Made by:Thinos
It was a rather ordinary day in 221B Baker Street. Or so John thought when he left in the early hours to get to the hospital - one of them actually had to work to pay the rent. Sherlock on the other hand didn't feel particularly good, he had not had a case in a total of 149 hours and with John gone, he felt the need to distract himself from the overwhelming boredom some other way. After he had broken into John's laptop, re-read every single one of his friend's blog entries, composed half a song on his violin, finished up a chemical experiment he had started a week ago and never gotten to bring to an end and drank no less than five cups of tea, Sherlock's mind finally outraced him and he couldn't pretend to be occupied any longer. Fooling himself never quite worked out the way he would like it to. Wasn't it ironical that he, who could at times sit entirely still for hours while visiting his mind palace, was cursed with immense ADHD? Of course, that was one thing he would never admit to John or anyone other than Mycroft who knew about it anyway, as well as his Asperger's syndrome, but Sherlock nevertheless was very aware of it, especially at times like this, when he got so bored that he might actually do something stupid...
***
Only a few months had passed since John and Sherlock had moved into the flat, but they had experienced quite a lot together already - well, given that John did kill a man for his new flatmate the second day he knew him, where would one expect their relationship to go? When they weren't out solving cases and chasing murderers, John and Sherlock liked to just hang around 221B, reading, playing board games, discussing the latest cases and laughing with each other... none of them was ever bored as long as they were together. John never knew how much of a change he meant for Sherlock's life, on the contrary, he rather often just assumed that his friend had not adjusted his lifestyle to the flatsharing at all, for example when Sherlock continually refused to do his share of the shopping, cleaning up and other such little annoyances.
What John was completely oblivious to was that the issue of depression had not been a problem only to him before they met, but that Sherlock, too, had had to deal with it and of course it was never mentioned how close exactly Sherlock had been to intentionally overdosing in an attempt of suicide a month before Stanford had introduced him to John. Getting a flatmate for Sherlock had been Mrs. Hudson's idea, as she always knew exactly how Sherlock was doing and what he needed. He in fact had always been able to pay the rent on his own, but his landlady's "special deal" had been that he could move into 221B if he got himself a friend to share it with.
Upon leaving the hospital that afternoon, John's phone started to ring. He mumbled an excuse to his colleagues and quickly answered it, surprised who might call him, as he didn't usually receive calls.
"John Watson here"
"John."
"I'm sorry, who is this?"
"John, you should return home to my little brother as soon as possible, if you cared to walk around the corner to your right you might find a car suitable for this purpose."
While externally sighting, John found himself starting to jog towards the black car that indeed was parked just around the hospital's corner.
"Mycroft, you know you don't have to be this mysterious all the time. So, if you could please - just for once - tell me clearly what happened and what you are talking about. Is there something wrong in Baker Street?"
"Get into the car, John. It's danger night."
Danger night. John had heard the term before, on his second or third meeting with Mycroft where the latter had abducted him to explain that Sherlock was not an easy person to live with (because John definitely couldn't have figured that out on his own) and that Mycroft was anxious for John to know that Sherlock would eventually need his help desperately, but would never openly ask John for it.
Consequently, John had been warned this could happen, but he never quite understood what "this" was and what Mycroft expected of him, should the case occur.
"Care to elaborate?" he therefore asked while getting seated in Mycroft's car.
"Mycroft? Are you still there?" John added a few seconds later as now reply came, but the line was dead.
"Wonderful. Always so informative" he muttered under his breath and then bade the driver to go as fast as possible.
***
As John unlocked the door to the flat, he heard and saw nothing suspicious at first glance, which naturally made him even more so, given Mycroft's enigmatic warnings.
Then, upon entering the living room, John found Sherlock sprawled out over his armchair, apparently sound asleep. John smiled to himself, knowing that Mycroft was just being paranoid, as Sherlock was a grown man who could very well take care of himself. Reassured and calm once more, John got into the kitchen and prepared himself a cup of tea.
His thoughts had already passed on to a different matter, when he suddenly heard Sherlock calling his name from the living room.
"Jawn?"
John couldn't quite identify what startled him about this, as it was not an unusual thing for Sherlock to do, but he did feel like something was off about his friend's voice. Stepping back into the other room, John found Sherlock still sitting in his chair, not looking at his entering friend but seeming to guiltily avoid eye contact.
"What is it?" John asked as his earlier alarm returned continually.
When he didn't get a reply straight away, he got closer to his friend, kneeling before his armchair to look Sherlock in the eyes. At the first glance, he knew that there was a shimmer to the consulting detective's eyes that he didn't like. It was only a moment later that the suspicion was confirmed by Sherlock:
"John, I am so sorry... You weren't here so I felt the need again, I know I shouldn't have... I just couldn't help it, I needed it, oh please, John, I can't stop it!"
John took hold of Sherlock's hand and carefully slid his sleeve back to expose his friend's wrist and forearm. The two punctures were clearly visible and now John also noticed the emptied needles lying between Sherlock's feet.
"John, I'm sorry, I know I said that I was clean- and I was... until now"
John felt anger welling up in him, but the worry about his friend was by far more dominant. He let go of his arm and burst out:
"For god's sake! This could kill you! Do you even realise that? It could kill you, Sherlock, You Could Die!"
The words came out a lot softer and gentler than John had originally intended because with shock, he realised that tears were forming in his friend's unfocused eyes. Sherlock Holmes was crying.
"Sherlock, what was in those needles and how much of it?" he demanded strictly, grabbing Sherlock's chin to hold his eyes into the light and examine his pupils. They were clearly widened, that man was high as a kite, and when Sherlock handed John the list of the ingredients he had experimentally put into the drugs, John didn't dare to look at it but instead simply pocketed it. He would read through it later. Right now, Sherlock was his priority.
"Alright then, come!" John got up from his knees and waited for Sherlock to rise as well, but no reaction came from the consulting detective.
"Sherlock!" the exclamation was significantly louder this time as it was already repeated for the third time now, but John's friend did not seem to be in the mood to follow his doctor's orders.
Seeing no alternative, John grabbed Sherlock by one arm, and, placing his own arm around his friend's waist, he pulled him to his feet and steered him towards the bedroom.
The two must have looked very weird, stumbling through the flat like drunks because of Sherlock's clumsy and uncoordinated movements and John's struggle to support him, but eventually they made it to Sherlock's bedroom, where John made sure his friend carefully lay down before covering him with his blanket.
As John turned to leave, exhausted and also a bit angry with his irresponsible friend, all of a sudden, a hand reached out from beneath the bedsheets to take hold of his own. The doctor looked back and saw right into Sherlock's pleading eyes.
"Please don't go, John" he whispered.
And for the first time since they met, John saw real fear in his friend's eyes.
Sighing, he sat down at the edge of Sherlock's bed, pulled his legs up and leaned against the head of the bed so he now sat next to his friend's figure.
It was only a few minutes of silence later that he realised that Sherlock's hand was still embedded in his own, but as the delirious detective did not seem to mind, John didn't pull back now, either.
John had thought that the worst part was done now that he had gotten Sherlock into his bed and his friend was apparently calming down, but only a short while after sitting down in Sherlock's bed he realised that quite the opposite was true, as his friend started to tremble and writhe, doubling over in physical and internal pain. Sherlock was clinging to John's hand as if it were the only thing keeping him from drowning and John let it happen because in this moment, he would have done anything to lessen his friend's pain, he simply couldn't stand seeing him hurting like that.
"I need some more, John, I need it! Now! Please, give it to me, please!"
Sherlock begged, but it was of no use as John knew that this was the one thing, he could not allow his friend to do now.
"It's alright, Sherlock. You can do this, just stay strong! You're not alone in this, not this time. I am here!"
John soothed him while holding his friend's quivering body in his arms and gently stroking his back. He was about to say some more meaningless reassurances, but before he could think of any, his phone started to ring.
"Damn it, I can't right now"
He mumbled to himself, not even thinking of leaving Sherlock alone in this state, not even for a moment. The caller's patience got to an end quickly and immediately after the ringing stopped, a text alert came from the phone.
Sighing, John used his free hand to fish it out of his pocket while he was still holding Sherlock close to himself with his other arm.
"Please take the precaution of removing all sharp objects from sight. Don't worry, he wouldn't harm you, it is merely for his own protection. -MH"
Cursing under his breath, John looked around, taking Mycroft's warnings entirely seriously this time. At first glance, he could not spot anything, but he knew that Sherlock kept his scissors in a drawer at his desk, as well as the dagger he had once brought as a trophy from a case and he also supposed Sherlock had some razor blades somewhere in his room. Deciding to remove them from the detective's reach, John tried to get out of his friend's bed, but when he started to move even just slightly, Sherlock's arms went around his waist, clinging to him and definitely not willing to give up the protection of a comforting friend, who, for the first time, was there to hold Sherlock during all his pain and temptations.
'Well, if I can't keep anything that could do harm away from Sherlock, I can still keep Sherlock away from harm' John thought to himself, and, settling down for a long night, allowed his friend to cry into his jumper as the pain got worse.
***
When Sherlock finally - finally - calmed down after putting both himself and his friend through quite enough pain and when he at last drifted off to sleep, silent tears fell from John's eyes and soaked his friend's collar as Sherlock was still in his arms. He hated this. He hated seeing Sherlock like this. But at the same time, he made himself no illusions as to how many times that had probably happened without his knowledge and passed while he was completely oblivious to it and he was so relieved that this time, Sherlock had come to him, trusted him. Even with that bloody list that lay heavily in his pocket.
But John didn't take it out, he stayed close to Sherlock.
Not alone. Not this time.
"This time, Sherlock, I'll stay."
