howlingmary79

Sherlock and John had been busy with a case that had been revealed to be very interesting (from Sherlock’s point of view) but also very tiring (from John’s point of view), meaning both men had slept very little in the last four days. Finally that afternoon they were able to catch the criminal and Lestrade had arrested him. 

Once they got back home, after the usual cup of tea John insisted on having, both men were utterly spent and decided to go to sleep. 

Sherlock fell asleep the second he buried himself under two heavy comforters, his room being the colder in the flat in his opinion. He woke up from a nightmare a couple of hours later with a gasp, panting like he had just run a marathon; his subconscious played bad tricks on him sometimes, making him relive in his sleep his worst fears when he had no control over his emotions. It was 1.52 a.m.. 

It was a stressful situation; the detective was used to solving mysteries and facing murders and kidnappings, but it was Mycroft they were talking about now. Despite the fact that the younger man would never admit it, especially in front of the British Government officer, seeing his brother hurt had shocked him. 

John thought he should give Sherlock some time alone to regain his composure. Better not to push him on the subject when he was not ready to talk about it, but wait for him to process the events instead. 

The doctor prepared another cup of tea while waiting for his friend to come back to the living room in order to discuss what to do. Fifteen minutes later he started to worry. The detective hadn’t shown up yet. What if Sherlock was hurt? 

Stupid stupid doctor you are, you left him alone! What if he fainted, hit his head on the floor? Or worse? 

He marched to Sherlock’s door and called his mate’s name. He couldn’t hear any sound coming from inside the room. Putting aside his anxiety, he tried to maintain a neutral tone while calling for Sherlock once again.

 “Sherlock, are you ok? If you don’t answer me, I’m going to come in,” he stated. 

He waited for a few seconds but the detective didn’t reply. 

“Alright, I’m entering now, Sherlock. I swear if you did something stupid I’ll kick your arse for the rest of your life!” 

Gripping the door handle with more force than necessary, John pushed the door open; actually, he didn’t know what to expect, but what he saw made him angry and very worried.

The younger man was resting comfortably on the double bed, lying on his back; his chest rose and fell in synch with his breath, and at least that was comforting, but his eyes were open, glassy and unfocused and his lips partly open. He was high on something. 

 Wonderful, just wonderful.

 The doctor was soaked through when he entered the tube. When he finally reached Baker Street, his mood was terrible. There were no lights on in the flat, that meant Sherlock was asleep or simply too lazy to switch them on, waiting for him to come home and do it. Watson was hungry; he also was sure his flat mate hadn’t thought about cooking dinner. Tesco was just a couple of blocks away but Watson was too tired and the rain was falling hard right now.

 I’ll just go out to a Chinese restaurant. Or something.

 At first, he didn’t notice the expensive black car approaching him. Then, realizing what it meant, the former army doctor sighed loudly and opened the back door. Nobody was inside but the driver informed him that Mr. Holmes had requested his presence and he was going to take him to his house.

 “Please, bring your medical bag with you, doctor.” The driver added.