(Untitled)

[notapsychopath]

It's been quite some time since Sherlock's hands have shaken this badly. He feels cold, but curiously numb, the world seeming to move slowly and then too quickly to catch- nothing is connected to anything that happens around it, and he is most disconnected of all

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[drpsychosomatic]

It's been days. John's lost count of how many- that's Mycroft's job, or Lestrade's. Someone else's. His seems to be checking his phone every two minutes until the sight of it makes him feel sick, sending endless emails to Mycroft (the man has the whole of London if not the observable universe under surveillance, why the hell can't he find Sherlock?) and making cups of tea endlessly, leaving them to go cold on the side or the coffee table, wherever he is when the urge to tug on his coat and go look for his missing...
...for Sherlock hits

Oh John ;_;

[notapsychopath]

For a moment, all Sherlock can feel is a wave of relief, so bright and pure and sweet that it's almost a drug in and of itself. The very sight of John seems to reassure him that something in the universe is right, at least- even though he can tell, even through the haze he's in, that John hasn't been sleeping, has been searching frantically. That hurts, in a dull, hateful, angry (guilty? No, how stupid) sort of way, though he's not sure why.

His eyes close for a moment.

Eventually, he manages, "Yes, good idea," and slips inside, though he doesn't take John's hand- he's fine now he's here, really fine, never better. He's not some sort of invalid. Just one more injection, something to clear this horrible haze out of his mind and make things make sense- damn it all, he can't stop shivering...

T_T

[drpsychosomatic]

"Sherlock..." he starts to say, his mouth completely dry, pulse racing- but what is there to say? Sherlock's alive. Ill, yes. Drugged, starved, suffering from an advanced infection- any number of things like that, but it doesn't matter. He's alive, and John knows where he is. He can touch him.
He does. Gingerly, just resting his hand on Sherlock's trembling arm- and then he smiles, a little shakily. Just get Sherlock safely sitting down on the sofa that's been so shockingly, horribly vacant, and find out what needs to be done to make him better.

"Tea?"

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock flinches.

It's completely unintentional, and completely stupid, but the sudden pressure sparks his over-stretched nerves and he jerks back- such a stupid, stupid thing to do, he berates himself. He's not that bad, he knows he's not, just- on edge.

"...Another good idea," he says numbly, and he realises he sounds exhausted. If he can just escape up to his room- but John would never understand, and he needs him just now anyway, though he barely even admits it to himself.

[drpsychosomatic]

Sherlock hasn't jerked away from him like that since-- well, he hasn't, not while awake. John swallows and lets his hand drop, refusing to take it personally. Sherlock's clearly not well, and apparently suffering the aftereffects of trauma. John's seen worse. God, he's seen worse.
But not on Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he says steadily, trying to catch his eyes and hold his gaze. "You go sit down and I'll be right there. And that, I'm afraid, is an order. Understood?"

[notapsychopath]

"I prefer to stand." He snaps it as well as he can, gesturing abstractly and turning his back to pace, raking a hand through his hair. He can't tell whether he's exhausted or viciously alert. Either way, he's too slow, too confused, picking up everything but unable to make sense of it, uselessly hypersensitive. It's infuriating, annoying, frightening- oh, yes, he remembers why it was so hard to quit now, thanks to that creeping fear that he'd never see things straight again...

[drpsychosomatic]

"Too bad," John tells him firmly, his jaw set. "Sit down, Sherlock, or I swear to god I will kick your knees out and make you. Don't try me. I've done worse."

Sherlock's been drugged. That much is obvious. John rakes a hand through his too-long hair, forcing his pulse to slow.

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock can handle threats better than John being gentle right now- letting the latter work would just be pathetic on his part, in his opinion. He throws himself down onto the sofa, running his hand through his hair again. He's a mess, clammy and pale, his lips bitten and raw...

[drpsychosomatic]

Abandoning the tea for now, John perches on the coffee table; genuine, terrifying worry threatening to breach through and make him useless unless he can get a firm grip on himself very quickly. Sherlock looks terrible- colourless, lips cracked, eyes all wrong...

"What is it?" he asks quietly, steeled and taut. "Tell me."

[notapsychopath]

"Nothing, nothing," Sherlock mutters, head in his hands. "Just tired. No need to act as if I've come in trailing internal organs." He takes
a deep, shaky breath. No. No, he can't do this- he can feel the panic and the desperation mixing and writhing in the back of his throat. He tells himself to stop being so stupid, fights the (borderline suicidal) urge to just explain and hope for the best...

[drpsychosomatic]

He shakes his head, letting it sag forward for a moment before trying again, meeting Sherlock's eyes- just a touch of desperation making it past his attempt to remain detached.

"Sherlock. I'm a doctor. What I need from you now is the name of whatever it is in your system, or- trust me, I'll call Mycroft and have him take us to a toxicology lab. The name. Now."

[notapsychopath]

"You wouldn't," Sherlock snaps, angry and affronted, but with a hint of real desperation, even fear. Mycroft can't see him like this- under no circumstances can Mycroft know. But- Christ- John looks desperate, pained, and he's usually so good at staying in control. Except it's what he lacks in his system that's really driving him mad, though he knows there will still be remnants of his last high... "You- John, you wouldn't. You can't. I'm fine."

((I must go to bed- night! GDI boys, being sad and keeping me up ;-; ))

[drpsychosomatic]

"Damn you, Sherlock!"

He can't help the outburst. Can't. His hands grip the edge of the coffee table rather than Sherlock's collar, his throat- it hurts, raw, red and angry, to have his friend, his partner, colleague, lover, whatever they are and aren't and shouldn't ever call themselves- to have Sherlock shut him out like that.

"You are not--" He cuts himself off, forcing the control back in place with two steady breaths- "You are not 'fine'. And if you don't get over yourself and tell me so I know how to help, I promise you I will pick up my phone and ask him to help. I've had him on bloody speed-dial, don't think I won't."

((Night, doll! BOYS, STOP BEING SILLY.))

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock pulls back, shocked by the anger in John's voice for a few seconds. Has he seen him like this recently? (Has he seen him like this before at all?) Something painful twists in his chest, something guilty and angry and on edge, and he snaps, "Wrong. Problem's not with the drug, don't be stupid, and nor is it life-threatening, I just-" He knows there's no way to win. Not right now. "Stop it. Forget it. It doesn't concern you and I don't want it to concern you. Please, John..." He knows he's pleading now, and he knows he doesn't want to be, but what else can he do? He wishes John weren't home. He hates that he's seen him like this. He'd never wanted to be in this state again.

[drpsychosomatic]

((omg. did molls get him to the point where he used by himself?!!))

"Of course it bloody concerns me, it's you," he shouts, something in his chest twisting painfully. "You've been gone for- days. Days, Sherlock, and we looked, and now you're--"

He gestures wildly, shoulders slumping as he exhales and tries once again to remain calm. Calm and useful. Dear god, but he needs to be useful.

"Just what do you expect me to do? Tell me what you need me to do."

[notapsychopath]

((I think she did the thing with the saline ;-; So he's pretty desperate.))

"I need you to leave me alone and let me sleep," he says abruptly, getting to his feet and trying to stay steady. The second that's out of his mouth he regrets it, but if it means he can get to his room... Water. He'll need water. He moves unsteadily to the kitchen, reaching for a glass...