Disclaimer: Not mine, Sherlock, The Great Game and its characters belong to the BBC and Sir ACD.

A/N: Apologies but my inspiration for writing has crawled off and fallen into a coma recently. I'm told the creative writing people have it under control and are hopeful it will pull though and make a full recovery. This is my least favourite chapter so far, not so much because of what's in it but more because of the style I've written it in – not sure why though, I think maybe it's just because there's a lot more introspective/thought process stuff instead of dialogue. Also, I'm wondering about OOCness but it's difficult to tell because aside from a little bit in The Great Game, we've never really seen the boys when they've fallen out so it was a little hard to write it in character. Anyway let me know what you think.

And as always, thank you for all the reviews so far and to all those who added this to alerts (sorry it's taken so long). I will, as always, try to send quick notes of thanks but just in case I miss people or the reviews are anonymous, THANK YOU!

Also, there is quite a few swear words in this (b****y, f**k, and possibly another one) so please don't be too offended by them. Oh and in case anybody is unsure, anxiolytic drugs are prescribed as anti-anxiety pills (eg. Valium, Xanax etc.)

"Sherlock? Lestrade just rang, they've closed the case – the next door neighbour made a full confession last night." Cringing, John knocked on the door again. Once more, there was no answer. He hadn't seen Sherlock all day – he'd even called in sick at the clinic just in case – and the events of the previous evening were weighing heavily on his mind. "He said there was no way you could've known – the guy only moved in last month, he only spoke to her twice. It was just unlucky, he had the one girl already and the neighbour just interrupted," silence. "Look, you couldn't have known," he repeated.

Sighing and resting his forehead against the closed door, he attempted yet another tactic. "Look, Sherlock, this is daft. Can we just talk about this?" Sherlock remained stubbornly locked in his room. Losing his temper, John gave up with trying to coax his flatmate out. "D'you know what? I jumped to conclusions and I'm sorry I believed Mycroft but not you, but given the evidence, what was I supposed to think? And if you're going to be like this then stay in your bloody room – I'm sick of this Sherlock, I'm bloody sick of having to take the blame for everything just 'cause you're so damn stubborn!" He was met with yet more silence.

John swore again under his breath. "Look, Sherlock, it isn't normal to go out and buy some smack just because you've had a bit of a hard time recently. You need to deal with how you're feeling, not just block it out with drugs – that isn't what normal people do."

"Really?" Sherlock threw the door open so fast that John barely avoided being hit in the face with it. "So what is it that those little pills do for you? The ones that say my name on the prescription?"

"What were you doing in my bedside cabinet?" John asked, more than a little miffed. Sherlock just glared. "Anyway, taking medically prescribed – "

"By you."

" – prescribed anxiolytics is a bit different to shooting up some potentially lethal stuff you got off some junkie! Sherlock, it could've been anything!"

"Oh spare me." Sherlock drawled.

"What?" Said John, surprised.

"Spare me your concern, John. I don't want it – and if I did, it wouldn't be from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh please! You're a jumped up stretcher bearer, who was so desperate for company that you moved in with a sociopath, fuck women you barely know and illegally prescribed yourself drugs just so that you can go out in the world without pissing yourself every time you hear an Irish accent!"

John stood shocked, unsure whether to punch Sherlock or throw him down the stairs. Sherlock apparently had not finished, he continued in the same vicious tone.

"Do you know what the saddest, most pathetic part of it is? After everything that's happened, you're still following me around like a stray off the street – Sherlock Holmes," he threw his arms out clumsily, introducing himself to an imaginary audience before gesturing to John, a feral grin on his face, "and his faithful dog Dr Watson."

There was a long silence; Sherlock's heavy breathing the only sound. John stared at him in the artificial lighting, took in the dilated pupils and last nights clothing – the tailored shirt now clearly sporting a rip up one arm from the button hole to the elbow and the jacket thrown on the floor behind its owner.

"I'm going to bed. When you're down off whatever the hell it was you've just taken, you'd better drink some water and do the same." John advised quietly. He imagined he had seen a flicker of regret in his flatmate's eyes as he turned to enter his own room, pausing in the doorway to cast a disapproving scowl at the detective before shutting the door hard.

Several hours later, John was still wakeful and lying in bed, staring moodily at the glaring red digits on his clock radio. He half sat up as he heard Sherlock's bedroom door open. Straining his ears for any indication of what his flat mate might be doing up at…quarter to four?...in the morning, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. Tiptoeing to his own door, he opened it just in time to hear the unmistakable sounds of someone being violently sick. He weighed up his positions; 1) he was a doctor and there was someone quite clearly unwell (by their own doing but still…) just a flight of stairs away from him and he was hiding in his room like a child because that person had hurt his feelings and 2) Sherlock was a grown man, who had already had a somewhat prolific dalliance with drugs and was presumably therefore quite capable of throwing up without killing himself in the process.

As it turned out, he was spared the necessity of making a decision when he heard the toilet flush and saw his flatmate's long silhouette staggering up the staircase again. Silently observing, he went to close the door far too late and flushed embarrassedly as Sherlock's bloodshot eyes met his. Sherlock froze, startled, and for a moment John thought he would turn and flee downstairs but he continued to edge silently towards his bedroom. John averted his gaze as Sherlock passed him but cursing his complete inability to keep up the silent treatment (even though Sherlock really deserved it), he muttered:

"You all right?"

Sherlock once again froze, looking puzzled. Finally, he gave a short nod, continued to his room and shut the door with a click.

Cautiously, John pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open. Even two floors up, he could just about make out Mrs Hudson's voice – not shouting exactly but as close to it as she ever came with Sherlock. Praying that she would detain Sherlock long enough for him to have a quick nose around Sherlock's room, John stepped inside and shut the door quietly. He could not think why he was making such an effort to be quiet – he was after all, the only person in the flat – but it seemed appropriate to be quiet when he was essentially trespassing on Sherlock's property. Making his way across the room, he made a concerted effort not to tidy up (bit of a give away) though it was hard, but cleaning up Sherlock's mess around the sitting room and kitchen was one thing, he drew the line at tidying his bedroom for him.

Years of attempting to sort Harry's drinking habit out had taught him where to look first: under the bed (juvenile but easy), back and very top of the wardrobe (Harry couldn't reach but Sherlock certainly could have), underneath any loose floorboards. Bracing himself (one never could be sure what to expect in Sherlock's domains), he leant down to look under the bed and found an empty bottle of what appeared to have been scotch – very good scotch. Further investigation turned up an empty vodka bottle, five odd socks and no less than three of Lestrade's police ID badges.

John searched every other place he could think of with growing relief as each place turned up nothing even vaguely drug-related (of questionable legality, in some cases, but certainly nothing to do with drugs.) Pulling himself up from where he had been crouching, trying to see underneath the wardrobe, he lunged forward just in time to prevent a glass falling from where it was teetering on the edge of the desk. Setting it back on the desk (slightly further in but hopefully not so far as to alert Sherlock to his invasion), he noticed a single, worn out slipper sat underneath the desk. Glancing around but unable to find its mate, John put his hand in the shoe, right down to the toes. His fingers peeked out from a quite substantial hole, on one side; on the other, he found a small plastic bag containing a very small bottle and a hypodermic. Swearing and slipping the bag into his pocket, he stood. Gazing disappointedly around him to make certain that everything was in the place it had been when he entered, he returned to his own room.

John was beginning to feel a familiar angry disappointment setting in that he had previously only associated with Harry. Sherlock was the most incredible, most exciting man he had ever met. He was good, despite what Lestrade said; and despite what Sherlock himself said, he did care about people, John was certain of it. And Sherlock was willing to waste his life – waste himself – on drugs that would almost definitely be the death of him someday if he didn't sort himself out! It occurred to John that his therapist would probably have a field day if he ever told her exactly how alike Sherlock and Harry were. Harry wasn't a genius but she was still ruining her own life with the alcohol.

Sighing, John tipped out the contents of the bag and felt three emotions simultaneously. First, there was supreme annoyance – the hypodermic had been stolen from his medical bag! Second, slight relief and almost pride that whatever Sherlock was taking, he did at least have the sense to use his own needle instead of sharing. Finally, and most of all, absolute relief that not only did the solution appear to be clean, it was also completely unopened.

"You've been in my room."

John raised his eyebrows behind his newspaper but did not look up. "You've been in mine," he countered coolly, not even bothering to deny it. "Call it even, shall we?"

"You took something from my room. I want it back."

"Tough," he knew he was being childish but now that the relief had worn off, the anger and hurt was back tenfold. "Anyway, half of it wasn't yours in the first place. When did you nick that needle by the way?"

"John," Sherlock began firmly, as if explaining to someone that was very slow – it occurred to John that to Sherlock, he probably was one of the dullest, stupidest people in the world. Even as he thought it, John grudgingly admitted to himself that he was maybe sulking (just a bit), and that Sherlock most likely did not think that about him – if Sherlock truly thought someone was dull, he just didn't bother with them, even Anderson must have some sort of curiosity in him to have kept Sherlock interested for so long. "John, I need it back." Sherlock told him determinedly.

"No, you don't. You only really feel like you need it when you're addicted so unless you've used since yesterday…," a sudden horror struck John and he finally looked up from his paper, "Oh God, you haven't?"

Sherlock sighed and dropped dramatically on to the sofa. "No," John returned his gaze to the article he had been pretending to read since Sherlock had entered the room. "But I know what you were thinking last night and I can see why but – "

"You were drunk." John cut in bluntly.

"Well, yes."

"People get drunk."

"Yes, I realise that."

"They don't all compare their flatmates to stray dogs." Sherlock met his gaze for half a moment.

"No."

"I'm going out in a bit. Maybe I'll see if I can't find a nice woman to 'barely know' before I fuck her," John was pleased to see Sherlock flush at hearing his own crude words thrown back at him. "I do that apparently."

"Look, John, I really do think that you're overreac – "

"I don't care what you think right now Sherlock, quite frankly."

"Oh John, come on! Be reasonable!" Sherlock snapped, clearly having reached the end of his vaguely apologetic mood.

A car horn sounded outside, just as John's mobile began to ring. Glancing at the caller ID, he stood and snatched his jacket up from the arm of the sofa.

"That's me," John stopped himself from saying 'I'll probably be back late' or 'see you later', settling instead for "no more drink, no drugs and stay out of my room!"

It occurred to John as he shut the front door that he might as well have added 'no wild parties and no having any girls (boys?) over'. As he slid into the front passenger seat of Lestrade's car, he wondered when he had stopped being Sherlock's colleague/friend/flatmate and become his parent.

Any thoughts?