Phew! Sorry that took so long! I have so many prompts to work with, but I have no idea how to go about writing them. If yours hasn't shown up yet, hopefully it will in the near future.

Anyways, thanks to Rose0 for the prompt!

Hopefully you all enjoy it!

"Sherlock?" John called out as he stepped through the door of 221B.

There was no answer.

John liked to think that meant the detective wasn't currently home, but he knew that a lack of response typically meant that Sherlock was in; he just wasn't paying much attention.

With a sigh, John crept up the stairs, rubbing at his aching shoulder. He stepped through the door into the sitting room.

"Sherlock?" John called again, scanning the area.

He made sure to check the detective's usual spots, but all came up vacant, save the dust that had settled over time.

God they needed to dust.

Assuming Sherlock wasn't in his bedroom, John walked over to the coat rack and hung his satchel up on its designated hook, groaning as he lifted his left arm.

"Painkillers," he mumbled, trudging through the kitchen and into the bathroom.

He swiftly opened the medicine cabinet and snatched his orange bottle of pills from the second shelf. He struggled with the lid, resenting the fact that careless children had forced pharmacists to design impossible-to-unscrew lids., but finally managed to pop it off and retrieve two pills from the bottle.

"Thank Christ," John sighed.

He filled up a small plastic cup that also resided in the medicine cabinet with tap water and washed down the pills.

After putting everything back in its proper place, John walked back into the kitchen. He hesitantly reached his hand out toward the refrigerator handle and slowly pulled the door open, almost retching at the severed head in front of him.

"For God's sake!" he cried out, slamming the door shut. "I just want a bloody sandwich!"

With a frustrated grunt, he slipped his jacket off and flung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and rolled up his sleeves.

I'm hoping he hasn't stuck fingers in my kettle.

He was relieved to find the teakettle untouched and just as clean as he had left it. Placing it under the kitchen faucet, he turned on the tap. As soon as it began to fill with water, John simultaneously felt a wave of vertigo hit him with the force of a steamroller. He gripped the kitchen counter for support as he tried to ward of the nausea and dizziness.

What the hell?

He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. The dizziness only worsened, and his head started pounding.

"I should lie down…" he said, startled at his own slurred speech.

He figured he must have picked up some sort of nasty bug some time during the past week. He considered for a brief moment taking medicine of some kind, but he decided that mixing drugs wouldn't be the best plan. He clumsily turned off the tap and let the kettle sit where it was before he stumbled over to the couch and plopped himself down on the cushions.

"I'll close my eyes for a bit."

With a long exhale, he laid himself down, resting his throbbing head on the satin pillow.

"Twenty minutes…" he mumbled.

It didn't take long before he passed out.

Arrest stepmother. –SH

Anderson thinks otherwise.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Tell Anderson to bugger off, then. –SH

No wonder Lestrade was the only man he could tolerate. He was the only one at the Yard who had any faith in him at all. And even then, Sherlock could barely stand the man for more than an hour at a time.

The detective's long strides had him back at Baker Street in less than fifteen minutes; hardly impressive if he knew himself well enough.

Upon examining the front door, he noticed that the knocker had been adjusted so that it was completely vertical, suggesting that John had arrived home safely. The lock, however, looked as if it had been hastily and clumsily opened.

He used his right hand. Shoulder particularly painful.

He looked up at the sky.

No wonder. The humidity is rather high today. That tends to bother him.

Ah well. It didn't really matter much. John had his painkillers, so all was well.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, Sherlock reached their flat quite quickly, removing his coat and scarf with a grand flourish and draping them over the coatrack.

"John?" he called. "John, have you made tea?"

He peered into the kitchen and found it rather empty. In fact, it was uncomfortably silent.

"John?"

Stepping further into the kitchen, his eyes caught locked onto a rather unsettling sight.

The kettle sat in the sink, half full of water.

Something was very, very wrong.

"John, where are you?" Sherlock called out, trying to hide the worry that he felt.

He was disturbed at the lack of response. John was obviously home. He never napped. His hearing was just fine. What was wrong? Where was he? Why wasn't he responding?

"John!"

He turned back into the sitting room and went to call his flat mate's name again, when he saw a limp figure lying on the couch.

It was most definitely John.

Sherlock strode over to the doctor and was alarmed at the sight of a small amount of dried vomit lingering on the corner of his mouth and covering his shoulder.

Sherlock felt his heart start to race as he gripped onto his friend's clean shoulder and shook him.

"John, wake up!" he yelled.

John was just as limp as he looked, completely unresponsive to Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock quickly brought to fingers to his friend's neck, desperately feeling for a pulse. He was relieved to find one weakly pumping beneath his cool fingertips. He brought a hand to his friend's head, unnerved when he found it covered in beads of sweat.

This wasn't an illness. This was something more sinister.

Think, Sherlock, think! What on earth could be causing this? Let's see: aching shoulder would cause John to want to take his usual dosage of painkillers. Did he take too much? No, no, he's a doctor, he would never make that mistake. He would also never mix medication. This seems to be an overdose, though. What the hell?!

"John, what did you take?!" Sherlock yelled at his unconscious friend.

Of course he won't respond, idiot. Think! Perhaps John unintentionally grabbed the wrong bottle in his haste to dull the pain. Maybe-

Oh.

OH.

"The experiment!" the detective cried.

He had completely forgotten.

Stupid, stupid!

He quickly grabbed his phone and dialed Lestrade's number, absent-mindedly keeping his hand protectively on John's chest.

"Good news! You were right. Surprise, surprise," Lestrade said as soon as he picked up.

"I don't care right now, Lestrade! I need an ambulance at Baker Street right now!"

"What?! Why?"

"John's overdosed on opium. He looks to have taken it about fifteen minutes ago. There's still time, Lestrade, but there's only so much. I need-"

"Opium? Why in the hell-"

"It's my fault. I need an ambulance here in no more than five minutes! Tell the operator that, or so help me I will set your house on fire!"

"Alright, alright! Jesus Christ… okay, make sure you get John to vomit up whatever he's got left in his stomach, and-"

"I know what to do!"

Sherlock immediately hung up, throwing his phone on the floor. He wasted no time in shoving two fingers down John's throat. As John started to retch, Sherlock tilted him onto his side, supporting him with his arm. As John's vomiting turned into nothing but a dry heave, he went limp again and lazily opened his eyes.

"Sh'lock?"

"John, stay still. An ambulance will be here soon."

"Why're you here?"

"What?"

"S'him. Y'll get hurt."

"What are you saying, John?"

"Sh… Sherlock!" John screamed, clutching onto the man's shirt for dear life.

"John, stop! It's alright! You aren't in the war anymore!"

"Sherlock!" John screamed again, his throat hoarse from all of the retching.

"John, please! It's okay! It's alright!" Sherlock grabbed John's face in between his hands. "It's just a hallucination, John."

John's breathing, labored as it was, was rapid, causing him to gasp and choke for air.

"Calm down, John. It's okay. You'll be fine. There's no war anymore. No one is going to hurt you."

John's dilated pupil's fixated on the man's face.

"S'not the war. S'him."

"What?"

"Him!" John cried.

Sherlock hesitated before answering.

"Moriarty?"

John nodded rapidly, choking on his breathing.

Sherlock brushed a stray hair out of his friend's face.

"He isn't here, John. No one is here. No one is going to hurt you," Sherlock said, gently.

John's eyes brimmed with tears as he struggled to breathe.

"He's gonna hurt you, Sherl…"

Sherlock froze at this.

"John…"

"M'scared."

Sherlock shushed him. "I know, John, I know. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault," Sherlock combed his fingers through John's hair. "But you'll be fine. I promise."

Where is that damn ambulance?!

"Sh'lock…" John whimpered before falling unconscious again.

The sirens couldn't have come a moment too soon.

Sherlock's fingers drummed away on the arm of the hard, plastic waiting room chair. He watched impatiently as hospital staff walked past in their pristinely white shoes with clipboards and medical carts in tow.

He felt a hand grip his arm, causing his fingers to abruptly still.

"Are you ready to talk to me?" Lestrade asked, his eyes bloodshot and tired.

"Long day, Graham?" Sherlock asked insincerely, his mouth twisted into a sarcastic sneer.

"What?"

"I do hope you had fun with your date last night. Oh, sorry. That was rather insensitive of me to suggest, wasn't it? She obviously had no interest in you, but you did her. Blind dates are a really risky thing. I would avoid them in the future. That's simply a suggestion."

"Sherlock…"

"You smell strongly of aftershave and cheap coffee. A bit depressed, then? Not really in the mood to keep up appearances? Obviously you aren't looking to impress. She let you down hard, then. She already has a boyfriend, am I wrong?"

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"No, but-"

"You really ought to wipe the mustard stain from the corner of your mouth. It's bothering me."

The D.I. glared at the consulting detective, letting a few moments pass before he spoke again.

"Are you done being a jackass?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Then can I ask you what the hell happened back at Baker Street?"

Sherlock stared blankly at the clock.

"Sherlock?"

"Yesterday I was preparing an experiment involving the use of opium pills. Particularly potent ones. I was out of storage options, so I decided that I would put the pills in one of the bottles in the medicine cabinet. I grabbed John's bottle of painkillers with out thinking."

"So you just dumped the opium pills in with John's?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade an indignant look.

"Of course not! I made sure to place John's pills in a sandwich bag before placing the opium in."

Lestrade nodded.

"And you told him?"

Sherlock went silent.

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake, you didn't tell him?" the D.I. asked in disbelief.

"In my head I did…"

"Sherlock!"

"I said it was my fault, didn't I?!"

"That doesn't make things right, Sherlock!"

"I know that! All I can do now, though, is hope that the odds are better than what is statistically most probable. I would rather John not die so ungracefully. He deserves more than that."

Lestrade sighed and patted the detective's shoulder.

"I know he does. Look, I'm sure he'll pull through, though, alright? John's strong. You know that."

"I know."

"And he wouldn't die without having the chance to scold your ass," he smirked.

Sherlock resisted the urge to chuckle.

There was more silence as nurses and doctors bustled through the hallway.

"John thought Moriarty was going to hurt me."

"What?"

"He was hallucinating. He saw Moriarty. He thought he was going to harm me."

"Christ."

"I've never seen him so panicked," Sherlock said, more to himself than to Lestrade.

The D.I. smiled.

"He really does care about you, Sherlock. You know that." He saw Sherlock's brow knit in confusion. "Don't you?"

"I suppose so. I just never thought that…"

"You never thought he'd value your life just as much as you value his?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Wasn't that obvious enough when he shot the cabbie for you?"

Sherlock looked alarmed.

"You know?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"I'm not that inept. You weren't exactly nonchalant when that happened. I saw your face when you looked at him across from you. I could tell you figured out it was him that shot the guy."

Sherlock looked back at the wall in front of him.

"Oh."

"I figured I wouldn't say anything. I mean, he killed him, but against my better judgment, I said "what the hell" and decided to drop it. I could tell you needed him, just as much as he needed you. I wasn't about to fuck things up. You two really are right for each other."

"Yes. I suppose we are," Sherlock admitted, pondering the matter.

Just then, a doctor walked over to the two men.

"Are you with Mr. Watson?" the woman asked.

Sherlock stood and nodded.

"Yes, of course. Is he alive?"

The doctor smiled.

"Well, it took some work, but he'll be just fine."

Sherlock's knees felt weak from relief.

"We've currently got him hooked up to a ventilator, but we think he'll be fine to breathe without it tomorrow."

The detective nodded.

"May I see him?"

"It depends; are you family?"

"He's Doctor Watson's boyfriend," Lestrade chimed in.

Sherlock gave the D.I. a grateful side-glance, but kept his mouth shut.

The doctor nodded.

"Then of course you can. I'll take you to him whenever you're ready."

Lestrade yawned.

"Well, I'd better be off, Sherlock. I've got paperwork I need to fill out."

Sherlock nodded and gave a half smile.

"Yes. Of course." His smile became wider. "Thank you. Really. Thank you."

Lestrade smiled warmly.

"Good to hear you say it. Hope you manage to keep your head once you tell John what happened."

Sherlock 's jaw tightened at that. He hadn't even thought about what John would do to him once he woke up.

"Right."

With one last nod, Sherlock started to follow the doctor down the hall.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Lestrade called after him.

The detective turned to look over his shoulder.

"It's Greg."

The D.I. smirked and was out the door, hardly prepared to deal with the screaming stepmother currently being held in custody back at the Yard.