So: FINALE PEEPS. Sorry, sorry and sorry again for my lack of on-time-ness and I keep saying it but I truly am crap at it. ALSO never trust me to upload regularly with anything. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
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John stepped slowly towards the bed in hope of not waking his dozing companion. It dawned on him as he sat down that this was the first proper time he'd seen Sherlock sleep without himself forcing it onto him. Every time Sherlock had been drugged, John had made him sleep. Mycroft always said the only one who could make him sleep was their mother when they were younger, and even now he had no control over his little brother. Being around ten years older than him gave Sherlock another basis to insult him.
The clinical bright white of the separate ward that he was placed in must have been a bit of an obstacle when it came to sleeping, but John knew that Sherlock was too konked out to have found sleeping difficult. He probably had no caffeine in his system anymore and whatever solution he had ingested probably helped him on the drowsiness front.
The rain clattered haphazardly against the window, which was the only visible source of any other colour: dark blue clouds loomed dangerously close and the dark sunset far away had a feel of winter to it. John winced as he saw his friend: thin, pale (paler), tired and dark circled eyes gave the impression that he had recently just passed away. John gave a shudder and closed his eyes, massaging them to work away the dry, scratchy feeling and at the same time, trying to contain the fuzzy tingling that was working its way up through his nose and behind his eyes.
'Twat.' He gave a half chuckle and saw that Sherlock's bare chest was rising and falling slowly. Why was he bare chested? Lord only knew, but it was helpful in the fact that John could see that he was breathing more easily than if he were clothed. He looked out of the window as he propped himself up against the sill and sighed.
'Says the one who let Lestrade nosey about my flat.' Sherlock croaked from behind him and gave a wheezy snigger.
John jumped and took a sharp intake of air, so much so that he coughed.
'I repeat again: twat. You scared the living crap out of me, Sherlock!' he released his breath and clutched the chair by his side that faced the bed to steady himself as he tried to relieve his nervous system of an upcoming seizure.
'And it's our flat, not just yours. I do pay for it as well, you know.' John may as well have fallen into the seat. He let his head roll back and he suddenly felt very tired.
'I moved my stuff in first. I get first say.' Sherlock said swiftly as though it was a fact as well known as that the earth moves round the sun.
'Child.'
There was a pause, and Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed dryly. John lifted his head. He pulled out te plastic evidence bag from his pocket and wiggled it about in the air so Sherlock's tired eyes could focus on it and make him realise he was being far too obvious.
'Just be glad he didn't find these. I'm not going to ask how you got these.' He cleared his throat and looked straight at Sherlock so that there was no way he could look away.
'Why did you do this to yourself, Sh-'
'Why did you let him in?!' his eyes burst open again incredulously and gave him a stern look as if to say 'shut up now and I won't call you something terrible.'
'I didn't let him in, HE let HIMSELF in!' John argued. 'And this is beside the point: what did you do to yourself this time?'
Sherlock was still for a moment, then had a slightly cocky look on his face and opened his mouth.
'No, answer me truthfully. Please.'
Sherlock's mouth snapped shut again. His head flopped back and he stared at the ceiling. He knew john would wait for as long as necessary if he had to, and would not give up at asking until Sherlock did something so formidable that he couldn't possibly think that this matter was more important anymore... and since he was a long way away from being healthy enough to do that any time soon, he gave in.
'I got bored...'
'Clearly.'
'No, no, really bored, John. My head... it wasn't-' he gave a violent but broken sounding cough '...I wasn't feeling... challenged. I needed something more. A boost, anything!'
John scowled disapprovingly but let him carry on. He knew his face looked pained and didn't care if Sherlock saw it.
'And since you've either stolen my... stash, banned me from buying anything like that or prevented any dealers or tobacco sellers from selling me anything to keep me going, I doubted coffee would do me well. I decided to try and replicate something along the lines of a- a stimulant.'
'Like cocaine.' John said irritably and crossed his arms. His patience was vanishing.
'No! Well, yes. I needed something... something to keep my brain from starving!' he hissed and coughed again.
'So the bacteria thing was actually nonsense. As I thought.'
'Pretty much.'
'Sherlock Holmes, you need to pull yourself together; you do not need ANYTHING that physically changes you in the way cocaine does to get your brain going!' John knew this for a fact: he was talking to a man in possession of one of the greatest minds in London. 'You're going for the lazy option but doing it in the most difficult and dangerous ways, if that's possible! How long did you know after you'd taken it that you'd put the wrong thing in it?'
'I didn't TAKE it. Not deliberately. I spilled it on the counter and it got into the cut on my arm... which I got when the glass smashed and I cut myself on a huge shard from the flask. Happy now?' he did fake jazz-hands to declare the end of his explanations.
'Answer the question.'
Sherlock huffed. 'Ten minutes and 48 seconds. That's how long I felt sick for and I'd only 'taken' it about ten minutes previous. The stuff I put in was too powerful; that's why the effects and illness were almost immediate.'
'So why was that ruddy great big machete lying on the floor then?'
'No idea...' Sherlock looked casually at his nails.
'It was that man's, wasn't it?'
'Oh, no, that one was mine. He took his with him... along with several broken fingers.'
John ran his hands through his hair and began thinking heavily... if he'd left it any longer, Sherlock wouldn't be here right now: he'd be down with Molly in the morgue. He remembered the needly pricks he'd seen a couple of times on Sherlock's arm and when asked, he's dismiss it and tell John to leave it alone...it made him realise that there'd be no way he could ever find out what exactly Sherlock managed to get into his bloodstream, or how he did it ( John had a feeling he just blamed it on the cut, and that it may have been deliberately taken at that time), just by asking, but he knew that he could always have the chance to force it out of him if needs be.
Sherlock looked down at his hand where the drip was attached and he winced, looked away and grimaced.
'I hate needles.'
...
Fin.
...Whooo! anticlimax! Thanks again and I hope you enjoyed.
I had nothing real planned for this so I just let it flow...Sounds wrong...Ok, ignore me please.
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