"Stay here," John barked as he flung open the cab door. "Keep the meter running I don't care." He ran toward the warehouse the GPS on his phone was indicating.

The first door he came upon was slightly open, but a padlocked chain barred it. He glanced down. There was a cut chain lying in the dirt. Had Sherlock cut the it? Had someone re-chained the door shut? With burning veins John stepped back and scanned the building.

Window. Ledge. By stepping on an empty crate he was able to pull himself up onto it. Kneeling on the ledge he looked into the dimly lit space. He could see a large man crouched on the floor, and beneath him—Sherlock.

John grabbed his gun and his blood ran cold as he remembered emptying the bullets. But there was no time to waste on frustration or regret. Every second was vital now, and it took him less than one to form an alternate plan. He flipped the gun in his hand and smashed the window with the pistol. Glass rained down around him as he leapt into the warehouse. The thick soles of his desert combat boots hit the concrete floor and he crouched low to absorb the impact—army drills had made the action automatic, faster than memory.

Startled at the noise, the attacker let go of Sherlock—first priority accomplished—and spun around. But John was already running toward him; he had momentum. He collided with the man twice his size, simultaneously kicking his leg behind the attacker's and shoving his weight to the side, effectively tripping him backward. The man fell, grabbing at John. John went down with him, rolling at the same time to avoid getting caught. He snapped to his feet as the man struggled to sit up. Perfect position. He whipped the man across the temple with his pistol. It was a killing blow and John hadn't given it a second thought.

Sherlock was coughing, gasping, struggling to sit up, and John was at his side in an instant. He knelt to prop Sherlock up, allowing him to lean against him to support his weight. John ran his hands over Sherlock's neck, thumbs brushing over his hyoid and trachea, fingers pushing gently into his cervical vertebrae. He breathed in relief at feeling nothing broken, but remained grimly aware of the serious bruises that would already be forming fast beneath porcelain skin.

John switched his gaze to Sherlock's face and was startled to see the detective looking at him with plain, unreserved amazement. He was breathing heavily, eyes fixed on John's. John felt himself involuntarily draw in a breath. Sherlock's pupils were contracted to pinpoints, irises blown wide: the kaleidoscope colours in his eyes were dazzling, beautiful to the point of distraction and it took John longer than he would have liked to realise his pupils shouldn't be contracted in the dim lighting. John held the side of Sherlock's face with no small amount of concern.

"What did you take?" There was a sharpness in his voice that seemed to get Sherlock's unfocused gaze to clear momentarily.

"It's—" Sherlock winced and shook his head dismissively. "How did you—" his voice was as rough as gravel. He succumbed to a fit of coughing and John braced him, tightening his grip around his flatmate's back. The coughing subsided but John remained tensed until he felt the detective breathing steadily again.

"Billy," John answered the unfinished question. "Got the list from him. Sherlock, I need to know what you've taken."

Lethargically, with none of his usual exactness of movement, Sherlock produced his phone from his pocket. He typed and John's phone chimed.

Heroin. Not my fault.

John looked at him sceptically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John thought Sherlock must be the only person drugged with heroin who could still manage exasperation. He gestured limply out at the space of the warehouse, and for the first time John looked around.

Until now his awareness had been narrowed to the attacker and then to Sherlock. Now he noticed the two chairs a few paces off and the handcuffs that had been dropped behind one of them. And further toward the back of the space were two bundles of black mass that looked disconcertingly like dead bodies.

"Did you do that?"

Sherlock shook his head.

John looked back over at them, but Sherlock recaptured his attention by tugging his sleeve. He pointed to a spot below his collar bone. John squinted at it and saw the mark where the needle had pierced the vein. His torn shirt; the injection done in a convenient location if Sherlock had had his hands cuffed behind his back… John may not be able to read a crime scene like a consulting detective, he may have next to no clue what had happened here tonight, but the evidence was enough to know Sherlock wasn't lying. The drugs weren't his fault.

"How much?" John asked quickly. "We need to get you to a hospital—"

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's sleeve and shook his head as determinedly as his sluggish movements would allow. He reached for his phone and after a moment of typing John's phone chimed again.

Regular dose. Not enough to OD. Fine. No hospital. No.

John would have raised an eyebrow at such a marked lack of the detective's usual eloquence, but actually it was impressively clear for someone battling the all-consuming haze of heroin. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Sherlock was high-functioning in every sense of the word.

Sherlock's gaze roamed down over John's neck and paused where John's identification tags were hanging in the space between them, flashing in the low ceiling lights. He lifted his hand and caught at them. He leaned his weight more fully back against John and lifted his other hand. John felt the chain tug against his neck as Sherlock turned them over and over.

John watched him, waiting for the surge of anger toward the irreverent detective who'd lied to him, gone off and gotten himself drugged and nearly killed again, but strangely it never came. This was Sherlock. Uncontrollable. And more importantly this was life with Sherlock. Unstable. Ever since that first night he'd understood this was how it was going to be. Sherlock was going to be constantly getting himself into scrapes—because he was the most idiotic genius in the world and he had danger written in his DNA—and John would be spending his life trying to save him, and Sherlock was never, never going to make it easy. Yet he'd chosen all of it without hesitation and never looked back.

John had no idea why Sherlock had lied to him tonight, but he knew the detective well enough to know he would have some kind of ridiculous, Sherlogical reason for it. John would do his best to get it out of him tomorrow, and scold him thoroughly for it, but tonight…

Sherlock glanced up at him through black eyelashes. God he was beautiful. John wished like hell people would stop trying to break him.

Almost unconsciously John pushed Sherlock's fringe, messy from the struggle, back from his eyes. He should be angry, he knew any sane person would be, but he sighed and when he spoke all that came out was, "I knew you weren't going to make pasta, you git." He blamed it on the endorphins flooding in the wake of adrenaline. Sherlock was alive. When he'd seen him through the window he'd thought—

Sherlock smiled feebly. "You believed—" his voice scraped and he coughed.

"Don't talk," John reprimanded.

Sherlock gave him a frustrated glance.

John would have asked what other result Sherlock had expected from having a man the size of an elephant crushing his larynx, but Sherlock was already typing again. John checked his phone.

You believed it for a bit.

John's grin vanished. "Almost a bit too long."

Knew you would come.

John scoffed, "No you didn't."

Hoped you would.

John ran his eyes over the detective, his flatmate, Sherlock, the most important person in the universe. He had gone back to John's dog tags and John felt like something was breaking inside of him as he watched Sherlock play with them, feeling his trust in the weight of his body as he allowed John to fully support him.

He was going to have to summon a lot of self-discipline if he was going to remember to be mad at the infernally mischievous detective tomorrow.

Gently he untangled Sherlock's hands from the chain. "Can you stand?"

Sherlock nodded and John helped him to his feet. He grabbed Sherlock's coat from where it lay on the floor and held it up while Sherlock put his arms through it. Sherlock swayed trying to step forward and John caught him around the waist, allowing him to brace himself on his shoulders.

The cab driver, leaning out the window, did not look overly pleased to see them when they reached the road.

"No blood or vomit in my cab," he warned, eyeing them as though they had come from some kind of warehouse rave party. "Or any other bodily fluids," he added for good measure.

"Oh, sod off," John said, opening the door with his free hand.

He moved to guide Sherlock into the car, and was surprised to feel some resistance. He looked back and saw Sherlock's eyes flicking over him. A moment later he felt the detective's hand in his hair, fingers pushing back through it. Out of the corner of his eye John saw sparks and glints of light falling down around him. Glass, he realised. There was glass in his hair from the shattered window. Sherlock ran both of his hands through again John's eyes involuntarily fell shut.

"Thanks," he murmured when Sherlock seemed satisfied and stepped back.

"Cor, this is going to be the most bloody expensive fare I've had in ages," the driver said gleefully. "You better be able to pay all this."

"Don't get your knickers up your arse; I'll pay the twatting fare," John said, easing Sherlock into the cab. "221B, Baker Street."

If Sherlock was often catlike in the agility of his movements, his indolent lounging and languid stretching, then Sherlock on heroin was doubly so. The moment John sat down in the cab and swung the door shut Sherlock stretched out.

"Sherlock!" John objected. "No, you can't—oof—Sherlock, you are too long for—ow—would you just—"

The resultant position had Sherlock reclined across the back seat of the cab, head on John's chest, and feet up against the opposite door.

"Well, I hope you're comfortable," John muttered. It was the ride home from Irene Adler's house all over again. A drugged Sherlock was apparently one who needed his space, and, like a cat, was entirely content to ignore whatever bodies were already occupying said space.

John lifted Sherlock's head gently and moved his tags around over his shoulder. There was nowhere for John to put his left arm besides across Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock hadn't buttoned his coat, so John did his best to pull it around him to keep his bare chest from being exposed beneath his torn shirt. Then he reluctantly rested his arm over his flatmate's waist.

He decided he could defend himself against the imaginary crowd accusing him of groping his drugged flatmate by saying he was acting as a seatbelt. At least this way he could prevent Sherlock from rolling off the seat if the cabbie hit the brakes. And Sherlock didn't complain. He must have been comfortable, because in a matter of a few minutes he seemed to have drifted off, whether to sleep or a heroin-induced stupor John couldn't say. He felt his concern tightening his jaw and he consciously unclenched his teeth.

Sherlock had been functioning and reacting well enough that John was willing to take him home, but he was going to watch his symptoms closely. At the first sign of deterioration they were going straight to a hospital.

John reached for his phone, shifting only slightly, trying not to wake the person sleeping on him. He needed to call Lestrade. There were three bodies in that warehouse—two who looked like they'd been shot and the one he'd killed. He could leave out that last detail though. Best case scenario Sherlock could cover for him; worst case scenario it was self-defense.

He held the phone up over Sherlock, scrolling through his contacts for Lestrade when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm. He looked down. Sherlock's eyes were still closed.

"Don't bother," his voice cracked around the words.

"I need to tell Lestrade—"

"It's all gone," he whispered. "Clean."

John blinked down at him. Sherlock must have met Moran tonight. He figured only Moran, possibly acting through Moriarty, could clean out a warehouse full of bodies and drugs that fast.

John lowered the phone and Sherlock's hand slid down his arm, landing partly over the phone and partly over John's hand. John waited but Sherlock didn't move it, perhaps to prevent him from trying to call again. Perhaps he had fallen back to sleep.

It was funny—John looked at their hands, his turned up, holding the phone, Sherlock's hand covering it—if the phone wasn't between them Sherlock would be holding his hand.

John turned his attention out the window. For someone so averse to intimacy (and people in general), Sherlock really didn't mind being touched. Or at least being touched by John. It was one of the many mistakes he had made in understanding Sherlock over the years, and lately he was being corrected about it quite often. Of course he and Sherlock had been in close spaces before, but these days they seemed to end up in contact more than ever. Maybe he was being overly sensitive, but it was hard not to think about it now with the detective was sprawled over him, and wasn't it just the other morning they had woken up quite literally in each other's arms?

Harry's advice was lurking in the back of his mind. At the moment, the back of his mind was the only place it was allowed.

John let his eyes move over Sherlock's sleeping form. He had almost lost him again tonight. If there really was, or could be, something between them he would have to consider it sooner rather than later.

Soon, he decided. He would think about it soon. But not tonight. For now he was content just to have Sherlock here, so close to him, on top of him even (prat), bruised but breathing, drugged but very much warm and alive.

John slowly moved his hand out from under Sherlock's. He tucked his phone away and wrapped his arm back around him. He looked out the window at the streets of the city they both loved, the city that tried to kill them on a regular basis, giving them the danger they needed to survive.

The most he could do now was to get Sherlock to bed and try to force feed him pasta tomorrow, depending on his ability to swallow. He sighed, reflexively tightening his hold around Sherlock's waist. Caring for a consulting detective was much more difficult than anyone would believe.

John guided Sherlock up the stairs to their flat and down the hallway to his bedroom. He was walking all right, but in a kind of half-asleep, half-drug-induced-trance. John pulled off Sherlock's top layers—coat, jacket, ripped shirt—and he dropped heavily onto the bed. Sherlock pulled weakly at his belt but gave up when his numb fingers wouldn't work the way he wanted them to. John gritted his teeth, silenced his accusatory mind-crowd, and undid his flatmate's belt, sliding it off of him. He moved down to the shoes, unlacing them and pulling them off. Sherlock immediately curled onto his side and John pulled the blanket up over him, his hand lingering on his shoulder.

"I need to go out for a minute," he said, voice low. Sherlock's eyes were closed. He didn't respond. "I'll get Mrs. Hudson to sit in the living room if you need anything. I'll be right back. Ok? Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded curtly and rolled over to his other side.

Out in the living room John quickly scribbled Sherlock a prescription for oxycodone. He was not at all enthusiastic about giving his ex-addict (currently high) flatmate prescription-strength painkillers, but he knew that as soon as the heroin wore off his neck was going to hurt like hell. He would need these, there was no question.

He took Sherlock's ID from his wallet. There was a twenty-four hour pharmacy a few blocks away. He cast a glance back at Sherlock's bedroom. He would be back soon.

"He's fine, dear," Mrs. Hudson assured him when he returned with the prescription. "I looked in on him earlier and he's sleeping quietly." She shook her head. "The scrapes he gets himself into. You know I think it's for the best that his mother knows nothing about it. I can't imagine…" She trailed off for a moment and then gave him a warm smile. "He's so lucky to have you, John."

He gave her a half smile back. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," he mumbled, gaze already sliding toward Sherlock's door.

John set the bag down on the table when she left. He had come up with a plan on the walk home: Dealing with addicts 101. He wouldn't tell Sherlock he had the pills in order to be sure that if Sherlock woke up needing something he wouldn't exaggerate his symptoms just to get the narcotics.

John moved quietly into Sherlock's bedroom. He was sleeping exactly the way he'd left him, on his side with his back turned toward the door. John put his hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock?" The detective rolled onto his back. "I'll be in the living room tonight if you need me."

John waited, half expecting the same response he'd gotten the last time. Why would I need you? But Sherlock was quiet.

"Send me a text though"—John placed Sherlock's phone on the bedside table—"Don't strain your voice."

John turned to leave and Sherlock caught his wrist.

"Stay." Sherlock's voice was soft, broken by the night's events. His eyes were still closed.

Confused, John started, "What? Here? But—"

"Please."

John blinked at the word, hesitating. Could Sherlock really be asking him to stay… to sleep here? On the one hand, if he did, he supposed it would be easier for Sherlock to wake him if he was in pain or if he needed something. On the other hand, sleeping in Sherlock's bed… with Sherlock in it… John tossed aside the thought. Sherlock had been drugged, injured, and almost killed tonight, and now he was asking John to stay with him—whether for comfort (John couldn't imagine) or convenience (more likely), or whatever reason, it didn't matter. If Sherlock needed him here, he would be here.

He did wish they had a lilo though.

He looked back toward the living room. He would have liked to at least change into his pyjama trousers first, but Sherlock didn't seem interested in letting go of his arm. John sighed inwardly. In truth he was exhausted, and flopping down into bed—any bed—didn't seem like such a bad idea.

He walked around to the other side of the bed, shrugging off his jacket and pulling the dog tags over his head. He sat down on the edge of the bed, undoing his boots, slightly amazed to think the night had started off as innocuously as dressing up to go to a work party. But that was life with Sherlock. Never bored.

He pulled down his trousers wondering fleetingly if this were one of those Bit Not Good things, but responded to himself indignantly that he was not going to sleep in military trousers. He kept his t-shirt on in compensation, and was glad he was wearing boxers tonight rather than the more revealing briefs.

He slid into the bed and looked with concern at his sleeping flatmate. It was a good idea after all, John thought, closing his eyes. He wanted to be close to Sherlock tonight if he woke up in pain. And, at the very least, it was better for his neck than sleeping on the couch, which had been John's original plan.

He was thinking Sherlock often had good ideas as sank into sleep.

John was awakened around three o'clock in the morning by Sherlock's tossing and turning. John sat up, blinking away sleep and looking over at his flatmate. He was awake, breathing heavily. He tossed onto his right side, but John put his hand on his shoulder, easing him on to his back.

John kneeled over him. He felt his forehead, checked his eyes. In the soft mixture of street and moon light John could see Sherlock's pupils dilated to the correct level in the dark. The heroin had worn off. His eyes ran down to the detective's neck. Sherlock swallowed and winced. John knew the pain must be considerable if Sherlock wasn't able to ignore the complaints of his transport the way he usually did.

John reached to feel his neck, to check the extent of the swelling, but with quick reflexes Sherlock caught his hand, giving him a hard look. Severe pain confirmed.

"I'll get you something for it." John's voice was rough from sleep.

He walked to the kitchen feeling dizzy, the remnants of sleep still pressing heavily around him. He filled a glass of water and carried it to the living room. He tipped two pills into his hand: start strong and reduce with recovery.

"Take these," John said, handing Sherlock the pills and water. "Oxycodone."

John knew Sherlock wouldn't need an explanation. He would know the drugs by name. He took them and handed the glass back.

John went around to his side of the bed—he cringed a bit at the slip in thought—around to the left side of the bed and Sherlock laid back. John got into bed but didn't lie down. He moved next to Sherlock, leaning on his hip and using his right arm to support himself. He tentatively reached his left hand out. Sherlock watched him but he didn't stop his hand this time.

Very gently John ran his hand over the injured area. The swelling was consistent with the injury—nothing to be alarmed about. Again he confirmed there was nothing broken, but definitely some deep tissue bruising.

He dropped his hand and bit his lip. Shirtless, Sherlock's pale skin looked vulnerable in the dark. John traced his eyes down over the damaged neck, the syringe puncture at his collar bone, the bullet wound in his chest— He was surprised when he felt Sherlock's hand on his left shoulder. John was wearing his t-shirt but Sherlock was touching the exact spot where his own bullet wound was.

The detective's expression was blank, but John knew Sherlock was reading his mind and correcting him, the same way he'd done on the couch just a few nights ago: We're both damaged. This is how we live. I don't care about any of these marks and neither should you.

John almost smiled. Sherlock could correct him even when he wasn't speaking.

Sherlock lifted his hand from John's shoulder to his face, brushing his thumb against a scratch on his cheek he'd gotten from the window. John shut his eyes. When he opened them again he saw Sherlock looking up at him questioningly and suddenly it was all too much.

It was the angle that was the problem.

This was the angle he looked at lovers from. Never friends. Never patients. In all his life he had never seen anyone but a lover looking up at him from this close angle; and never anyone looking anything like Sherlock Holmes. His mind reeled, struggling to interpret the situation.

There had never been a good category in his mind for Sherlock. 'Best friend' had to do simply because there was nothing else to describe it. But after the age of twelve John had never had a 'best friend.' Friends were people like Stamford, or his rugby mates: people to see on occasion, to laugh with over beers. Bizarrely, despite his heterosexuality and their complete lack of physical intimacy, Sherlock had always been more like a lover than anything else. Their cohabitation, their attunement to each other's rhythms, their jokes, their bickering and their fights, their practically shared finances, their mutual need for each other, the fierce protectiveness and loyalty Sherlock inspired in him, the electricity between them—it was nothing like a friend. Even 'best friend' fell short of whatever their connection was.

They had met when John was twenty-nine, far too late to make a 'best friend'—at least for someone like him, someone who didn't have close friends. And the relationship hadn't developed over time. It had been immediate, urgent—like falling for someone, like lust. It was intense beyond anything John had ever experienced.

And they hadn't known each other long enough—a little over a year—for John to have been as utterly destroyed as he was when Sherlock died. How could someone he had never known for twenty-nine years have woven himself so entirely throughout him in such a short time? To the point that John felt himself torn in half when Sherlock was gone? Sherlock was brilliant, unique, unearthly in many ways but it was more than that. His loss had arrested John completely. It had blown him apart, leaving him an empty shell of himself for years. Losing friends hurt, John knew that, he'd lost friends in the war, sometimes it hurt irreparably but this wasn't like that. It was like losing—

But no, John couldn't be sure of anything, because Sherlock was different. Like him, Sherlock didn't have friends or best friends either. John had no frame of reference, there was nothing to compare him to; there was nothing like Sherlock. But the lines of friendship and more were blurring, had always been blurred. With Sherlock it had always been more the same way it never had been.

John's head was spinning; the situation was surreal. His brain was automatically sending him signals to interpret the angle—Sherlock beneath him on the bed, Sherlock's hand on his face—in the only way it knew how. He wasn't quick enough now, here, at three o'clock in the morning in Sherlock's bed, to come up with an alternate story, a rationalisation. Beginnings of 'doctor/patient' or 'concerned flatmate' related nonsense fell apart even as they formed.

He knew this angle. He had been in this position before, strictly with women, but he was here now and Sherlock was brushing his thumb across the cut on his cheek and his eyes were asking him a question and suddenly John understood. Sherlock didn't know what he was doing. It was something beyond the reaches of his vast knowledge. Sherlock couldn't do this, but John could.

He leaned down, sliding his hip down to lower himself. His eyes swept Sherlock's face, beautiful in the half-dark. Lightly, he pressed his lips to Sherlock's. They were soft, partly open, perfect. John shut his eyes and kissed him again, wanting the firm pressure to answer Sherlock's question.

Yes, Sherlock, it's ok. I wouldn't mind if he'd killed me tonight, not if I could protect you. Yes, Sherlock, I'll save you every time, if I can. I'll mend you every time, if you'll let me. I'll forgive you every time, if you ask. Yes, Sherlock, I'll stay.

John pulled back a fraction. Sherlock had closed his eyes and when they opened again there was a warmth in them that hooked and pulled beneath John's chest, an aching sort of almost-pain. Was it possible Sherlock Holmes' eyes could look like that? Was it possible that he, John Watson, could produce such an effect? He took a deep breath. It was difficult to believe there existed such a beautiful, challenging, fascinating, thoroughly unmanageable creature as Sherlock. And almost impossible to believe that he was here, now, beneath him, looking up at him like— John swallowed.

He slid his hand through Sherlock's curls, soft and thick. He knew many men, and probably a few women, who would be jealous of hair like this.

"Try to sleep," John said, keeping his voice low.

He ran his hand through Sherlock's hair again and the detective's eyes fell shut. John continued in steady stokes until Sherlock's breathing slowed and evened—an unorthodox addition to his repertoire of patient care, but he supposed he had thrown out treating Sherlock like a patient the moment he'd kissed him, or rather the moment he'd climbed into bed with him. (House calls, maybe. Bed calls, never. At least not until now.)

John turned over, body humming with exhaustion from the long night. As he fell asleep it only vaguely occurred to him that he might have just done something immensely problematic, if not colossally stupid.