The Doctor And The Detective (Johnlock)

Eight

Sherlock followed the creek down until a shrub blocked his way. He attempted to scramble through it, but ended up with no progression forward and leaves in his hair. He dejectedly turned to leave, wondering if John had tried to call him again. He'd have to block John's number if he kept trying to call. It would get annoying after a while.

Sherlock wondered if he felt bad about leaving John without any prior notice. He decided not (he wasn't the type of person to feel bad about that sort of thing), but there was a niggling feeling of guilt in the bottom of his stomach all the same. He brushed it off and emerged from the creek, climbing up the grassy slope to the house. 

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock actually found himself feeling hungry. He wondered if Mycroft had put frozen meals for him to heat up, or if he'd have to cook it himself. Last time he'd tried to cook food for himself he'd nearly burnt the house down, and Mycroft had been there. Sherlock assumed his brother wouldn't make the same mistake of letting Sherlock cook again. He weaved in and out of rooms, looking for a kitchen, coughing at the dust and switching on lights until he found it.

Swinging open the fridge, Sherlock grinned. Mycroft had done exactly as he'd expected, lining the shelves with cold pre-cooked food. He grabbed a sandwich and bit into it, yelping slightly as the cold food hit his sensitive teeth. He swung the fridge shut and found his way back to the bedroom, flopping onto the bed as he devoured the last of the sandwich. His phone buzzed again, and he looked over to it. John, again. 

Sherlock picked the phone up, pressing 'reply' before he could change his mind.

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John's fuzzy alcohol-soaked mind didn't fully comprehend that Sherlock had picked up until he realised the phone wasn't ringing anymore and there had been no beep. He was surprised. "Oh! You picked up!" he slurred, suddenly filled with an unusual bubbliness. He giggled. "I never thought you'd - hic! - you'd pick up!"

"Have you been drinking?" Sherlock's voice on the other side asked quietly. John laughed again.

"Is actually you!" He took another swig from the wine bottle he had beside him. Sherlock sighed. 

"John? How much have you had to drink?"

"Only like..." John paused to count on his fingers. "One, two, four, seven... three beers." He smiled, then remembered Sherlock couldn't see him. "I'm smiling, by the - hic! - by the way."

"Really..." Sherlock was silent. John gripped his phone. 

"Are you still there? If you're gone, I'll - hic! - I'll break stuff." He coughed. "I awready broke the, um, the.... forget its name. TD? TC? I dunno."

"You broke the TV?" Sherlock didn't sound angry, but John cowered away from his phone. 

"If you don't come back, I'll - hic! - I'll hurt someone." He thought for a moment. No, he couldn't hurt someone, because then he'd go to jail. "I mean, I'll hurt my - hic! - myself!"

"John, stop speaking nonsense." Sherlock warned. John shook his head. 

"I'll kill myself if you don't come back, Sherlock! See, I'm getting a knife right now!" He struggled to his feet and stumbled to the kitchen, rummaging through draws until he found a decent sized knife. Sherlock was saying stuff on the other side of the phone, but John ignored him and rolled up his wrist. He just had to make a small scratch, enough to get Sherlock scared enough to come back. It was a flawless plan.

He lowered the knife to his wrist, his vision blurring slightly as he cut through. Pain exploded in his arm, but it wasn't as bad as he thought it was. He smiled. "See! I cut my arm!" He said proudly into the phone, before he realised how much blood was spilling out of the wound. "Oh my god," he whispered. "Sherlock... it's bleeding. A lot!" Tears blurred his vision further, and he clutched his arm. "Sherlock? I think I'm going to die. There's so - hic! - so much blood!Like when someone's shot, that's how much!"

He didn't hear what the detective said next, because his phone ran out of power. John stood woozily, staggering back into the kitchen. Maybe the pain would go away if he had more alcohol - he faintly recalled giving bleeding people brandy at some point. He looked around the kitchen, reaching up into a high cupboard - aha! A bottle of clear liquid. The words on the label were blurred, and the only letters John could make out were a 'v' and a 'k'. He opened the bottle, taking a large swig and groaning as the liquid burned on the way down. He glugged another few mouthfuls down, then hiccuped and swayed as the room revolved around him, falling and hitting his head on the counter before blacking out.

I UPDATED FINALLY! (0407605p ARE YOU HAPPY NOW) So yeah, how do you think of this thing where John is so drunk he decides to scare Sherlock but it goes wrong? What do you think the 'mystery liquid' was?