This took longer than I expected it to take I will admit. It took me a couple of weeks to write this chapter and I was really not happy with it so I wrote it again… in a night. But I am much happier with it now. If I follow my plan this time the next chapter will be the last chapter. I hope you enjoy, don't forget to review!

It's nothing to worry about

Chapter 7- Part 2

I'm ok (I just want to die)

What had simply been rain earlier had transformed into a torrential downpour as John exited the restaurant with one stinging cheek from where he'd been slapped. He wrapped his rain coat more tightly around his body to try and prevent the driving rain from seeping through his clothes; it was already doing a good enough job of making his hair sodden. Bright headlights emerged from around the corner, lighting up the road as the heavy water droplets pounded relentlessly on the ground causing yet more water to spray up the way.

John waved his hand out, hoping that he was waving down a taxi instead of a complete stranger, but he was rapidly becoming more soaked and all he wanted to do was get dry and make sure Sherlock was ok. At the thought of Sherlock guilt gnawed mercilessly at his gut threatening to make him lose the meal he'd just eaten, but he swallowed and forced bitter bile which was creeping up his throat back into his stomach.

As it happened it was not a taxi which John had managed to wave down but instead a police squad car, containing none other than DI Lestrade. Confused, John opened the door and clambered into the front, sighing in relief as the blast of hot air hit him in the face. "How did you know I was here and what's wrong?" John demanded as he reached over and plugged himself in. A distant rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and the pouring rain appeared to get impossibly heavier. Lestrade ran a hand through his silver hair, an action that worried John, as the DI was obviously on edge about something or other. And since he'd come to pick John up himself that something or other obviously involved Sherlock. "It's Sherlock," Lestrade admitted, concern filling his voice. Damn. "He wasn't answering his phone so I went to check on him and to tell him about a case. I went into the flat and, damn it John, it was a mess. And Sherlock, he was in a corner, and well there was blood everywhere. He didn't even see me at first; he was too busy with watching the blood on his arm. When he did eventually see me he looked absolutely petrified and he ran past me and pushed me over. By the time I'd gotten down the stairs he'd disappeared so I called Mycroft who said to get you from here that he'd try and find Sherlock on CCTV. This is now an official police search now too."

John nodded, all of the information he'd just been fed swirling around in his brain. Suddenly the failed date he'd just been on, the weather and the lingering stinging sensation on his cheek were forgotten. Sherlock had hurt himself after John had shouted at him and left. He was bleeding and lost and it was all John's fault, what if he died? What if the cuts got infected when he was out? Sherlock, his best friend, was alone and hurting, most likely soaked to the skin, and he was bleeding and it was all John's fault. The doctor rubbed his face viciously with both hands and then shook his head ferociously to clear his thoughts, he needed to help Sherlock and to do that he had to think clearly.

Suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket causing John to jump. He pulled it out, it was Mycroft. "Hello," he answered, looking at Lestrade who obviously seemed to understand who it was on the other end.

"Hello Dr Watson, has the DI picked you up?"

"Um, yeah, I just got in the car."

"Good." John hated how calm and collected the man sounded, as if his brother wasn't in any danger at all. His sickly sweet voice did nothing but make John boil in rage as the British Government seemed un-phased by the current situation when the doctor was falling apart. "We lost Sherlock on the CCTV after a few streets but tell Lestrade that he seemed to be heading towards his old flat." John was about to reply when a dull tone sounded indicating Mycroft had hung up. The doctor passed on the message as he slipped his phone back into his pocket, a look of alarm flashed across Lestrade's face before they sped off through the rain.

The pouring rain stung Sherlock's face as he ran down the road, his t-shirt and trousers were instantly soaked and the thin material clung desperately to the detective's skinny frame. His arm was throbbing from where he'd butchered his arm and he felt a little dizzy from the blood loss. As he ran down the streets his bare feet began to burn from where small stones from the tarmac dug into his feet as they tried to find purchase on the wet ground and where small shards of glass from broken bottles embedded themselves in his feet. But none of this mattered; he simply had to get away, away from John and away from Lestrade. If left the people he cared about he would no longer be able to hurt them. He had no idea where he was heading, he just had to leave.

After about 15 minutes of running he stopped outside a building to catch his breath. The detective's feet were a mess, had it not been for the weather they would have been covered in a thin layer of blood. A mass of damp curls hung limply from his head having become saturated with water and a constant stream of water flowed down his face, mixed with the tears he couldn't tell he was crying. Subconsciously he wrapped the silk dressing gown he had left the flat in closer to his person, trying to regain some semblance of warmth back into his chilled body. Shivers flowed through him uncontrollably. If John was there John would make it all better, he'd get him a towel and dry clothes and make him have a hot shower or bath. After that he'd force a thermometer into the detective's mouth and make him keep it in by glaring at him whenever he made a motion to remove it. After it'd beeped the doctor would look at the reading and either tut in disapproval or grunt in acceptance. Regardless of the reading he'd go and make tea whilst Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa and, depending on the thermometer reading, a pile of warm blankets would be dumped on top of him and the smell of 221b would surround him making him feel safe and cared for, a feeling he didn't even recognise before John came along.

But the smell which surrounded him was not safe; it was acrid, a foul concoction containing mostly vomit and alcohol. He wasn't in 221b, somehow he found himself standing in front his old block of flats, in front of the door he used to go through to visit his dealer, perhaps the disgusting man still lived there. But most importantly of all, John was not there plying him with warm clothes, tea and blankets. He was soaked in the cold rain, all alone, in drenched clothes. He was pathetic. John was not coming, John hated him and Sherlock didn't even blame him. Without the doctor the world just didn't seem as good. All he wanted to do was walk through that door and feel the marginally warmer air on his face, and get something which would make him forget. But for some reason he couldn't, he simply stood there soaked to the skin, he was the epitome of misery. Slowly he raised thin, spindly fingers to the door and touched it, he could remember each time he walked through that door and none of them were good memories. The only good memories he had been made since he moved into 221b and he could never go back. The detective became aware of the tears which were flowing down his face as he let out a guttural sob as he slipped onto the ground and curled into a foetal position just hoping that the rain and the chill would take him before anybody found him. He simply didn't have the motivation to do anything no matter how much he wanted to.

The two men sped along the streets of London in silence; the streets were almost completely deserted with only the occasional silhouette dashing towards home to escape the downpour. Water splashed up the side of the car as the street and the sky ahead of them lit up in a brilliant light, a few seconds later an almighty clap of thunder resounded around them. "Why would Sherlock be going back to where he used to live?" John asked unexpectedly, he'd been wondering it since Mycroft had called and it just slipped out. Lestrade sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger whilst keeping one hand firmly on the steering wheel.

"My guess is because that's where his dealer used to live, I never could pin anything on the guy, but I always knew that was where Sherlock was getting it all from. We're almost there, only another couple of minutes. I really hope he is there or else I haven't a clue where he'd go." The rest of the journey was spent in complete silence as John pondered what Lestrade had said. Guilt tore away at him because he knew he'd driven Sherlock to this, he hoped desperately that Sherlock had not turned back to drugs but he decided there and then he wouldn't get angry at the man if he had because he had driven him to it.

As much as he didn't want Sherlock to have returned to his dealer the DI certainly did have a point. If Sherlock wasn't there they wouldn't have any idea where he was. And if they found that great man in the morning having drowned in a puddle or choked on his own vomit John wasn't sure he'd be able to live with the guilt.

After what felt like more than an eternity they eventually pulled up in front of a decrepit old building which looked like it belonged 100 years in the past and even then it should have been condemned. Most of the windows were either smashed or boarded up and most of the paint had peeled off the side of the building leaving in its place cold hard stone. The place simply screamed health-hazard to the doctor. "Did Sherlock seriously live here?" John demanded, disturbed at the thought.

"Yes," replied Lestrade. The two men hurriedly and simultaneously removed their seatbelts and jumped out of the car, they didn't even notice the rain pounding into their bodies in their haste.

The two of them dashed into the courtyard and both saw the same thing at the same time. A heap, on the ground in front of one of the doors, a wave of both relief and horror washed over the two of them. John dashed ahead of Lestrade and knelt down next to the heap of sodden and sobbing detective. "Hey Sherlock," John said gently, rolling the detective over so his nose and mouth were no longer perilously close to the pool of water beneath him. The detective's eyes searched desperately above him before they finally rested on John's face.

"John?" he rasped raising bony fingers towards the doctor's face. John caught the searching fingers with his hand and held them tight wincing at how cold they were, they really needed to get the man warmed up.

"Yeah, it's me Sherlock, I'm here. I've come to help you. Do you reckon you can sit up?" John really didn't want to rush him but his shivers were enough to even make John wince.

Instead of getting up as John had hoped Sherlock started rambling. "I'm s-sorry J-John."

"It's ok Sherlock, there's nothing to apologise for."

"I'm sorry; I'm s-so sorry. P-please… I can't… I d-don't… help." And with that the great man broke down into heart wrenching sobs which wracked his whole body painfully. He rolled back onto his side, curling back in on himself, and John looked to Lestrade desperately who up until this point had simply been watching. The older man moved around so he was crouched at Sherlock's back. "Sherlock, I'm going to have to pick you up," Lestrade said kindly resting a hand on Sherlock's hip and wincing internally as it felt like he'd put his hand straight onto bone.

There was no response, not that either of them had expected one, so the DI lifted the man who was far too light for his own good up in his arms and held him close as one would a child. Listening to the sobs which tore through his body ripped John's heart to shreds. This man made people cry as he deduced their deepest secrets simply from the lipstick they were wearing, it was quite simply wrong that he was reduced to this.

John and Lestrade hurried back to the police car and Sherlock clung desperately to the older man's neck and buried his face into his shoulder. He was no longer a brilliant thirty year old man, he was a child who was alone and afraid. With John's help Lestrade bundled the detective into the back of the car and John jumped into the other side, relieved at how warm the car felt compared to outside. Quickly with Lestrade's help he set to work knowing he should really take Sherlock to hospital but he didn't think Sherlock's fragile mental state would be able to cope, the DI had obviously come to the same conclusion.

Together they peeled away Sherlock's soaking dressing gown and t-shirt, grimacing as he saw the lacerations on Sherlock's arm, before John dumped his own jumper on him and Lestrade wrapped him in his jacket. The two of them were cold but it was nothing compared to what the frozen detective was feeling. Soon they were speeding their way back to Baker Street, the car heaters on full. John held the detective in his arms gently stroking the matted curls reassuringly and muttering comforting words in his ear. However Sherlock remained oblivious to all of this. He just kept on muttering, "I'm sorry John."