A/N: So, I wrote most of this the other week but never actually got around to sorting and finishing it, but here we are now. Thought I would post another chapter as got a few good reviews on this. Thanks to all my regular readers and their reviews, always appreciated. Angst/feels abound, so be warned. Sorry not sorry... Enjoy. Please review.
Sherlock paused for barely a second gather his thoughts before swinging the side door open and hopping out. He pulled his coat back on in an almost graceful manner. A car blared its horn at the obstruction but he did not move out the way, causing a barrage of abuse from the driver.
"Thanks for the lift John." He shut the car door, striding out onto the path and to the entrance of 221. The doctor was out and after him in a beat.
"Oh no you don't." John was on his tail and caught up, "You can't just waltz on back into Baker Street and pretend nothing's happened."
The detective narrowed his eyes, which was half a look of embarrassment and half a grimace of pain, the doctor noted. "Why ever not?" Sherlock tapped the knocker in the hope that Mrs Hudson was home. "I am fine, and I have a case to solve now, remember."
"Sherlock?" Mycroft was on the pavement now, Mary by his side. He stood calmly, with his hands resting on his umbrella but the look of discontent was in his eyes as he warned his younger brother.
"You are not fine." John cried between a solid jaw, "not five minutes ago you were heading into respiratory arrest from a drug overdose."
"Oh please." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John clenched his jaw harder in response. "I'm alive and you fixed that. Thank you." He placed a firm hand onto the doctor's shoulder and pinched it a gesture of fake gratitude. "Now, I think it's time you and Mary toddled off home don't you?"
The door of the flat creaked open. "Ah, Mrs Hudson." The old lady paled a little at the sight of the young man, her mouth opened to speak but the detective interrupted, rudely pushing past and into the hallway, he spoke before she could. "Sorry for the confusion with everything, looks like I'm not taking that trip abroad." He smiled at her, but John could see it wasn't a genuine grin. "I've got a case to solve." He repeated. "Looks like London is in need of their favourite detective again. Old Moriarty is back in town and up to his usual tricks I see, so I will be here for sometime to come. I hope you haven't dusted too much while I've been gone." Sherlock's words were fast and rushed and John eyed him with some caution, the man was not behaving normally. He was jittery and restless, bouncing on his feet nervously.
"Well. See you all later then." Sherlock's coat flapped outwards as he spun on his heel and started up the stairs. "Thanks for the lift and everything again John. Do let me know when the child decides to appear." He disappeared from sight.
"I'm sorry Mrs H." John sighed, patting the old lady on the arm and smiling sadly, "everything's going to be ok." He added. "Mary will explain everything, I just need to..." He turned to the other Holmes in the doorway now. Mycroft's face was pointing to the stairs, the unnatural look of concern plastered across it.
"Stay with him John." He said finally, "please." He added. "All you need will be dropped off here, remember what I said about going to hospital, I need you to do all you can here. Keep in touch." He disappeared from the hallway, and John could see the redness beginning to form in his eyes before he turned.
Mrs Hudson stood in somewhat of a shock. "What's happening?" She finally said as Mary stepped through the front door. "Are they ok?"
"Let's get a cuppa shall we?" Mrs Watson asked sadly, watching her husband bound up the stairs after the detective. "I can explain what's going on." The old lady nodded leading Mary back into 221A.
When John arrived at the door of the flat it was still open and he crept inside, darkness lay across most of the flat, the curtains closed to the low morning sunlight. His friend was nowhere to be seen in the living room or kitchen and he turned to look elsewhere when he heard him. The unmistakable noise of retching. He hurried on and found the door of the bathroom also open and his best friend bent over awkwardly, heaving into the toilet bowl.
"Still pleased with your little session now?" John regretted his words instantly, entering the bathroom, he grabbed a clean towel from the cupboard on his way. The detective sat up, face pale and sweaty, hair plastered to his skin in places, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sherlock attempted to stand but listed drastically to his left before finally managing it upright. "Piss off John." He finally growled, moving to make an exit.
"Hey." John blocked his way to the door. His face depicting nothing but anger now, he clasped his hands together in fists. "What did you say?"
Sherlock stood tall, but his muscles were already starting to jitter under his large coat. "You heard me." The detective grumbled, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Why have you not left yet?"
"Why?" John laughed in a mocking tone. "Why? Because, if I haven't told you already you took a bloody overdose and nearly died."
"And..."
John bit tongue, hard, tasting blood. He sucked in a breath and carefully let it go. "And, right now the naloxone has not only pushed your body into withdrawal but your still high as a bloody kite on cocaine."
"What does it matter to you?" Sherlock angrily shot.
The doctor chose not to reply. He observed him carefully for a moment. The detective's pupils were dilated, eyes wide and staring like a wild animal in panic. His arms were starting to tremor lightly and sweat was dripping in cascades down his pale forehead. He was rocking from one foot to the other in both in impatience, nervousness and desperation to escape the situation.
"Please just calm down." John held his hands out in defence, realising just how close his friend was to losing it.
"I have a case John. An important case." Sherlock shouted. He grimaced then, doubling over as pain shot through his abdomen, cramping his muscles.
"Just take it easy." The doctor let his friend take a moment. "Please."
"There's nothing wrong with me."
"Sherlock?"
"I need the bathroom. Get out." He ordered. John decided to let up. He retreated from the room to at least allow the detective some privacy. The mix of cocaine and the instant heroin withdrawal was kicking his friend's body into overdrive, the consequences would not be pretty. He paced into the kitchen, uneasy and heart racing with worry.
John waited for some time before he lingered in the doorway and then began to pace around the flat. "Sherlock?" he finally said after many minutes had passed, his inner doctor unable to take the waiting any longer.
"Go away." A reply came from behind the bathroom door.
"You can't stay in there forever." John cried, "You have to come out sometime."
He waited, until finally the sound of the toilet flushing was heard and he hurried back to the hallway. The door opened and his friend stepped out, face flushed and gait more than a little unsteady.
"Come on." John tugged gently on the Belstaff guiding his friend towards the bedroom but Sherlock had other ideas. He slinked away from his friend and took to the living room.
"Case remember." The detective shot, "How many time do I have to tell you?"
John followed, watching his friend look around the flat, glazed eyes darting around the room in confusion. Sherlock's legs were starting to shake, knees sagging struggling to hold his lanky frame upright.
"What is it you want?" John was next to him, mindful the man could potentially collapse at any given moment.
"Laptop." This time Sherlock's voice shook too.
"For goodness sake will you just sit down?" John pushed him towards the sofa, and for once his friend obliged. His trembling legs barely managing it three steps before giving out and letting him fall unceremoniously to the pillows of the sofa.
"Thank you." John sighed, sitting down opposite him on the coffee table.
Sherlock closed his eyes then, drawing his feet up and bringing his knees up to his chin against the tremors. He hitched a breath in as abdominal cramps seized his muscles and he let out a soft whimper against the pain.
"Sherlock." John started.
"Please go away John." The detective answered, swallowing back the rising nausea threatening again. His breaths hastened, he was on the edge hyperventilating, sucking quick ragged inhales and exhales between his teeth and ridged jaw.
"Nope. Not happening." John cried. "I'm right here and I'm going nowhere anytime soon so you better get used to it." He stood up, heading to the kitchen to pour a glass of water.
Sherlock did not move. He curled closer in on himself. His legs struggling to remain in place against the shaking which came in waves now. His joints and muscles were aching, head throbbing with a constant thrum. "I've done this before you know." He finally said, muffled by his coat.
John paused and winced, did not want to think about it. A young Sherlock going through withdrawal, alone in some scummy crack house. Lestrade had spoken very little of the detectives past or drug problem but he'd told John enough to let him know things had been pretty bleak back then. "Well this time you don't have to do it alone." He finally piped up.
"Ergh." Sherlock groaned into his knees. "You sound just like Mycroft."
"Well I'm not Mycroft." John returned to the coffee table with the pint glass of cool water. "I'm a doctor and your friend and I'm here to look after you."
"Don't. Need. You." The detective said in between unsteady breaths. "Please." He cried. Two involuntary drops of saltwater spilled out from underneath closed lids, the pain intensifying. "Please John, not like this." He whispered weakly.
"Hey." The doctor placed a comforting hand on his friend's leg. "It's ok. It's not like I haven't seen someone go through withdrawal before."
Sherlock moaned in reply, letting out another whimper of pain as muscle spasms overtook his arms and legs. "Please." He cried. "You can't help me." A defeated moan, breaths falling into quick gasps, "Leave me."
John looked sadly at him, the man's pride getting the better of him. When would he just give it up? "Just try to calm down." He said. "Try breathing a little slower ok."
"Can't."
"Listen." John tried to change his approach. "You're losing too much fluid. Your going to get dehydrated, I need you to drink something for me. Do you think you can do that?"
"No." another groan.
"Come on." John held the water up, "Just try."
Sherlock opened his eyes, now red rimmed with unfallen tears. His pupils were still blown wide open unnaturally, but this time the look of sadness was within them. He pulled a shaky hand out to grasp uselessly but John kept hold of the glass, guiding it to his friend's mouth while he took a long gulp.
"Well isn't this humiliating?" The detective grumbled.
"Slowly." John ignored the statement, warning against a second gulp of the liquid, but it was too late. Sherlock practically threw the glass back to his friend, spilling half its contents down himself and the doctor, he pitched forwards heaving the water back up and onto the carpet below.
"Wonderful." He whispered, throat sore.
"It's ok. We can try again in a bit ok." John stood to collect something to clean the floor with.
"I'm not a child!" Sherlock complained, retching once more as his stomach tried again to repel any signs of the liquid. He collapsed back against the sofa and closed his eyes.
"I didn't say you were."
"Stop treating me like one." The detective cried, his body shaking again, the violent spasms were getting worse and he furrowed his brows tightly together against the agony. He scowled at John in an instant. "Just get out." His voice tried to sound angry but it only came out as a croak.
"No. Sorry." John returned with kitchen towel and disinfectant, surprised he had found either in the kitchen. "This is all just the drugs talking now."
"Get out." Sherlock shouted, this time with a bit more gusto.
John ignored him, bending down to clean the floor.
"Did you hear me John?" the detective's eyes snapped open. "I said get out. I don't need you here." Sherlock slammed his feet into the floor and pushed up onto them, knocking John back with some force. "Go back to your wife or whoever she is."
"Hey, whoa." John scrambled up to see his friend dart across the room. "What are you doing now?"
Sherlock did not answer, he was already rooting through his things by the table. Books, papers and crime scene paraphernalia being thrown haphazardly and a desperate attempt to find something.
"Sherlock?" John made it across the room.
"I said get out John!" the detective hollered, "Why won't you just listen for once." He clutched his forehead and groaned against another barrage of pain, this time splitting across his temples.
"I told you already. I'm not going anywhere." John stepped forward, worry creeping into his chest and rising up into his throat. He tried and coax the detective away from the chaos. "Come on now, stop this." He edged forwards.
"No!" a cry. Sherlock spun to push his friend away only to grab the doctor's coat to steady himself. He swayed like a madman, and tried again to shove the blogger back to no avail, instead his legs gave out and John carefully guided him onto his knees. "Piss off John!" he struck out with a weak fist, arms jittering, his eyes stared vacantly ahead, clearly fixed on something only he could see.
"Fuck me." John swore suddenly feeling the heat radiating form his friend, "You're burning up." He held a palm over Sherlock's forehead, frowning in worry.
"Go away." The detective mumbled, still trying desperately to push his friend back but doing nothing more than grabbing wildly at John's coat to stop himself from sinking to the floor. His teeth chattered, jaw now shaking amongst the rest of his muscles and limbs.
"It's ok." John tried to guide his friend down to the floor but Sherlock would not relent, determined to remain in an upright position. "Hey, just let go. I'm just going to get you something for this."
"No." Sherlock whimpered, a tear broke free from his puffy eye and escaped down his clammy cheek. "No more drugs." He pleaded.
"It's ok." John prized one hand from his clothes and started to lower his friend down to the carpet, be done with trying to get him back to the sofa. "Just take it easy alright. Just lay down for a moment will you."
Sherlock did not answer, he let out a weak moan, muscles spasms shaking his entire body violently. He closed his eyes against the agony exploding behind his eyes.
"Just hang on a moment." John managed to prize the second hand from his clothes and stood up in haste, rushing out the room and downstairs where he retrieved the medical kit.
"John?" Sherlock's weak voice sounded when the doctor arrived back in the living room. The detective had rolled onto his side in a feeble attempt to get up, but the violent contractions where rendering the lanky man's frame useless. His hands grasped out for something to hold, both appendages jolting with an accompanying moan of pain.
"I'm here. Just hang on a second." The doctor could see his friend was on the cusp of either a full blown seizure or his heart was about to give out from the large dose of 7% solution still running his veins. He unzipped the med bag, routing quickly through the supply of drugs. "Thank you Mycroft." He finally said, holding up a vial of Dexmedetomidine, the exact drug which the doctor wanted right now.
"Right." John arrived back at his friend's side. "Coat off now." He grappled with the large Belstaff, fighting against his friends ridged limbs with some difficulty before finally managing to extract both arms. He sighed in relief to find the intravenous catheter still in situ. How the detective had not noticed and pulled it out John would never know. The doctor drew the drug up into a syringe, checking the dose mentally before quickly administering it into Sherlock's veins.
The detective stilled almost instantaneously once the syringe was emptied. Alarmed, John checked his vitals, happy that the sedative was doing its job and not sending him into a coma. He pulled more kit from the bag, quickly checking reflexes to ensure his friend was stable, and although still pretty high he was happy Sherlock's blood pressure was not though the roof, risking a heart attack.
"What the hell were you thinking." John mumbled to himself, pulling out a fluid bag and giving set he connected them together. He started a quick flow of intravenous fluids into his friends catheter before setting to cooling the man down by other means. The carpeted floor was not the most comfortable place for his patient but John made best of what he had, besides he was not comfortable in moving his friend. This was nothing like the battle scared sands of Afghanistan.
"John?" Sherlock's eyes slit open a little.
"Your ok." The doctor bent over him. "Just relax now, your temperature has rocketed to 39, we need to get you cooled down. Just stay there."
Sherlock didn't even attempt to rise, the drug had rendered him barely conscious, his limbs were now heavy and useless and he could do nothing more than let his head loll to the side and watch John potter into the kitchen.
The doctor returned with a couple of soaked towels, a flannel and a portable fan. "I'm just going to take your shoes off ok?" He pulled at the laces of his former flatmates shoes and started to remove them. The detective did not answer, his eyes simply sluggishly watched on as both shoes and socks were discarded quickly.
"I quite like you like this. Amenable, compliant and no answering back." John joked for a moment. Setting the fan on full, blasting icy air at Sherlock's feet.
"I can still hear you." The detective slurred, speech somewhat impaired.
"Good to know." John checked his friends pupils, happy to see they had contracted down since sedating him. He pulled his friends shirt open, and placed one towel across his neck and another on his lower abdomen.
"Cold." Sherlock whined.
"I know." John soothed. "But necessary I'm afraid."
John sat back on his legs, wiping a hand across his face he let out a long drawn breath and looked at his friend. Sherlock's hair was a puff of black, stray locks plastered to his damp forehead. The doctor pushed them away from his eyes, eyes which followed his every move under heavy lids.
"You can rest now." John smiled briefly and sadly at his friend, seemingly a shadow on what the detective had been, not so many years ago. Ever since the fall and Sherlock's return the man was not quite the same, John shuddered at the memory. Exactly how long had the detective been 'not an addict but a user' for now, he tried not to look at the bruised track marks but couldn't help it. "What happened to you?" He whispered quietly, gently soaking up some of the cooling sweat from his friends brow in the flannel.
"What?" Barely recognisable as a word.
"Eh." John faltered. "You weren't meant to hear that."
Sherlock's eyes closed for a moment, he inhaled deeply. "I killed people." He finally said, voice still somewhat weak and sore but with enough clarity that the doctor could understand him. "I killed Magnussen."
"Yes." Said John. "It's very kind of you to do that for Mary but really now, I think ending a life was a little extreme. And even more so for someone who's actually tried to kill you themselves." He tried to keep the last words calm but struggled somewhat.
"Necessary." Sherlock's eyes reopened. His blue Iris's fixing back on his friend. "You know my methods Watson." He slurred again.
"No. I really don't." John replied. "Not anymore I don't. Not since..." He paused.
Sherlock's eyes screwed tight and he convulsed in pain, letting out another soft groan. "Since when?" He cried, ignoring the pull of sedation threatening unconsciousness.
John looked at him mournfully, brows etching in concern. "Since Barts." He finally said. "Since the fall. Since Moriarty. Since going away."
"Hm."
"Where did you go?" John carefully moistened his friends skin against the cool air flow of the fan, constantly rattling away in the background. "What happened?"
"Nothing of your concern. I neutralised the network." Sherlock shivered, goose flesh appearing on his arms. John pulled out the thermometer probe, taking another temperature from the detective's ear.
"You concern me." He said, happy to see the digital display reading 38.8 degrees.
"Why?"
John gulped hard against the rising lump in his throat. "Because I care about you Sherlock. Your my best friend."
The detective managed a small smirk on his slack face, "caring." He mocked.
"I'm serious." John replied. "Your killing yourself. This needs to stop right now."
"Did Mycroft set you up to this lecture?" Sherlock croaked. "Because I've heard it all before you know. What does it matter."
"You matter, you cock." John wished he could grab his friend by the shoulders and shake him but thought better of it. "This is me talking. Not your brother. Please Sherlock, just do this for me ok. Stop this madness."
"What madness?"
"Everything." John's voice broke. "I can't lose you again Sherlock. I don't think my heart could actually bare it a second time. Damn it, I'd probably die with you this time."
There was a long and pregnant pause. Sherlock took a shuddering intake of air and closed his eyes again. A steady stream of tears appeared from under closed lids, mixing with the cold sweat and pouring in tracks down both cheeks "I'm sorry." He finally choked back. His voice wavering dramatically with emotion. "I'm so sorry John. Please forgive me." The walls of his mind palace caved and he fell apart, a sob ripped involuntarily from between his lips. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
The doctors eyes welled quickly, spilling his own tears now. He grabbed his friend and pulled him upwards into an embrace. Holding him there while his best friend, stalwart, stoic and damn right stubborn poured his emotions into John's shirt collar.
"It's alright now." John rubbed steady circles into Sherlock's back for sometime, soothing him while the sobs wracked his aching body, draining it of yet more precious energy by the second. "I'm right here."
"I'm sorry." The detective moaned.
"It's ok now." John cried. "Please don't be sorry."
Sherlock did not answer. His shaking body and sobs came to a sudden abrupt halt and body capitulated to unconsciousness, giving in to the pull of sedation and exhaustion.
"Thank fuck." John lowered him back down to the carpet and onto his coat still there. He turned up the IV fluids a little faster and quickly checked the man over. He then pulled the afghan throw and pillow from the sofa and stretched out next to his friend. One hand planted firmly over Sherlock's heart and gunshot scar, a gentle thud under his palm, reassurance that his friend was still alive and blood was pumping through his veins. "Just sleep." He said. "And I'll be right here when you wake."