Chapter 1- Open your EyesTitle inspiration comes from the song Open your Eyes by Jesse Glick, supposedly the opening to Episode 5 of Season 1 in White Collar- Good song. It's not all emo sounding or anything annoying. The guys good and he hardly gains attention, I think you should give it a listen.

Please tell me what you think (about the story so far).

Best read in 1/2 story width fanfiction page layout.

I didn't think that I'd ever feel this way again.

The sensation of my heart lodged in my throat as I looked to the man, with my full attention.

There I stood, at the door of our flat, after climbing those steep lightly spiraled stairs, ready to head to my room a floor up to get my phone off the bed, - which I had forgotten in my haste of getting dressed to leave the house briefly for some cereal and milk for today's breakfast-, when there, in the main room where he usually dwelled, lay the genius mind on the sofa, all too familiar in his usual dressy attire, his suit coat tossed elsewhere as he just sported slacks and a button up dark lavender long sleeve.

Of course, an all too natural scene.

I had figured through light observation, that when the man was moving too much in thought, by laying down, -due to his lack of nutrition, thanks to his abusive mannerisms during a case, nearly starving himself to death at some points-,I assumed it was his way of conserving his bodies energy- the rare amount that somehow remained.

But there were many unusual things about his tall and strong body, despite him being who he is.

Turning my body to face the main room, the front door always open during the day, perhaps was overnight since he didn't seem to change, just stay in the room dwelling in his thoughts as he lay in the sofa, I slowly walked in, eyes curious, observant, as I approached the man, along with his surroundings.

Once it clicked, I rushed to him, eyes wide."Sherlock?" I called out, quickly, but lightly as well, hushed, as if Mrs. Hudson was around, hiding in the kitchen or something.

When I got no response, cupping his cheeks, looking into the closed lidded eyes of the man, I tried again. "Sherlock!" My brows furrowed.

I didn't ask for a response, but rather demanded it, shaking his face lightly as my hands repressed from going rough and probably bruising his most likely easily marked skin, since he was obviously anemic.

I shook my head, not caring to think of such things as I further examined the scenario.

Mycroft had warned me, I reminded myself as I gingerly held the wrist to his arm that dangled off the side of the couch, marks all too fresh, checking his pulse.

It was there, but barely. Slow. I had to hold my breath to steady my hand as I checked his heartbeat over mine, which loudly beat in a pacing rhythm against my ear drums.

I growled his name in irritation and concern, more over disappointed, as I picked up an empty syringe, ignoring the one that was halfway full beside. My mind went blank, and I had found myself staring at the empty one.

This was not good. Well, if I was correct, then it was certainly not good.

Nearly slamming the glass needle to the ground, I grabbed his arm again, and checked for torn flesh, not the ones he had just done, but if there were any from previous days, weeks, maybe months- and if to that extent, then shame on me for not noticing.

I further rolled his sleeve- away from the ones that caught my eyes soon after the needles, and checked for any marks about his elbow. None.

It was a brief relief when I realized that he had perhaps only injected enough to not entirely end his life. Checking the other arm, I noticed his was a clean slate as well.

But that wasn't entirely good news- because that meant he had returned to drugs, and didn't hold back.

Like an alcoholic who doesn't drink for seven years and has the confidence to down a bottle of highly proof vodka, convincing themselves they can manage.

He had taken more then he could handle, and that was obvious in itself.

When Mycroft had told me of Sherlock's little drug habit, he further chided that the reason he was telling me in the first place, was because he was noting things that I, the rather new flat mate, couldn't possibly know.

He had explained that it was after meeting Moriarty at the pool for the first time- Sherlock's loss of self, progressively.

Mycroft had went through Sherlock's history, explaining things that I hardly expected Sherlock would succumb to over the feeling of loss.

The first time it happened, the older explained, was after the death of their mother, it having traumatizing effects on the younger Holmes. The second time was when he had failed to stretch out a case entirely.

No doubt, I concluded, this time was the loss in this ridiculous game with Moriarty on their first go.

I couldn't really place why, however, this would be the result from what Mycroft had explained, this would happen when Sherlock was usually stuck in his thoughts, or when he hadn't eaten or slept enough to power his mind, to make audible words from his running thoughts, he would use the drugs as a stimulant, to power his, as he would say, 'rotting brain'.

My eyes scanned his pale face, blue lips, as I quickly dialed for an ambulance, not having the proper tools in our home for a heroin overdose.

I hadn't realized how shaken I was until I found myself pacing the room, one hand holding the cell phone to my ear, the other ruffling the back of my hair, eyes looking past everything, as if all that existed was the and his name, address, situation, and current state of Sherlock, the usual. I had demanded they go past not believing me when I confirmed that I was a doctor. They wanted me to stay on the line, but I hung up, tossing the phone aside as I rushed back to Sherlock, sitting on one knee by the sofa, further observing his depleting current damp with sweat along the edge of his forehead and jaw line. His complexion was paler then before. I could only guess it was because he had taken this with nothing in his stomach, kind of like drinking with an empty stomach, the burning feeling in you esophagus, hitting you hard minutes later compared to when you were well, or intermediately fed a few hours prior."Sherlock." I tried again, my voice loud enough for him to hear at our proximity. But I got nothing in return, not even an aggressive grunt and demand that I let him rest.

No, he had reached the state beyond fighting that comforting need for rest, that moment when you fight to keep the person awake with light conversation and ridiculous questions that seemed fitting in their ruined state of mind.

I rose a single hand, cupping his lightly sweaty cheek, checking for his temperature as I turned it to place the back of my hand against his forehead. He had no brows furrowed, grabbing hold of his hand. He was cold, really cold, for it being the beginning of fall in a lightly cooled down flat, something I failed to notice when I first took hold of his wrist.

I brought my hand up, slapping him against the cheek lightly, glaring but determined- I could tell by the vibrato in my words-, but it was hardly man's eye rolled lightly behind closed lids- and I was about to believe myself for a fool if he just stirred awake and asked me what I was doing, ignoring the needles and the scene in itself- but that wasn't what , his brows just rose lightly and lowered, a small groan at the back of his throat, but then he settled again.

I yelled in my head, cruel words that I wanted to shout at him, but instead I shut off the emotional attachment and went back to what I should do as a doctor. The ambulance would be here at any moment.

I put my ear close in his direction. Shallow breathing. Pulling away I took my thumb and rose a lid over an eye, checking for pupil dilation, and sure enough, they were pinpoint. If I had never seen this before, I might have been extremely frightened by that alone.

I leaned back as I sat, staring at the man. In truth, there was nothing I could do at the moment, but wait, and keep what little wake he had would be no response to force him to throw up- not that I was even sure I had to at this point. Cold towels wouldn't help, getting the man to wake wouldn't help much but commence the usual struggle to keep him away.

But what bothered me overall as my mind drew blanks, unconsciously squeezing his hand, was the lack of surprise.

It was not because Mycroft had warned me that his brother would fall again, but because, while I'm no genius, I am still someone who has been very cautious of those around me.

The quirks that often proved awful things about who they really are behind the presentation they put forth.

And this was one of those moments. Because Sherlock seemed to have cared less about who walked in and watched as he injected, seeing as to how the door was wide frikin open.

"Stay with me Sherlock." I whispered, face blank as my emotions failed me, my eyes darting away before landing on his pale face. "They should be here any second." I quietly assured, not as if could hear me.

And if he could, I could bet he found that very delightful since I was pretty sure he didn't want to die. No, not like this. Risking his life, always, but to end it in such a manner? Never.

The man may have sulked to the point of complete silence for a collection of days. But never was he suicidal in the sense of doing something to himself to end it.

I called his name again, quietly, as I reached up to remove a stray curl of dark hair that didn't fit along his forehead quite right, my mind not wanting to even see him as disheveled despite the current presentation.

But from the neck up, he looked to be taking a simple nap, save for the blue tint in his lips that progressively saturated hue.

This calmed my nerves enough.

I had forgotten that I was holding onto his hand still, and let go, both on the floor, collecting the needles to place elsewhere, my eyes to the ground the whole time, as I decided to start some sort of conversation, hoping to get a response, shaking him every other few seconds till I got a minimal grunt from his end, like a frustrated kid who didn't want to wake for school.

"Do you remember how we met?" Really? That's all I could come up with? Our meeting wasn't even sentimental in the least. It was odd, and not something I really didn't want to remember, even though a basic day with this man is just a rant of deductions. I shook my head lightly, sighing. Harry, my sister, would be recording this if she were here, to prove one of her misguided points.I slapped him lightly again, a couple of times more, my eyes steady on his face and shallow breathing as I realized how farther delayed his responses were."Sherlock?" As a doctor, I had come to face a lot of people who came in because of drug abuse, but most of them were stressed women, suicidal business men, skin heads- but never a man of Sherlock's I may sound calm, but I assure any witness, I wasn't.

My lips pressed into a thin line, brows furrowed, as I gripped his shoulders and shook him no matter caliber, no matter how extraordinarily inhuman Sherlock he was-, I cringed, -he is, he is still human.

His body still functions as it normally should despite his constant neglect.

It was not a hard lesson when I learned my career- drug related issues that is. So I knew Sherlock would perhaps fall into a coma if I allowed him to lay there till his responses no longer came.

My jaw flexed as I gripped his thin shoulders and harshly shook him more. "Sherlock!" I shouted through pressed teeth. "No, no no!" I growled, my temper losing itself, as I began to glare at the man, shaking him roughly. "Come on, don't do this to me." I muttered to myself as I pulled my hands from his shoulders and took upon the arm that hung from the couch, eyes to his pale wrist as I took his pulse, glancing to his emotionless face from time to time. I cursed under my breath, not being able to find a pulse, eyes directed towards his neck as I firmly placed two fingers against his jugular.

My eyes slightly widened. Not good. My head lifted, attention completely directed towards him. "Sherlock?" I panicked, cupping his face, my face tilting lightly from side to side as I looked for any sort of response. "Come on Sherlock," Open your bloody eyes! Looking for even the slight muscular nudge of the side of his brow. "Sherlock!" I shouted, trying to stir him.

There was no response.

A/N-

And here I was hoping I'd avoid any angst or off trail stories and concentrate on general ideas.
My was I wrong, after reading other fictions.
It seems that my other was too boring, since it branched on general and hardly any signs of progress even though it was in the beginning of things.

Anyways, no slash. I don't intend on pairing the two. I like them as friends, despite my pairing at times, I just don't want to do that.

I didn't like how uncaring I made John seem though, even though, if I wrote it in the 3rd person, I might have made it much more emotional. But it dawned unto me, he's a professional at his work. He's seen plenty of this, and worse. First thing we're taught at pre-med is to not panic when we need to treat a patient, because we wouldn't be able to think straight.