Sherlock smiled as he entered the kitchen and put on the kettle. Sure he wasn't all that keen on John trying to take a bath by himself, he would rather have been there to help out, to make sure he wasn't in too much pain and didn't stumble around the bath knocking himself out or causing himself further injury. Still just the fact that John himself had chosen to have a bath, and he had asked for food, yes this day was starting out well.
He bustled about the kitchen but couldn't find any toast so he bounded down the stairs to Mrs Hudson. 'Mrs Hudson, I need toast, do you have any toast?' he asked with urgency in his voice as she opened the door in her bathrobe.
'You doing one of your experiments again?' She frowned at him a little when she saw him suddenly so enthusiastic.
'No, it's for John.' Sherlock grinned and suddenly Mrs Hudson's features melted into one of sheer adoration.
'Oh, you sweet boy, of course I have toast.' She said and bustled into the kitchen to bring him a bag of bread. 'Do you want me to toast it for you and put some jam on?' she asked.
At that Sherlock hesitated, he had a bad habit of burning their toast but John would like his own jam, Mycroft had brought them some of the fancy stuff from Fortnum and Masons. 'Toast it, but no jam.' He decided, and can you bring it up, John's in the bath, I want to be able to hear if he calls.
'Of course I will...' She beamed. 'and Sherlock, if he's in the bath make sure to change his sheets for him, he'll like that, it will make him feel better when he goes back to bed.'
'Oh yes..' came the muffled reply from Sherlock who was already pounding up the stairs again. He was a man on a mission and he was taking it as seriously as one of his cases, there had to be a science to making John feel better. He put the kettle on, put a teabag in Johns RMC mug and in a plain one for himself. He dug out the jar of jam and the milk checking that it wasn't off so he didn't have to beg Mrs Hudson for that too. It wasn't.
Next sheets, he suddenly stopped. Where did John keep his sheets? They had their own sheets and he had no idea. He pondered going for a search but then he figured that since they had the same size bed and his were ten times nicer he might as well use his own. He rummaged through his wardrobe until he found a set of plain Egyptian cotton sheets, John couldn't object to those. Pulling them into his arms he enthusiastically made his way upstairs. He didn't tell John what he was doing, it would make a nice surprise.
On entering Johns room the first thing that hit him was how cold it was. The window was open and his enthusiasm was marred by a tinge of anger at his friend taking such a risk, there was a fire escape outside that window, anyone could get in. Then came the smell the irony tang of blood, undercut by sweat and the faintest hint of something else that Sherlock associates with crimes of passion and his brain screams at him.
He looks then, really looks, not at the task in hand but at the room before him and he finds the bed a rumpled mess, in the middle a large stain turning from red to brown as it dries, a note, a ballgagg, yes Sherlock knows what they are even if he's never used one, a hairbrush with a bloody handle and there on the desk a single solitary paper with the word Sherlock at the top in remarkably bad handwriting and he doesn't stop to read either note, he has deduced enough and he pelts expensive sheets flying in a swirl around him as he takes the stairs three at a time nearly falling when it turns out that they are not an even number and his foot slams into the landing faster than expected.
Mrs Hudson nearly drops the plate of toast she is holding as he enters the kitchen and brush past her toward the bathroom. 'Oh dear, Sherlock, what?' She asks but he interrupts her.
'Phone, lockpick's, coat, now Mrs Hudson. He's trying to kill himself.' He shouts as he flies past and starts banging on the door shouting John's name. There is no response and he starts throwing himself against the door bruising himself in the process but he barely even notices. When Mrs Hudson comes running as fast as she can manage he has resorted to kicking at the door violently cursing at the sturdiness of Victorian craftsmanship. Mrs Hudson is about to hand him the little pouch of lock picks when one final kick sends Sherlock's shoe nearly through the door as the wood splinters and the lock twists making him able to physically pull the lock from the door and yank the door open. It cuts through the skin on his fingers and Mrs Hudson winces but Sherlock doesn't react.
'The code's 5297 he yells to Mrs Hudson, call Mycroft, he's listed as Government' Sherlock yells and Mrs Hudson starts fumbling with the phone trying to make out how it works as Sherlock stumbles through the door and throws himself down by the bathtub.
'You stupid git.' He mumbles as he crouches by John searching for a pulse. There's so much red and for a single horrifying second Sherlock can't find John's pulse and then there it is and he heaves a sigh of relief. He grabs John under the arms and heaves him out of the bathtub and onto the floor. He's surprisingly light and it is easier than it should be to pull him out and across the floor where Sherlock holds him up with one arm and shoves his other hand into his mouth pushing his fingers as far down his throat as he can. At first nothing happens and then John's body convulses and he throws up.
Sherlock keeps at it even though John brings up disturbingly little which is not surprising since he has eaten little that Sherlock knows of. There's water and dotted among it half dissolved pills but Sherlock has no idea how many to expect so trying to count them is useless. He can tell however that they have started to partially dissolve and this is bad enough.
He hears Mrs Hudson sobbing into the phone behind him but he only catches snippets. 'Mr Holmes… need help… tried to… as possible…' and then Mrs Hudson's hand is on his shoulder. He wants to speak to you, I can take over.' She urges him but Sherlock is having none of it. 'Just tell him to send an ambulance, NOW.' He bellows as he continues to purge John's stomach until the stuff that comes out is green bile.
Then he lowers him to the floor on his back to survey the damage. It feels like there is blood everywhere. Everywhere but on John's face and upper chest which is ghostly white, his lips tinted slightly blue. The cut to the thigh is the worst and he grabs his bath towel wrapping it as tightly around the wound as he can. 'Mrs Hudson, he knows what to do, help me now. He shouts and behind him the old woman drops the phone and crouches down on her knees on the bloody floor. 'Press here.' He orders and with tears streaming down her face she places both hands over the towel and pushes down as hard as she can.
Meanwhile Sherlock rips up John's bathrobe wrapping wide strips around each of John's arms. 'You stupid bastard. How could you? You're not allowed… Fuck John, you're so stupid… stupid… stupid… stupid.' He mumbles entirely oblivious to the fact that he is repeating himself. When he has wrapped John's arms tightly he does what is starting to become second nature. He lifts John carefully and slide behind him so that John is resting against his chest and he can wrap his arms around him. 'Please… oh please…' he whispers and when John's head lolls forward he pushes it up to rest against his shoulder holding it there with two fingers against John's pulse monitoring his friends slow pulse as they wait in silence for Mycroft's men to arrive.
When they hear sirens in the distance Sherlock scoops his friend up in his arms. He never thought he would be this easy to carry but he has lost so much weight it seems to Sherlock like he is lifting a child. He carries him down the stairs and Mrs Hudson follows crying and wringing her hands. By the time the white almost ambulance pulls up Sherlock is standing on the pavement with people gawking at them. Mrs Hudson tries to shoo them away but none of them is aware of the young man across the street who is enthusiastically snapping photos on his camera phone.