Chapter 8:

I spent the rest of the day wandering around town for Sherlock, but I couldn't find him. Honestly, I was starting to get worried and I felt so guilty. I tried to make the guilt go away, but it just kept showing it's fucking ugly head, and pushed me to continue my search for Sherlock.

Eventually, I had wasted the day away and walked back to my flat, heart heavy. What if something bad happened to Sherlock?

Don't be silly, John. Sherlock can take care of himself.

Yeah, maybe. I didn't even really know him that well, if I'm being honest.

My thoughts stopped dead in their tracks as I approached my flat and saw that the door was cracked open. I know for a fact that I had locked it this morning when I left.

Oh, fucking shit, there's a robber in my flat! I bent my knees and raised my arms and fists, ready to defend myself if the need arose, and slowly crept forward. I leaned against the door with my shoulder and pushed it open slowly, trying not to make any noise. The room was dark, illuminated only by moonlight and everything was quiet, everything was still. My heart was hammering in my chest and everything seemed to move in slow motion. I felt as if I were barely moving, but I was still surprised when the lamp flickered on and illuminated the room.

I jumped up, eyes whirling around the room trying to assess where the attack would come from before I realized that no one was moving and the light that was turned on was sitting on the side table by my favorite plush chair in the sitting area. In my chair sat a very tall man with unruly curly black hair. He had a thin frame and an elegant nose, but was very birdlike in the sense that he was going to pick your eye out with his beak.

Obviously, it was Sherlock.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I demanded. "How did you even get in?"

"Really, John, is that last question even necessary?" Sherlock snorted and waved his arm in the air, which flopped heavily across his chest. "I'm here..."

Sherlock trailed off, zoning out apparently. Confused, I walked forward and got a closer look at his face. His eyes were glossy and his pupils were constricted. His face was flush, as if suffering from perpetual embarrassment. I jerked my head back as his head shot up from the nodding position he had held. Sherlock slowly rubbed his eyes and moved his head around in a very un-Sherlock way.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" I asked.

"Hmm, what? Oh...hello...John..." Sherlock's speech was slurred and slow. He rubbed his nose and scratched his arm, but was turned away from me, as if he were hiding something. I narrowed my eyes at him and got closer.

"Sherlock...Sherlock, look at me." I forced him to make eye contact with me, putting up no fight at all. "...are you on drugs?"

He continued to scratch his arm, not answering my question as he nodded off again. I watched his chest rise slowly, much slower than it should. I had my suspicions, and I only needed one thing to confirm them. I reached forward to lift the sleeve of Sherlock's crumpled dress shirt, but as I made contact with his arm, he jerked up again and pulled his arm away.

"John?" Sherlock snapped, sounding confused and angry. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I-this is my flat, you cock!" I pointed at his arms. "But that's not the point. Let me see your arms."

"No."

"Sherlock, let me see them."

"No."

"I don't have time for this."

"Then fuck off before you make me angry." Sherlock snarled at me. I involuntarily took a step away, unused to this kind of vicious behavior from Sherlock, who is usually so calm and composed.

"Sherlock..."

"Where were you?" He interrupted me. "I waited for you." Sherlock was glaring at me now, a look that seemed so foreign on his face. I flushed in shame and looked away, not able to keep eye contact anymore.

"I-I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to hurt you. I got distracted-" Sherlock snorted loudly and I glanced up to see him turn away from me. "Sherlock, I mean it. I'm sorry."

"Fuuuck OFF!" Sherlock yelled. I waited a moment, and Sherlock said nothing.

"Sherlock-"

"I thought you were different."

"What?"

Sherlock sat up straighter and whirled around, stumbling and looking dizzy. "I thought you were different!" He shouted at me. "But you forgot about me."

"I didn't forget about you!" I protested. "I got distracted, that's all!"

"Yes, and I bet-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and looked confused. "Where 'm I?" He mumbled and before I could step forward, Sherlock crumpled to his knees, vomiting on my floor.

At least it wasn't carpeted. Thank God for small mercies.

I patted Sherlock on the back, wrinkling my nose at the vomit. There wasn't very much, just bile and water. So he hasn't been eating. I sighed and opened my mouth to say something, but as I looked down, I froze.

Silent tears trailed Sherlock's cheeks as he stared wide-eyed into nothingness. The tears came in waves, and I swear I could feel my heart break. You broke him, you dick bag.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." I murmured softly, but Sherlock didn't reply as his eyes fell closed again and he fell asleep. Noticing my chance, I unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up, revealing small dots on the inside of his elbow and I sighed. I knew it.