Jodi2011: My reasoning behind him having John go to the drug dealer's house is that Mycroft doesn't trust anyone else with the information. He trusts John because John seemed to be making Sherlock better, and he partially blames him for Sherlock's relapse, and sees it as a way to get John back at Baker Street. Also, Mycroft wouldn't want to get anyone else involved because it may end up with Sherlock's arrest and it would ruin everyone else's trust in him. Mycroft and Sherlock may argue, but he doesn't want to ruin his career. That's my reasoning behind it, so I hope that helps you understand it a bit more.

This chapter took a while to write; I had two assignments to write at the same time for university and I only just finished with one day to go. The only Sherlock-esque thing that has crossed my mind lately was because one of my texts was written by a woman named Janet Holmes and in her book, she mentions 'Elementary, my dear Watson'. I admit, I doodled in the book with an arrow to it saying 'SHERLOCK!' with a heart next to it. So if you get that book, you know the culprit.

If you have any further inquiries, please leave a review or leave me a message and I will do my best to explain my reasoning to you. Thank you for reviewing, please continue to do so! I want to know if I'm doing things right or wrong, if you're enjoying it or not, if I should continue it or what so please just do drop a review every now and again. Thank you.

He was running a fever, it was as if the heat of his skin was radiating inside of his head leaving his brain sweltering and stifled. He kept having to gulp down a generous amount of oxygen through his mouth because his lungs seemed starved and his vision would become foggy if he didn't do so. The pills in his stomach seem to twist and convulse in pain and all he could do to ease the nausea, was tuck his long legs up into his chest, hold them there, and squeeze his eyes shut to pretend that no such thing was happening to him.

Sherlock had taken three of those damned pills and his body was trying to reject them, kicking them out as they disagreed and caused discomfort to the rest of his body. He couldn't help but curse his system for being so bloody selfish, not allowing him one thing that was sure to make him feel better. His day had been repulsive, and all he'd wanted to do was forget...

It all started with the body of a recently deceased postman; it looked like a suicide to the naked, ignorant eye, but Lestrade, unconvinced, had called upon a keener pair of eyes to take a second look.

Nathan Robinson, forty-six-years-old, father of five, recently divorced, reported anger issues, manic depressive, strong smell of mint around the mouth so trying to mask a smell (drugs or alcohol perhaps), multiple small cuts on his palms and wrists—

"Just tell me, is it a suicide or what?" Lestrade asked, disrupting his train of thought.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm still working it out," he snapped. "Stop interrupting me and give me time!"

"Fair enough but you've been looking at him blankly for about twenty minutes," Lestrade pointed out, clearly uncomfortable as he lowered his tone so to keep it between the two of them. "Usually takes you less than five to at least give me some feedback."

"The signs point to suicide," Sherlock reported flatly, studying the body once again. "But it's too obvious. It's almost too perfect. The small cuts on his wrist indicate hesitation wounds, which are usually made when one is testing themselves to see if they could go through with it. Then again, this would mean that that method was the one he was leaning against yet he didn't die due to blood loss, there aren't any wounds grave enough upon his wrist to suggest that."

"He was hanging," Anderson said, his voice grating against Sherlock's eardrums. "He hung himself."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, well done, Anderson, your methods of deduction have greatly improved now you remembered to keep your eyes on the scene of the crime rather than on Donavon's backside—"

There was the sound of movement behind him and Sherlock knew without glancing that Lestrade had to, once again, step in to prevent anything from happening. The detective inspector was now telling Anderson to go cool off elsewhere and to act like a professional, and apparently Anderson did as he was told albeit reluctantly.

"What's your point, Sherlock?" Lestrade said as if there had been no interruption.

Sherlock exhaled loudly in exasperation. "This man didn't commit suicide. The method he would have used is different than the one we found him in. Someone made it look like a suicide, suffocated him with the rope perhaps, and then hung him up."

There was a momentary pause as what he'd just said sunk in. Sherlock got to his feet, pinching his lips tightly together to silence the wince from escaping. He wasn't entirely sure what the matter with him was. His head felt as if there was a pin embedded in the crown of his skull, forming a great crack in the bone and he wanted nothing more than for a hammer to be brought down on it so to put an end to it all. He hadn't taken anything for a good few hours and that always gave him the shakes, similar to the kind that other people get after not eating for a long amount of time. Sherlock gingerly touched his temple, rubbing it with his fingertips in a soothing circular motion as if to loosen the bunched knots of his brain.

"Anything else?" Lestrade asked.

"What else do you want?" Sherlock bit out, not turning around. "You wanted to know if it was a suicide, and I'm telling you it's not. There are far too many bruises around the throat, especially around the back of the neck, for it to have been a suicide. Someone strangled him with the rope!"

"Oi," Lestrade stepped forward, taking the other's shoulder and twisting him around sharply. The movement was too brisk, and for a split second, Sherlock wondered if he would sink to his knees in a faint. To his amazement, he managed to maintain his balance though that may have been due to the detective inspector gripping his shoulder tightly. "Don't take that tone with me alright? I'm fed up with your bloody attitude. It was foul to begin with but now it's just downright—downright putrid!"

"Putrid?" Sherlock echoed in a slur. "That's a rather big word for you there." It was as if his numb lips were moving on their own accord, and he couldn't prevent the words from dripping from his tongue like venom.

Lestrade was incredibly flushed, and a vein stood out on his forehead. "Don't push me, Sherlock. Not today."

The two men considered each other steadily, and not a single word was exchanged though a mute apology was acknowledged and accepted and they pulled apart as if nothing had occurred.

"Oh God," Anderson muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Lestrade turned on him now. "Oh now what, Anderson?" he demanded. "Got a problem you want to share with the rest of the group?"

Anderson was expected to shy away from such a tone, but instead he rose to it, striding towards his superior with such arrogance and determination it took even Sherlock aback.

"He gets away with everything," Anderson hissed, eyes darting from Lestrade to the consulting detective. "He shows respect to no one and everyone just lets him do whatever he wants because he's—he's—"

"Right about everything?" Sherlock offered. "More intelligent in every single aspect than all of you put together?"

Anderson clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. "Don't tell me you don't hear all of that."

"I hear it alright, Anderson," Lestrade said. "Let me handle it, okay?"

"That's the thing though," Anderson insisted. "You don't handle it. At all." He threw his hands up in the air incredulously. "He could quite literally shout abuse right down your ear and you'd still be just as oblivious."

"Maybe you need to cool off," Lestrade said tightly. "Take a few personal days off."

Anderson hesitated but then nodded. "Fine," he breathed, and went to walk off.

Sherlock couldn't resist it. It was burning at the base of his tongue and he regarded what he was about to say, decided it would do no good, but still said it. "Maybe you need to set him some homework too, Lestrade. Make sure it's Donovan though, it's the only thing he does around here!"

No one who was witnessing the scene really expected what happened next, and no one reacted until Sherlock Holmes was lying with his back on the floor with Anderson standing over him who had Lestrade with his arms hooked in his, trying to tear him away from the consulting detective, hollering that they were supposed to be acting professionally. Lestrade shoved Anderson aside and, as soon as he was far enough away from Sherlock, stabbed a finger into his chest, hard, as he told him darkly to get out of his sight and that he was suspended for two weeks.

Sherlock had sat up by the time Lestrade had turned back to him, and the detective inspector couldn't help but feel sorry for the sod despite knowing full well he deserved exactly what he'd got. He just looked so fragile and fractured, sitting there on the ground with a split lip that accompanied his bruised cheek quite well. Lestrade approached him, taking a packet of tissues from his pocket, and held them out. Sherlock gratefully took them, glancing around to see that a lot of the team had dispersed, save a few curious onlookers that looked caught between being fascinated and sympathetic. Sherlock heaved a sigh, dabbing his mouth that was now dribbling blood.

"I'm getting major déjà vu right now," Lestrade remarked teasingly, crouching in front of the other man. "Two people lash out at you in less than a month? Either they're getting even more short-tempered or you're just becoming completely unbearable."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I asked for that," he admitted quietly. "But to be honest, I couldn't help myself."

Lestrade could not help but smile. "Right...you rarely can." Then he switched to a more serious note. "You don't seem yourself lately. You seem really—tangled. Like you're just one—big—knot and the more you try to untangle yourself the more tangled you get and you get more frustrated and throw a fit..."

"You really are a creative man, Greg," Sherlock commented. He hardly ever referred to him by his first name, and it surprised Lestrade, yet confused him. "I got the tangled concept around five sentences back. Don't worry, I'll fix it."

"Will you, now? You can't even fix yourself a dinner never mind the bloody mess you're in lately."

Sherlock paused, and made to get up to his feet. Much to his humiliation, he fell forwards, saved only by the set of firm hands that grasped him.

"Steady on," Lestrade grumbled.

Sherlock shrugged off his hold, his cheeks aflame, and was able to stand up straight with very little aid. "I'm going to head home now," he said shortly.

Lestrade nodded. "That'd be best," he agreed. "Take care of yourself. Need any help just give us a ring, yeah?"

Sherlock answered with a brisk nod and walked off.

The incident with Anderson had shook him up for certain, but that wasn't why he was now curled up in a foetal position with a raging temperature and a trembling form. No, that wasn't why.

Sherlock had walked back to Baker Street, only losing his balance once and he'd concealed it well by pretending to bend down to tie his laces. He found, to his astonishment, that he was smirking as he thought about what had just happened to him. Anderson losing his rag with him was something unexpected and so it thrilled him. At the same time, however, it had unnerved him. He'd always felt safe, saying whatever he wanted just to see Anderson's smug composure collapse and crumble miserably, because Lestrade acted like a shield between them. Now even that shield, that guard, was weakening and Sherlock understood entirely that it was because he was becoming, in Lestrade's own words, unbearable.

Sherlock was standing on his doorstep, digging his hands into his pockets, searching for his keys. His fingertips felt so numb and thick with skin they couldn't feel a thing, not even the chill of the metal in his coat pocket. When he did manage to grasp them, they fell with a shrill clatter on the floor. Swearing under his breath, Sherlock bent to collect them when a pair of hands got there before him. Sherlock found that he was unusually out of breath and his breaths, raspy and shallow, were very loud in his ears. Lifting his pale eyes, they greeted those of John Watson.

"Sherlock, you okay? You don't look so good," John asked, concern blatant in his voice as he reached out to help him straighten up.

Sherlock didn't even consider wondering as to why the doctor was there, in fact for a moment he forgot that he'd left Baker Street at all. "I'm fine," he replied thickly. "I just need to lie down for a second."

"Let's get you inside," John said, supporting the consulting detective as he made to unlock the door. "Since when did Mrs Hudson start locking it anyway?"

"Since Moriarty happened," Sherlock made a scoffing sound. "Funny—you'd have thought she'd have been glad to get rid of me. I'm the worst tenant she's ever had..."

John couldn't ignore the bitterness in that last part, and quirked an eyebrow at it, yet bit his tongue. He didn't think that this would be what he was going to be doing when he came over. He expected them to be stiffly conversing on the doorstep, but instead he was half carrying him up the stairs and making a series of mental notes over his condition. It had taken a lot of self-persuading on John's part that morning to get him to pluck up the courage to even come to Baker Street. He hadn't told Sarah about it; she probably would have made a long list as to why it would be a bad idea for John to turn up uninvited and just act as if nothing had happened. It was something John wanted to do though, and he didn't care if she found out and was pissed.

John stood in the kitchen, swilling a tall glass under the tap that looked as if it hadn't been cleaned in a very long time, and then filled it up with water. Every now and then, he glimpsed over his shoulder to check on Sherlock who was lying with his back to him on the sofa, legs tucked up neatly underneath him, body noticeably trembling. John tried to reassemble his medical mind, kick it into action, but his brain was too busy being anxious and questioning what he was going to do next to even focus on something that was usually a second nature to him.

He held out the glass once it was full to the consulting detective, who didn't accept it for a long time. John held it out patiently, until Sherlock realised it was being offered to him, half sat up, and took it. Then John sat down in the armchair closest to the sofa, clasping his hands together as he waited. Waited for what? Even he wasn't sure, but he knew that he couldn't begin what was sure to be an awkward conversation. That was up to Sherlock, and it didn't matter if it took hours for him to conjure any words at all to speak, John would, without question, wait.

Sherlock seemed to look at John for the first time, really look, and he set the glass down on coffee table, running his fingers through his curls.

"John—" he started, and then cast his gaze down, focusing solely on his lap. There was an elongated pause and he bit his abused bottom lip hard. "I'm sorry about that."

John pursed his lips. Wasn't exactly what he'd wanted but he accepted it either way. "Not a problem," he said quietly. "Are you feeling any better?"

Sherlock forced a twitch in the corner of his mouth. "Yes, much," he lied, though it felt like that aforementioned pin in his skull had been twisted around slowly, grinding and pulsing with a cold pain. "I haven't eaten much lately. I just got a bit faint, that's all."

"Want me to make you something?" John offered feebly. When Sherlock declined, ten times more polite than usual, he nodded and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Listen, Sherlock—I came over to—to invite you to Sarah's birthday party this weekend."

Sarah's birthday was on Friday, and to celebrate he'd arranged for her a small get together of friends on the Saturday. He'd gone through her phone book, hounded people at the clinic, and contacted her family, inviting everyone who she would supposedly want over. He honestly had no clue whether she'd be pleased to see a majority of them, but nonetheless it was something. John had thought to invite a few of his friends too, unless he wanted to stand in a room full of people he didn't really know and feel more alone than ever. However, the only person he could think about was Sherlock. John had put it off and put it off, inviting Lestrade, Mike and a couple of other acquaintances of his, from work and from Bart's, but in the end the only person, he really wanted there was the arguably sociopathic detective.

Sherlock studied John for a second, and deduced quickly that this was a serious offer. He felt the tightness in his chest again and the chill in his stomach. He couldn't identify precisely what he was feeling; it was a vast range of emotions, most of which he'd never had to deal with before, and facing them now by himself was a tall order. Swallowing hard, Sherlock looked away in discomfort.

"Maybe," was his answer.

That was bizarrely enough for John. It wasn't a flat out no and it wasn't a smothering, draining interrogation concerning his reasons behind what he was doing. It was just a normal and simple, maybe, and John welcomed it eagerly. He was to sit in 221b Baker Street only for a few minutes longer, which had now collapsed into utter silence. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he drew it out to see Sarah had text him asking where he was. John put it hastily away and got to his feet.

"You know my number if you need me," John said. "Just, give me a call, any time, if you need any help or if you feel—faint again."

Sherlock tilted his gaze upwards to greet John's. "I know," was his short reply. John made to leave when Sherlock added; "Your cane. You don't need it at all now do you?"

John couldn't deny the smile from spreading across his face. He turned back around to face the consulting detective, to see he had sat upright, peering up at him with a prying inquisitiveness that boasted that it already knew the answer.

"It aches from time to time," John said. "But no, I don't need my cane anymore."

Sherlock seemed satisfied with this and relaxed. John watched him for a couple of minutes more, and then saw himself out, throwing a hasty goodbye over his shoulder as he did so. His phone vibrated again once he was outside and he looked at the screen, slightly disappointed that it wasn't from Sherlock but from Mycroft.

He isn't with his brother, so he must be with his father.
It can't be he who is supplying Sherlock with drugs.
MH

John read this as it meant Sherlock wasn't on drugs at all and his muscles went lax, even though he had no clue they were even tensed at all. He glimpsed up at the window of 221b and then hailed a taxi. Up in the window, Sherlock watched him until he'd climbed inside a vehicle and sped off.

[SH]

That was how the three little pills had wound up in his stomach, and Sherlock lay on the sofa, his sweat that had clung to his clothes cold against his shivering flesh. He thought he was going to be sick the way everything seemed to be vibrating around him. Nothing seemed still, not even the furniture upon which he lay; it seemed to sway as if waltzing on the sea, and he clasped both hands over his swollen, sore eyes, grimacing. It was the worst he'd ever felt in his life, and it felt as though the very experience was ripping off his skin and separating his muscles and splintering his bones.

Staggering and swaying, Sherlock stumbled over to the toilet, sinking to his knees next to it. He had scarcely enough strength to lift the seat, and hovered his head over it, dry heaving and coughing, trying desperately to rid his body of the drug that had caused him so much hurt. His eyes watered and this throat felt worn out, but nothing he did would reward him with allowing him to empty his stomach's content. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he pulled out his phone and dialled a number.

"Hello?"

That voice rolled soothingly over him and he felt his body sag in relief. Sherlock couldn't speak for an instant, as he was so overwhelmed with what he was feeling just from hearing John's bewildered tone over the phone. It confused him. Even as a child, when he had fallen over and was howling in pain, he'd never felt so calmed by the mere voice of someone before. No matter what nightmare had plagued him, no matter how hard he cried, no matter how many times he'd dared to let someone in—never had anyone made him feel like that and it was like that sweet moment before sleep claims you. You are unaware it is happening, it just does, and once it takes you, you are blissfully ignorant to everything else happening around you.

John frowned on the other end. "Hello?" he checked the number but didn't recognise it immediately. "Hello? Who is this? Who's calling?"

Sherlock attempted to answer but then he heard someone else.

"John? Who is it?"

Unmistakably Sarah. Sherlock's mouth, which had been open for a while like a door awaiting the words to hurry on out, eased shut and he closed his eyes, his heart feeling like it was ensnared in a cruel, piercing vice. His head dropped an inch and he opened his eyes slightly, amazed to find his vision blurry. He could imagine her, with her arm draped around John's shoulders, somewhat annoyed that their dull movie or dull conversation had been interrupted.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" John said suddenly, catching the consulting detective off-guard. "Are you alright? What's happened?"

Sherlock slowly dragged the phone away from his own ear, dropping his arm down to his side. John's tinny voice continued to ask questions, and Sherlock cut him off mid-sentence.

For another hour, his phone continued to ring and ring as John attempted to contact him again. Sherlock could hear his phone from his bedroom as he'd left it in the bathroom. He didn't make any move to answer it, and he didn't intend to. Instead, he lay there on his back, knowing that any moment John would give up. John would give up on trying to contact him, John would give up and go back to whatever dull boring life he was leading with Sarah. It was the seventh attempt, and after that final ring stole the air of 221b, all was silent. Sherlock's heart sank so low he wondered if he'd ever be able to reclaim it from the depths to which it had descended.

For some absurd reason, John's turning up in Baker Street had rattled his constricted and narrow world. It frightened Sherlock to think that this was how it was to be now; John would only ever pay rare visits, and he wouldn't return to live with him again. Sherlock wondered how long John would bother keeping in contact with a man who is always caught up in some case or lazing around in his flat getting high as a kite. Sherlock was partially glad that John was now coming back into his life, but he was also partially distraught that now he would have to lose John all over again, only this time it would be a much more slower and painful process. Sherlock would lose John to normality; to Sarah, to marriage, to children perhaps, to a new job, to new friends, to a new life in total. Sherlock would remain the same, frozen in the same sorry state, never progressing, never changing. There was only so much John Watson would be able to stand, only so much spare time he could offer him.

Sherlock had hopelessly clung to the hope that the doctor would return. Now that hope was wilting, turning brown and ugly, recognisable, and Sherlock couldn't help but ask himself why he had even bothered in the first place...

TBC