221B Baker Street (A Sherlock Fanfic)

Cold

"John," Sherlock groaned as he was coming to terms. He was passed out on the couch once again, as he had been every day since Mycroft had decided to let things play out. That was a month ago. "John, is that you?"

Once his eyes were fully open and his vision had come back into focus, he saw that he was alone. He sighed and got up off of the couch, stumbling into the kitchen.

There were dozens of dishes in the sink, despite the fact that Sherlock had hardly been eating. The entire flat was a mess, though, not just the kitchen. Books had been piling up and there was a layer of dust on everything. Because of the state he was in, Mrs. Hudson wasn't able to come up and clean anything.

In the past month, Sherlock had only left his flat one time, and that was to get more drugs. He had completely lost himself this time. He was down about a stone, and his ribs were starting to show. He wasn't shaving – he had a scraggly beard to show for it – and his only clothing consisted of pants and his silk robe. He also had red eyes from the massive amounts of cocaine he had snorted and scars all over his arms from all that he had injected. He looked like death.

After scraping a little bit of mold off some cheese he had found in the fridge, Sherlock ate his pathetic excuse for a meal. His stomach kept rumbling, but he ignored it and went over to fetch his violin.

"Let's see what I can do today," he muttered to himself, readying the violin to play. He took a deep breath then strummed its strings. A beautiful sound was emitted, along with a few tears. His music was all he had for comfort.

After a minute of playing, one of the strings broke, sending Sherlock into a bloody rampage. He stomped all over the flat, broke a few dishes, and then collapsed into the bathtub. He was panting as he reached over to the counter and managed to grab a fresh needle and syringe to help ease his pain.

Within minutes, he was out cold.

—————

Mycroft entered 221B and found his little brother passed out in the bathtub, arm dangling over the edge, still holding his syringe.

All of the emotions he suppressed were released as he uttered, "Oh God. Sherlock..."

Fearing the worst, Mycroft knelt down and took hold of his wrist, then felt for a pulse. He was relieved to find one, and he let out a deep sigh. Very carefully, he grabbed a towel and slid it behind Sherlock's head for support.

Then he left the room and dialed a number on his mobile phone. It rang for a long time before a disgruntled man finally answered.

"Mycroft? What do you want?"

"John," Mycroft whispered, surprised that he had actually picked up. "It's Sherlock."

"I've told you already. I don't want–"

"He's not in good shape, John. He's been using again. More than before." He let out a sigh as he paced back and forth in the kitchen. "He's constantly high, and he's unconscious when he isn't. In fact, he's lying unconscious in the bathtub right now. I thought... I thought he might have been dead until I found his pulse."

There was only silence on the other end, as John couldn't find the words to say.

"I know you've said that you want nothing to do with him, and I've been putting off this phone call for a long time, but John... Sherlock really needs you right now. He's never going to admit it, but he's never going to get better until you come back. I know he won't."

"Okay, fine. I'll go talk to him or something. When do you want me to come over?"

"I believe that as soon as possible would be best, given the situation," Mycroft stated. He peeked into the bathroom, not surprised to see that Sherlock still hadn't moved. "Please hurry, John."