It was a little after 3am when John slipped his key into the door of 221B. He had intended to stay over at Sarah's but there was something; a feeling; a foreboding that he just couldn't shake. He had tried to ignore it but, after 2 hours of tossing and turning in Sarah's bed, he couldn't fight it any longer.
He had got up, got dressed and come home. He was fairly certain that he would find Sherlock sleeping, most likely on the sofa, but as he opened the living room door, he realised that at least that theory was wrong.
Maybe he was out? Or in bed? John frowned with indecision about whether to intrude on his flatmate's privacy and look. Instead, he wandered into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. Perhaps if Sherlock was awake and heard him moving about in the flat, he would come out anyway.
He lifted down two mugs - habit - and dropped in teabags. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he sat at the kitchen table, absently running his fingers along the wooden edge, deep in thought.
Greg's mood in the bar had puzzled him. He had appeared overly worried about Sherlock, and John had no idea why. As far as he knew, Sherlock and Greg had only been in contact at the Yard, during the recent basement murder case, and Greg hadn't seemed concerned then. Greg seemed anxious about Sherlock on a personal level. John wondered what could have happened to elicit such a reaction.
The kettle clicked off, and John rose to pour two teas. Picking up the steaming mugs from the kitchen counter, he made the decision to check on Sherlock with the excuse of offering the second cup. He passed through to Sherlock's bedroom and pressed his ear to the door, listening. No movement. Perhaps he wasn't there. Maybe he had gone out. Maybe he was sleeping. He decided to take a chance and open the door. If Sherlock was awake, the detective wouldn't mind and, if he was sleeping then, well, he wouldn't know, would he?
Grabbing the handles of both teas in one hand, he slowly and quietly opened Sherlock's bedroom door.
Seconds later, both mugs crashed to the floor...
What John Watson saw, as he entered his flatmate's bedroom, was absolutely and undoubtedly the last thing he had expected to see... EVER.
Sherlock's pale, angular body lay in an almost impossible position, slumped against the open bottom drawer of the dresser. Around him, John saw objects that, with horror, he identified.
Stepping carefully around two spilt mugs of tea and broken china, he switched into "Doctor mode", carefully examining Sherlock as he moved him into a recovery position and checked for a pulse.
Weak. The pulse was very weak, and his breathing was shallow and laboured.
He looked so pallid; deathly; lifeless.
Phone , John thought, trying not to panic.
As he dug in his back pocket for his mobile and called for an ambulance, he momentarily wondered who else he should call.
Mycroft? Greg? He dismissed the former but decided to dial Greg's personal mobile number. The detective had clearly been concerned for the young Holmes and it was now evident why. He hoped Greg wouldn't mind being woken at such an hour. He was likely at home in bed.
"Lestrade." a gruff voice mumbled. Yes, sleeping then.
"Greg?" John swallowed around a lump in his throat as he pushed sweat-soaked dark curls from the pale man's forehead.
"John?" Greg asked, suddenly sounding awake and alert. "John? What is it?"
John was aware of a second voice in the background of the call but blanked it out in favour of speaking to Greg.
"It's Sherlock", the doctor began, "he's taken something. Injected something. We're at Baker Street, but I've called an ambulance so I guess we'll be heading to the hospital. I just thought you should know..."
There was a scuffle and talking again at the other end of the call. It sounded like frantic, worried conversation although John could not identify who it was or what was being said.
The last voice he expected to hear however was that which spoke next.
"We shall meet you there, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said, voice controlled but still indicating an edge of anxiety. "I shall ensure that my brother receives the best attention."
"Right... yes... OK." John wasn't entirely sure what to make of that development. He was fairly sure he had woken the detective so why was Mycroft there? Where was Greg? He pushed it aside for now. There were more important concerns.
There was one, majorly big fucking important concern, and it was currently laid out on the floor next to him: unconscious; pulse weak; breathing shallow; overdosed.
John ended the call, unsure whether Mycroft or Greg had done so already but not caring. The ambulance would arrive soon. He took a long, hard look at the prone figure beside him.
"Why?" he whispered, curling his legs under him as he knelt beside Sherlock's motionless form. "Why, Sherlock?"
"You have so much to live for. Your work. People who care about you. Your brother, Greg, Mrs Hudson, even Molly..." John's voice cracked "... and me." He finished weakly.
John hesitantly laid a hand on the detective's cool arm, lightly stroking as his tears began to fall.
"I care about you, Sherlock."