Eeeep I love reviews. Thanks you everyone, you are all fantastic. :) Sorry it took so long to continue, I haven't been able to watch Sherlock for several days, and was therefore, lacking in inspiration. But all is well now. I have continued the story!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. In any way, shape or form, sadly. So pretty please don't sue me.
From John's point of view.
It wasn't a bad few days at Harry's, really, but I was still so glad to come home to the, (entirely relative) sanity of our flat. Any place, even a flat shared with Sherlock Holmes is sane compared to my sister's place. I felt rather lucky that I escaped a day early, because, while she was my sister, she drove me absolutely crazy even in the best of times. I was curious to see how Sherlock would handle my returning one day early, since he handled my comings and goings oddly anyway. He often wouldn't notice I'd gone out, and would continue talking to me as though I was still there, ignoring my lack of response. I wondered if he would even realize that I was back, since he hadn't been expecting me for another day, or if he would continue to not notice my arrival until it was expected. On the other hand, he may not even have noticed I'd been gone at all. I never could tell when he was actually listening to me. He'd once responded to the news that I was due in court and was getting an ASBO with "Good, fine." He was exasperating, but I had missed him.
When I entered our flat, I found the world's only consulting detective sprawled on the couch, asleep. I smiled a bit, because I've only actually seen Sherlock sleep a bare handful of times, as he doesn't sleep much to begin with, and hardly at all when on cases. However, as I got closer, something about the manner he was sleeping caught my attention. His skin looked flushed and feverish. And his breathing was much too fast. That was when I saw the needle in his arm, and the bottle on the coffee table. I dropped my bags and was at his side in an instant.
I groped for a pulse, and, thank God, found one, but it was fluttery and erratic. His skin was hot to the touch as well, much too hot, and his breathing was accelerated far beyond normal. It looked like a possible overdose. God, I didn't even know he used drugs.
I wanted to pound my head into the wall. How could I, Sherlock's flatmate, and admittedly only friend, not know that he used drugs? Guilt, hurt, and anger washed over me in turns. I was angry with myself for not noticing that my best friend was getting high behind my back, furious, really. And I was hurt that Sherlock had never mentioned anything to do with his using drugs, aside from the barest hint, which I'd basically ignored, when Lestrade had used a fake drugs bust to bully Sherlock into helping with a case. And then I was irate with myself again, for not figuring out that he had to be doing something to keep himself entertained without cases. I'd seen what he was like without them, so how could I not bloody know that he must have some way to soothe his addiction to puzzles? A secondary addiction made all the sense in the world, now that it was staring me in the face.
All this went through my mind in seconds, and was dismissed, just as fast. I could handle my own emotions later. For now, I had a detective in the grips of a drug overdose to deal with. My first instinct was to phone the hospital. But, no, that wouldn't work. I couldn't do that to Sherlock. There would be questions, and a police report, and Lestrade wouldn't work with Sherlock unless he was clean. Lestrade gave Sherlock 80% of his cases. Without cases, it'd be back to the-
No. No hospitals. Out of the question.
My next thought was "Stupid, you're a doctor. Tend to him yourself, here, and keep this quiet." But I dismissed that almost as quickly. I knew next to nothing about dealing with overdoses, and didn't have the time to read up on them. Sherlock might be- probably was- dying right in front of me. No. No time.
Mycroft. Mycroft had access to everything, and could make it happen fast and secret. He could get doctors out here quickly, and make sure no word of this ever left 221B Baker St. And he would do it, too. I had no doubt that he would abuse any amount of his power to help his little brother. He surely knew as well as I what a police inquiry would mean for Sherlock's career, the only thing that meant anything to him.
I fumbled my phone and dropped it, upending Sherlock's bottle in my haste to dial. "Cocaine" stared up at me from the label. He'd labeled it, the same way he'd label the lab samples he brought home and left scattered on our kitchen table. I didn't know where he'd hidden it, but I promised myself that as soon as this was over, I would search the whole damned flat until I was sure that there was no more. I would not let my best friend do this to himself again, not under my watch. I finally got the number right, and listened to it ring, praying that Mycroft would pick up.
God, please let him be alright.