What have you done?

Sand slipping through an hourglass

Sherlock presses the needle into his arm. It doesn't hurt like it normally does, there's just a sharp sting, a prick that lasts a moment, and then it's done.

He slumps backwards on the mattress and lets his head fall against the damp brick wall behind him. It shouldn't take long before the drugs start to take effect. He's taken a higher dosage than normal - a whole 5 percent more.

Enough to knock him out completely, he hopes.

As he starts to drift off guilt gnaws away at his insides and snakes around his stomach like a deadly disease. What will happen to John if he doesn't make it? To Mycroft? Will they blame him?

He groans and pushes the thoughts away. Not now, he thinks, please not now.

The air is so damp that it clings to his chest, making his forehead bead with cold sweat. He fumbles at his shirt, tries to undo it, but fails as his vision begins to cloud over. Blurring as the world wavers in and out of focus. He can't tell if he's relieved or distraught. His brain puts up the usual struggle, tries to fight back. Wrestling with the inevitable like a wild animal that's being smothered by a blanket.

He moans and convulses as the drugs begin to take effect. They make him swallow air, gasp frantically as he loses control over his nerve actions. It's like his mind is finally backing into a corner, being forced to shut down. Trapped.

He hopes no one finds him here. He deliberately chose a place he's never been, somewhere so far across town that it's almost out of London. He can't get caught. They won't understand if he does, won't listen.

He unclenches his fists and lets his head slump forward as the final wave of drowsiness overtakes him.

"John..." He moans softly as he slips into the dark world of unconsciousness. " Please ..."

***

John wakes to the sound of a baby screaming. It's Rosamund. His baby.

"Ugh..." Mary shifts in the sheets beside him. "I'll get it."

John grumbles a word of thanks before pulling the covers over his arm and rolling over onto his chest, listening as the sound of his wife's footsteps recede to the hallway. The night is still young, and only the dull orange light from street lamp outside illuminates the room. Silence swarms around him. He finds his gaze fixed on the shadows lying still on the floor, outlines cast by the furniture. For a moment he thinks he sees one of them move but then dismisses it. Why isn't he sleeping?

Sherlock.

Butterflies flutter softly in his stomach. He's probably fine, he thinks. Probably slumped in bed or passed out on the sofa after spending hours composing on the violin. Or perhaps he's out on a case, tracking down a criminal with Lestrade. He'll be fine, John tells himself, repeating the words again and again in his head until he forgets how many times he's said them.

But it still doesn't make him believe it.

It's extraordinary how much he finds himself missing Baker Street. The stories of the clients, the hustle and bustle of Mrs Hudson, the faint sound of the London traffic echoing off the walls. It's too quiet here. He longs for the cases, for the adrenaline that used to pump through his veins, the midnight pursuits. He wants more than anything to be back with the man with a nightmare of a personality and a charming smile...