Title: Get Your Epitaph Right
Characters: Sherlock, John - pre-slash or friendship at the moment
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: T for drug use and aftermath
Author's Note: My shout-out to the reviewers is at the bottom of the page :D I'm sorry it's short, I need space for the next chapter.
For your reviews. I'm hoping you keep it up, because I'd like you to tell me if I should kill Mary off or not.
She has been threatened, yes. That's true. But I want your opinion. Maybe the Yard does something right for once. Because John and Sherlock are a little busy at the moment. Also it's probably wise to read the companion piece Needles and Thread because I am trying to make them coincide.

Sherlock stared at the stairway for a full minute before responding. "Oh." He wasn't sure he cared about the answer, or if he had forgotten what the answer was in the first place.

"Do you want me to help you?" John was earnest, concerned.

His mind was no longer reasoning, deducing what John's motives could be for helping him. "Why do you ask when you will just do it anyway?"

"Because I wouldn't help you get up those stairs unless you want me to touch you. Detoxing however, you don't really have a choice."

"Fine."

"What?"

"John, must I ask?"

"Yes, because you're an arrogant sod and you should admit when you're wrong."

"Admitting that would seem my nerve synapses are malfunctioning due to the influence of the depressant. Would you. Help me."

John gritted his teeth, but helped Sherlock anyway.

He wasn't sure why he wanted to say thank you, but it was very out of character. Hence the hum that sounds like a grunt when John helps him up the stairs.

The next twelve hours are a little hazy. John feeding him soup, John bringing him water. Retching what little is in his stomach. He wakes to John dozing in the chair. He tries to study John as he sleeps, but the haze turns into a rather painful headache.

John shakes him awake. "How often Sherlock?"

Due to his pounding head, he answers more promptly than usual. "Every three days."

"Heroin now, too? Sherlock, I thought you were dead for three long terrible years. I didn't even get married because I thought - I tried to find the pieces of my life. But what do you care?"

"Had to save you. Didn't see any other option." He closes his eyes, trying to relieve his head.

"Here, drink another glass of water."

"Don't want it. Just want -"

"No, Sherlock. I won't have you killing yourself. I won't risk finding you've taken too much and there's nothing I can do. I can't let you do that Sherlock. I -"

Sherlock wasn't sure if he didn't hear what John said or if he'd cut him off. He stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His heartbeat was pounding in his head, begging for a dose of both depressants and stimulants.

He grits his teeth against the urge to beg. He's still clear-headed enough not to, but it's slipping.

"I'll never touch -" his wheedling tone was rapidly cut off.

"No. Sherlock. Sleep. I'll be here if you need me, but I will not let you poison yourself."

He didn't retort why would I need you because the question was now irrelevant. He did need John - or he wouldn't have been "dead" in the first place. And he was exhausted, too exhausted for a retort.

"I'm sorry." John. Apologizing? When he was the addict in the first place? "I didn't realize that your life stopped too. Not just mine. I guess…when you came back I thought - that you'd been off having fun. I can see… that isn't the case."

The haze lifted for a moment. John had put him in his nightshirt. Which meant.

He'd seen the scars inflicted by electrocution burns. The sloppy needle marks from the sodium pentathol.

When they'd tortured him for information because they could. The information he didn't even have in the first place. Bloody Mycroft.

The pink scar from the blade.

The evidence of his broken wrist, even though he'd healed well - the doctor had been very good at the repair.

Somehow it didn't matter, and he was relieved that John hadn't needed to ask.

He mumbled a response. "I -

But he couldn't finish. He didn't know what to say. It was with that thought, that the exhaustion overtook him and he slept.

John patted his arm. He wasn't going to leave - not when Sherlock would wake in cold sweats and likely in delirious terror.

There was a part of John that wanted revenge on whoever had done this. But if they'd been the network, Sherlock would have already eliminated the problem. Which meant he'd killed.

As prickly as Sherlock could be, him killing another was difficult to imagine. John could relate to the fact that his flatemate had steeled himself against killing others instead of determining what killed them in the first place.

He shook his head, thinking about the new scars on Sherlock - what damage had really been done?

princessangelwings: I had no idea that Euros weren't used in the UK. Apologies. I would love the help with Brit-picking, though I can't message you

ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe: Thank you for your continuous reviews

The Beth midget: Thank you so much, I'm hoping to continue it. And yes. Sherlock cooking breakfast.