The euphoria didn't last as long as Sherlock would have liked, almost immediately giving way to him feeling lightheaded and dizzy again. The only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat, which was worrying at how loud and fast it thumped away in his chest. His breathing had also taken a turn for the erratic, both an effect of the drugs and the fact that he had no idea how much time had passed or would come to pass before the next dose. Jim hadn't given him the courtesy of letting him know how much time he had left, and he was getting increasingly paranoid that it would be any moment now. He held out hope that John would find him, but there was always the possibility that he didn't even realize he was missing yet. He was sure that any devastation John would feel at finding him dead would be overshadowed by the distinct feeling that Sherlock had brought this on himself and, therefore, deserved this. He struggled again against his bonds, hissing at the ties cutting into his skin even further. He couldn't really die this way, could he?
Forty-five minutes of waxing and waning consciousness and paranoia later, he froze when he heard faint sounds of movement. He immediately thought that his time was up, and felt a sickening panic rise in his chest as he waited for what he thought was his executioner to get back to give him that last lethal dose. That was, until he heard his name. John. Could it actually be him? He wouldn't put it past Jim to pull a trick like this to make Sherlock think he was saved for a fleeting moment before killing him. But, still. Maybe it was really him. "John?" he croaked, his throat having gone dry long ago and making his voice raspier than usual. He cleared his throat and tried again, managing a louder call of "John!" this time as he pulled against his bonds more forcibly. Suddenly the thought of John's ire was the most appealing thing in the world. Sure, he would feel foolish and incompetent for getting caught like this, but he would be safe. "John, here!" he shouted again. Please let it really be you.
Hearing the choked back yells of his flatmate, John was clearly spurred into action. Was he with Jim? Was he being held at gun point? Knife point? It better not be at the point of a syringe. Even that thought caused John to wince, knowing it was very possible given Sherlock's past.
"Sherlock, keep talking. There are about thirty doors down this hall!" John wasn't even paying attention to his phone as it pinged yet again. He heard Sherlock, that's all that mattered. But more than that, he sounded glad for John to be there.
As he threw open what felt like the thousandth door, John was met with the scene. Sherlock, tied to a chair, zip ties. A single desk was in front of him, his phone sat right on the desktop. John didn't seen anyone else in the room but Sherlock. He grinned and stepped into the room, not thinking of the possibilities for a trap, or that Moriarty might be hiding in a shadowed corner, or that a sniper might shoot him through one of the windows. All John wanted to do was get to Sherlock.
And when he did, he didn't like what he saw. A thin, dried line of blood leading from the crook on his exposed arm, all the way to his bleeding wrists from where the zip ties were almost severing his wrists. "Oh ... my god, stop moving your wrists. You're going to slowly saw your hands off. What did th--" The worry in John's voice was quickly bottled up, he hadn't even made it across the room when he saw motion in both far back corners, behind Sherlock.
Sherlock listened intently to John's footsteps and voice, hearing him getting that much closer to the room where he was being held. He called John's name again, hoping he wouldn't run into any of Jim's lackeys on the way. That thought had a wave of dread pass over him, causing him to yell a strained "Careful!" to tip him off that he wasn't alone in the building.
He jumped slightly when the door was flung open, his wide, fearful eyes closing momentarily with a sigh of relief that it was actually him. He looked back up at John, wriggling a bit in desperation to get free so they could go home. John looked surprisingly glad to find him, Sherlock having been sure that John would be angry with him first. He froze when John told him to, sparing a glance at his bloodied wrists, still not feeling much pain from it at the moment apart from a bit of dizziness from the drugs, blood loss and likely concussion. "John, I-" he began, trailing off and tensing up when he heard movement behind him. He couldn't help but ignore John's advice to stop moving, struggling harder than before in his desire to get loose and help him somehow. He had gotten them into this, after all, and he was feeling increasingly useless the longer he was trussed up like this.
Cocaine, heroin, crack, speed, pure human hormone, there could have been any number of things in that vial to make Sherlock tweak. Giving him a quick once over, John could not honestly tell, but it was something recreational by the way Sherlock's body was moving and his eyes looked out of focus. Even when those eyes were looking straight at him, they were not really ... there.
Before he could reach Sherlock, touch him and hope he wasn't a mirage, a man with a syringe in his hand stepped out of the shadow behind him. Apparently, his time was up and the man was going to give him another dose. John raced to close the gap quicker than he did, when he saw more movement out of the corner of his eye. It was like time slowed down for a moment, allowing John to focus and watch the scene unfold. The other lackey reached into his suit breast pocket and John was just barely a step ahead. When the gunshots rang out, it was hard to tell who had shot first. He didn't think to look after the shot rang out, because John's aim was only slightly better. The man went down, wound to the shoulder. It was enough to cripple, not to kill. John would wonder later why his preference for targeting was the shoulder.
The other man moved in that very instant to give Sherlock his second dose, right on time, whether John was there or not. While the echo of their first shot still rang in his ears, John trained his gun on the man with the syringe. "Drop it. I've got this aimed right between your eyes. Drop it!" Both hands went to the gun in a practiced stance, training his eye right down the barrel. He could shoot the wings off a fly right now with how steady his hand was, and that wasn't good.
Sherlock growled in frustration when his struggling amounted to nothing, watching John in wide-eyed helplessness as he heard the figures behind him get closer. He knew he should glance behind him to see what they were armed with, but he wouldn't allow himself to take his eyes off John. He watched unblinking as he rushed forward, his fingers twitching to grip the arms of the chair when he heard the shots. He saw the man go down in his peripheral vision, still focused on John and searching for any signs that he was hit. He was relieved when he didn't see John falter, telling him he was alright.
It was then that he felt the man's presence directly at his side, already tapping his arm to get access to the vein. He struggled again in a vain effort to get away, accomplishing nothing but some deeper cuts into his wrists. He would have tried to tip his chair over, but the man had a hand braced on it in order to give him no leverage to do so. He was about to say that this wasn't part of the game, that John was here and had won according to Jim's rules, before he saw John advance on them with his gun trained on the man with the syringe. He could feel the needle hovering ominously over his arm without looking at it, and he knew just how quickly and easily he could be injected again. John would shoot him, of course, but it might be too late by then. He gives John a pleading look as though to ask him to just do it already and take him home.
A stand off with a gun was a very dangerous thing. John knew all too well how those tended to go. Even with the RAMC's guidelines that stated a medic was only allowed to raise their gun if it was absolutely necessary. Well, this was about as absolutely necessary as one gets.
Whomever could predict the other mans' actions and get in their shot first was usually the winner. Nine times out of ten, that is. That was why John was trained to shoot first, even if he'd only had to use that knowledge less than a handful of times. He saw the flash of the needle, the man's hand grabbing for Sherlock's arm.
John shook his head 'no' and was about to ask him to put it down again, when the man moved to stick him again. John blinked and pulled the trigger. He hadn't really watched the moment of impact, but recognized the sound of dead weight falling to the ground, and of the broken sunglasses scattering all over the concrete floor. John had shot him in the head.
He let out a rather dramatic huff and dropped his arm to his side, eyes drawn to the needle still poking out of Sherlock's arm. The plunger hadn't been depressed yet, and the needle was just barely clinging to his skin, threatening to fall off with every deep breath Sherlock took. Only then did he look up at notice the bang to the side of his head had dripped blood into his eye.
"Alright there, mate?" he finally managed to get out, a hand falling on his shoulder to steady his still rather twitchy movements. John would have to be extremely careful with cutting the zip ties, his involuntary twitches were not helping.
It would hit him, later on that night when he couldn't sleep, that he'd shot a man in the head.
Sherlock was holding his breath without realizing it during the stare-down, watching John intently as he waited for one of them to make a move. He winced when he felt the needle stab him again, squeezing his eyes shut in the realization that the shot that rang out seconds later was too late. He opened his eyes again after a moment, exhaling the breath he'd been holding audibly when he saw that the plunger hadn't been pushed. The tensity left him immediately, even giving a breathless chuckle as it dawned on him that he had survived (at least until John got ahold of him, he suspected).
He glanced up at John when he finally arrived at his side, relaxing minutely at the hand on his shoulder.
"Yes." he breathed, nodding once slowly before thinking better of it after it exacerbated his dizziness. He smirked dazedly up at him. "I'll be quite a bit better once I'm out of this chair."
The smile and nervous chuckle that met his lips when Sherlock spoke was just enough to cover the unease of the situation, for now. That had been way too close. John glanced briefly at the first guy he shot, noticing the man had stopped moving and a heavy white foam was dripping out of the corner of his mouth. Poison pill, most likely. John was sure he didn't want to be the lackey that returned to Moriarty with the news that they had failed. John seemed only mildly disappointed that the man he'd taken care not to kill had killed himself.
Kneeling beside his right arm, John first delicately pulled the needle out and noticed the man completely screwed his main vein up when he fell after jabbing him, tearing it open to cause a massive purple bruise to already begin forming. Pulling out a small folded knife attached to his flat keys, John ever so delicately sawed through the plastic zip ties and freed him.
"D'you know what they gave you?" It seemed pointless to ask. Having spoken very briefly on the subject of his old habits, John was certain Sherlock wouldn't relapse on his own. But Jim knew right were go with it. This was a dirty, nasty game to play. It was a bit below the belt, really. Sherlock was in for a very rough 48 hours. The cravings would hit soon, and if he didn't get another hit to sooth the first, it would escalate.
Sighing slowly, John worked on the other wrist until he had the restless man free. He brought both blood streaked hands into Sherlock's lap slowly, moving the muscles just a little bit at a time until they were less stiff. Kneeling in front of the detective to examine the damages, the cuts were deep but no stitches were needed. John looked to the two men on the floor and suddenly stood up, rifling through their persons until he came up with two strips of cloth that he used as makeshift bandages for his wrists. The wound on his forehead might have to wait. They weren't sticking around for the Yard, they were going home and John was not going to let them leave the flat for a very long time. The flat was safe, secure. The outside world had it in for Sherlock, and John did not like that. Moriarty's eyes were everywhere.
A thought occurred to him, he'd gotten a text when he was running around. Jamming his hand into his pocket, he pulled out his phone to see a few texts from Jim, trying to offer him bad hints as if to lead him off the trail. Good thing he hadn't paid any attention to that. John turned around then and took a camera phone picture of the poor bloke he shot in the head, deciding that was a good image to send to Jim on their behalf.
"C'mon, let's get out of here. Lestrade was right behind me with the gang, I don't think they should see you like this." What would they say? Oh, he asked for the drug. It was bound to happen. Look at that junkie, trying to turn a crime scene into a need for a fix. John shook his head at those preposterous things, mostly said in Donovan's voice in John's mind.
John leaned down slightly and looked into his completely blown eyes. Those brilliant eyes were not nearly as sharp and brilliant looking. It twisted something in his gut to see that, to not see those beautiful eyes that had captured his attention at St. Bart's rather impressively. He was coming down from the initial euphoria, but John could guess that it hadn't been all that enjoyable when tied up like that. There was nothing worse than forcing a drug upon an ex-user that was strapped to a chair. Sherlock looked so vulnerable and ... not himself in this moment. He tried to think if he'd seen this look before. No, this was complete dejection, utter distress at putting himself into this dangerous situation again, and getting more than he bargained for. It looked like Sherlock was concerned with the way the doctor was seeing him, wondering if he was going to get angry for what he'd done.
John couldn't get angry, not at Sherlock (too much) anyway. It wasn't his intention to get shot up with heroin, he just wanted to solve the crime. John found himself staring a bit before he hoisted the lanky limbed man from his seat, judging if he could stand before making their way to the doors.
Sherlock twitched slightly when the needle was pulled out, exhaling gratefully when the ties were finally cut and he flexed his bleeding wrists a bit when they were free. "Heroin." he replied. There was no way anyone could forget what heroin felt like, especially not Sherlock Holmes. He had broken the addiction once already, and he was really not looking forward to doing it again. He eyed the syringe at the remembered pain of withdrawal, trying to figure out if there was a way to discreetly smuggle it out of here without John's knowing for when the cravings got to be too much.
He sighed and let his head fall back for a moment, trying to concentrate on getting his vision to stop swimming while John made up bandages for him. He succeeded enough in his venture that he could watch John as he worked intently, waiting for the moment when John the diligent doctor would give way to John the angry-as-hell flatmate. His brow furrowed just slightly when John spoke again, once again surprised by how John could surprise him. He really had expected a dressing-down by now, sure that John would make sure he was safe before very calmly informing him that he was going to kill him himself. He didn't want to invite this reaction, of course, so he just nodded once in response.
He met John's gaze, feeling trapped in the chair again just by his eyes on his. He knew it was just part of the initial examination, but it felt far more intense than that. He wondered idly if this is what John felt like when Sherlock easily picked apart his thoughts and motives as easily as reading the newspaper. He didn't like it from this side. It felt like John could see right through him, like he could tell that Sherlock was working out a way to sneak the syringe home. He gave an inward sigh of relief when John stopped staring at him like that and pulled him standing. He shifted his weight experimentally, pulling away to move to the desk and grab his phone, leaning over to brace himself on it when he felt his knees give out, still not quite ready to support his weight. "May require some assistance." he admitted, continuing to lean on the desk as he grabbed his coat off the back of the chair and pulled it on. He quickly abandoned his plan to try and sneak out the syringe, sure that he would get through the withdrawal as long as he had John. He casually put his phone in his pocket, though his hand froze when he noticed that there was something already in his pocket. A something that felt distinctly like a vial. God damn it, Jim. Why did he have to make it so easy to fall back into his old habits? He stiffened almost imperceptibly, bracing a hand on John's arm as they moved towards the doors.
Having seen Sherlock in shock, honest to God shock, was not a pretty sight. Seeing him blown on drugs he didn't intend to take, that was even more disturbing. The anger started to get redirected to Moriarty, knowing that Sherlock wasn't like that. He'd said something along the lines of how he didn't feel he needed that lifestyle any more, his doctor-blogger was too watchful. And indeed John was. But this wasn't his fault, John only hoping the look in his eyes expressed that.
Being so fiercely independent, John watched him struggle to slide on his own coat, John helping fix up his scarf a bit. Licking his lips nervously again, he had a good deal of Sherlock's weight on him and was quite certain that he wouldn't be able to keep this up for however many floors they'd have to travel down.
But what if Jim was still around? What if the place was swarming with his agents? John's adrenaline kicked in a bit. John would worry about Sherlock's mindset when they got home, because right now this place just didn't seem safe. John could honestly only focus on one thing right now, and that was getting them the hell out of there. John flung Sherlock's arm over his shoulders and hoisted him up, encouraging him to continue to move to get his muscles working again. They had seven flights of stairs to get down, and the lift hadn't been functioning since 1992, by the looks of them.
By some bit of luck, John had them out of there and sat Sherlock down. He'd go hail a cab from the nearest street and drive down this ally to get him. John didn't really much think about the fact that he was leaving the scene of a crime. Yes, shooting someone in the head was not considered self defense, particularly when the man hadn't a weapon on him. John was going to have a tough time of it, might even have to toss his service revolver. But, the most rewarding part was the fact that he had Sherlock back. The man was there, just a few meters away from him.
John didn't stop to think that maybe the man he shot dead wasn't actually suppose to be there. John just wanted to run away. The sounds of his calls for a cab could be heard down the ally, and it was a while before John actually managed to get one. Once he had, John directed him as close to Sherlock as he could and hefted the pretty much useless man into the backseat. Baker Street was possibly twenty minutes away. The tightening in his chest would go away in twenty minutes, because he'd make a cuppa right when he walked in. One for both of them, actually.
Sherlock gave a soft, appreciative half-smile as John fixed his scarf like a doting mother. He really was glad that John hadn't decided to yell at him just yet, his head still pounding from when he fell earlier. He grunted a bit when John pulled his arm over his shoulder, making the move to leave at a sluggish pace as he tried to get used to walking on legs that seemed reluctant to cooperate. He supported as much of himself as he could, though it really didn't amount to much, considering how heavily he was still leaning on John.
After what felt like ages, they made it out and he slumped against the wall while he waited for John to get them a cab. He closed his eyes as he waited, jumping slightly when John returned. He really hated how easily he could be spooked in this state. It was the main reason he had stopped the first time, heroin having the tendency to make him uncomfortably paranoid once the euphoria wore off. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and ran a finger over the vial in his pocket. He didn't want to be addicted to heroin again, but he really didn't want to go through withdrawal again. He almost hoped John would end up finding it just so he wouldn't be so tempted by it.
He tried to coerce his limbs to support his weight as John practically peeled him off the wall, but still wound up requiring quite a bit of stability from John just to get into the car. He exhaled audibly and let his head drop back as he closed his eyes again. His vision still swam too much when he kept his eyes open, and he was sure it would make him sick if he kept them open. He cleared his dry throat after a moment, sparing a quick glance at John. "Thank you." he rasped. He would be dead if John hadn't got to him, and he wanted to show his appreciation as much as he could when he was drugged up and concussed.
After about two minutes of rather bumpy driving, John realized Sherlock's unstable state didn't seem to do well in a cab. His head was dangerously lulling back and forth, threatening to hit the window. John finally coaxed the man to lean his head against his shoulder, which brought the man to a bit of a stand still. He was still moving, something that John was used to in drug patients, but not for Sherlock. It was a little different. Letting out a slow sigh, John resisted the urge to thread his fingers through the man's hair.
Why he felt the need or want to do that was beyond him. That wasn't like him. That was usually something saved for when Harry was having a really bad day and needed her little brother. Sometimes the tears were faked to get drugs. Sometimes they were honest to God tears, like when she informed him of the divorce papers Clara served her. It was when she was so lost, she temporarily forgot about how much she hated that John was right and just gave into the basic need for a hug.
Sherlock could feel his consciousness slipping in and out, as much as he tried to keep awake, he knew he was failing. He got the distant sensation that he was listing to the side, though he wasn't sure if it was his doing or John's. John didn't seem to mind regardless, and he just didn't have the energy to lift his head again. Not that he much wanted to. John was a warm and stable presence, and leaning on him took some of the edge off the dizziness.
It was such a simple thing, just getting to lean on him like this, but it stirred up an unfamiliar sense of nostalgia in him. When he was a child, he remembered that he would often fall asleep on Mycroft in much the same fashion, mostly to communicate his boredom effectively to their mother when forced to make small talk with her friends. Rather than push him away, he would feel Mycroft chuckle and rub his hair affectionately as he napped on his shoulder. He almost wished John would do the same, though this was probably already strange enough for his taste. This was how people got ideas about them, after all, as John so often pointed out. Still, in his state, he couldn't help but do what he used to do all those years ago and reach a hand over to keep a loose grip on John's jacket as he leaned heavily on him in a state of half-sleep.
After about another five minutes of letting the man lean against him, John couldn't stop the thought from reoccurring. Just do it. You'll never get a chance like this again. His mind started on that train of thought, and within minutes it was going a decidedly different way.
He needs you. No, he doesn't. John shifted a touch and Sherlock's head fell away from his shoulder to scoot him in a tad closer and bring his arm up behind him. There was a moments hesitation, a comical scene if the cabbie actually looked in the rear view at them. His hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder, unsure if it was going to go all the way, much like a first attempt on a first date.
John let out a slow sigh that gradually turned into a quiet 'oh sod it, come here.' The doctor's hand fell to Sherlock's hair and nudged him in flush against him. A beat later, John's nose nuzzled his hair and his lips fell right above the shell of his ear, against his scalp. It wasn't a kiss, at least John wouldn't call it that. It was merely a resting of his lips.
Sherlock went still against him for a few minutes, feeling quite comfortable with the arrangement. He grumbled wordlessly when John moved, thinking if he ever had to move again it would be too soon. He followed the urging of John's hand, shifting himself in closer and really not caring at the moment what the cabbie must think of them. He gave a soft hum of approval as he snuggled against him, appreciating the added warmth and solid presence to lean against. "Mmn, John." he mumbled when he felt him nuzzle his hair, really feeling surprisingly alright with how they ended up. It was odd, to say the least, but he was actually feeling better at having something to support him that was quite a bit more comfortable than his other option of the car door.
He sighed complacently, draping an arm over John's middle as he drifted back to a state of semi-consciousness during the ride. He was sure he probably didn't deserve such caring from John after running off without telling him, but he was glad for it all the same. He told himself he would gladly listen to any of John's ire when his head wasn't pounding like this.
"Driver ... t-take the long way ... " He spoke a little softly, getting a nod from the cabbie that he'd heard him. He didn't want to wake Sherlock if he was indeed falling asleep. It was the best reaction he could have to the drugs, and John was silently glad for this little break. The rocking of the car seemed to settle the detective, the weight and drape of Sherlock's arm over his middle was reassuring. John's other arm leaned against the door arm rest, fingers brushing Sherlock's hand gripping his jacket.
John thought little on it and just acted, bringing his fingers up along the back of his hand and stopped before his bandaged wrists. Pressing Sherlock's hand harder against his side, he lightly caressed the top of his palm and moved his lips a bit in another not-kiss to his hair. He could finally let his eyes close for a moment and let the rocking of the car really ease those adrenaline tensed muscles.
Forty-five minutes of waxing and waning consciousness and paranoia later, he froze when he heard faint sounds of movement. He immediately thought that his time was up, and felt a sickening panic rise in his chest as he waited for what he thought was his executioner to get back to give him that last lethal dose. That was, until he heard his name. John. Could it actually be him? He wouldn't put it past Jim to pull a trick like this to make Sherlock think he was saved for a fleeting moment before killing him. But, still. Maybe it was really him. "John?" he croaked, his throat having gone dry long ago and making his voice raspier than usual. He cleared his throat and tried again, managing a louder call of "John!" this time as he pulled against his bonds more forcibly. Suddenly the thought of John's ire was the most appealing thing in the world. Sure, he would feel foolish and incompetent for getting caught like this, but he would be safe. "John, here!" he shouted again. Please let it really be you.
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"Sherlock, keep talking. There are about thirty doors down this hall!" John wasn't even paying attention to his phone as it pinged yet again. He heard Sherlock, that's all that mattered. But more than that, he sounded glad for John to be there.
As he threw open what felt like the thousandth door, John was met with the scene. Sherlock, tied to a chair, zip ties. A single desk was in front of him, his phone sat right on the desktop. John didn't seen anyone else in the room but Sherlock. He grinned and stepped into the room, not thinking of the possibilities for a trap, or that Moriarty might be hiding in a shadowed corner, or that a sniper might shoot him through one of the windows. All John wanted to do was get to Sherlock.
And when he did, he didn't like what he saw. A thin, dried line of blood leading from the crook on his exposed arm, all the way to his bleeding wrists from where the zip ties were almost severing his wrists. "Oh ... my god, stop moving your wrists. You're going to slowly saw your hands off. What did th--" The worry in John's voice was quickly bottled up, he hadn't even made it across the room when he saw motion in both far back corners, behind Sherlock.
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He jumped slightly when the door was flung open, his wide, fearful eyes closing momentarily with a sigh of relief that it was actually him. He looked back up at John, wriggling a bit in desperation to get free so they could go home. John looked surprisingly glad to find him, Sherlock having been sure that John would be angry with him first. He froze when John told him to, sparing a glance at his bloodied wrists, still not feeling much pain from it at the moment apart from a bit of dizziness from the drugs, blood loss and likely concussion. "John, I-" he began, trailing off and tensing up when he heard movement behind him. He couldn't help but ignore John's advice to stop moving, struggling harder than before in his desire to get loose and help him somehow. He had gotten them into this, after all, and he was feeling increasingly useless the longer he was trussed up like this.
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Before he could reach Sherlock, touch him and hope he wasn't a mirage, a man with a syringe in his hand stepped out of the shadow behind him. Apparently, his time was up and the man was going to give him another dose. John raced to close the gap quicker than he did, when he saw more movement out of the corner of his eye. It was like time slowed down for a moment, allowing John to focus and watch the scene unfold. The other lackey reached into his suit breast pocket and John was just barely a step ahead. When the gunshots rang out, it was hard to tell who had shot first. He didn't think to look after the shot rang out, because John's aim was only slightly better. The man went down, wound to the shoulder. It was enough to cripple, not to kill. John would wonder later why his preference for targeting was the shoulder.
The other man moved in that very instant to give Sherlock his second dose, right on time, whether John was there or not. While the echo of their first shot still rang in his ears, John trained his gun on the man with the syringe. "Drop it. I've got this aimed right between your eyes. Drop it!" Both hands went to the gun in a practiced stance, training his eye right down the barrel. He could shoot the wings off a fly right now with how steady his hand was, and that wasn't good.
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It was then that he felt the man's presence directly at his side, already tapping his arm to get access to the vein. He struggled again in a vain effort to get away, accomplishing nothing but some deeper cuts into his wrists. He would have tried to tip his chair over, but the man had a hand braced on it in order to give him no leverage to do so. He was about to say that this wasn't part of the game, that John was here and had won according to Jim's rules, before he saw John advance on them with his gun trained on the man with the syringe. He could feel the needle hovering ominously over his arm without looking at it, and he knew just how quickly and easily he could be injected again. John would shoot him, of course, but it might be too late by then. He gives John a pleading look as though to ask him to just do it already and take him home.
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Whomever could predict the other mans' actions and get in their shot first was usually the winner. Nine times out of ten, that is. That was why John was trained to shoot first, even if he'd only had to use that knowledge less than a handful of times. He saw the flash of the needle, the man's hand grabbing for Sherlock's arm.
John shook his head 'no' and was about to ask him to put it down again, when the man moved to stick him again. John blinked and pulled the trigger. He hadn't really watched the moment of impact, but recognized the sound of dead weight falling to the ground, and of the broken sunglasses scattering all over the concrete floor. John had shot him in the head.
He let out a rather dramatic huff and dropped his arm to his side, eyes drawn to the needle still poking out of Sherlock's arm. The plunger hadn't been depressed yet, and the needle was just barely clinging to his skin, threatening to fall off with every deep breath Sherlock took. Only then did he look up at notice the bang to the side of his head had dripped blood into his eye.
"Alright there, mate?" he finally managed to get out, a hand falling on his shoulder to steady his still rather twitchy movements. John would have to be extremely careful with cutting the zip ties, his involuntary twitches were not helping.
It would hit him, later on that night when he couldn't sleep, that he'd shot a man in the head.
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He glanced up at John when he finally arrived at his side, relaxing minutely at the hand on his shoulder.
"Yes." he breathed, nodding once slowly before thinking better of it after it exacerbated his dizziness. He smirked dazedly up at him. "I'll be quite a bit better once I'm out of this chair."
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Kneeling beside his right arm, John first delicately pulled the needle out and noticed the man completely screwed his main vein up when he fell after jabbing him, tearing it open to cause a massive purple bruise to already begin forming. Pulling out a small folded knife attached to his flat keys, John ever so delicately sawed through the plastic zip ties and freed him.
"D'you know what they gave you?" It seemed pointless to ask. Having spoken very briefly on the subject of his old habits, John was certain Sherlock wouldn't relapse on his own. But Jim knew right were go with it. This was a dirty, nasty game to play. It was a bit below the belt, really. Sherlock was in for a very rough 48 hours. The cravings would hit soon, and if he didn't get another hit to sooth the first, it would escalate.
Sighing slowly, John worked on the other wrist until he had the restless man free. He brought both blood streaked hands into Sherlock's lap slowly, moving the muscles just a little bit at a time until they were less stiff. Kneeling in front of the detective to examine the damages, the cuts were deep but no stitches were needed. John looked to the two men on the floor and suddenly stood up, rifling through their persons until he came up with two strips of cloth that he used as makeshift bandages for his wrists. The wound on his forehead might have to wait. They weren't sticking around for the Yard, they were going home and John was not going to let them leave the flat for a very long time. The flat was safe, secure. The outside world had it in for Sherlock, and John did not like that. Moriarty's eyes were everywhere.
A thought occurred to him, he'd gotten a text when he was running around. Jamming his hand into his pocket, he pulled out his phone to see a few texts from Jim, trying to offer him bad hints as if to lead him off the trail. Good thing he hadn't paid any attention to that. John turned around then and took a camera phone picture of the poor bloke he shot in the head, deciding that was a good image to send to Jim on their behalf.
"C'mon, let's get out of here. Lestrade was right behind me with the gang, I don't think they should see you like this." What would they say? Oh, he asked for the drug. It was bound to happen. Look at that junkie, trying to turn a crime scene into a need for a fix. John shook his head at those preposterous things, mostly said in Donovan's voice in John's mind.
John leaned down slightly and looked into his completely blown eyes. Those brilliant eyes were not nearly as sharp and brilliant looking. It twisted something in his gut to see that, to not see those beautiful eyes that had captured his attention at St. Bart's rather impressively. He was coming down from the initial euphoria, but John could guess that it hadn't been all that enjoyable when tied up like that. There was nothing worse than forcing a drug upon an ex-user that was strapped to a chair. Sherlock looked so vulnerable and ... not himself in this moment. He tried to think if he'd seen this look before. No, this was complete dejection, utter distress at putting himself into this dangerous situation again, and getting more than he bargained for. It looked like Sherlock was concerned with the way the doctor was seeing him, wondering if he was going to get angry for what he'd done.
John couldn't get angry, not at Sherlock (too much) anyway. It wasn't his intention to get shot up with heroin, he just wanted to solve the crime. John found himself staring a bit before he hoisted the lanky limbed man from his seat, judging if he could stand before making their way to the doors.
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He sighed and let his head fall back for a moment, trying to concentrate on getting his vision to stop swimming while John made up bandages for him. He succeeded enough in his venture that he could watch John as he worked intently, waiting for the moment when John the diligent doctor would give way to John the angry-as-hell flatmate. His brow furrowed just slightly when John spoke again, once again surprised by how John could surprise him. He really had expected a dressing-down by now, sure that John would make sure he was safe before very calmly informing him that he was going to kill him himself. He didn't want to invite this reaction, of course, so he just nodded once in response.
He met John's gaze, feeling trapped in the chair again just by his eyes on his. He knew it was just part of the initial examination, but it felt far more intense than that. He wondered idly if this is what John felt like when Sherlock easily picked apart his thoughts and motives as easily as reading the newspaper. He didn't like it from this side. It felt like John could see right through him, like he could tell that Sherlock was working out a way to sneak the syringe home. He gave an inward sigh of relief when John stopped staring at him like that and pulled him standing. He shifted his weight experimentally, pulling away to move to the desk and grab his phone, leaning over to brace himself on it when he felt his knees give out, still not quite ready to support his weight. "May require some assistance." he admitted, continuing to lean on the desk as he grabbed his coat off the back of the chair and pulled it on. He quickly abandoned his plan to try and sneak out the syringe, sure that he would get through the withdrawal as long as he had John. He casually put his phone in his pocket, though his hand froze when he noticed that there was something already in his pocket. A something that felt distinctly like a vial. God damn it, Jim. Why did he have to make it so easy to fall back into his old habits? He stiffened almost imperceptibly, bracing a hand on John's arm as they moved towards the doors.
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Being so fiercely independent, John watched him struggle to slide on his own coat, John helping fix up his scarf a bit. Licking his lips nervously again, he had a good deal of Sherlock's weight on him and was quite certain that he wouldn't be able to keep this up for however many floors they'd have to travel down.
But what if Jim was still around? What if the place was swarming with his agents? John's adrenaline kicked in a bit. John would worry about Sherlock's mindset when they got home, because right now this place just didn't seem safe. John could honestly only focus on one thing right now, and that was getting them the hell out of there. John flung Sherlock's arm over his shoulders and hoisted him up, encouraging him to continue to move to get his muscles working again. They had seven flights of stairs to get down, and the lift hadn't been functioning since 1992, by the looks of them.
By some bit of luck, John had them out of there and sat Sherlock down. He'd go hail a cab from the nearest street and drive down this ally to get him. John didn't really much think about the fact that he was leaving the scene of a crime. Yes, shooting someone in the head was not considered self defense, particularly when the man hadn't a weapon on him. John was going to have a tough time of it, might even have to toss his service revolver. But, the most rewarding part was the fact that he had Sherlock back. The man was there, just a few meters away from him.
John didn't stop to think that maybe the man he shot dead wasn't actually suppose to be there. John just wanted to run away. The sounds of his calls for a cab could be heard down the ally, and it was a while before John actually managed to get one. Once he had, John directed him as close to Sherlock as he could and hefted the pretty much useless man into the backseat. Baker Street was possibly twenty minutes away. The tightening in his chest would go away in twenty minutes, because he'd make a cuppa right when he walked in. One for both of them, actually.
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After what felt like ages, they made it out and he slumped against the wall while he waited for John to get them a cab. He closed his eyes as he waited, jumping slightly when John returned. He really hated how easily he could be spooked in this state. It was the main reason he had stopped the first time, heroin having the tendency to make him uncomfortably paranoid once the euphoria wore off. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and ran a finger over the vial in his pocket. He didn't want to be addicted to heroin again, but he really didn't want to go through withdrawal again. He almost hoped John would end up finding it just so he wouldn't be so tempted by it.
He tried to coerce his limbs to support his weight as John practically peeled him off the wall, but still wound up requiring quite a bit of stability from John just to get into the car. He exhaled audibly and let his head drop back as he closed his eyes again. His vision still swam too much when he kept his eyes open, and he was sure it would make him sick if he kept them open. He cleared his dry throat after a moment, sparing a quick glance at John. "Thank you." he rasped. He would be dead if John hadn't got to him, and he wanted to show his appreciation as much as he could when he was drugged up and concussed.
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Why he felt the need or want to do that was beyond him. That wasn't like him. That was usually something saved for when Harry was having a really bad day and needed her little brother. Sometimes the tears were faked to get drugs. Sometimes they were honest to God tears, like when she informed him of the divorce papers Clara served her. It was when she was so lost, she temporarily forgot about how much she hated that John was right and just gave into the basic need for a hug.
Sherlock looked like he needed one.
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It was such a simple thing, just getting to lean on him like this, but it stirred up an unfamiliar sense of nostalgia in him. When he was a child, he remembered that he would often fall asleep on Mycroft in much the same fashion, mostly to communicate his boredom effectively to their mother when forced to make small talk with her friends. Rather than push him away, he would feel Mycroft chuckle and rub his hair affectionately as he napped on his shoulder. He almost wished John would do the same, though this was probably already strange enough for his taste. This was how people got ideas about them, after all, as John so often pointed out. Still, in his state, he couldn't help but do what he used to do all those years ago and reach a hand over to keep a loose grip on John's jacket as he leaned heavily on him in a state of half-sleep.
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He needs you. No, he doesn't. John shifted a touch and Sherlock's head fell away from his shoulder to scoot him in a tad closer and bring his arm up behind him. There was a moments hesitation, a comical scene if the cabbie actually looked in the rear view at them. His hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder, unsure if it was going to go all the way, much like a first attempt on a first date.
John let out a slow sigh that gradually turned into a quiet 'oh sod it, come here.' The doctor's hand fell to Sherlock's hair and nudged him in flush against him. A beat later, John's nose nuzzled his hair and his lips fell right above the shell of his ear, against his scalp. It wasn't a kiss, at least John wouldn't call it that. It was merely a resting of his lips.
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He sighed complacently, draping an arm over John's middle as he drifted back to a state of semi-consciousness during the ride. He was sure he probably didn't deserve such caring from John after running off without telling him, but he was glad for it all the same. He told himself he would gladly listen to any of John's ire when his head wasn't pounding like this.
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John thought little on it and just acted, bringing his fingers up along the back of his hand and stopped before his bandaged wrists. Pressing Sherlock's hand harder against his side, he lightly caressed the top of his palm and moved his lips a bit in another not-kiss to his hair. He could finally let his eyes close for a moment and let the rocking of the car really ease those adrenaline tensed muscles.
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