Summary: After a brief fight between John and himself, Sherlock turns to morphine to try and combat the boredom that was blackening his moods.

Warning: Drug use. Some angst and a bit of fluff.

Rating: M for the drug use.

Simple Comforts

Life was boring for Sherlock Holmes recently. The criminals were unoriginal and obvious. It was depressing what the criminal classes were coming to now. It wasn't even that the cases were easier, it was that the cases were so easy that even Scotland Yard could solve them with little, to no, problems. It was making him feel very lethargic and his mood was rapidly falling into a downwards spiral.

It was because of this black mood that he had snapped at John a few hours ago. He didn't really know what he'd snapped about, he didn't really care. It wasn't important. It had upset John though, and the other man had shot back a harsh reply and left. He didn't say where he'd gone, but Sherlock knew that he'd be at Sarah's. John wasn't that much of a drinker – he wasn't like Harry – so he wouldn't be at a bar. He didn't really know that many other people. It was obvious that he'd go to Sarah's. Predictable. Boring.

Sherlock pulled himself up from his chair and moved over to the hollow music stand that he'd left out in the corner. In this hollow stand, Sherlock kept a stash of Morphine tablets and he tipped them out into his hand, before replacing the stand and moving back to the chair. He dropped into it and slumped down before swallowing some of the pills.

He hadn't taken drugs in a while. Not since John had moved in. But everything was so boring and he felt like his brain was rotting. Drugs helped his mind to stay alive. Even the morphine helped, despite slowly him down. He liked morphine. He liked its structure. The drugs took effect after about half an hour and he soon felt as though he was wrapped in layers of warmth. He liked this feeling. It was a nice feeling. It was why he took Morphine. His eyes closed and he sunk further into the chair, relishing in the feelings that the drug was sending through his blood. His phone beeped for his attention, loudly declaring that someone had felt the need to ruin this blissful moment with their mundane lives. He ignored the noise , thankfully, it soon stopped.

However it went off again after a few minutes, and when he ignored that it began ringing. Sighing, Sherlock pulled the phone from his pocket and glared at the screen. John was calling him. Why was John calling him? John was at Sarah's. Sighing, Sherlock hit the answer button and put the phone to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, are you in? I just wanted to say that I'm sorry that I shouted at you earlier. I know how you get when there's nothing to work on."

Sherlock didn't reply other than to make a low moan. He hated phone calls. Texting was better. Although texting right now might be a little difficult, his fingers were beginning to tingle. Had he taken too much? He certainly wasn't used to the dosage, but he was sure that he'd be able to handle it. He knew what he was doing.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

"What? Yes. I'm fine."

"Its just that you've gone very quiet. Even when you're bored you have some thought that you voice."

Sherlock once again just grunted down the phone. He was tempted to hang up. John knew that he hated calls, so surely he wouldn't be too bothered by him hanging up?

"Sherlock, will you listen to me!"

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, pulled back into the conversation by the harsh bite of John's tone.

"You've taken something, haven't you? Oh god Sherlock what have you taken?" John was clearly worried, it was obvious in his voice. Sherlock could also deduce that John was outside, though that was simple. Anyone could know that. "Sherlock! Dammit answer me!"

"John would you relax?"

"I'm coming straight home now. Do not leave, Sherlock!"

And with that the line went dead and Sherlock happily put his phone back in his pocket. A taxi from Sarah's would take at least twenty minutes, so he at least had some time to enjoy the warmth, comforting feeling of the morphine. It was as if he was wrapped in layers of cotton. He moved to the couch, lying down on it and closing his eyes. Moving was possibly a bad idea. He was feeling dizzy. Was that normal? Was he meant to feel dizzy with the morphine? He couldn't remember. Now that he tried, he couldn't remember much. He couldn't even remember the structure of the drug that now buzzed through his blood stream.

Before long - in fact, too soon – the door banged open and seconds later there was a warm hand pressed to his throat. John. Checking his pulse. Now that was odd. John didn't have any reason to think that his pulse would be anything expect normal. Sherlock opened his eyes, and was a little surprised to find that his vision was a little blurry. He batted John's hand away and received an irritated sigh in the process.

"Sherlock, what have you taken?" John asked, glaring at him slightly. Sherlock tried to sit up and was hit by a sudden wave of vertigo. He bowed his head, fighting off the nausea. He felt strong hands on his shoulders and peeled his eyes open to blink through the haze as John, who had knelt in front of the couch and now held onto him, staring. "What have you taken?"

"Morphine. I must have over estimated my ability to handle it. Seems that I've taken a bit too much."

The way the colour drained from John's face and the subtle way the horror crept into his expression was quite spectacular, it amused Sherlock. John stood up, shaking his head slightly and went into the kitchen. Sherlock heard his moving around, organising something. Sherlock pushed himself to stand and, using the walls and furniture to steady himself, made his way to the bathroom. The nausea got worse by the second and he collapsed by the toilet. He heard John return to the living room and then call out to him. He was about to reply to his housemate when another wave of nausea hit him and he vomited into the toilet.

He as briefly aware of a hand rubbing his back as he heaved. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and the acid from his gut burnt his throat. He retched again, and a head pounded in his temples. After a while, when the nausea faded, Sherlock slumped against the wall, shutting his eyes. He felt John move and heard the toilet flush. He felt the glass at his mouth and John's gentle instructions to rinse his mouth out. Sherlock swirled the water around his mouth before spitting it into the toilet bowl and then sitting back against the cold tiles.

His skin felt hot and clammy and the tiles helped to soothe that. He shut his eyes again, feeling exhausted. John's hand on his head, checking his temperature. Then the hands were at his throat again, checking his pulse.

"You feel slightly hot, I'll need to take your temperature properly to ensure that you don't have a fever." Sherlock opened his eyes as the cool glass was placed in his hand. "I want you to sip at that until I get back, understand?"

Sherlock nodded, fighting of the ridiculous fear that was spreading through him. Where was John going? John couldn't leave. He just couldn't, could he? Surely he wouldn't just leave? John must have read something in Sherlock's expression, because the ex-soldier took his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and then stood up.

"I'll just be downstairs getting Mrs Hudson's first aid box. I don't know what you did to ours in your last experiment." With that, John exited the bathroom.

Sherlock sipped at the water as instructed and soon the dizziness faded into nothing more that an slight inconvenience. He placed the empty glass down on the floor and stood up. Where was John? What was taking him so long? Sherlock made his way out the bathroom and was soon greeted by John's voice. It was distant, drifting up the stairs. Sherlock followed the noise, stopping at the top of the stairs. John was standing at the bottom, holding a first aid box in one hand and using the other to portray his message to Mrs Hudson.

Suddenly Sherlock had the urge to down there and convince them both that he was okay. The worried look that John had given him before and the one that was full of sympathy and hurt. About halfway down the stairs, the lightheadedness came over him again and he stumbled, catching himself on the railings. He heard Mrs Hudson's door close and John's panicked voice called up to him; Sherlock tried to take another descending step, but he misjudged it, the vertigo overcoming him, and he fell.

John saw the exact moment where Sherlock lost his balance and dropped the first aid box, moving up a couple of stairs to attempt to catch his friend. When Sherlock collided into John, John was forced back and stumbled, falling down the few stairs he'd managed to climb and landing at the bottom of them in an ungraceful heap with Sherlock on top of him. John groaned, pushing himself into a sitting position. Sherlock was lying in his lap, his head resting on his thigh and John swallowed at the intimate position.

Sherlock whimpered and pushed up on his hands, shaking a little, John placed his hands on the detective's shoulders to steady him as Sherlock shut his eyes, trying to will the dizziness away. Faintly he heard a door open and Mrs Hudson's concerned words.

"John! Sherlock! What happened? Goodness are you okay?" The words got louder as the women came closer and Sherlock groaned, letting his arms give up and lay back down in John's lap. Sherlock could hear John and Mrs Hudson talking and he could feel John move from under him, pulling him up onto his feet, but his head felt too hazy to focus on it. Footsteps on the stairs in front of them and then John's voice broke through the fog of his mind.

"Sherlock, I need you to try and get upstairs, can you do that?" John asked gently, "Can you lift your feet and climb the stairs? I'm right here with you."

Eventually, they managed to make it upstairs and Sherlock let John lead him into his own bedroom, which for Sherlock, was surprisingly clean. He lay on his bed and let John pull the covers over him. His eyes drifted close and he relaxed into the warmth.

"I'll be back in a minute." John told him and Sherlock heard the doctor's feet leave and become quieter with the distance. Before long the mattress dipped a little and Sherlock was coaxed into a sitting position to drink some water. John then took his temperature and was pleased to find that it wasn't at anything abnormal. "I should take you to a hospital." John told him, scowling. He shook his head and lay down again.

"Don't be stupid, John. Its not nearly that bad." He murmured, his words slightly slurred. His head still hurt and his throat was still stinging from vomiting. John stood up and made as if to go but Sherlock snatched at his wrist, wrapping slightly numb fingers around the cuff of the jumper his flat-mate wore. Sherlock shook his head, not really sure what he was wanting. He just didn't want John to go. Not again. John had already left twice today. Once after the fight and once to get the first aid box.

John pried Sherlock's long fingers from the jumper and kicked his shoes off. He then climbed onto the bed besides Sherlock and pulled the covers over him. Sherlock's quiet noise was a happy one as he shifted closer to the warmth beside him.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock murmured quietly as he rested his head on John's chest and shut his eyes. He felt the man's arm wrap around him, pulling him closer.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock Holmes." John sighed. Without thinking he placed a kiss on top of Sherlock's curly dark hair and smiled when the detective shifted closer, chuckling slightly.

It wasn't long before he drifted into sleep. It was a sleep without dreams and only disturbed but the occasional press against his pulse as John kept an ever watchful eye over his condition.

When Sherlock woke up he was still wrapped up in the covers with John. The effects of the drug had faded to nothing and he shifted his position carefully as so not to wake the doctor next to him. He reached out for the glass of water by the bed, finishing the lukewarm liquid happily before placing the glass down again. When he turned back to John, he was met by a searching, sleepy gaze and he offered his friend a smile. John returned his smile.

"How are you feeling?" John's voice was rough with sleep and strangely seductive. Sherlock shifted slightly, sitting up against the headboard as John did.

"I'm feeling much better. Thank you."

John nodded, smiling. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock faced John, and was met with a serious look, but with a twinkle in his friend's eyes.

"If you ever worry me like that again, I'll be calling Mycroft to come and deal with you." John replied, only half joking.

"I worried you?"

"Of course you did, Sherlock. You could have died, you do know that, don't you?"

Sherlock ducked his head shamefully. He hadn't meant to worry John. He had just been so bored, and if he was being honest, he was a little hurt by their fight.

"I'm sorry. I won't worry you like that again, John."

John's smile was enough to convince Sherlock that he'd been forgiven, at least this once.