John awoke to silence. The last time that he had woken up to silence, Sherlock had been sick. Now John was waking up to silence that-

-was disturbed by a sudden coughing spell of his own.

Choking and spluttering for breath, he fought against the blankets and a swell of nausea as he took the stairs a reckless two-at-a-time, bolting the small distance to the bathroom. He didn't mind that the door was closed; some times called for desperate measures. (Besides, Sherlock had walked in one too many time while John had been in the shower, going on about experiments or looking for loose body parts, etcetera.)

He didn't notice the lack of movement in the bath until he had finished vomiting, five minutes later.

"Sorry, Sherlock- don't know what's come over... me." His voice faltered at the end as he had glanced over his shoulder out of habit, towards the bath. Sherlock, in all of his lanky glory, was stretched out in the too-cramped bathtub, his knees drawn up. He was lounging back, eyes closed. That wasn't the thing that stopped John's speech.

There was a bottle of pills on the edge of the tub.

"Sherlock?" John's voice rose a few octaves; he found it cracking before he could even assess the damage. He crossed the room in two strides, swiping the bottle out of the way and taking Sherlock's wrist between his fingers. "Sherlock? Sherlock, open your eyes, please," he muttered, a whisper, a plea. "Please, Sherlock..."

The slightest pulse. John thought he was going to pass out again, he was so light-headed from relief. But, no time to relax. He checked to make sure Sherlock was breathing just as quickly, before grabbing the pill bottle. Oxycontin. John swore lightly under his breath.

In the tedious precious seconds that it took John to get Sherlock out of the bathtub and into the recovery position on the floor, he was pretty sure that his blood pressure had gone from too low, to way too high.

He took off running to his bedroom, wrenching his bottom dresser drawer open. He knew that he shouldn't be leaving Sherlock in his state, but there wasn't much he could do. Desperate times, desperate measures... He flung the clothes out of the dresser, pulling out the sterile syringe he kept in the drawer. With it, a vial of Naloxone.

John hated the idea that he kept Naloxone in his bottom drawer. Hated it. But it was just in case. Just in case of a time like this.

How had it become a danger night? Nothing had even happened!

He rejoined Sherlock as quickly as possible to find his patient still breathing, and barely, before injecting the antidote. "Wake up, you bastard!" he hissed, pulling the syringe out and dialing 999 on his cell with his free hand.

The next three and a half minutes were the longest of John's life.

Sherlock woke up, choking and gasping. "Jo-!"

"I'm right here," John replied. His voice was calm. He was grateful for that.

"Jo- John," Sherlock spluttered.

"It's okay, Sherlock." John, nonchalantly, curled his fingers around the bottle of Oxycontin, pulling them into his lap and away from Sherlock's eyes.

"John, you- what did you- huh." He coughed, doubling over.

John watched him somewhat miserably. Sirens were beginning to be heard. He glanced towards the window. Suddenly, Sherlock's hand grasped at his arm, squeezing tight.

"John, what did you do with it."

"Sherlock... You're hurting me." Apparently, it was the wrong thing to alert Sherlock to. The detective's grip tightened. "Sherlock...!"

"What did you do with the pills!"

John ripped Sherlock's hand away from his arm, intertwining his fingers with the detective's, instead. "Listen to me, you don't need them, Sherlock! You don't!"

"John!" Sherlock growled, before subsiding into a coughing fit again.

If the three and a half minutes waiting for the Naloxone to work had been torture, John didn't know what this was.

The EMTs found them still in the bathroom, Sherlock sitting in the fetal position, hair plastered to his head with water from the bath, trembling as if he had drowned recently, not overdosed.

John didn't follow them to the hospital. Instead, he stayed sitting on the bathroom floor. He noticed that he still had the pills in his hand. He raised them, eyes bouncing off the words on the pills. Please use responsibly.

"Damn you, Sherlock!" The bottle left his hand, pills scattering across the bathroom. He buried his face into his hands and wept.

"John."

John glanced up at the sound of his name as he walked into the hospital. Across the waiting room, Mycroft and Lestrade were sitting. John nodded a greeting, crossing the hospital to join them.

"'lo."

"Afternoon, Greg," John replied, sinking into the chair next to him. "You heard?"

"It doesn't exactly stay a secret long that Sherlock Holmes got carted off to the ER."

"Oh." John folded his hands in his lap. "Right."

"John," Mycroft started. John looked at him. "So, it was a danger night."

"Apparently."

"Why?"

John shrugged. Mycroft gave him that look. John frowned. "I swear, I have no idea. I was asleep, woke up, and then, I ended up here myself."

"What happened to you?" Greg asked, frowning.

"LBP, I guess. I dunno. I'm fine." He looked back to Mycroft. "I went to bed, woke up ill, found Sherlock in the bathtub. Nothing was different. I guess you could chalk it off as boredom?"

"I don't know about that. He's been sick, right?"

"Sherlock was sick?" Greg interrupted. John nodded. "Poor bastard. Maybe that's why he did it."

"Yes, but would he really overdose on drugs to get over a illness down?" Even after John said it, he knew Sherlock would.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence.

John didn't know why he had come. He would have much rathered stay home. He didn't feel great, mentally or physically, but he didn't know how he thought he would feel the first time he found Sherlock near death, anyway. He hadn't known what to expect, emotion wise, but this was it.

He sighed quietly. He wasn't Sherlock, but he didn't miss the look that Greg gave him. Mycroft didn't give looks of concern, so John would have more concerned if he had.

"You need a break, mate."

"Maybe. But you can't take a break with Sherlock Holmes," John replied.

"God only knows how much I understand that."

Mycroft, at their side, just sighed.

I don't know much about drug overdose, Oxycontin, or Naloxone. I spent hours (I say a bit ashamedly) trying to research. If I got anything wrong, it's because of limited knowledge and faulty internet searches. :P

I'm so sorry that the chapters keep getting shorter! I don't plan how long for them to be; I just find that it has to end where it has to end! I'll strive to make the upcoming chapters a bit longer. There should be a few more chapters... Two to three, perhaps. I hope I can say that this story becomes my top story for reviews- my top story has about 120 or 130 or something. You guys can beat it, right? I'd be so appreciative!

Just to say, you guys are awesome. I don't respond to reviews very much, apologies for that, but I really do appreciate each and every one of you. You guys inspire me so much. Keep it up. Thank you so much.