A/N: Part 2, yay! \(^.^)/ Now for the bad news...the day after tomorrow I'm going camping so I won't be able to publish part 3 for a little while longer *ducks flying lamp*. I'm really sorry but thank you to everyone who's followed/favorited this story and I hope it doesn't disappoint!
Sherlock sighed and checked his email from his jailbroken iPhone. He didn't get much mail considering he was "dead". Sometimes it was a concerned Molly; apparently several months ago John had been admitted into St. Bart's for heavy alcohol poisoning. Sherlock really missed John, but there were still cases that needed to be done in private and he couldn't risk John's life, or Lestrade's, or Ms. Hudson's.
Closing his mail application, he opened up his bookmarks and clicked on John's blog when an alert message went off. His special blogger posted even more rarely than Sherlock got mail but that didn't matter; Sherlock just wanted to read John's writing and even be amused or aggravated at the inaccuracy of the explanations of past cases.
However today there was a new post! But it was untitled...John usually relished in the use of his "witty" titles.
Clicking on the link he read the only one line that could stop his heart.
"No," Sherlock said aloud; trying to convince himself he didn't just read what John wrote. He wouldn't do that. But it was right there in front of his face and every perceivable observation he could deduce from said the same thing, 'John's going to kill himself and it will be all your fault.'
With his coat already half on he had his phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, dialing John.
There was no answer.
Pulling on the rest of his coat he quickly dialed Molly's number.
"Pick up, pick up, pick up—,"
"Black Otter?" Molly used his codename lest one of Moiarty's men hack one of his contact's phone lines.
"Molly!IneedyoutosendanambulancetoBakerStreetright now!" His tone was urgent but he was speaking to fast, like when he's on a case and simply needs to blurt everything out at once.
"What?" Molly asked.
"Have St. Bart's send an ambulance to 221B immediately. John's—I presume John's done something extremely detrimental to his health."
"...Okay, I'll get the paramedics."
"Hurry Molly!" He commanded; however, Sherlock couldn't have kept the desperation out of his voice even if he had tried. This was John. Nothing was supposed to happen to John. That's why John couldn't know he was alive right now!
Sherlock opened the door of the abandoned flat he had been staying in the past half year, and began running towards Baker Street, which was 4 blocks away.
Some people would have called this open recklessness. A man who had pretended to be dead for three years blatantly blowing all possible cover by running undisguised through London in the clothes he had been infamous for. Sherlock saw it differently. If John were to die, his entire social hiatus would have been for naught. It no longer mattered if he was recognized. His friend was practically in as much danger now as he had been with a sniper pointed at him.
And Sherlock was going to stop it.
Sherlock's long legs pushed him forward; pumping arms provided the perseverance to make it to his non-forgotten home.
Bolting in the front door, he ran up the steps; ignoring the loud exclamation from across the room. The door to their flat was locked, but that didn't deter Sherlock. He stepped back and kicked the door at it's weak point and rushed into his old living room.
The sight that met him was eery at best; John's back was to the door appeared to only be sleeping in his chair. But Sherlock knew better. There were twenty-four different clues that told him his companion was more than just sleeping. He took it all in as he paced to John's side, It reeks of alcohol in here, also mould, the panel on the mantle is open, oh God, Sherlock, this is all your fault.
Sherlock knelt down in front of John next to the discarded syringe, "John? John?" Sherlock shook John's shoulders.
"JOHN?" Sherlock's face was so expressive when he shouted his cheeks nearly poked out his eyes. Placing his hand on John's neck, Sherlock felt the erratic thrumming of a pulse.
He slid his hand down to John's back and worked the limp body carefully to the floor; laying him on his side.
Naloxone, I need naloxone, Sherlock thought just before he heard a scream at the door.
Ms. Hudson stood in the door frame with both her hands covering her mouth.
"Wha—what the," she stammered.
"I don't have time Ms. Hudson!" Sherlock leapt up and began yanking open all the cupboards. "Narcan, narcan, narcan," he repeated several times as a mantra to keep himself calm until he found the bottle he was looking for.
"How on earth are you even—John! John, oh my God, John!"
Forcing himself to keep tears at bay (since no one had ever seen him cry and only John had ever heard him), he fought to get the medicine down John's throat. And as for Ms. Hudson's hysterics over both her surrogate children, Sherlock turned to face her and said with a frighteningly calm face and tone, "Please be quiet, Ms. Hudson, hysterics will only make things worse. Go wait for the paramedics."
The use of Sherlock Holmes using the word "please" made Ms. Hudson painfully aware of how dire the situation was, clamped her mouth shut, and complied.
"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry," Sherlock spoke over John's limp figure; finally submitting to the water clouding his vision.
Red and blue lights began to flash outside 221B and less than a minute later paramedics swamped the flat with a somber faced Lestrade behind them.