Bonjour my lovelys, it is summer here in England and I am planning on using my lonely days writing up ALL of my fanfiction chapters! Yes, ALL OF THEM! My Homestuck ones and maybe I'll go and review my Assassin's Creed ones again? Maybe :v There's more to this fanfiction than there will EVER be in my other ones, so I'm keeping the chapters quite short. There will be two cases in this fanfic and I'm thinking it's gonna be around 40,000ish words long, but that's a rough estimate.

Anyway, Enjoy! ~

John watched as Sherlock turned to him, his eyes locking immediately with the box, then flickered up to John's and suddenly the air between them became thick and tense. John couldn't quite figure out what Sherlock was thinking - he never could - but it didn't seem like anything towards anger. Sherlock went to speak but then he seemed to decide against it as he just kept his eyes focused on the box in John's hands.

John thought maybe it was to do with the fact that he himself was just radiating outrage, the way his hands gripped at the box so tightly that he thought it might break under the pressure, and yes, he might have wanted to smash it but that wouldn't help the situation.

The silence dragged on for a few more moments and John noticed just how exhausted Sherlock looked, how vunerable and tired he seemed. That's what the drugs do, why can't he see that?

It all changed when Sherlock finally spoke up, his voice sounding hesitant and unsure. "What were you doing searching through my things?"

John blinked a few times in astonishment, he wasn't exactly expecting that question when it was obviously coming his way. "Seriously? That's what you're asking." He scoffed, "I just found your drug stash and you're asking me that."

"Well you would have never found it if you didn't look, so why were you looking?" Sherlock had now straightened his posture and was glaring at John dangerously. This was obviously not good.

"Oh I thought I'd impersonate you for a change."

"You had no right."

John raised his eyebrows. "Didn't I?"

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Sherlock raised his voice and John felt a shiver go down his spine. Sherlock had never raised his voice to John, in fact, he'd never been angry at John before - well, angry enough to lose his usual low, smooth voice.

John was quiet for a moment as they stared each other down. Sherlock's glare was intense and heavy and John felt like he was being weighed down by it; he didn't like the feeling, not one bit.

Sherlock was angry, it was obvious in his expression, his posture and his shaking fists. John had a feeling it was slight panic, causing unecessary anger to drive it's way into the brain. If John were to get even more angry - oh, he was so, so angry - things would just get worse, possibly violent and that wouldn't work out too well for either of them.

It took a great amount of power but John pushed all his anger aside and closed his eyes, took a deep breath and relaxed his tense shoulders. "I'm your friend and I was worried about you, and I'm glad I was." John motioned to the box in his hands.

Sherlock looked over John again, his glare not faulting for a second. John took this opportunity to speak again. "How long?"

A scoff from the other man made John clentch his jaw. Don't punch him, don't punch him, don't punch him. "I'm not some rebellious teenager." Sherlock spat the words with acid in his voice.

"Don't. Just- how long have you been using?" John held the box looser in his grip, relaxing his shoulders again so he didn't look like he wanted to just give up. He wasn't going to give Sherlock the satisfaction. He knew immediately that Sherlock wouldn't lie, but he would be difficult if John didn't ask the right questions.

There was a silence before an answer. "Three weeks."

I knew it. John nodded, "so since..."

Sherlock shot him another glare, "this has nothing to do with Her."

"Then why." John was losing his temper, "Why, Sherlock? And don't tell me it's because of the cases, because I know that's bullshit."

"Oh? And why would it be 'bullshit'?" Sherlock had an amused tone in his voice, "What other reason could I give you when that's the only one I have."

"You've had hardly anything on these past three weeks, so come on, tell me." And John thought he wouldn't lie. "It better be a damn good reason for me not to call Lestrade right now."

Sherlock quietened, losing eye contact with John and looked down at the floor instead. "I get bored."

Lie.

"Right. Well okay." John looked around Sherlock's room before nodding to himself. "Yeah, that's a good enough reason for me not to call Lestrade."

"If you tell him, it will be the end of my work." Sherlock didn't look up, but his voice was low and quiet.

Like a scolded child.

"And whose fault is that?"

"John." Sherlock looked up, something unknown to John in his eyes. "Please don't tell Lestrade."

John paused. Did he seriously just plead? Confusion overwhelmed him, although he could understand why Sherlock would plead; the cases Lestrade gave him were all he had and evidently, without those, he becomes bored.

"I told Lestrade how you had been acting because I was worried. You had disappeared this morning and that wasn't at all like you - you don't just go off on your own like that, well not without me." John started quietly. "He suggested that you had been taking drugs, so I searched. I told him I would call him and tell him if I found anything."

Sherlock didn't speak but his gaze didn't leave John.

"If you promise me you will never, ever touch this stuff again, I won't tell Lestrade." John bargained.

Although he was still extremely angry, he considered how difficult it must be when your brain is constantly racing and things don't make sense somtimes, how much conflict Sherlock must have with himself must be extremely overwhelming, and John did feel sympathetic towards him.

But what if Sherlock decided to keep using? What was John supposed to do then? He can't stop him from it, the only sensible thing to do would be to send a little annonymous message Mycroft's way and hope for the best.

He looked over said man whose gaze had left him and noticed how he looked to be considering the deal. John still thought he was lying to him, it wasn't only because he got 'bored' - it had to be something else. John knew it.

Sherlock looked up at John again and nodded.

John felt a weight lift off his shoulders. "I mean it, Sherlock, you start on the drugs again and-"

"I won't. I promise." Sherlock assured.

John nodded at the assuring, low voice and looked at the box in his hands. "Right, well...what should I do with this?"

"Chuck it out."

"But the box looks expensive, don't you-"

"No." Sherlock cut passed John, resulting in John strengthening his grip on the box as the other man passed, setting him a knowing glance before disappearing into the living room.

John stood alone in the bedroom door way, a small sigh of relief left his mouth before he hurried upstairs to his own bedroom. Sherlock told him to throw the box away, but John wasn't going to. He wasn't too sure why he wasn't going to, but something was nagging at the back of his mind telling him not to.

The trick is:

Don't panic.

And Sherlock didn't panic. He got angry, yes, just ever so slightly angry because-well, John - his John - knew.

This man, his John, standing in his door way was holding his drug stash and knew what it was because, well, he'd obviously looked inside, it would be ridiculous to assume that John had guessed that his drugs were inside and decided to obide by his right to privacy.

The most ridiculous thing that happened was that John still thought it was to do with Irene Adler.

Adler was a good play - a very, very good play - but the romance involved was not romance at all, of course, it would never be. She was too flattering, more importantly, she played him more than he played her.

And Sherlock didn't like that.

He always had the upper hand, always on top of every situation and deduction. Adler was just a woman behind an identity - not even a woman at all; The Woman.

If he had to admit it, yes, he admired her. She was one of the various beautiful women he had laid his eyes on and her flirtatious nature was of high regard. However, Irene Adler - not dead - was, and Sherlock hated to admit it, too much to handle.

Of course, John and the others (who ever else was interested in his love life) misunderstood the situation and Sherlock would rather let them believe what they already know -what they don't know- rather than having to explain how he saved Adler's life - not because of guilt - but because of pure understanding.

Understanding, that is, of how needing some sort of protection can lead you down a dangerous and misjudging road.

Sherlock's protection was the drug. Although others may not see it the way he does - when does anybody see anything the way he does? - it stopped his thoughts, it stopped the racing and frustrating thoughts from him; it protected him.

That is something he could never explain without having to explain the thoughts.

His thoughts? John.

John. John. John. John. Always John. Never the cases any more, his instincts had grown weak by the thoughts of John.

He couldn't blame John for his addiction - not an addict! - of course he couldn't, because it wasn't John's fault. Well, it could be if he thought in a non-logical sense; he could blame everything on John. The way he constantly flowed over Sherlock's thoughts was definitely his fault, the way his voice left an echo in Sherlock's head was also John's fault, and-

No. It's not his fault, shut up.

If it wasn't John's, it must have been his own and that wasn't going to make him feel any better than he did now - the clawing sensation down his arms, oh how he wanted to just itch that away - and the bickering frustration in the back of his mind, just go away.

He needed it but he was not going to get it. And that made him feel almost lost in his own mind as his head fell back against the sofa cushion.

Personal AN on why I haven't been updating: I've been having a few problems at home and with people who I thought were my friends and aren't any more, and girlfriend problems so my heads not really been in the game. I'm sorry if I took ages for this crappy short chapter, but I'm gonna get over all these personal problems and escape into my fanfiction world, okie dokie?

Until then my lovelys! x