Hello there. At first I posted this chapter without any babbling but then I realised I actually did want to say something about it. I just wanted to warn you that this chapte contains drug abuse. I'm sure you wouldn't have started reading the story if you minded so this is just a formality. More importantly though - I have no experience with drugs so I've done a huge research on this topic and I only used the information that was on all the webpages I've found. However, if you have any objections, towards anything, really, feel free to tell me. Otherwise just note that I've put a lot of effort into this chapter so enjoy it sufficiently. :)

„Oh my god, why couldn't we just wait for the tube? I'm pretty sure two went after we'd left the station." John complained when he and Sherlock finally rounded the last corner and appeared in Baker street.

„John, you've run the whole destination and now you're complaining about walking?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow. He watched his new friend and felt his lips turning up a bit. „And you're wrong, there was just one, the other is coming now so technically it doesn't count."

„Shut up! I believed I was going to save your life. Moreover I didn't know where the cab was going so I couldn't go by the tube while we could get on it and drop off here. Unbelieveable." John exclaimed.

„Oh come on, waiting for a tube is so boring," Sherlock pouted.

„We could've been at home twenty minutes ago. So technically, we're losing time," the retired soldier remarked. Sherlock didn't hesitate to provide an answer.

„You got me wrong, John. I do not mind losing time when I don't need it as I have just solved a quite interesting case. It's about waiting. I hate waiting. I've been waiting for far too many things that didn't come in my life."

„So… you just didn't want to wait. Not because you wanted to be at home earlier – no, of course not, you're not exhausted as I am. No, you did it because you didn't want to stand there and wait for the tube and chat with me. That's why we walked and chatted." John frowned at this. „You're an asshole, do you know?"

„I've been told, couple of times," Sherlock replied and suddenly turned to John, „I'm sorry. There's something more behind it but I don't wish to talk about it now."

„I… sure. Alright." John nodded. He put it into the file in his brain that said unsolved mystery. He wondered whether it had something to do with the pause in Mycroft's speech before.

They went to the chinese restaurant and this time Sherlock actually got himself something to eat, even though it wasn't much and he gave quite a bit of his portion to John. They had quite a good time together and John felt like he'd known Sherlock for ages. He didn't know much about the man because he wasn't talking about himself, but the way he spoke, it was familiar to John. Sherlock, on the other side, couldn't believe somebody not only didn't find his monologues and deductions offensive or annoying, but also thought they were interesting, didn't hesitate to express it aloud and was not a female pathologist with self-esteem problems.

When they finally got to 221B, Sherlock immediately told John he's already chosen one bedroom and that John was supposed to get the other one. John wanted to object, as Holmes's room was measurably bigger, but Sherlock smashed his argument when he said that John wasn't going to use the bedroom for much more than just sleeping and that their beds had the same measures.

„Or you know, you can still sleep in my bed," Sherlock winked at John who – for some reason he couldn't quite comprehend – blushed like a teenage girl. He cleared his throat and didn't reply to Sherlock who just made a smug face. They settled down then and John went into the bathroom to get ready for the night. When he undressed and turned the water on, Sherlock picked up his violine and began to play a melody, that couldn't be anything but victorious and happy. John smiled for himself and enjoyed his shower for a little longer just so he wouldn't disturb Sherlock.

He was just stepping out of the shower cubicle, reaching for a towel he'd prepared for himself when Sherlock opened the door and walked in, violin still in one hand and the fiddlestick in the other. They stared at each other for some time and Sherlock's eyes wandered from John's face down his naked torso. The latter noticed it, covered himself with the towel and frowned.

„What the hell are you doing here? I don't care if you are a sociopath, even they should understand what privacy means." Watson said into the silence.

„I just wanted to ask you what you thought of the song. I've just composed it, you know. About today," Sherlock shrugged and turned to leave, „but it's alright, I can wait for you to get dressed. I love waiting."

With that he left the bathroom and the only thing John heard after that was a sad ticking as Sherlock was pulling at the strings, letting them return back into their places with a click. John knew there was something about that sentence that was wrong, that he should think more but he was so tired he wasn't able to keep his eyes opened. He sighed, rubbed his temples and dried himself. He put on his pyjamas and decided brushing his teeth could wait.

„Sherlock, look, I'm really sorry," he came into the living room, expecting to see the man sitting in his chair. He didn't.

Sherlock was curled into a ball on the sofa, knees right under his chin, arms wrapped around his shins and he was rocking back and forth, mumbling something under his breath. His violin lay on the table, having been put there with care and tenderness. Sherlock was clutching something in his hand, something small, slim and dangerous judging by how he was holding it, as if he could get himself hurt.

„Oh my god, Sherlock," John hurried to Holmes's side to see his theory was not wrong. Sherlock was indeed holding an injection that had clearly been used. John took it from his hands and went to throw it into the bin. Then he returned, sat down beside Sherlock and took his left hand. Soon enough, he's found it, a small injury a bit under his elbow. Sherlock's forearm looked like it had been used for this purpose several times before.

„How… long have you been doing this?" John whispered and took Sherlock's head into his hands to examine his eyes, but the genius pulled away and stared in opposite direction stubbornly. The glimpse was enough for John to notice his dilated pupils, huge and covering almost all the steely grey orbs.

„Fine, don't talk to me," John murmured, „I deserve it, don't I?"

Sherlock gave no response but he let John take a look at his arm. It could be worse, John had seen worse, but again, John was an army doctor. He knew there was little to do now but keep an eye on Sherlock, but John felt useless and responsible.

„Sherlock, I'm sorry. I apologise, honestly," John held Sherlock's hand in his and talked while he was taking Sherlock's pulse. „I didn't want to hurt your feelings or anything. Hell, I didn't even know there were any emotions. Whatever, I've never been too good about this stuff."

„No, because you're an idiot." Sherlock spoke for the first time and John was stunned to hear disdain in his voice. He hadn't heard the detective talk with such repulsion about a person before, not even when Sherlock had been talking to Anderson. It hurt John to hear it from Sherlock in this way; before when the genius had told him he'd been an idiot, John could have stood it because it was not meant as an offence.

„You're doing drugs – when you claim you stopped smoking – and I am an idiot." John replied. He checked Sherlock's pulse once again, but he just proved his previous result; Sherlock's pulse was certainly elevated. When John moved closer, he could feel Sherlock's heart beating rapidly in his chest.

„Irrelevant," Sherlock hissed, „but you're pretty, aren't you? Maybe I could forgive you your lack of intelligence if you made me happy."

John frowned when Sherlock placed one hand high on John's right thigh, too high to John's liking. John didn't know too much about drugs, but he thought he knew what Sherlock had taken. It had to be cocaine, all symptoms were leading to it. His elevated heartbeat, his self-confidence even more out of normal, his sudden desire for John. Everything indicated cocaine, because metamphetamine, which had similar effects, was a more wild drug and it moved all energy from brain to the body – not a drug Sherlock Holmes would take. It also had worse effects in the future, it was more addictive, more dangerous. Certainly cocaine.

„I don't think I want to, Sherlock." John said firmly and removed the latter's hand from his leg. They stared into each other's eyes for a while, John with determination but compassion and guilt, Sherlock with desire and cockiness. John was suddenly very awake.

„I don't think I care," Sherlock laughed in a husky voice and leant forward to capture John's lips with his own. The doctor was so stunned he didn't do anything at first. The only thing he could think about was a simple question. Why should I stop him? Sherlock's kisses were too good to be stopped and if John had some brain capacity left, he'd certainly wonder where Sherlock learnt to kiss.

„John," Sherlock whispered when their lips broke apart. He tumbled the name lazily on his tongue and it teased John greatly. Sherlock's voice was overwhelmingly attractive and John felt like if he heard him talk for long enough now, John would have some serious troubles with maintaining his arousal.

„Sherlock," he murmured in response. They were both breathing heavily and Sherlock's eyes were really confusing with all the black in them.

„John," Sherlock said again and his hand slipped under the top of John's pyjamas. Holmes was unbuttoning it from inside and his trembling fingers occassionally caressed the skin of John's stomach. „Oh John."

John couldn't comprehend why Sherlock was mumbling his name over and over, but it was driving him insane. He'd never heard his name pronounced with such passion. Sherlock's voice was like a drug. Like a drug…

„Sherlock, stop it," he said to give the genius time to do it himself. He didn't believe Sherlock would pull away himself, but he didn't want to attack first.

„No," Sherlock said and he smirked when he finally managed to expose John's chest.

„Why?" John tried it again and concentrated on his breathing at first. He had to convince himself he was not enjoying what Sherlock was doing.

„Because it's not you. You don't want it." John said and pulled Sherlock's hand away. He wasn't sure he would beat Sherlock in a fight so he hoped it was not leading to it. However, since Sherlock had taken the drug intravenously, his intoxication shouldn't last long, at least due to what John knew.

„I do want you, John. I crave to touch you." Sherlock's deep voice was making its way into John's brain and pants and he couldn't let that happen. Whatever it was that made him want Sherlock, it had to be silenced because John certainly didn't want to shag with drugged Sherlock. And John thought about Sherlock – the real Sherlock – for a while. He didn't know the man too much, but he didn't think Sherlock would be the type to feel love. And the idea of having sex with someone who doesn't love him made John feel terrible.

„But I don't want you. I don't. You repel me." John was surprised how easily that words slipped from his lips even though they weren't true. He'd never liked lying, but he guessed this was not entirely lying. John was impressed by Sherlock Holmes and even though the man who was seducing him then had Sherlock's body, it was not him.

„And yet your body says something else." Sherlock said and brought his face closer to John ear. The doctor could feel his breath on his own skin and it made him shiver. „See? You want me. And I'll have you. I'll be that merciful."

„No. You won't," John's voice trembled, „because it's not gonna happen. You won't do it. You don't want to."

„I do," Sherlock kissed John's jaw, the end of it right under his ear, „oh, I do. So much."

„No. You're Sherlock Holmes. You don't want to have sex, it doesn't interest you. Being clever interests you." John tried to suggest an activity that was a bit less dangerous.

„Maybe. But now I want you. See? I'm being clever, I know what I want. Many people don't know what they want." Sherlock bit at John's earlobe and pulled a bit. „Do you know what you want, John Watson?"

„I do. I want you to stop doing what you are doing." John tried to change tactics. „Please, Sherlock. I beg you."

„Oh that's right. Begging," Sherlock licked John's ear. It would be quite safe if it wasn't turning John on. „I love when people beg. I feel so powerful."

„So that's it. You're too lousy to impress people so you just threaten them." John moved suddenly and slapped Sherlock's hand that was sneaking into his pants. „You're too stupid to make me love you so you decide to basically abuse me."

„You'll take that back." Sherlock froze and pulled away from John.

„No, I won't." John quickly buttoned his shirt up.

„You will." Sherlock snapped. „You think I'm brilliant. You've said so."

„I didn't mean it then," John replied, „or maybe you were clever then and now you're just a horny asshole."

„But you do want me!" Sherlock cried like a small child and stood up. „Your pulse was elevated only moments ago."

„Fear," John replied and sat upright.

„You had dilated pupils, I saw it." Holmes began to pace around the room.

„Says the man with the biggest pupils ever," John laughed. Sherlock stopped and glared.

„You've had an erection. I can see it even now." Sherlock's eyes fell down to John's lap and the doctor feared the genius might change his mind. But also, revealing this most obvious fact meant Sherlock didn't have another argument.

„But that is my body, Sherlock," John said slowly, „my mind, my soul, doesn't want a drugged wretch to touch me. Obviously my body wants you, but my mind has to approve as well."

„Whatever you say. Don't come to me when you'll want me and I won't." With that Sherlock left and the only thing John heard from him was when he slammed the door to his bedroom. John was too tired to move into his bedroom so he spent the first night in a new flat sleeping on a couch.

Sherlock spent the whole night fully awake and sobering from what happened in the night. He didn't dare to leave his room in fear he may not find John again. He would understand what led the poor doctor to leave and never see him again, but the thought filled Sherlock with sorrow he'd only felt once in his life.

He thought that maybe he should've gotten drunk instead, he wouldn't remember it which would make it easier. Now he knew that John had a right to leave him and don't even say goodbye; there was nothing he would be allowed to do to make John stay. He'd spoilt one of the very rare occassions to find someone to like him again and he felt like taking the drug again. However, upon recalling what it may cost, he decided against it. In the corner of his mind he still felt hope John wouldn't leave him.

Sherlock was pacing across the room, muttering incomprehensible words under his breath. His hands were shaking and he couldn't stay still as the drug urged him to do something. He knew what would calm him but he had left the violin in the living room. He sat down on the edge of his bed, jumped up to his feet again and pulled at his hair in frustration. He couldn't stand it, no matter how risky it was and how much he feared it, he had to leave his room because the four walls were driving him crazy.

He bit his lip and turned the door handle slowly. He heard the clicking noise of it and it felt like it echoed through the whole house. Sherlock cursed in his mind and slipped out of the room. He had changed into a pair of pyjamas and a dressing gown and he wasn't wearing any shoes or socks. His feet were touching the ground gently and he made no noise at all. He was over the moon when he saw John fast asleep on the sofa.

Sherlock tiptoed to John and watched the doctor for some time before he took off his dressing gown and laid it on top of the sleeping man. He admired his work silently and suddenly the restlessness was not so unbearable. Sherlock sat down into his armchair, brought his knees up to his chest, folded his fingers under his chin and stared at John. He was still quivering but when the weight of fear John wouldn't stay was lifted off his shoulders, Sherlock's bright eyes and brilliant brain could find some amusement in analysing John's sleeping pattern of some other biological info about him.

Sherlock felt the drug finally disappearing from his bloodstream; apparently his body was working properly. Sherlock was bored but he couldn't engage in any action; his fingers craved for the violin and a fiddlestick but he could not wake John up, not after he'd kept him up the night before. Sherlock was aware of the fact that people required sleep as much as oxygen even though he did not need it in such an amount. Also, from the looks of it, John seemed he hadn't had enough sleep in a long time. Sherlock didn't know that for sure and he certainly wasn't going to ask, but everything was proving his theory right. John had a PTSD and that was very common to be associated with nightmares and insomnia in general. Seeing how deep John's sleep was, the doctor was trying to rest as much as he could.

Sherlock felt sudden tenderness towards the man and it seemed very strange to him; he didn't comprehend feeling tenderness towards somebody. But it appeared to be so right that he did, John was broken and Sherlock could fix him. He was sure he was going to fix his new friend, no matter the price. And the first thing Sherlock was going to do was get rid of the drugs; all of them, not just the cocaine. He rose to his feet and started to fetch all his reserves. There were quite a lot of them but Sherlock was working efficiently and quickly. Soon enough he was done with searching and considered getting dressed. He assumed it would be better to change from his pyjamas even though he didn't understand why was it anybody's business what he was wearing.

Holmes sneaked back into his bedroom and put on some pants and a shirt. He covered himself with his inseparable coat and slipped the drugs into pockets he had hidden in the insides of the coat. He stopped for a while in the living room and admired John who was sleeping like a toddler and looked significantly younger and less troubled than when he'd been awake. Sherlock resisted a strange urge to kiss John on the forehead and left. With a bit of luck he'd be back before John woke up.