Tralalalalala I needed some angsty fluff (:

I got given a prompt (I am still working on A New Kind Of Pain but my inspiration has died, if anyone wants to give me any, PM me) which waaaas:

Prompt: Sherlock overdoses on drugs one day when he realises that John will never love him like Sherlock loves him. Mycroft discovers him and John is left to look after Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed and walked the final few steps to the embankment, trailing a hand over the thick stone wall that encompassed the river and then ducking down, close to the edge of the bridge and down into the squalor. No one passed him a moments glance as he strode through the homeless camp, wandering across the mud and stones on the bank of the Thames. He shivered as his hand brushed the sleek syringe in his jacket pocket, running the pads of his fingers over the curved side and the long thin needle, capped for the moment. It was beautifully deadly, his escape from the pain of reality. He'd tried other things, but nothing worked quite this well.

The exquisite sting as the needle slid seamlessly through his epidermis and then the rush as he depressed the plunger that left him trembling with anticipation and adrenaline. He shook himself forcefully and kept walking, his impeccably shiny shoes dipping in the quietly lapping water of the Thames as he walked along. He reached the spot he'd been searching for and sat down on the shingle bank, spreading his coat out underneath him and preparing himself for what he was about to do.

With one hand, he carefully undid the buttons on his tailored shirt sleeve and rolled it back, fingernails sliding up under the nicotine patch on his pale wrist and throwing it away. He let out a quiet sigh and pulled his sleeve back over his forearm, tight around his bicep and the tied the tourniquet against the crook of his elbow, bringing a vein up in his arm. As the blood pulsed against the tight band on his upper arm, his other hand dug into the pocket of his coat and drew out the sleek syringe, tilting it so that the liquid inside moved down the tube.

He pressed the plunger slightly and a stream of liquid came out, just for a few moments to rid it of air bubbles. Sherlock was nothing if careful, even now in the moment he chose to take his life, he was so very careful. He pressed the tip of the needle into his skin, daring himself to push it further, into his vein now, and then depress the plunger, releasing the liquid euphoria into his body. Gingerly, slowly, almost agonisingly slowly, he slid the needle into his arm, feeling the smooth metal break open his skin and settle in his vein.

After a few moments adjusting to the sensation of a needle in him after years of being clean, he depressed the plunger and allowed the liquid to flood through him. It took the edge off the sensation of pain and quietened the deafening roar of his mind. He felt his whole body go numb quickly and smiled, welcoming the oncoming tunnel of darkness and the release. Inside his mind he said a silent goodbye to John and drifted away.

Mycroft was going to kill Sherlock. He was livid that his brother had dropped off the radar like this, outsmarted an entire team of surveillance and just vanished. Even John didn't know and he had asked, well, asked wasn't quite the right word. He preferred the term "briefed John about the situation" but the fact remained that Sherlock was missing and no one knew where he was. He leaned heavily on his umbrella and barked a command to Anthea, who resumed tapping at her blackberry after arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"Find him. Find him now." Mycroft barked, pacing in his fitted suit and shined shoes, his pale skin unnaturally flushed in what seemed to be rage. "How could he do this? Why now?" He mused, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. "He was happy, he is happy, he has John and a steady job even if it is somewhat erratic in the hours, but why would he leave now? And how?" As Mycroft puzzled this over out loud, he felt a small tug on his arm. A small man stood behind him, mousy hair and pale skin, large brown eyes in his face and slightly parted lips that looked almost fake.

"Mr Holmes, sir?" The man had a reedy, nasal voice and it grated on Mycroft's nerves within seconds.

"What is it?" He snapped, not bothering to recall the man's name.

"Your brother, sir." The man didn't seem perturbed by the lack of name.

"What is it?" Then Mycroft looked, really looked at the man. He was sweating and shaking, wringing his hands in terror and he seemed worried. Then he recalled the name of the man, Perkins, and forced it onto his tongue.

"Perkins tell me, please, where is my brother?" Silently, Perkins walked away, knowing subconsciously that Mycroft would follow and sat at his workstation. He tilted the screen of the computer and Mycroft felt his breath still in his throat. Why hadn't he thought? He never imagined that Sherlock would regress into his drug days again, and he never thought to check the place where Sherlock had used in the past. Sherlock had taken him by surprise again and it seemed that his mistake could be fatal, because as he watched, Sherlock slumped forward and dropped a needle from an unresisting hand.

"Get him. Now." Mycroft barked, pulling up images from different angles and sending them to every operative he could get in touch with in a few moments. "Get him and bring him back alive. He's being stupid, and he doesn't do stupid very well, just bring him back alive." He snapped, his back ramrod straight and leaning on his umbrella. He began pacing, working off all the restless anger and worry in his mind.

John was numb in shock, staring out at the image on his screen. He took it in in a moment and felt his knees go weak. Sherlock was lying on the ground, his knees tucked under him and he had a tourniquet wrapped around his upper arm and a needle glittered nearby. The photo was grainy but he could see all he needed and he felt so very sick and angry at Sherlock for doing this to him. Why would he regress now? He'd seemed oh so happy, so alert and energetic, not like he was hiding anything. Although, thinking on it now, he'd been edgy and wouldn't tell John where he was going or how long he'd be. He remembered it vaguely, remembered how distraught he'd seemed when they got home. He hoped it wasn't his fault.

Sherlock swirled inside, his coat brushing around him and then began talking a mile a minute, practically bouncing up and down with his brilliant grey eyes flashing, completely alight with fervour. In the spur of the moment, full of a strange excitement that only came when a case was solved and it was a satisfactory result, and in a strange display of emotion he grabbed John's hands and squeezed. John nearly pulled back, but it felt so very right and exciting. He squeezed back in a moment, caught up in Sherlock's wild enthusiasm, and then saw a glint in Sherlock's eye, it was scary, deadly, and John was suddenly very, irrationally scared. But it felt so right to be stood in the room with Sherlock's hands clasped around his, and as John came to the conclusion that he didn't mind it really, Sherlock very quickly pressed a chaste kiss on his lips. John pulled back, in a state of shock.

"I..." He began but Sherlock was shaking his head, seeming angry with himself.

"No. No it was me. Stupid." Sherlock was chastising himself and it was scary how frantic he was.

"Sherlock." John started weakly, trying to place a hand on his arm.

"No, John not now. I have to go out, I'll be a while. Don't worry about me." He grabbed his coat, John didn't recall when he'd got rid of it, and practically flew out of the door.

"Sherlock where are you going? Come back!" He yelled at Sherlock's retreating figure and when he received no reply, he swore. "We can talk about this." But Sherlock was long gone by then. He raised a trembling hand to his lips and left it there, remembering the thrilling sensation of Sherlock's against his own.

And now John was here looking at Sherlock slumped on a bank of what looked like the Thames, a needle in his limp fingers. John could see from the photo that there was already the tell-tale trace of cyanosis around his lips, and his eyes had fallen closed. With a trembling hand he exited the text and sighed heavily, pocketing his phone before heading outside to catch a cab and make his way to the hospital, his heart fluttering in his chest. He stood on the curb, biting his lower lip hard and he was about to hail a cab when a sleek black car pulled up and the door opened.

"Mycroft." John growled and stepped inside, glaring at the floor. "How is he?" He managed out after a little while of staring at the floor and the lights of London flashing across his face.

"Unconscious." Mycroft snapped tersely, and then softened a little. "Sorry, I'm just worried about my little brother. It was not expected."

"What are they treating him with?"

"Naloxone." John shivered, that meant that Sherlock wasn't breathing when they found him.

"How long before he was resuscitated?" Mycroft's head snapped up, a confused look flitting across it.

"How did you know?" John indicated himself and sighed.

"I am a doctor you know, I don't just play around with the title because I'm bored." Mycroft glared at him pointedly.

"Yes, Doctor Watson. I know. Approximately three minutes after the first injection of Naloxone he regained consciousness and his breathing stabilised. He lost consciousness shortly after but is stable." Mycroft emphasised the "Doctor" part of John's title and John could feel his rage building.

"Where are we going?" John asked when he'd reined in his temper.

"Hospital." Mycroft answered abruptly, and John couldn't be bothered to push him for specifics.

"Will he pull through?" John dared to ask, his eyes locking with Mycroft's with a fierce burning passion in them.

"He has to. John, you're primarily in charge of his care, I'll check on you every week, but he needs you to recover." John growled, low and menacing in his throat.

"You're his brother. This is your job." He snapped, glaring at Mycroft, but in his chest, there was a slowly rising bubble of emotion that felt almost like hope.

"He trusts you more than me." It looked as though it pained Mycroft to say that. "He needs you John, he doesn't know it, but he needs you now more than ever. He's too stubborn to ask for help; you need to know what he needs. I can't think of anyone else who would know him better than you. He needs you." With that, Mycroft opened John's door and indicated for him to get out. "Government clearance, he's getting discharged in the morning." John stared at him, agape.

"But surely he would be in for at least a week... And then extensive rehabilitation. At the very least a few sessions with a therapist.""

Therapists don't get along with my brother, as I'm sure you can imagine. As for the discharge..." Mycroft gave a small smile and John just shook his head hopelessly, exiting the car and striding across the car park to the waiting hospital.

"Sherlock Holmes." He snapped impatiently at the woman on the desk. She curled her hair around her fingers and tapped onto the computer.

"No matches." John sighed in frustration at the vicious cycle they were in. Then he had a startling thought and smiled.

"Mycroft Holmes." He knew Sherlock would be most put out by using his brother's name, but it couldn't be helped.

"Ward 3." She told him, and he walked off, a slight buoyancy in his step that lessened as he reached the ward, where Sherlock was, securely cocooned in his own private room. John didn't bother to knock, he just opened the door and stepped inside, taking in the familiar scent of hospitals, of disinfectant, of sickness, and underneath that was the scent that he missed without realising it. The smell that was exquisitely Sherlock hung in the air, and John carefully inhaled, picking his way across the floor to the bedside. Sherlock was awake but had turned away at the sound of the door, clenching his eyes shut.

"Sherlock, look at me." His gentle tones hung in the air, and silence continued, until it shattered and broke with a sniff on Sherlock's part. "Hey, look at me." John nudged him with words, and when Sherlock turned to look at John, he was trembling.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, and that alone scared John more than anything.

"What for?" John sat on the edge of the bed and took Sherlock's hand in his own. Sherlock rested his head, warm and heavy, on John's lap and John ran his fingers through the lank curls.

"This..." John's fingers tightened slightly in Sherlock's hair.

"Don't be sorry, yes you did this, but I'm not mad at you." He soothed him, and Sherlock gave a quiet sigh, his whole body shuddering.

"I don't want to hurt you anymore." He sighed and John slid his fingers through his hair again, curling them together.

"Don't even think about it, don't do this again." Sherlock looked down, eyes cast over the rumpled bedcovers.

"I can't hurt you again." John ceased in stroking his hair and slipped his shoes off, sitting cross legged on the bed.

"You will if you keep talking like this, I don't want you to leave me, or even try to. You scared me today, Sherlock." Sherlock moved from his position on John's lap and looked at his hands.

"I'm sorry..." Sherlock was subdued and it was disconcerting to see him like this. John reached out and touched his arm, the one where he'd injected. It had a pad of gauze on it, secured with surgical tape.

"Why?" He uttered that one word and Sherlock sighed, his hands on the bed.

"It... Doesn't matter."

"You nearly died. It matters."

"No, John, leave it." He gathered all his strength and fixed John with a solid glare, their eyes meeting. John sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"Okay, for now. I won't leave it forever, but until you get better. Now." The doctor in John burst out and he clapped his hands together. "Sleep, then I'll take you home in the morning." Sherlock lay back on the bed with a quiet sigh. "Sleep, you'll feel better."

"I doubt it."

"Sleep." John told him, in a tone that brooked no refusal.

They left the next day, Sherlock seemed fine, he would hardly look at John and he was his usual arrogant self, but when they got home and he had a shower, John leaned against the door and thought he heard him cry, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't push it. Every day John worried that he wasn't doing enough, he couldn't help Sherlock enough, with good reason to.

Three weeks after the initial overdose, John came back from the surgery to see Sherlock shooting up in the front room. Angrily, he pulled the needle from Sherlock's arm, untied the tourniquet and, shaking all over, dragged him into the bathroom.

"How much did you take?" His voice was full of rage, barely concealed at best.

"Not enough evidently."

"For god's sake Sherlock! This is not a joke! I need to know now whether I need to take you to hospital!" Sherlock looked at him, a strange glint in his eyes.

"I don't need hospital, I don't need you. I didn't take enough to overdose, just leave me alone!" John shouldered his coat and gave an exasperated sigh.

"Stay here, right now, stay and don't leave, understand?"

"I understand." John sighed and walked out, slamming the door closed with unnecessary force behind him. As the door closed, Sherlock bit on his lower lip and began to cry, resting his forehead on his knees. There was silence save for the sobbing, and then Sherlock stood, padding across the floor with his bare feet as then into John's room, lying on the bed and inhaling his scent. His keen eyes spotted his oatmeal coloured jumper and Sherlock pulled it on, the coarse wool against his skin reminding him that he was still here, and the scent of John all around comforting him until he fell asleep.

John let himself into the flat, staying quiet, the lights were off and nothing was on, he placed a hand on the kettle and it was stone cold.

"Sherlock?" He called, gently padding up the stairs into his bedroom, aiming to get a jumper from there as it had become cold. He stepped inside and saw Sherlock asleep on his bed, curled up in his favourite jumper. He felt a smile break over his face and sat on the mattress, waking Sherlock without meaning to. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." Sherlock shook his head a blush rising over his face.

"I... I didn't mean to sleep..." John smiled and stroked Sherlock's hand gently.

"You want to tell me why you did it, hey?" He pointed to the angry red mark on Sherlock's arm and gently ran a finger over it.

"Makes me forget. Takes the edge off it."

"Off what?"

"Off how I feel..."

"Sherlock?" He pressed him, touching his hand gently.

"How I feel about you..."

"And how do you feel about me?"

"I like... No... I love you." He silently shook his head. "And I know you're straight, I know you are and I couldn't live with it, tried to stop it, fix this... I couldn't hurt you."

"Sherlock... You're silly." Sherlock looked up, blinking.

"I know, silly because I love you."

"No, silly because you couldn't see that I love you too, and I can't bear the the thought that you were going to leave because of me."

"I... Oh." John took Sherlock's hand.

"You can keep the jumper."

"Counterproductive. Only wore it because it smelled like you."

"Okay then, I'll wear it then you can have it. Okay?"

"Okay." They smiled at each other and Sherlock smiled, realising finally, that everything would be all right again for the first time in a very long time.