The third line is halfway up his nose when the door is smashed open by a very strong kick. He staggers back in surprise and slips to the floor as he hears a loud voice bang through the flat.
"Sherlock!"
Almost instantaneously there are arms on his shoulders and around his abdomen, trying to lift him upright but he's all but dead weight. Trying unsuccessfully to coordinate his limbs, Sherlock flails and falls to his side, his limbs twitching weakly as the control on his stomach finally breaks. He retches hard, bile and acid coating over his throat and mouth, barely bubbling past his lips.
"Sherlock, Jesus Christ, what have you done?"
Sherlock hears the voice of the only man he would willingly call his friend, though that thought unnerves him in ways he doesn't yet understand. Right now though he can barely make out the voice, it's all a blur above his head as he lies still on the floor, his chest heaving for air as the heat continues to try and suffocate him.
"Sherlock, get up! Get up or you'll choke!"
John… his hazy mind thinks. The train wreck is gone now. Everything feels slow and almost still, certainly the fear and the pain were finally gone. Sherlock wonders if he's dying and thinks that if he is, it isn't so bad. His voice slurs terribly as he tries to convey this idea to John.
"You're not dying you miserable idiot, you're overdosing which is close enough for anybody's liking. Hands and knees, now!" John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's midsection and hips again to force him off his side, but the pressing motion on his internal organs caused Sherlock to heave again, his spine bowing upward hard, throat tightening up as he coughed and almost choked.
"There, you're alright," John soothed, his hand sliding up Sherlock's naked, trembling spine and onto the nape of his neck. The fact he could not only feel, but also clearly see, every vertebra, disturbed John more than he was comfortable with at the present moment. He slid deeper into that part of himself that had been trained for combat, where he only needed to focus on what to do, not how it made him feel. "It'll pass." There's blood and sweat coating his palm from the clearly self-inflicted wounds carved all over Sherlock's skin. He forces the fear and the pain for his friend away. All of that will be sorted later, right now he just has to help him through this.
Sherlock felt his head bowing forward between his arms as crippling dizziness washed over him, making the floor feel as though he were on the deck of a ship pitching wildly in a hurricane. His stomach convulsed again and as he retched John's fingers suddenly tightened into his hair and yanked his head out from between his arms.
"Head up. Sherlock Holmes is bloody well not going to die choking on his own vomit in his flat like so many other celebrity wannabes."
"John….I…." Sherlock tried to speak but John shushed him firmly, the grip on his hair loosening and returning to the nape of his neck.
"You can speak later. Just breathe," John advised. Very dimly Sherlock recognized this as John's doctor-mode and knew enough about the man to know that when he was in such a state he wasn't one to be trifled with.
"I…hurt." He was trying to say more but he just couldn't find the strength or the willpower to do so. It was true what he had said though; his entire being hurt. From his bones, to his muscles, to the cuts and lacerations all over his upper body, to the pounding in his head, and the raw, scraping feeling in his throat. He hurt all over and now he really just wanted to lie still and never move again.
"Yeah, I'm sure you do, inhaling almost a gram of cocaine up your nose will do that to you," John huffed. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. I think you can walk. Or at least stay upright while I carry you."
Sherlock tried to struggle but he was weaker than a newborn kitten and could do little more than barely mumble a protest as John lifted him up and bore most of his weight across his shoulders as he half dragged half carried him into the bathroom. He retched again as he and John almost stumbled into the shower together but there was nothing in him to come up.
"Easy, it's alright," John murmured. He propped Sherlock against the wall and started undoing his belt, noting that he was in jeans and not slacks and wondered what the occasion was for.
"John, what are you doing…" Sherlock managed. The cocaine still had a thick fog over his mind, but even in his state, he knew his flat-mate shouldn't be undressing him.
"Helping you. Get into the shower, run the water as cold as you can stand, you're practically on fire." John finally managed to pull Sherlock's belt away whereupon the man's spidery fingers reached to try and clutch his arms, missed their mark, and fell on his shoulders.
"I can do this, I don't need your help," Sherlock managed, biting the words between his teeth, anger roiling up now as an immediate defense against the humiliating shame that was trying to make its way to the surface.
John arched his brows at him with a look that clearly said he was full of shit. "It's fine, Sherlock," John said with as much patience as he could muster. The man was clearly still higher than the moon and all the little stars too, and for the time being, John wouldn't hold his actions against him. "I'm a doctor, remember?"
Sherlock didn't have enough strength in him to fight John's motions as he stripped the rest of his clothes and nudged him into the shower. The detective didn't have the energy to stand so he sank into a low crouch in the shower and leaned against the wall, the cold tile freezing against his skin, but when John turned on the water he yelped and tried to scramble back. It would have been humorous to see the normally brooding detective so animated, if John didn't know the reason for it. He raised the temperature of the water to the colder side of lukewarm and then shut the door.
"Stay in there, I'll be back for you," John told him. He left the bathroom and hurried into the kitchen to start cleaning up the mess in the living room. He'd just finished taking out the trash to dispel the scent of bile when his mobile rang.
"Is he alright?" was Mycroft's greeting.
John leaned against the door of the flat for a moment, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with exasperation. "No. What I mean is he messed himself up badly, but he'll be ok. Mycroft, why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"
He could practically feel the man's contempt reach through the phone to try and throttle him. "I did. You didn't listen. I warned you that Sherlock is dangerous and has bad habits."
"You could have told me he was a cocaine junkie! Did you really expect Sherlock to tell me that? For Christ's sake, Mycroft, if you hadn't yanked me out of bed he'd of died tonight. I found him just in time."
"Sometimes I think you're a better friend than he deserves, John. It's not your fault Sherlock and I keep our secrets," Mycroft said softly, most of the sneer gone, a lingering sort of sadness replacing it.
"Ever wonder if that sort of thinking is why he does drugs in the first place?" John growled. He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the couch before going into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He also pulled the toaster out from the cupboard and carefully inspected the contents. With Sherlock, you never knew what might be lurking inside the appliances.
While the kettle was warming through and the toast was crisping John returned to the living room and saw that the lines of blow Sherlock hadn't managed to consume were still cut up on the coffee table, the little vial in which they had previously been packed resting on the floor. On a whim John tipped the powder back into the vial and screwed on the lid and put it in his pocket before washing his hands and finishing the tea. He poured considerably more sugar in it than Sherlock would usually have but John wasn't certain he'd even notice. As soon as the toast popped up he rescued it from the machine and took the plates and the tea to the coffee table.
He came back into the bathroom to find Sherlock exactly where he'd left him, hunkered down against the back of the shower, the water streaming over his thin, naked body, plastering his hair against his head. His arms were wrapped around himself as he used the wall to support himself, breathing harshly through his mouth and nose even as the water streamed over his face.
"Feeling any better?" John asked gently.
"What do you think?" was the half hearted growl.
"I'd say so. You're starting to turn into a dick again," John huffed. He opened the shower door and turned the water off but Sherlock didn't move. The doctor fetched a towel and draped it over Sherlock's body and encouraged him to stand.
"Come on, you can walk, you're alright. I've got tea and toast for you that you'll eat because if you don't, I'm carting you off to the hospital, lights and sirens and all, because I'll bloody well not have you die of hypoglycemia."
That seemed to spurn Sherlock into moving. He lurched a little but managed to get himself on his feet but had to lean on the wall to hold himself up. As he helped him to stay upright John felt for a pulse on his wrist and noted that it was still far too elevated for his liking, but it was less than what it had been before. The man's pupils were still wider than necessary but he seemed calmer than before, not slurring through stunted apologies or refusals of help. He moved with the affect of someone being walked to the gallows.
John helped Sherlock into a pair of loose sweats and then guided him into the living room, placing him on the couch while he went into his bedroom and retrieved his first aid kit that had rapidly been expanded ever since he'd moved into 221B. He brought it back with him and took a seat beside Sherlock who had yet to approach the food sitting in front of him.
"Come on, Sherlock. You have to eat," John muttered as he took out his hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and pain reliever that was mixed with anti-bacterial cream. He set to work on cleaning the dozens of scratches across Sherlock's body, dabbing as gently as he could, noting the way the man hissed and squirmed at the sensation.
"Please, John, I can't," Sherlock mumbled, leaning forward to give the man better access to his back, but also to try and quell the nausea that just rose up in him again.
"Remember what I told you. If you don't get something down, I'm going to call the ambulance, and I'll make sure everyone knows why they were here at…four in the morning." John stared into Sherlock's still very hazy eyes, hoping to convey his seriousness. Sherlock, struggling through the fog, seemed to understand, and reached for the tea.
"Good God, why didn't you just dissolve sugar in water." Sherlock's face twisted as he swallowed a mouthful but John huffed at him with indignation.
"I could do that if you like. Now stop complaining. And hold still! You managed to cut yourself right on your spine."
By the time John had finished tending the cuts all over Sherlock's torso he'd managed to choke down the toast and the tea. He was gingerly leaning back against the couch, his hand drifting up to shade his eyes from the still too bright light from the nearby lamp. His head felt a little clearer but he still felt overheated and any motion made gravity pitch wildly underneath him. He couldn't lie flat on his back, his stomach wouldn't take it, so he just remained still as a statue sitting up.
"How did you know?" Sherlock asked quietly when John finally settled into his chair which he tugged across the room to be seated closer to the couch.
"Know what?" John asked with an exasperated sigh. He might as well just stay up and call in sick when the normal office line at the hospital was open. There was no way he'd ever be able to function after no sleep and worrying constantly about Sherlock.
"That I relapsed," Sherlock managed to grit out.
"That would imply you ever quit," John replied, turning his head to face Sherlock. "Did you ever quit?"
"Yes. I was clean when I met you." He exhaled slowly as a dull but all encompassing ache began to hammer his skull.
"So what changed? Why tonight? What happened tonight that made you go tearing off and practically trying to kill yourself on cocaine?" Anger edged John's words, but he'd be a liar if that anger wasn't from a source of sadness and hurt.
Sherlock didn't answer. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back and settled into slow, steady breathing, hoping that if he could nod off he would be able to get through the worst of this by the time the sun rose. John didn't seem to mind the silence either but he kept a very close watch on Sherlock the entire night, not daring to sit still long enough to fall asleep, just in case.