A/N: And so it begins! Now another Sherlock episode has aired its kicked me back into touch with a bit of fanfiction (not that I actually have the time to write it but I managed this one on a night shift - yay for no sleep!). I loved the special, I know a lot of people didn't, but I'm glad to see Sherlock losing it a little bit ready for series 4 (I'm a sucker for angst, hurt/comfort stuff, so hoping for more of this in series 4). I don't think they played up the OD part much, and I'm not quite sure how he managed to walk himself off the plane when he had supposedly taken so much. I also think John (not so much Mycroft's) reactions were a little played down - no one really had a panic about the drug taking? So here's my take on the car ride home, in my usual overly angsty way how I like it. Read on if that's your thing. I'm afraid I don't know the actual dose for humans and naloxone (the reversal for opioid overdose), so sorry if this is wrong. I've used it in animals, never on a human.

PS. in my eyes I don't see that Sherlock attempted suicide at all, in the scene with Moriarty at Baker street he says 'I will have to go deeper', as far as I make this out is... I need to take more drugs to find out more, and therefore taking a bit too much.

Anyway... please enjoy... and please review if you can. : )

"So Emilia Ricoletti?" John asked, "Tell me, what happened to her?" The doctor bent slightly over his friend on the back seat of the car.

"What?" Sherlock's eyes shot up to meet his friends, the haze still in them. He smiled to himself and let his eyes close again and his head lolled against the head rest. "Irrelevant John, but clever. I see what you're trying to do." He smiled to himself again, in a drug induced way which only stretched the doctor's patience further. "You're trying to keep me talking," the detective continued rambling. "Hoping that I cannot slip into some sort of coma if I keep babbling at you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did by the 'list' I have just read." John ground out between his teeth. "What the hell were you thinking!?"

"I had to go deep." Sherlock mumbled. "The Ricoletti case was highly relevant to the current situation; I had to work through it in my mind palace." The last three words slurred into one.

"You just told me it was irrelevant, now you tell me it is?"

"Why are you still talking?" The detective flicked his hand as if to bat John away like an annoying fly.

"I swear to God Sherlock. If you don't open your eyes and start talking a decent amount of sense to me I'm taking you straight to the nearest hospital and having you locked up in rehab!"

"John." Mycroft warned from the front seat of car, the warning glace told the doctor all he needed to know and he was right, locking up Sherlock was not what he needed right now.

The doctor fidgeted on the edge of his seat, he was uneasy and disturbed by the state of his friend. He's seen Sherlock high only on a couple of occasions but this was nothing like before, the detectives lax semi-conscious body sent terror into the man. He wanted to do nothing more than call an ambulance and deposit Sherlock into a hospital bed where he could be monitored properly. Sadly he knew exactly how that one would turn out.

"At least open your eyes for me?" John took a deep breath to calm himself. When the detective finally obliged, the doctor watched closely to see Sherlock's sluggish pupil response. A bit not good. He attempted to take a pulse but the hand was quickly snatched away with a snarl. Sherlock turned his body away, curling into his coat and closing his eyes once again.

"Fine!" John threw his arms up in defeat. "But if you slip into a coma I'm not helping you and you have no sympathy."

"Don't be so dramatic." Sherlock mumbled from inside his coat where he had now buried his head.

"It's highly probable." John crossed his arms.

"Highly improbable." The detective answered. "I calculated the doses perfectly. Well… almost perfectly." He added in haste. "This dose is unlikely to cause such a dramatic response, especially when one has developed somewhat of a resistance."

"Resistance." John scoffed. "Something you're proud of?"

"Oh what does it matter" Another angry snarl shot in the doctors direction. "What do you care about it?"

A small pause followed and John's voice softened. "Because I'm worried about you." He finally said. "I care about you."

"Oh God. Not you too." Sherlock turned back. He opened his hazy eyes and looked at his friend. "How many times have I told you about caring John?" He paled suddenly and gulped. "Stop the car."

The car came to an abrupt halt on the small B road it was travelling. The detective swung the passenger door open quickly and heaved onto the grass verge below. John had already unbuckled himself and was at his friend's side by the time the detective pulled himself upright and wiped away the stray spittle from his face.

"Alright?" he asked as Sherlock shut the door and climbed back into his seat his hands now visibly shaking. His face had paled considerably since departing the airfield and John's inner medic was starting to panic. "I really think we should get you something for this Sherlock." He said sternly.

"I'm fine." The detective sucked a small and apparently difficult breath in and out and gulped back the rising bile threatening again. He accepted the bottle of water from Mary who was now also out her seat.

"Perhaps you should listen to him for once?" Mary added.

"No." Sherlock took a sip of water. He then, to John's alarm, collapsed back into his seat and slipped quickly into unconsciousness. If it hadn't been for Mary he would have drenched himself in half a litre of water too.

"Mycroft." John turned to the older Holmes.

"What do you need?"

"A bloody hospital would be good." John cried.

"You know that's not going to be possible Dr Watson. Sherlock is a known criminal; one can't simply waltz into any emergency department."

"Well a few medical supplies wouldn't go amiss." John bent over his friend and peeled back one of Sherlock's eyelids to reveal a near pinprick sized pupil.

"Under the middle seat." Mycroft pointed.

John pulled the seat up to find a rather smart looking first aid kit. "Why the hell didn't you tell me about this before?" The doctor opened the box to find more than your average kit, but sadly no drugs to counteract Sherlock's obvious overdose.

"You will have more supplies once we reach Baker Street." Mycroft added. He turned to his chauffeur. "I suggest you step on it Johnson. My little brother has somewhere to be, sharpish."

John felt the car lurch into action as the driver stepped on the gas. He hoped to God that Mycroft knew what the hell he was doing because right now his best friend's life was hanging in the balance. He routed through the box of medical supplies and took stock of what was there. Taking out the stethoscope and pen torch and handing the rest to Mary he turned back to his friend.

"Sherlock?" he tried to rouse his unconscious companion to no avail. Gently pushing the detective's eyelids back he shone the light into both finding little to no response now. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" Nothing. He donned the stethoscope then, pulling open the detectives coat and placing the bell onto his friend's chest listening for air flow and then is heart. It was beating steady, but too slow for his liking. "Sherlock!" He shook the detective's shoulders violently and slapped him gently across the cheek. The taller man then let out an abhorrent groan but did not rouse. "Come on. Don't be doing things like this on me."

John looked out the window to see the more familiar outer suburbs of the city, not too long now. The car was now racing along the street and John almost laughed at the thought of Mycroft breaking the speed limit and landing himself with a ticket.

"Any Naloxone in that med box waiting for us?" John asked quickly while pulling out a thermometer to check his friend's temperature.

"Yes." Mycroft looked up from his phone. "And plenty of it too."

"Good." John looked worriedly at the thermometers low reading, "because we're going to need it." He dumped the item back in the box and pulled out a selection of intravenous catheters, a tourniquet and surgical swabs and then with Mary's help proceeded to pull his friend from the heavy Belstaff coat.

John rolled up Sherlock's sleeve and cringed at the sight of the needle sticks and bruised veins beneath. This was not the first time his friend has 'used' in the past few days. He disregarded that arm and turned to the other, finding it in a more appropriate state for IV access. Sherlock's veins were terrible, but it was no surprise to the doctor considering his friend's current state and his past (and present) drug abuse. John was an army medic though, he'd had worse and within a few minutes he had secured a line into Sherlock's arm in preparation for their arrival at Baker Street.

He looked out the window to see the borough of Westminster flying by, how they had got so far so quickly, John did not know. The doctor took stock of Sherlock again. The detective looked horrendous. He had (if at all possible), paled further, his lips had started to turn awful blue tinge and his breathing was becoming dangerously shallow.

"Mary." John turned to his wife, his heart now starting to pump faster with adrenalin, the situation was becoming all too dire. "When we get to Baker Street I need to you collect the medical supplies and bring them straight back to the car, he's not going to make it into the flat."

"Got it." Mary said, she was a nurse, she knew the drill.

John checked his friend's radial pulse. Weak, thready and barely palpable. The doctor looked up to find the car turning into Baker Street. They would be there in 30 seconds, but John wasn't even sure his friend could make another 10 seconds before going into respiratory or cardiac arrest. John placed his cheek next to Sherlock's slack mouth, one weak exhale. He waited, and waited, then another. The car ground to a halt and Mary was out the door within seconds.

"Hold on mate, nearly there." He grasped Sherlock's hand tightly as if letting him go would result in his demise.

Mary bundled back into the vehicle, two medic bags in hand. She unzipped one, rummaging quickly through the side pockets she handed a vial to John and then a needle and syringe. The doctor drew up the drug with his steady hands and squeezed out the air bubbles. He connected it to the catheter and forced the contents into Sherlock's veins, he wasn't even sure his friend was breathing anymore. He glanced at his watch and waited for 45 seconds to pass taking his friends vitals in again. Pulse still weak but marginally better and breathing still terrible.

"Another vial," John turned to his wife to find she had already obliged and drawn up another dose, ready for administration.

The doctor injected the full second dose into his friends IV and then flushed it with saline. A pregnant and worrying pause followed, John counted down to a minute on his watch. "Come on now Sherlock, no more games, it's time to wake up."

The doctor took a pulse and respiration check and then tapped his friend across the cheek to no avail. He pulled out the pen torch, checking the detective's pupils. "Sherlock, wake up now?" he repeated again, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you, you idiot." The younger man cracked his eyes open and took in a huge gulp of air. "I'm not deaf." He added with a slur of the words.

"Don't ever do that again!" John's voice rose. "You bastard!"

Sherlock blinked with confusion at his surroundings. "Ah," he grunted, "We're home."