John was checking his email when the torrent began.
At first it was just the sounds coming from the other room, the muttered curses and fumbling. Then it exploded as the pale whirlwind came rushing into the room wearing a frantic nervousness and an accusing glare.
"Where. Is. It?" Sherlock spat each word like venom and his eyes darted back and forth in a mix of anger and fear.
"Where is what?" John's mouth was too dry, he knew he wasn't playing innocent nearly convincingly enough.
"Damn you, you mindless twit." Sherlock growled. "Don't sit there pretending not to know what I'm saying I know you got rid of it."
That comment hurt. John put up with people calling him idiotic daily, it was one of the many wonderful things that came with following Sherlock around all day. Most of their fanbase commented on the "slow-witted sidekick" rather cruelly.
"Sherlock...calm down. You aren't yourse-"
"Don't tell me what to do. I'm fine, or at least I was until you started poking about in my personal affairs!" Sherlock didn't even let John finish, he paced the room wringing his hands and occasionally even yanking nervously at strands of his hair.
"I was worried about you, Sherlock." John whimpered pathetically, hating the sound of his own voice. He could always play the authoritative soldier, yet here he was sniveling because his friend threw a few insults his way.
"Traitor. Idiot!" Sherlock snarled, and with a burst of energy he had his coat on and was out the door. John leapt up to follow him, only to have the door slammed in his face. He was so stunned he didn't think to open the door, and by the time he had remembered how to use a doorknob Sherlock had disappeared into the night, and John knew he was off to find more of this drug that held him so. He knew it and he felt helpless to stop it. John sat on the stairs and sighed. What could he do except wait for him to come home, try to find the new supply and get rid of it the way he did the first? Only to have the same reaction. Sherlock, calling him a traitor and an idiot.
Why did that sting so much worse when he said it? Yet that pain paled in comparison to the pain of seeing his friend in this tortured state. That face so thin and beaten, and yet still so beautiful with bright eyes like flowers resting in the snow.
John shook his head and blushed. Now that thought was confusing and uncalled for. He was worried for his friend. His friend. Even so he found himself thinking about Sherlock's pale skin and the sharp angles of his body, found himself wondering if that beautiful form was just as white and angular under the clothes...
John lay his head against the wall, he could feel himself blushing even if he denied it. He pushed the thoughts away. He could have an emotional crisis later, after Sherlock was healthy.
When Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street he found John dozing on the stairs. His face was creased with lines of concern, even in sleep he was worrying. Sherlock scowled down at the face, his mind too clouded to think about the cause for that worry. The cause that was him. For a moment he entertained the notion of leaving him there all night. Then he found himself pulling off his coat and draping it over the sleeping doctor, scooping John into his arms and carrying him back up the stairs. He dropped him on the couch, still too angry with him to bother taking him to bed.
Besides, his mind was preoccupied with other things.
Cocaine was his preferred of any drug he had ever tried in his lifetime. Cigarettes were all well and good when it came to addiction but cocaine brought energy to a mind burdened by boredom. He'd discovered the drug in his youth, and experimented with it liberally. Though his use of it fluctuated over time, it held him as strongly now as it did back then when every day was a drug induced blur. Even now his fingers itched to dissolve the powder in water, to take it into himself and feel that surge of power. That blessed release that could distract him so long as he kept on taking it.
John murmured something in his sleep and turned over, as he did he took Sherlock's coat in hand and pulled it close to his face. Perhaps he could smell Sherlock's scent on the coat, because the worried look on his face vanished and melted into a soft smile. Sherlock watched the sleeping doctor for a moment, in fact for more than a moment. He found himself sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch and folding his hands under his chin he sat there for some time watching John's slumber. For a moment the drug was all but forgotten, he contented himself with watching the rise and fall of John's chest and delighting in the way John clutched at his coat. Why this made him happy he did not know.
After fifteen minutes the detective rose and departed for his room, ready for another fix.