John slumped in the seat of the cab, dreading the moment he'd reach 221b and have to deal with Sherlock. There had been some serious problems and absent workers at the clinic which had led to John staying way later than normal. Once he'd finally got out of there, he'd opened his phone to see thirteen missed calls and twenty-four unread text messages. John's frown deepened as he read through them.

John, where are you? –SH

John, you should be home by now. –SH

John, I didn't ask for anything. So you're not at the store. Why aren't you here? –SH

John! Answer me this instant! –SH

John, I will call Mycroft, if I have to. –SH

What happened?

Why aren't you answering?

Are you mad?

I cleaned up the mess, so come home.

JOHN! COME HOME NOW!

Goddammit John! Where the hell are you?

I cleaned the whole flat, there are no body parts.

Will you come home now?

I'll fix you a cuppa.

John? Why won't you answer me?!

John! My patience is wearing thin!

John Hamish Watson! I will call your mother!

John, are you ok?

I'm sorry for the yelling.

Please John…I'm really sorry. Please come home…

I hate you! How dare make me feel like this?!

I'm sorry! Whatever it is I'm sorry! Please come home!

Ok…fine. I get it. I'lk just talk ti mydelg.

John scowled at the phone. Something wasn't right: Sherlock never misspelled anything. The cabbie barked at him from the front and he jumped out of the car. He threw some money in the window and ran up to the door. He unlocked it and sprinted up the stairs. He saw Sherlock's spidery hands flailing about over the couch. He strode over and knelt by the gangly detective. Sherlock turned to him and grinned.

"You must be Drug John!" he said brightly, "I'm so glad to see you!"

"What? No, Sherlock-," John paused, trying to wrap his head around the sight of the strung-out detective, "What the hell did you take?"

He pulled up the sleeves of Sherlock's dressing gown and found no new track marks. He frowned deeply and grabbed ahold of Sherlock's face. Sherlock beamed at him.

"Are you going to kiss me?" he asked in a bright, hopeful sounding voice.

"What? No," John muttered at him, "What did you take?"

"Blah, blah! You're boring!" Sherlock stuck his tongue out at John.

John rolled his eyes and noted the heated skin beneath his fingers. Sherlock's eyes were wide and his pupils were radically dilated. He pressed his fingers to the pulse in Sherlock's wrist. He lost track of the rapid beats and gave up. He looked back up at Sherlock's face, which was broken into a wide grin.

"I have a secret, Drug John," Sherlock whispered, "You cannot tell anyone though."

"Uh, ok," John answered cautiously as he tried to figure out what the hell Sherlock was on.

"Caterpillars don't have bones!" Sherlock whisper shouted at him.

John raised an eyebrow at him, suddenly realizing what he was on.

"Really Sherlock?" John growled at him, "Coricidin? What are you, fifteen?"

"It was available," Sherlock said innocently (though we all know that he is entirely not innocent).

"Sherlock, dammit, why did you do this?" John demanded.

"John-the real John-didn't come home," Sherlock answered his eyes wide, "He's mad at me. I don't know why. It's probably because-What was that?"

Sherlock suddenly sat up on his elbows and looked around. He squinted around the flat, apparently seeing nothing. John sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock settled back down, apparently satisfied that nothing was there. John looked at him expectantly.

"What?" Sherlock questioned, "Oh! Right, I was saying…he's mad and he hates me. But I really love him. He's my only friend. Will you be my friend now instead?"

"Sherlock it's me," John said, "I'm not a hallucination. It's really me."

Sherlock giggled and waved a hand in front of John's face.

"That is so weird," Sherlock whispered.

John rolled his eyes and stood up.

"Come on, Sherlock," he muttered, "We're going to go to the hospital."

"Nooo! I can't go!" Sherlock waved his hands frantically, "They'll send me to jail or something!"

"Fine," John relented, "I'm calling Mycroft then."

"Ugh," Sherlock stuck his tongue out, "Mycroft is annoying. One time he stole my turtle and gave it to a pet store. What kind of jerk does that?"

"Apparently, a Holmes kind of jerk," John answered, pulling out his phone and scrolling through to find Mycroft's number, "You probably would've done the same to him if you were the older brother."

"Nu-uh!" Sherlock protested, "I don't steal people's pets! That's just mean!"

John rolled his eyes as he finally found Mycroft's name and hit the dial button. It was only a single ring before Mycroft answered.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," Mycroft's cool voice drifted through the phone, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Your brother is on drugs," John said bluntly, "Come and get him and have his stomach pumped."

"No!" Sherlock shouted, "I hate that snake machine!"

"I see," Mycroft's voice seemed strained, "Why didn't you take him to the hospital?"

"He doesn't want to go," John answered, "I just assumed you'd have some proper resources to help out. It's only Coricidin, so I saw no reason to get too hyped up about it."

"Any drug is reason to get hyped up," Mycroft answered coldly, "Especially when it comes to my brother."

"Tell him I hate him, Drug John!" Sherlock shouted.

"Why did he call you that?" Mycroft demanded.

"He thinks I'm a hallucination," John answered, tiredly, "Please come and get us."

"I'll send a car," Mycroft said curtly.

There was a click and John sighed as he stowed his phone back in his pocket. He turned back to Sherlock, who had turned to face the back of the couch and was running his hands across the cushion. John resisted the urge to start crying and punch Sherlock in the face. Instead he sat on the coffee table and watched Sherlock as he waited for Mycroft.

Little note: Hi readers! I just wanted to say that I've never actually taken Coriciden (AKA Triple C's). All the information I got about it was from someone who HAS taken it, though. So it is as accurate as I could make it. Thanks for reading!