Negligence_
They searched for him for 3 days. 3 solid days. Greg didn't ask questions. When he saw John's face, he knew what had caused this. He'd only barely begun to work with Sherlock again and had seen how fragile the situation was.
"None of it was true…"John began.
"Well, the bit about the smoking was. He smokes right in plain of public sight. But I can't imagine him saying even a fifth of that mushy crap she addded in." Greg sighed. They were sweeping all his old haunts this the last night. This was after they had searched for him in every drug hole they knew of, fearing that he in his pain would turn to his former vices.
"Greg…"John had just had the nastiest thought.
"Mm?" Greg turned to look at John. John gasped.
"He said...before he left. That he was legally dead. What if he...What if he went to the last ever place any of us would want to go to look for him?" John held his breath.
Greg knew, of course, exactly where John meant. Those last two years had nearly killed the two friends. Somberly, they went back there nonetheless. Back to the tomb of Sherlock Holmes.
A soft blue light adorned the graveyard, for mourners come this way in the evening. The twilight scattered her sparks over the green casting the sundial shadows off of every marker stone. John knew the path to Sherlock's grave blindly. Many a drunken night, he stumbled this way in the dark. Greg followed behind, picking a path more carefully. He'd only visited once or twice. He'd been too guilty to go back more.
They were sick to their stomach by what they found.
The magazine piece had attracted raving attention. Many impassioned readers had come this way. None of them knew Sherlock. They knew nothing of his lack of sentimental wants. So, they left extravagant roses and lilies and other manner of flowers. Enough to make a mattress of.
Sherlock was laying on his back in the flowers, his hand cast up above his head. As pale as death, cast in the blue light, he was Arthurian and it frightened them. It took them a moment of gawking to realize that he was fast asleep.
"What in Hell?" Greg pressed closer and shone a flashlight in Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock muttered something unintelligible. John knelt beside him giving him a soft shake. He did not wake up.
"Oh my God…"John started a check of Sherlock's vitals. The young detective let out a soft groan. Flower petals stuck to his hair.
John laid Sherlock on his lap. There, in the dark, by the grave where he'd mourned him, he grieved in silence for a completely different reason.
"What's...What's wrong with him?" Greg was chewing his nails, fearing that he was high.
"Not like that, Greg...He's missed some of the medications he needs. Electrocution causes some brain activity similar to epilepsy, chronic breathing issues, and tremors….He takes 3 things to keep him from slipping into bad symptoms." John ran his hands through Sherlock's hair.
"He-He wants to keep us safe from him. That's why he ran. And an idiot too! He knows that without proper care, he will die...Die for real, Greg." John's tone was biting. Greg gasped back a sob of horror.
"He-He will?" Greg took John's hand.
"I won't sugar coat it for you…"John's voice had taken a new tenderness now.
"This can't happen again. We have to find a way to prevent it. Because...He almost certainly will die if he doesn't receive constant medical attention until he has made at least a semi long-term recovery." John shook his head. Sherlock would not come all the way to. He slurred their names.
"Do you...Do you honestly want to end up here?!" Greg grabbed Sherlock's chin.
"Hmm? Do you...You want this?! Eh? You must want this doing some stupid rubbish like taking off on your own and forgetting your medication, what?! You complete_utter_callous bastard!" Greg shook him.
"Didn'...Didn' forget...it...but...If...if I was to...To pass….Not be dangerous...Anymore. Not be a l-liability…. But you wouldn't want me to do it to myself. It would crush you...nearly did if I...if I did it myself... So...so...just letting nature…"Sherlock passed out.
Greg looked in smothering horror at John. John who sat completely stone-faced.
"Did...Did he...just?" Greg broke out into tears. He looked at John, fearful for a second. Expecting the man's temper to flare.
He hadn't expected John to scoop Sherlock up like one would a child and pull him close, laying his head on his shoulder.
"Not gonna happen on my watch, you stupid git…" John shook his head and closed his eyes. He drew a rattling breath, wind through ice-capped trees. Greg was crying into his fist now. John shook his head, fighting tears of his own, having put himself in charge of this situation.
"Don't be angry with him, Greg. He's not even thinking. He's not himself. It's the paranoia and peer preservation of the battlefield, you understand...He'll be okay. But he needs hospital, so let's take him there." John slid Sherlock up onto his shoulders and carried him thus the entire way back to Greg's patrol car.