Aftermath

11~John's POV

I walk out,  flabbergasted. I don't think he means what he says. He's scared. That's why he said those things. I take a deep breath and walk back into his room. "Sherlock I -" He's not responding. He's humped on the floor. "Sherlock? SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK HOLMES!" No response. I get on my knees, and start to shake him.

"Sher-" Then I see the needle. The one I gave him after Mary found out she was pregnant. He had been using the same needle for who knows how long.

Where was it? Where in God's name did he get morphine? There hasn't been any in the flat since I found him stealing from my office! He doesn't have anymore hiding places! Unless...

Yes. That's it. He hid it before I took the rest away. But where?

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" I scream to myself.

I get up and run to the living room.

"MS.HUDSON!" I scream. "CALL AN AMBULANCE!" 

"Why? Is it your leg?" 

"NO! IT IS NOT MY DAMN LEG! JUST CALL AN AMBULANCE! IT'S FOR SHERLOCK!" I run back to the bedroom and check Sherlock's pulse. It's faint, but it's there. Now I have to figure out how much he took.

I look at the bottle, and see it's about three-fourths empty. But was it full? Has he been using recently? No, I don't believe so. But how long has he had the morphine? I look at the date on the bottle, and in small, printed scripted I see:

                                                      Exp: 7/16

July then. It expires in July. So he couldn't have it more than a month. Morphine expires around six months. He probably hasn't even had it a week. But why?

Then it hits me. He was going away. For who knows how long. He got it so he wouldn't feel the pain of leaving.

But he hasn't used it, a small part of my brain thinks. Of course. He hasn't been strung out. He's been strong. I know him high, and he never was. "Way to go, Sherlock," I whisper. "Although it hasn't done you much good!" I say, louder. I hear the sirens, and the door opening. 

"HE'S UP HERE!" I scream as loud as I can. I see the EMTs.

"Who is he?" One of them asks as they load him onto the stretcher.

"Sherlock Holmes. It's a drug overdose. Morphine. He's taken about three-fourths of a bottle. Intravenously. I'm his physician, Dr. John Watson. I'm also his flatmate. Um..." I have to keep talking. If I don't, I start crying. This is my fault, I think. I know it is. He thought I was leaving him. I hurt him. The one person I believe I truly love, I almost killed.

I feel the tears spilling over, but I make no noise. The other EMT asks if I would like to ride with him. "Yes, please." I follow out the door and down the stairs.

"What's going on?" Ms. Hudson asks. 

"Sherlock overdosed." She gasps. We all knew it would happen eventually. 

"He was doing so good. I'll start the phone calls, dear. You go on with him."

Since everyone knew this would happen, we set up a system. Who ever found him called an ambulance, and then called everyone else. Everyone else includes me, Ms. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, and, to everyone's surprise, Sherlock requested Anderson be put on the list. 

I'm grateful I don't have to call anyone. I couldn't, knowing I did this. I jump in the ambulance and sit next to him. I reach out and grab his hand. I'm scared, and I want this small comfort. I get a look from one of the EMTs. I ignore them. All I care about is Sherlock. His hand's gone cold. I look up at his face, and his lips are blue.Then the sound registers. The long, long beep.I see one of the EMT's begin CPR. I see the other attach him to and IV and pump God knows what into his system. His heart's stopped. The morphine has made it to his heart, and it was enough to stop it. I can't speak, can't say his name, can't ask if he'll be alright. I can't. I'm sitting here, holding his hand, useless and in the way. I can't hear now, either. I don't hear the beep, or the EMTs, or anything. All I can do is look at his hand.

This is my fault. I killed Sherlock Holmes. 

Then, faintly, I can hear again. I don't want to hear the sounds of him dying! I try to block out all the noise, but then I hear it.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

His heart is pumping blood. He's not dead. Not physically, anyway.

The tears are coming quicker now. Someone is talking. It's the EMT. She says we're at the hospital now. I stand up, and follow him out, they're running, but I manage to never let go of his hand. I'm scared if I do, It will go cold again.

"Sir, who are you? Sir! Sir!" I can't answer the doctor. I can't.  I think I give her a garbled version of my name, or she decides I'm the lesser of two evils because she turns back to Sherlock.

"Sir, you need to come with me," says a nice nurse. I look at Sherlock, and back at her, and shake my head.

"We'll be right there." I look to where she points. Only twenty feet away.

I walk over with her, never talking my eyes off of him.

"What happened?" I tell her. "How much?" I tell her. "Who is he?" I tell her, and now they're taking him away.

"Where are they taking him?" I run to him and follow the doctors, despite the protests of the nurse behind me.

"We're taking him for a CT scan to see if the morphine caused damage anywhere else." It's the doctor who answers. She lets go of his bed and tells him to go on up, and she speaks to me slowly. "The excess of morphine in his blood could have caused blood clots." I know this, of course. But I want to stay with him I just nod.

"I want to stay with him." She looks at me, and I can tell she's going to say no, that's what she's supposed to do, tell me to wait. But instead she nods. And we run to catch up to Sherlock.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He doesn't show any sign of clots, which is good. Now we just need to see what effect it has on his nervous system and brain. We've got a room waiting, with a cot set for you, Dr. Watson."

"Thank you." So far, since 10 A.M. this morning, Sherlock and I have fought, Sherlock has overdosed, rode in an ambulance, died, came back, went through a CT scan, MRI, numerous X-rays, an EEG, an EKG and had multiple drugs pumped into him to try and dilute the morphine. It's only 2 P.M., but I'm grateful for the cot. It means they know I won't leave.

"We also found large amounts of  oxytocin and vasopressin in his system. Who ever he was with last night, he really loves." She smiles and walks away. I walk behind Sherlock, and think about what she said.

 Oxytocin and vasopressin? But those drugs form a feeling of love! Sherlock loves me! 

When we get to his room, I see Molly, Lestrade, Anderson, Mycroft, and Ms. Hudson.

"Well?" Molly asks.

"He took three-fourths of a bottle of morphine. We were fighting and I walked out of the room and I went back and I found him like that."

"Why were the two of you fighting?" asks Lestrade.

"Does it matter?" I snap back.

"Well, obviously it was something big to make him OD like that." Anderson comments.

"The poor dear." says Ms. Hudson.

Mycroft's been awfully quite.

"What about you Mycroft? Any pity for you brother?" I ask.

"No. He did this to himself." 

"No. He didn't." I spit back. "I did this. It's my fault. I think you should leave, Mycroft. He wouldn't want you here."

I don't hear his response, I just walk away. Molly follows me.

"I'm sorry about Mycroft. He's on edge. We all are."

"No, Molly. Mycroft doesn't care about Sherlock. He never has, and he never will."

"John-" she starts. I've made it Sherlock's room. 

I walk in and shut the door.

I hold his hand and now, alone in the quite with only the beeping, I let myself cry. Truly cry. I'm angry, at him, at me, at Mycroft, at Molly, at everyone. No one can fix this. This is my fault. Sherlock loved me and I walked away. I made him overdose. This is my fault. The only thing I can do to fix it is to be here when he wakes up.