constricted as he listened to his friend talk. It was off. Not slurred exactly, but not normal either. "Let's get you off the floor, yeah?" He put an arm under Sherlock's and dragged the taller to his feet. He let Sherlock lean most of his modest weight on his shoulders as he guided him to the bed. He noted that Sherlock was no longer shaking. The detective immediately leaned against the headboard, pulling his legs upward into an almost defensive position.

The doctor stood and walked to the wall, hitting the lightswitch, to which Sherlock blinked and shielded his eyes from with protest.

Watson crossed the room, grabbing Sherlock's hands away from his face and looking directly into his eyes. "Look at me. Sherlock, I mean it, look at me directly."

Sherlock did not comply, letting his eyes drift downwards but John could see what he needed. His mouth drew into a line, and his words were more of a hiss than anything else. "The list."

"John I don't know what you're on about-"

"The list, Sherlock! Now!" John shouted, his face growing red as he felt equally angry and stupid for having let him alone for this to happen. He opened the paper he was handed so fast he tore it almost in half. The amounts meant little in a vacuum, he didn't know what doses Sherlock had been on prior to his intervention, but he was equally dismayed and relieved to see only two offenders on the list. Though heroin and cocaine were the names he least wanted to find.

John stood, fists clenched as the red wave of anger swept through him. He paced away a few steps, then turned around quickly. "Sherlock, do you have any-" He cut himself off, turning again, taking a few breaths again and trying to regain his composure without any success. He turned back towards the detective again. "Do you have any idea how-" He was spitting mad, but he still wasn't sure where that sentence was going. "Of all the idiodic-" he couldn't get his thoughts straight. "You said-" He fumed. "You said you had Wiggins take them out. You brought me the bag in the bathroom. You-" He put his head in his hand. "I trusted you." Never trust an addict.

"Never trust an addict." Sherlock said, mirroring his own thoughts in a way that made John jump. He felt a small twinge for the usage of the word addict from Sherlock. He had always been a self proclaimed 'user not an addict' even in the midst of an overdose. Sherlock was sitting, slightly askew, letting the headboard sustain his weight, but still his legs were pulled up in some sort of subconscious defense against the onslaught from his friend.

"Why?"

"Now that's a stupid question." Sherlock retorted.

"I'm serious Sherlock, why throw this all away for just one more hit?" He felt his anger deepen as he did not receive a response. "Hmm? It is one more hit, right Sherlock? Or are you just jumping off the bloody wagon!?" His fist clenched again and he had to consciously choose to uncurl it, forcing himself to look at the still healing fractures on the man's face. "You made your point, you saved me or whatever Mary wanted from you, I'm here, now why throw away all your progress?"

Further silence, and Sherlock just looked at him. Watson felt like he was about to have a stroke, he was so mad. Mad and worried. "This is some crap I'd expect from a junkie. Not you. Not Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." Sherlock put his head down on his knees. "This isn't who you are." He let one more beat of silence fall before he bridged the gap and yanked away Sherlock's arms, making him snap his head up to look at him again. "Answer me!"

"Enough!" Sherlock responded, lifting his arm back up to separate them a bit. John backed off a step or two, but didn't sit. "I'm sorry, is that what you want to hear? Please forgive me for I have sinned."

"Cut the crap Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at John and he had to look away, uncomfortable to see his eyes, pinpoint and half glazed over again. "I'm not the man from your stories." His voice dropped in volume again.

"And?"

"I'm not… I'm just… me." He chose his words with some difficulty, the drugs clouding over his thoughts and making him move through a haze to speak. "I'm not… infallible. Against my efforts I remain… human." When John looked into Sherlock's eyes again, they held an unexpected vulnerability as well as a few tears. He felt some of the tension in his body fade as Sherlock continued. "You didn't know me… before. This isn't the first time."

"I know. Mycroft told me."

"Not everything."

"No. But enough." John sighed deeply, and came to sit on the other side of Sherlock's bed. "Its easy to forget sometimes. That you are human."

Sherlock let himself relax a bit, sliding further down the headboard. "It isn't worth the effort."

John frowned. "What isn't?"

"Being clean."

"Yes it is." John said firmly, succeeding in quelling the defensive anger that threatened to return. "To keep using is killing yourself."

"No." Sherlock disagreed. "I would never kill myself so slow, so messy. A gun is so much quicker. So final."

The doctor shook off the chills the sentiment gave him. The words came too quickly to his friend's drug addled mind. "Sherlock… you weren't… planning on killing yourself…." He recalled the video Mycroft had shown him only days ago. Sherlock launching something into the Thames before collapsing in a fit. He could have sworn it was a pistol.

"My life is not my own…" He whispered. Keep your hands off it.

"Sherlock?"

He jumped slightly, looking up at Watson, a bit more confused looking than he had been.

"Sherlock… were you ever suicidal?" The doctor asked gently, choosing his words carefully, and leaving it a bit more open than accusing him of feeling it right now.

"Yes." It was a simple and dry reply, as if there were no emotional meaning behind it.

John frowned, not sure how to follow up that question or what to make of it. A thousand things raced through his head, but he couldn't pick one to ask or comment on first. Concern was obviously at the forefront, was Sherlock suicidal now? Had he ever attempted suicide while he was away? Was the gun in the video... did he travel to the Thames to end it? And then... "When did you take the drugs?" he asked suddenly.

Sherlock had gone silent again, staring off into the room, having slid almost completely into a laying down position.

"The drugs Sherlock." Dr. Watson insisted. He shook the list in front of Sherlock's face. "On the list. When did you take these?"

"Hours ago." was the slurred response.

"Christ." John took Sherlock's pulse again, frowning as it had become even fainter. His skin was also colder and clammy. "Did you overdose on purpose?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "What? No." His head listed to the side. "I'm fine John." He was actually slurring now. "Go to bed."

"Like hell I will." John muttered. He found himself searching the back of his brain for facts about drug overdoses. He got a lot in at the A&E he worked previously, but that had been years back. The clinic he worked now was family medicine, and drug cases were rare, and rarely recreational in nature. Heroin and Cocaine. A speedball, name more common in the States. Cocaine cancels out some of the effects of the heroin, but wears off much more quickly, leaving only opioids in the system. "Did you do this on purpose?"

"I wanted to stop throwing up. I wanted to rest."

"And?"

"That's it." Sherlock insisted. He looked directly at John and John felt mixed emotions over the fact he believed him. Sherlock was being honest, but that did not mean he was not in danger.

"The stimulants are leaving your system. You still have hours before you process the heroin."

"Let me sleep it off." Sherlock mumbled as he buried his face down into his pillow. He stretched out his legs into a slightly more comfortable position and let his eyes close.

"Sherlock we should take you to a hospital." John said firmly.

"Don't let Mycroft know." Sherlock pleaded gently, not looking up from where he lay. "Just… don't let him find out."

John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His brow furrowed as he considered Sherlock's request. A trip to the hospital would immediately tip off big brother in more ways than one. He took Sherlock's pulse and respiration and signed once more in frustration. He wasn't in immediate danger. His breathing and pulse were slower than the doctor would like, but he wasn't dying. Against his better judgement as a medical professional he decided to give in to Sherlock's request for the moment. But he vowed to break that and dial emergency if things took even the slightest turn for the worse. "Fine."

Sherlock let some of the tension out of his shoulders and relaxed completely. "I am sorry John."

Dr. Watson sank back onto the bed next to Sherlock, and put a hand on his shoulder. "I know." He subconsciously rubbed Sherlock's shoulder as he might do to comfort Rosie, and it seemed to bring Sherlock some sort of reassurance. "Sherlock." He paused, not sure whether to continue knowing Sherlock's drugged state. He decided to press forward. "It broke me to see you jump from that hospital roof, and I hardly knew you compared to how well I know you now." He took a deep breath. "Please... do not throw your life away without realizing just how much your friendship means to me." It was his turn to fight back the pinpricks of tears. Thinking of losing his best friend so soon after losing his wife. "I couldn't cope."

"My life is not my own." Sherlock repeated. With that he appeared to slip into unconsciousness.

John removed his hand from the detective's shoulder, and shifted himself to stand. He pulled his friend's legs out and positioned him into a more relaxed resting form before pulling the blanket over Sherlock. He then dragged a chair across the room to sit beside him. Watson didn't allow himself to rest, taking vitals every ten minutes until the drugged unconsciousness gave way to a lighter more natural sleep. Only then did John allow his head to fall forward onto the mattress and his body give way to exhaustion.