Overdose: a Sherlock Fanfiction

Overdose

No one had seen Sherlock for days.
Mrs. Hudson left groceries outside his door, but when she checked on them, they still sat there, untouched. She wished she could go and look in on him, but the last time she attempted to do that she could hardly open the door for the papers and objects strewn everywhere. Sherlock himself was standing atop the couch, waving the bow to his violin like a sword and repeating stanzas from Poe's "The Raven" at the top of his voice, and although she trusted and loved him with all her heart, she did not want to be speared on the end of a violin bow, and so after ducking under several lines of string and pictures stretched across the room, she nimbly slipped out the door and immediately called John.
"Hello, John," she said nervously from the kitchen as a great bang sounded from the floor above.
"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John answered, pleasantly surprised. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm doing fine, but John, you must come over. It's Sherlock."
"What about him?" came John's concerned voice over the line. "Is he all right?"
"See, I don't know," Mrs. Hudson said, twirling her finger in the phone chord, "I think he's started doing drugs again. He's been acting very strange lately, and I can't get him to talk to me."
John's concerned sigh echoed over the phone. "Are you sure he's started again? We both thought he quit."
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Hudson said quickly, nodding vigorously, "I am sure he's started again."
"Does he have a case?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then I think he should be fine, Mrs. Hudson. He can be rather—temperamental. We both know that," John said comfortingly.
"I'm not so sure," Mrs. Hudson said as another crash echoed from upstairs. "If you could just come and have a look at him—"
"Look, Mrs. Hudson, I am really glad you called, truly, I am, but I'm at work right now and can't make it. Do you think you could call back later?"
"No, John, he needs you now," Mrs. Hudson pleaded, bouncing with agitation.
"I am sorry—" faint voices echoed on the other line, calling John's name. "—I really have to go. Why don't you phone Lestrade? I'll come when I can, Mrs. Hudson, I promise. Thank you!" And with a click, the line went dead.
Mrs. Hudson set the phone down frustratedly. They could be so blind to each other sometimes. She would have to take matters into her own hands. But John had told her to call Lestrade first; she at least owed John that much, to listen to him just this once. Dialing the police department, she waited for Lestrade to pick up, worriedly biting her lip as the ringtone echoed repeatedly.

"No, I haven't seen him recently," Lestrade answered, his brow furrowing as he sat back in his chair.
"See, I haven't either," Mrs. Hudson's concerned voice came over the line, "I was wondering if you could come over and check on him."
"Couldn't you just—open the door a little and poke your head in? I'm a little tied up at the moment."
"Well, inspector, seeing as I almost received a broken teacup in the face for trying to do just that last time, I am rather inclined not to," Mrs. Hudson said stubbornly. "Please come down here. He needs somebody."
Lestrade hesitated. "I'll see what I can do," he answered sincerely.
"Oh, thank you!" Mrs. Hudson sighed, then grew firm. "Now send someone down quickly, because John can't make it, and they must be—"
"I promise we'll get someone down there today," Lestrade said comfortingly. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He hung up, set his phone back on his desk, then sat back in his chair with a sigh. Sherlock hiding in his flat, shut off from John and Mrs. Hudson—this couldn't be good. Then again, he did have a case, and he was known to be rather erratic. Surely Mrs. Hudson was just overreacting, but he made a mental note to drop by after work. Hopefully he hadn't hurt himself.

Everything hurt. Oh, God, he felt terrible.
Sherlock tried to open his eyes, but the room tilted dangerously and his head spun and pounded. He groaned and fell back, shutting his eyes again, and just lay still. What happened....he was...was...doing something, and took another dose. Then he must've rearranged the furniture—the couch was better on its side, anyway, and then....fallen asleep, here, in his chair in the sitting room.
Something didn't feel right, though. He tried to uncurl himself from the chair, and groaned again as spots flashed before his vision. His stomach felt like it was twisted into knots, a pain in his chest like someone had taken a knife and stabbed him in the heart, soaked with sweat, his heart pounding. The flat swam before his eyes and a wave of nausea flooded him.
Sherlock braced himself and unsteadily stood, shakily straightening upright before taking a slow step forwards. It immediately turned into a lurch, and he stumbled forwards, hands outstretched as he caught himself against the wall, his legs shaking terribly. Panting for breath, he blinked furiously to clear his vision as best he could, then staggered down the hall to the bathroom, grasping the walls to pull him along, papers kicked out of the way by his bare feet.
The cold tile and cool air came as a relief to his sweaty self, his head pounding fit to burst, bile rising in his mouth as his stomach wrenched again. Collapsing on his knees in front of the toilet, he threw up, his sides heaving, back arching with the force of his retching. There wasn't much to purge from his system, though; Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he ate.
Gradually, his heaving stopped, and he sat, slumped over the floor, breathing hard, hands shaking, heart pounding, his shirt sticking to his chest with sweat, a vile taste filling his mouth.
Sherlock tried to focus his thoughts, tried to bring himself back into reality, back into control, but things swam in and out of a hazy sludge, his body responding slowly to his direction. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and fell backwards, crashing against the opposite wall, his legs splayed across the tile floor. Damn, he felt terrible...come on, Sherlock...think....
But it was a long time before he moved again, the coolness of the tile floor calming against his hot skin and throbbing head. His eyes fluttered shut and he forced himself to breathe deeply, trying with all his might to concentrate, to go to his mind palace—something—but it was taking too long, why couldn't he go, why, why WHY—
Sherlock forced down the panic that rose in his throat. Not now. No. Not here. Think, Sherlock, think—
He had been dancing—yes, waltzing. That was it. Swept up in the euphoria, singing snippets of waltzes at the top of his voice, moving smoothly over the papers strewn over the floor, dodging furniture, leaping over the table, choruses of strings thrumming in his ears. He had danced into the kitchen and taken another dose and skipped back to the sitting room, the strings growing louder, his attention jumping from one thing to the next. Eventually he collapsed in his chair, exhaustion sweeping over him, and he was asleep within seconds. There had to be something wrong—think, Sherlock, think. Did he hit his head on something, or...oh....oh no.
Lurching to his feet, Sherlock stumbled to the sink, roughly jerking the faucet on and splashing water across his face from the sink, hanging on to the sides of the porcelain bowl. His stomach twisted horribly again and he folded inwards, gasping with pain, his knuckles white on the sides of the sink. Panting, his face twisted with pain, slowly he looked up, into the mirror, and into the face of a man he did not recognize. Dark circles ringed his sunken eyes, his skin chalky white, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead with sweat, clothes wrinkled and stained.
It took him a moment to realize that this was himself. God, he looked terrible. And felt worse.
John. He needed John.
Pushing off from the sink, he staggered back down the hall. He needed to get to his phone. Needed to check his stash, though with a sinking feeling, he knew what had happened. Check the drawer. Get to John. Check the drawer. Get to John.
He repeated it like a mantra, each step agonizingly slow, dragged out into an hour instead of a second, the floor tilting under his feet like the rocking of a ship in a swirling storm, lightning pounding in his head, thunder roaring in his ears—
Check the drawer. Get to John.
The light had faded from the room, the night sky glowing with streetlights out the window, casting luminous bars across the messy floor and overturned furniture, an unsettling glow throughout the quiet room. Sherlock stumbled to the kitchen, opening the drawer where he kept his stash. He gripped the counter, blinking hard to register what he saw. No. No, no, no, it couldn't be that bad...his breathing quickened, his stomach twisting again, no, no—God, no—
"No, no, NO—JOHN—" he shouted, his voice rising in panic. He slammed the drawer shut, then open again, open and shut, hoping desperately that something might change, something might be different, but he knew that nothing would change.
Panting with the exhaustion of keeping himself upright, he stumbled back, gripping his head in his hands. How could he have been so stupid? Oh, God—he needed John—now—
Sherlock lunged back to his chair, collapsing into the seat like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He groped for his phone on the table next to him, vision blurring, mouth open with the effort of breathing, perspiration beading his forehead. His fingers met cold metal and he wrapped his fingers around his phone, bringing it into his chest. He was shaking like a leaf in a gale, whole body shivering violently as he curled himself in the chair, his hands missing the button to turn the screen on. Finally, the blaze of light lit up his face and another arrow of pain shot through his head, but he gasped and forged ahead, trying to punch in his passcode. Time after time he was locked out. Panic started to thrum in his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut, blowing out heavily to calm his racing heart, then carefully typed the numbers in. The home screen showed mercifully in the dim light from the kitchen.
Even now Sherlock could feel his body relaxing again, exhausted from his escapade around the flat. His breathing slowed and black spots swam before his vision, tiredness filling his mind. No, he had to do this, had to—
He opened the phone app and after blinking several times, found John's contact. He couldn't text—his fingers wouldn't hit the right letters. Jamming the call button, Sherlock flopped back in his chair, fighting desperately to stay awake. The phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
"John, pick up, pick up," Sherlock gasped, willing with all his heart that he would.
And then it went to voicemail.
Sherlock let out his breath in a desperate sob. He needed someone. God, he needed John is who he needed—but the blackness swam before his eyes—he had to call someone—he swiped back a page and clicked someone random. Oh let it be someone—anyone who would come to him—and get John—the phone was ringing now, the beats echoing inside his muddled brain—pick up—oh, John—
The ringing stopped, and a voice sounded over the line, an echoing "Hello?"
His voice stuck in his throat, a wet choke that turned into a whisper. "Help," Sherlock murmured, his eyes closing, then fell back into the chair, dropping into a deep sleep, the phone call still going as the phone slipped out of his hand and hit the floor.