storyline one.

[docwithablog]

chronology -

00. word association w/ Sherlock

1. gen texting w/ Sherlock

2. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

3. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

4. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

5. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

6. texting w/ Sherlock

7. texting w/ Sherlock

8. texting w/ Sherlock

9. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

10. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

11. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

12. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

13. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

14. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

15. texting w/ Sherlock

16. otherwordly w/ Sherlock

17. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

18. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

19. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

20. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

21. texting - part one | texting - part two w/ Sherlock

22. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

23. texting w/ Sherlock

24. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

25. texting w/ Sherlock

26. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

27. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

28. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

29. truth or dare w/ Sherlock

00. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

30. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

31. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

32. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

33. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

34. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

35. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

36. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

37. texting w/ Sherlock

38. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

39. the case of the devil's root w/ Sherlock

00. word association w/ Sherlock

00. texting w/ Sherlock

00. penny for your thoughts w/ Sherlock

40. midnight texting w/ Sherlock

41. interlude w/ Sherlock

42. interlude w/ Sherlock

43. interlude w/ Sherlock

44. texting w/ Sherlock

45. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

46. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

47. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

48. texting w/ Sherlock

49. texting w/ Sherlock

50. texting w/ Sherlock

51. anniversary w/ Sherlock

52. texting w/ Sherlock

53. interlude w/ Sherlock

Comments

[docwithablog]

[ No answer. With a frown, John walks over to the living room doorway, balling up the plastic bag between his hands and preparing to shove it away in the bottom drawer left of the sink with the rest of their unsorted -- things, except he doesn't exactly get that far. In the doorway, he comes to a slow halt, gaze landing on Sherlock occupying the sofa, all long limbs and one properly dramatic arm draped over his face. Okay, good. He's sleeping again, that's an awfully familiar sight at the moment. He seems to sleep more as a general thing when there aren't any cases to keep his mind occupied. More than once, John's wondered whether he'd benefit from a depression screening, but honestly... If you gave Sherlock anti-depressants, he'd be analysing them for future chemical cocktails before you could say open up, wouldn't he? Shaking his head slightly, he crosses the room and picks up a used plate (is this one from last week, though, fuck) off the table, then he makes his way over to the coffee table, trying to soften his steps a bit so as not to wake the other man up.

Up close he looks more sedated than sleeping, to be honest and John frowns some more, taking in his appearance slowly, head to toe. No. Come on, he wouldn't. He's -- ]

Sherlock, you all right? Can you look at me for a second?

[acuriousincident]

[ Footsteps. Coming closer, closer, no John, take the plate out, why don't you, be neat and clean and orderly... Not that any of them qualify for those descriptors, generally, but John is at least more orderly than him when it suits him. Many a dust bunny has died to prove it. John. JohnJohnJohn. His scent is most interesting in the morning, right before he goes to shower and dress for the day. There's something slightly softer about it, though he couldn't possibly pinpoint why that's even a quality worth noting. Right now, it doesn't matter. It feels so good that it doesn't matter, too.

-- you all right? -- at me for a sec --

Uh. He blinks again. Raises his arm very, very, very slowly and turns his face towards the sound of John's voice, coming from - over there, coffee table, okay. He can look in that direction, at least, he can try. A part of his brain is trying desperately to sound some sort of alarm right now but he doesn't have a clue as to why. He can look at John, what does that matter? He looks at him all the time these days, he looks at him and for him and through him. It's par for the course. Thus, finally, he seeks out John's face and makes eye contact. ]

[docwithablog]

[ It takes him a few moments (and when does anything ever take Sherlock that long), then the other man turns his face towards him, removing his arm and he's blinking his stupidly multicoloured eyes, blink, blink, blink, except his pupils are pinpoints and John stops shuffling the plastic bag around, leans over and puts both that and the plate down, staring into Sherlock's face the entire time. Runny nose and lips with a voluptuous Cupid's bow and cheekbones that cast shadows, especially when the man's on heroin and hasn't bloody well told him that it was an issue. I'm clean, he said. Yeah, right.

For God's sake.

Ignoring his early stage headache and the slight shiver running underneath his skin, John walks around the table wordlessly and crouches down next to Sherlock, grabbing his nearest arm by the wrist and pressing two fingers in over his pulse point, just to do the counts. Just to make sure he isn't overdosing or slipping into a coma or something else dramatic that you might expect Sherlock Holmes to do, because he's an idiot as much as he's a genius. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ The alarm is starting to get louder in the back of his mind, even as his body resolutely refuses to gear up in response. There's something he ought to do right now, actually right now but instead, he simply stays on his back, letting John grab his arm and push his fingers against his wrist. Counting. That'll take him a while, won't it? Lips twitching, he watches the other man for a moment, inputs coming in too slowly (glassy eyes, slight sheen of sweat on his brow). As soon as he's gathered enough data to form a tentative hypothesis, naturally he has to reach out and touch the other man's forehead with his fingers, just a very brief, fleeting touch (but slow, so - so - slow). When he speaks, his words are slightly slurred: ]

You have a fever, John. You should go to bed.

[ It's mostly facts, really, though he's also thinking about John being tied to a chair, blood tickling down the side of his head. It's so nice that he can't feel any traces of fear or murderous anger right now, the mental image just... passes by, untouched. It's there, though. The understanding of it, of what could have happened if he'd been a little bit too slow (like the case a few days ago; one man comatose, his ten-year-old shot dead on the scene of the crime), if he'd been sloppy. Consequently, he'd rather like John to go to bed and he'd also rather like him to stop touching because touching means gathering data (pot, kettle) and that means -

With something that could have been a startle if he hadn't been so fucking high, Sherlock pulls back and rolls to his feet, straightening up and managing by some miracle not to topple over in the process. ]

[docwithablog]

[ While he counts, passing 20 - 21 - 22, Sherlock reaches out and touches his forehead, because apparently even when high off his tits, the man can deduce stuff like the fact that if John were to measure his own temperature right now, it would undoubtedly be crawling towards 39 degrees Celsius. In the meantime, as he gets as far as 30 bpm, Sherlock informs him that he has a fever, as if he's not perfectly capable of making that diagnosis himself, and pushes himself up, swaying a bit over the coffee table and John lets his wrist slip from between his fingers, slowly rising up from his crouched position, too. You should go to bed, says the man who's so damn clever that he just had to go and shoot up with the most volatile, unreliable drug on the market in order to slow down his brain. But no, John's a doctor and he's his flatmate and he's his fucking friend, he has absolutely no business leaving for anything else than to pick up a pack of Methadone. ]

And you should have told me you were relapsing.

[ His voice is matter-of-fact as he crosses his arms over his chest. He isn't reaching out to stabilize the other man who looks, frankly, like a tower of Jengas about to come down, because he isn't here to mollycoddle any drug addicts, he didn't do it when he actually worked in that division and he's not going to do it now either. Instead he pierces Sherlock with a stare, chin raised and lips pursed. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ He meets John's gaze, the other man's body language screaming... uh... yeah, all right, not quite anger, something like disapproval? That's not a feeling, that's an act. Scowling at his own incompetence, Sherlock makes his way towards the door shakily, trying to plan ahead with his mind slugging along like it can't be bothered. Boltholes, he's got - yeah, there's one near Regent's Park, he can make it there and sleep it off, it'll be (hellish, painful, disgusting) fine. He blinks again, moving past John at an uncertain distance. ]

It's not a re-lapse - [ He has to work for the pronunciation, here. ] - it's tem-po-ra-ry - [ Yet another terrible word but he's clever, he can manage it. ] - it'll go away. [ Pause. He stops in the doorway and starts searching around for his coat until he realises it's in his bedroom and not in the hallway. With a snort, he sets a new course and sways his way towards the bedroom, one hand coming out to balance himself against the wall whenever his legs try to send him crashing. ] Just let me --

[ He doesn't finish, feeling suddenly too tired and light-headed to do anything but come to a stop, right in the doorway, staring blankly at his bedroom. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Sherlock passes him by, close enough that he can make out the sour smell of sweat.

He should probably aim not to talk while walking simultaneously, but that's really going to be his own problem as the man stumbles through words far too difficult for any heroin-addled brain. Temporary, he says, implying he thinks he can just stop again, scot-free. It'll go away. Wow, a complete sentence, sort of. John scoffs, turning to follow the other man with his eyes as he gets as far as the hallway in the search of -- what -- where's he going? Eventually, Sherlock turns down the hallway towards his bedroom (just let me) and ends up leaning against the doorway, his knees looking weak and wobbly, his entire posture drooping. With how low a heart rate he's running on right now, he must be feeling quite faint.

John sighs. He can't believe he's dealing with this shit, Christ. Making his way after the other man, he slings an arm around his waist, taking some of his weight off his feet and all but dragging him inside his bedroom where his much too huge for one person bed is unmade and ready to take him, there. John sits him down. Steps back. ]

Wherever you think you're going, I can tell you with absolute certainty, you're not. [ A long exhalation as he reaches up and dries his brow with the back of his hand. His body temperature feels like an undercurrent of lava is running through his system currently. Arms dropping to his sides, he places his hands on his hips. Feet apart, mostly out of habit -- he looks at Sherlock. It does also give a good take-off, if the man should suddenly keel over. ] You're staying here while we get you sorted.

[acuriousincident]

[ He's just about to - well, something, his brain isn't exactly trying to catch up here - when John throws his arm around his waist and more or less carries him into the bedroom. His legs and arms flail about in an uncoordinated storm of limbs while John simply drags him inside and sits him down on the bed. So Sherlock sits. Then, he blinks, runs his palm over his sweaty face and finally, squints up at the other man. Even his addled brain can put two and two together at this point. John's home early because he's sick and oh, he was asking for Paracetamol, eureka! Sense at last! With a half-smile, he waves his hand in the general direction of the bathroom. ]

Pills. Pills in the - [ Pause. He shudders, then sniffs. ] - out there. [ Then, his brain catches up to John's exact words and more importantly, the meaning of them. God, this entire situation is ruining his high, isn't it. He's already starting to put things together quicker than before. He looks around, then back at John. ] Also, John, I can do this by myself. I always have. [ He's concentrating quite a bit to achieve this level of speech fluidity. Good thing he's sitting down. Clever John, more so than some might think. ] I have places around the city. It'll be fine.

[ He sniffs again, then cradles his arms. The high's not as brilliant as it was half an hour ago. In his best estimate, it'll last another couple of hours, after which... uh. Well, he'll take that as it comes. ]

[docwithablog]

Yeah, because that's obviously gone over very well for you, seeing as you're sitting here again, sweating bullets and syllabically dividing all words of more than four letters.

[ The pills did end up in the bathroom, though. That's really all he can think about right now, his fever positively haunting him as they speak. Shaking his head once, he takes a deep breath and runs through his checklist for heroin withdrawal, symptoms including cramps, muscle pains and headaches, sweating, diarrhea (lovely) and anxiety... They're going to need a lot of tissues, stock up on toilet paper, cloths and liquids. Seems he'll have to go shopping again tonight, doesn't it?

Sherlock is cradling his arms, probably beginning to come down from the more desirable effects of his drug of choice and if he's just half as annoying in the later stages, John's certainly got his work cut out for him. Withdrawal takes at least a week, too. Well -- he's owed about 12 days of holiday still, he can probably explain the situation to Sarah and get her to cash them in for him. Alternatively, he could call in sick and save his holiday for when this entire thing is over, that might be an idea. God, the logistics. His head is pounding now and his shirt feels drenched down the back, yuck. ]

Just because you can do it by yourself -- [ Turning away, he feels a shiver run down his spine, making all the hairs on his arms stand on end. He breathes in through his nose, breathes out through his mouth, runs one hand through his hair. ] -- doesn't mean you have to, all right?

[ Without waiting for the other man's answer, he heads for the bathroom. Paracetamol. It's time. ]