Sherlock pressed his fingers against his temples, attempting to suppress the desire for a fix, a desire that he had eluded since his marriage to John, but yesterday had taxed him beyond his limits. The dark mood that pressed itself in on him threatened to strangulate any sane, logical thought processes. I want to be comfortably numb, he mused, and it would help clarify my thoughts, thus allowing me to concentrate on the case. This thought squelched any hesitation. His need for a fix was now justified. He looked down at John while he slept. Beautiful. He is perfect, Sherlock thought, then he walked out of the room. Once outside the flat, he took a deep breath. The city was ready, ready to take him in its arms, ready to caress him with its decadent wares.

John woke up with a feeling something was not quite right. He then smiled when he recalled their love making session from last night. His sexy Sherlock had been reduced to a quivering mass of passion. Just the thought of him naked, his pale white skin covered with a sheen of sweat made John sigh.

"Sherlock, where are you? I've got something for you." John called out. "Sherlock?" The door opened while he arranged himself in a seductive position. His eyes widened when he noticed Mycroft standing in the doorway. "Jesus, don't you ever knock?" he asked, while he covered his torso with a sheet.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Why John, you're not happy to see me?"

John's face flushed and he grabbed a pillow, putting it over his lap. "What do you want?"

Mycroft sat down at the edge of the bed. "Where's Sherlock?"

Something in his expression kept John from telling him to beat it. "What's wrong?"

Mycroft stood up and began to pace, his motions slow and agitated like a caged animal. "Last night was a danger night."

John looked confused. "A danger night?"

Mycroft stopped pacing, then came to stand at the end of the bed. "So, Sherlock didn't tell you everything about himself."

John grimaced when he moved into another position. "Mycroft, stop being cryptic and tell me what's going on."

A wave of sadness swept over his features. "When Sherlock is distraught, bored or in need of clarity, he uses."

John folded his arms across his chest. "Are you saying Sherlock is a drug addict?"

"Surly, you've noticed the pale scars on his arms?" Mycroft asked in a soft voice. The kindness in it made John anxious.

"Yes, he told me that they came from medical experiments that he had performed on himself in the past." John's voice trailed off, then he whispered, "My god, what are you saying?"

Mycroft held John's gaze. "I have to find him. I know where some of his bolt holes are."

John nodded. "Fine, I'm coming with you."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, I don't think that would be a good idea."

John threw the sheet back and maneuvered himself into his chair, noting with a lump in his throat that Sherlock had taken the time to position it for his ease and comfort. "I'm coming with you. He's my husband and he may need a Doctor."

Mycroft maneuvered John's chair through the dark and the gloom. Its wheels' ground to a halt just before they reached the entryway of a graffiti covered building. "Are you sure you want to proceed?" Mycroft asked in a soft tone, just loud enough for John to hear.

John swallowed and thought, I can't believe my beloved Sherlock is in a place like this. "Yes, I'm ready. I've seen battlefields before."

Mycroft nodded and they inched forward into what felt like the cavern of hell. Cold stale air assailed their nostrils and John grimaced. A few moments later he wished for the stale air again. He took a few deep breaths to steady his pounding heart and immediately regretted the decision when the smell of urine, unwashed bodies and the sickening smell of burning toxins overcame his olfactory senses.

Mycroft handed him a handkerchief. "Hold this to your nose; it helps."

John nodded, gagged a few times, then buried his nose in the fresh starched linen. They passed row after row of twitching bodies. Sherlock please be okay, he prayed.

Mycroft shone a flashlight into each pile of rags and the hairs on the back of John's neck stood on end every time a hollow eyed addict stared back at them. Then the beam shone across a familiar figure. "There," John whispered, pointing.

Sherlock lay on his side. His hands curled, his delicate long fingers twitching like the others that lay in rows of human denigration and waste. John put his hand over his face. Dear god, what could ever bring you to this? Mycroft bent down and snatched a piece of paper from his hands. He then handed it to John.

"What's this?" John asked, reading through a list of injectable substances.

Mycroft looked at him with shinning eyes. "It's what he's injected."

John twisted from one side to another. "Get me out of this chair. I need to go to him." After Mycroft helped him to the ground, John stared at Sherlock's supine form. He was curled in a half circle, with one hand over his face, like a cat taking a nap. "Sherlock," he whispered while he took his pulse. "Thank god, its strong."

Then John took Sherlock in his arms and cradled him, ignoring the pain when a piece of concrete upset his balance, jarring his hip. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he looked up. "Have you come for me?" he whispered.

John nodded. "Yes, always. I'd follow you into the dark, to hell itself and back."

Sherlock smiled, and when he smiled John basked in its warmth. "John, be careful what you wish for my love." John traced his dry lips with an index finger. "Ssh, Mycroft and I are here." Then John looked up at Mycroft. "I think he's going to be fine, but I want to get him to hospital just in case."

Mycroft sighed and looked off into the distance. "It would be better for him if we monitor his condition at home."

John nodded, his mouth dry and his throat constricted. "This isn't the first time, then?"

Mycroft looked at him as if he were a small child. "No, it isn't. Although he's been clean a long time, so I guess we should take comfort in that."

By the time they reached the flat, Sherlock was lucid and livid. "Mycroft, how could you have taken him there? I just needed a little boost to help clarify things in my mind and now you've put my husband at risk. Just look at his knee; its bleeding."

John smoothed Sherlock's hair back, running his fingers through its unruly curls. "Sherlock, I've had a tetanus shot, so I'm fine."

Sherlock lost his angry focus when he looked into John's eyes. They were so blue. Words deserted him and he allowed himself to get lost in their depths. He licked his lips, cursing himself when desire mixed with the solution in his veins exploded into a red hot passion that took his breath away. His hips twitched forward and he bit on his lower lip to keep a moan from escaping. "Mycroft, John and I will sort this out. Please leave."

Mycroft watched his little brother go from a furious state to a fixated one in the space of a few seconds. John. He wanted him, craved him, loved him. He turned away, hoping that John's love could protect his beloved younger sibling. "Fine, just be ready to leave bright and early tomorrow." He waited for a retort. When none came he turned around to see Sherlock taking John's hands in his own. He was down on his knees speaking in low tones, his fingers rubbing John's arms, while his head bowed in grief. Mycroft swallowed, sad that John was learning the truth about Sherlock and sad for himself that he would never have the privilege of someone to weep over him. Alone is what protects me, he thought as he shut the door, wondering why he felt more vulnerable than ever.