Mary sat up straighter when she heard John's footfalls on the stairs. They were heavy and weary, but filled with determination. As he entered the room, Sherlock shifted for the first time in hours. He looked anywhere but at John.
"Stand up," John ordered, his voice firm. "Now."
Sherlock glared at him, but stood. "Better, John? Go ahead and hit me now. That's what you do, isn't it? That's the greeting I received after saving your life."
John sniffed and tilted his head. He refused to be baited. "Take off your clothes. Every stitch. I want to make sure you're not hiding more drugs."
With a sneer, Sherlock removed his Belstaff and threw it in John's direction. The doctor caught it and rummaged through the pockets, pulling out the detective's mobile, keys and a pen. He tossed the coat to Mary, dropped the mobile and keys, then snapped the pen in half, checking for a small cache of drugs. Not finding one, he dropped the remains of the pen. John turned his eyes on Mary and jabbed a finger towards the coat. "Check the liner. He may have hidden something there."
She nodded and set to work.
The detective took a step forward, his hand outraised and an objection on his lips, but froze when John stepped in front of him.
"Go on, the rest of it," John ordered, "or I'll do it for you."
"You wouldn't."
The doctor shook his head. "I would and I will. I told you once, I had bad days. Well, guess what? This one tops them all."
Sherlock swallowed and the muscles in his jaw flexed, then he removed his jacket and began deliberately unbuttonning his shirt. As each item of his clothing was removed, John checked the pockets. The detective had removed his shoes, socks and shirt and was starting on his trousers when Mary sighed. The doctor turned to find her holding two small packets of white powder.
"You know what to do with them." John nodded in the direction of the loo. Mary gave a nod, and went to flush their contents.
With jerky, angry motions, Sherlock stripped off his remaining clothing. He held his arms out to his sides and turned slowly around. "Satisfied?"
Mary walked back in, not even blinking at the sight of the nude detective. "I looked around in the loo. Flushed the small stash he had hidden in his electric razor."
"Get dressed," John growled, then turned to look at his wife. She gave him a nod at his unspoken question. Once Sherlock had dressed, John grabbed the Belstaff and thrust it at him. "Put it on. You're coming home with us."
"No," Sherlock countered, his eyes going a bit wild. "I'm really not."
John's answering grin was frightening. "You will walk out of this flat and get in the back of our car. You will not touch anything between here and there, because I can't trust you not to have drugs hidden in plain sight." When the detective didn't move, John took a step in his direction.
"Fine," Sherlock snapped and proceeded them from the flat.
In the car, it was eerily silent. John gazed out the window, his left arm resting against the door. His fist was pressed to his lips as he thought. When had his life come to this? What was the precise moment? He heard an echo of Sherlock's voice, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'
If he had a blue box and could do that day over, would he? Would he stop himself from going to Regent's park?
At a traffic light, Mary reached over and took his hand. He looked down at where they were joined, unable to muster even a sad smile.
No, he wouldn't change it. That would mean never knowing Sherlock. Maybe never meeting Mary, or not being open to her if he had. It would mean no baby girl preparing to greet the world. But now what?
John had admitted it to himself on his walk that he loved Sherlock, had done for ages, but it wasn't anything like what he felt for his wife. There was nothing sexual there, either. Still, it was anything but brotherly. He had no idea what that meant and he had no idea what to do to save a man hell bent on self destruction. All he did know was he had to try.