Greg Lestrade rings the doorbell again.
"Sherlock? It's late. I'm not in the mood," he shouts. There's no response, no sarcastic remark, no heavy footsteps on the stairs. "S-sherlock?"
He jiggles the handle of the door. It pops open effortlessly.
"Sherlock?"
He takes the stairs two at a time. Sherlock hadn't been quite the same since John had moved in with Mary. Greg had suspected drugs, but hadn't said anything. Sherlock was more than capable of managing himself. But not answering the door, or even shouting a snide remark down the stairs at him? That was completely out of character.
"Sherl-" he opened the door to find an unconscious sociopath strewn across the floor. "Oh fuck-" Greg hurried forward, pressing his fingers to the side of the man's neck and his ear to his chest, searching for signs of life. They were there, but only minutely.
"Sherlock, can you hear me? What happe-" he looked up at the syringe in the slender hand before him.
Sherlock groaned, trying to sit up and sending himself reeling. Greg hurriedly dials is phone and reports the emergency, tears piercing the stony outward veil he hid behind.
"G-gr-" Sherlock began. Greg hushed him, pulling him up against his chest.
"Shut up, Sherlock, save yourself," he cried. Sherlock sputtered and coughed, and Greg knew he wasn't going to make it till the ambulance arrived. "Just shut up," he pleaded. He'd entirely forgotten why he'd even come here.
"I'm glad you're here, Greg..." Sherlock wheezed, before his body went limpin Greg's arms.
"Sherl- no no, please! Wake up!" Greg shouted. Of all the times to remember his name...
