Following Sherlock proved to be very difficult. John had trouble keeping up with him and did his best not to be noticed. The detective went paths John didn't know and he nearly lost him a couple of times, but finally they arrived at an old warehouse. What a cliché.
Sherlock opened the rusty old door and went inside. John kept a large distance, only following until he was one hundred percent sure his friend wouldn't notice.
The warehouse had seen better times, but what had he expected? The doctor hid behind a wall, glancing at Sherlock who appeared to be waiting, but for whom? What was he even doing here?
John heard another door opening and saw a man walk towards Sherlock. He wasn't very tall, brown hair, normal built, nothing special about him. That was until John saw him carrying a small black bag and he took in a sharp breath. What was going on?
"Well, here's the stuff. Ain't easy to find these days, you owe me," the man handed Sherlock the bag. John couldn't see from his position very well, but the detective seemed to be handing him something. Money? What the fuck was going on?
"There. How long will it last?" Sherlock's voice resonated inside the hall.
"I'd give it two or three months. Not sure though, well, you'll notice," the other person said and shrugged. John quickly hid entirely behind the wall, for a second he thought the man had seen him. He didn't dare to breath.
"I must say, I was a bit surprised that you still wanted it. Nothing changed, huh?"
"Shut up. I gave you the money, I don't need any comments."
"Just sayin'. I'll be off then."
John heard footsteps and a door opening and shutting. The other man had left. The doctor dared to look again. Sherlock was still standing there. What had just happened? What the hell? Did Sherlock buy…drugs? John shook his head. He couldn't…or could he? Why would he?
He quickly changed his position as Sherlock walked towards his direction and left the warehouse. This was so fucked up. John clenched his fists. He was angry, more than angry. He was furious. Why would he take drugs again? And what had that man said? Still wanted it? How long had he been buying this stuff from him?
John tried to calm himself. Sherlock would probably return to 221B now. He took out his phone.
I went out to meet up with some mates. Don't blow up anything.
That seemed like a good message. Nothing weird or suspicious.
The door squeaked as he went outside. He was angry, but also at himself. Why hadn't he noticed? He was a doctor for God's sake. John sighed and went down the street. Fuck.
The sky was blue. John would've preferred rain; he was so not in the mood for sunshine. What kind of drugs? Cocaine? God, Sherlock had relapsed. He was supposed to look out for him, a silent agreement between him and Lestrade, or even Mycroft. And he had failed.
He soon found himself near St. Bart's. Sherlock hadn't appeared to be any different. Still an arrogant arsehole. No blown pupils or other symptoms.
People walked past him as he stared at the building. A couple caught his attention. They were laughing at some joke, a light slowly beginning to shine from their chests.
John could still remember the first time it had happened to him, but time went by and he still looked for that one person. He wasn't sure if he would find her anymore.
"John?" he saw Molly coming towards him, a slight smile on her face. He didn't want to talk to anyone now, but he couldn't just leave.
"Hi Molly," the doctor greeted her and forced a smile on his face. She looked a bit confused; she must've noticed something was wrong. And something was. Very much so.
"Everything alright, John? Where's Sherlock, did something happen?" Of course she would ask about Sherlock. Oh how he hoped she would get over him. She deserved someone who loved her as much as she did.
"No, it's fine. He's just being his usual self. A complete dick," she laughed and looked at her watch.
"Well, I have to go now, got a date," Molly blushed slightly.
"That's great! I hope everything goes well," John said genuinely.
"Yes, I don't really have luck with men," she pushed a strain behind her ear and waved him goodbye. John looked after her and thought about Moriarty. God, she was very unlucky. Kind of like he was, but it wasn't entirely his fault.
He sighed anew and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The blond hoped Sherlock didn't notice he had followed him. That would be unfortunate. The wind was getting colder and John went on his way.
Why was everything always so hard? Why wasn't his life easy? Or normal like most people's? John saw the sun slowly going down. The walk to Baker Street would take about an hour. He shrugged and went on. If he was honest, he didn't want a normal life. He preferred this, the adrenaline rushes, the danger.
It was dark when he arrived. The lights were on and he thought he heard Sherlock's violin. He grew angry again. How could he betray him like this? He took a deep breath and opened the door. The sound was clearer now and John went up the stairs and slowly opened the door to their flat.
"Don't worry, I didn't feel like experimenting," was Sherlock's first comment. John shrugged off his coat and went to the kitchen. He opened the fridge.
"Where's the milk?" he asked and closed it. The music stopped.
"I forgot it," he heard his friend say. John sighed and looked at Sherlock.
"You forgot your wallet, too."
The taller man put the violin away and sat down.
"Where were you?" John demanded and raised his eyebrows.
Sherlock glanced at him and put his feet up.
"I told you, I went out to buy something," he answered with a cool touch to his voice.
"And what did you buy?"
The detective looked at him angrily.
"Why should I tell you? It's none of your business," he said with more force.
John clenched his fists and glared at him. He had enough, why couldn't Sherlock just say it?
"It is kind of my business when you lie to me. So, Sherlock, what did you buy?"
"I don't want to discuss this with you," he snarled and stood up. John took him by the arm before he could go.
"For God's sake, Sherlock, just tell me!"
Sherlock flinched and pulled away. "Fuck off, John," he said and went to his room, shutting the door behind him.
John was stunned and sat down. Sherlock had never talked to him like that before; of course he called him an idiot, but…
Maybe he should've handled that differently. Now his friend really wouldn't say a word. Great job, John. You royally fucked it up.
He ran a hand through his hair and wondered about Sherlock's reaction. Would he pretend nothing had happened? Or would he completely shut him out?
Maybe he should tell Lestrade. Of course he would be angry at John for letting Sherlock relapse, but he could help. The DI had helped Sherlock in this kind of situation before.
John felt a knot in his stomach. This was horrible and partly his fault. He could've averted this. He should have.
Fuck.