John woke up in the middle of the night.
There was no reason for it, no noise awoke him, and luckily a nightmare was not the cause either. He just found himself lying awake and staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes he sighed and pushed himself out of bed, he was restless and might as well find something to do instead of just sitting there staring.
It was when he was descending the stairs that he heard the shattering of glass. He rushed down the stairs, expecting to see Sherlock cleaning up the sad remains of a dropped beaker, instead his eyes fell upon the empty living room.
Where did the sound come from...? he thought. His eyes fell on the door of Sherlock's bedroom. Dare he go check?
He crept towards the door trying not to make any noise, the door was ajar and faint light could be seen streaming out. John peered in through the crack. He didn't see anything at first, but as he peeked he made out a pale thin arm stretched out across the floor.
"Sherlock?" He pushed the door open abandoning stealth in favor of concern. The thin man lay sprawled on the floor, hyperventilating, his eyes shut and his hand curled around something. John saw blood leaking from his hand which held bits of broken glass, where they glass had come from he had no idea.
"Sherlock, are you alright?" John helped Sherlock to sit up, and began to examine him for further damage. He had known Sherlock to collapse before whether it was from lack of sleep or malnutrition or just his excitable nature, but it never hurt to check.
Sherlock panted, and tried to conceal the broken glass in his hand, with the other hand he gently pushed John away.
"I'm fine." he said without much conviction.
"Yeah sure, sit still." John replied, unconvinced. His eyes fell on Sherlock's bleeding hand. "What is that anyway?" It didn't take much force to pry the glass from Sherlock's thin fingers and it didn't take much deduction to put two and two together.
"Sherlock...why do you have a syringe?" John breathed. Sherlock stared into space, his eyes were dark and distracted. He pursed his lips but gave no explanation.
"Sherlock." John said with a bit more force and a bit more anger. "Explain yourself."
Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes were furious.
"Get out of my room." He spat, and with a new found strength he stood and pushed John from his room before locking the door. John stood outside the door, banished. He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. Then he took a few deep breaths. He'd like to pretend that it wasn't what it looked like but he couldn't. It would be idiotic to ignore plain evidence. He felt a knot forming in his stomach, as a doctor and friend he felt obligated to find out what was going on but was it really his place to intrude on Sherlock's privacy? It was his life...
John shook his head, it was best to leave such thoughts until morning when his brain was less tired. He trudged up the stairs and collapsed into bed with his head full of thoughts.