I wrote this in school because I can't stop thinking about the special.

John was sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed, watching its owner sleep restlessly. A cold ball of anxiety had taken residence in his chest ever since he saw that God forsaken list, refusing to dissolve until he knew Sherlock was okay.

On the plane, Sherlock had looked so confused, and so very ill. "You just said, 'Which is it: morphine or cocaine?'" Sherlock said to John.

John had become confused, too, and a little uneasy. "Sherlock, I didn't say any-"

His words cut off abruptly in his throat when Sherlock's eyes rolled back and he slumped back in the chair, passed out, head lolling to the side.

John had jumped to his feet and shook Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock! Sherlock!" Sherlock had remained unconscious for a few more minutes, dead to the world, unresponsive to John shaking him, and Mycroft's concerned calling of his name.

When Sherlock had woken up he insisted he was fine and there was work to be done, but he was completely full of shit. His skin was as pale as John had ever seen it, and covered in a thin layer of sweat. He had dark rings under his eyes and stumbled when he stood, so John dragged him back to Baker Street. Sherlock had been too weak to really resist. On the car ride home, Sherlock was huddled in his seat, drifting in and out of consciousness. Not surprising John in the least, as soon as Sherlock sprawled out on his bed, he passed out again.

Mary seemed more than irritated that John wanted to stay with Sherlock, but he couldn't care less about what she thought at the moment. What mattered was his best friend's health. So, she had stormed out of Baker Street, muttering to herself.

Too bad, John thought bitterly. She never cared about Sherlock's well-being. That was all too clear now.

Presently, Sherlock whimpered in his sleep, eyebrows furrowing.

John held his wrist and took his pulse for what felt like the 70th time that day. It was a little slow, but not enough to raise any red flags, considering all the shit that was pumping through his bloodstream. The idiot. The fucking cock. Why did he have such low regard for his own body? Didn't he realize how fucking important he was? If Sherlock didn't stop nearly dying on him, John would kill him himself.

Sherlock's head rolled back and forth on the pillow a couple times, and he whimpered again. John didn't want to know what was going through that brilliant, drug-induced mind. He was getting worried now. (Well, more worried than before.)

"Wake up, Sherlock," John whispered.

Sherlock's eyes darted behind his lids.

"Come on," John said, smoothing his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone. "You have to wake up for me."

Sherlock couldn't leave him again. He couldn't. John didn't think he would be able to survive a second time.

"Please, Sherlock," he begged quietly, unaware of his voice cracking. The pulse beneath his fingers sped up a little. "Wake up," John pleaded again, brushing Sherlock's damp curls away from his forehead. He was so beautiful, and yet he treated himself so poorly. Seeing Sherlock destroy himself was beyond painful. Who convinced this man he was worth so little? John wanted to strangle them. Sherlock was the best man he'd ever known. He was a prick, but he deserved so much more than he thought he did. Sherlock's low self-esteem was becoming increasingly evident, and it only made John want to reassure him.

John whispered, "Wake up. For me."

Sherlock groaned and frowned, eyes blinking open slowly, his gaze hazy.

John huffed out a sigh of relief. "Hey," he smiled softly, the ball of anxiety in his chest easing up by a fraction.

"Hello," Sherlock said lowly, voice rough.

Relief and fondness taking over, John ran his hand through Sherlock's hair gently. "See? You did need more rest."

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound, his eyes on John, looking puzzled.

"You okay?" John asked, which was stupid, because of course he wasn't. He ran his hand through Sherlock's hair once more, and then moved his hand to stroke the soft skin of Sherlock's feverish cheek. He would have felt embarrassed about this under normal circumstances, but he needed to touch Sherlock, to make sure he was really there and okay.

Yet, Sherlock said, "I'm fine", which seemed to be his default response. "Where's Mary?" Sherlock asked, sounding uneasy.

John frowned. "Mary? Gone home, I guess." Couldn't be bothered to stay. "Why?"

An almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders vanished. "Just asking," Sherlock sighed weakly and closed his eyes. "I feel sick."

John snorted. "Yeah, well, that's to be expected."

"I know," Sherlock said in annoyance, eyes opening, "It's not my first overdose."

John stiffened, and Sherlock winced.

"Sorry," Sherlock said meekly.

John felt anger bubbling inside him, but he knew Sherlock was unwell and vulnerable, so he tried to contain it. He had to ask what was niggling at the back of his mind. "Why, Sherlock? Why did you take all of that shit? It couldn't have been to solve Moriarty's return-you didn't know about that until after you boarded the plane!"

Sherlock smiled ruefully. "You really are pretty damn smart."

John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock never complimented his intelligence. Where did that even come from? "What?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock grimaced, suddenly gasping sharply. His arms flew to his abdomen and wrapped around his stomach. "John! I think-!"

John grabbed the bucket he'd brought into the room and shoved it to the side of the bed. Thank god he'd thought ahead, because Sherlock wretched miserably into the bucket, curled up in pain, and brought up bile. Sympathy flooded John and he held back Sherlock's hair.

When Sherlock was finished, he clumsily wiped his mouth with a tissue from the box on his bedside table. "Sorry," he mumbled and squeezed his eyes shut, burying his head into the pillow.

"It's all right," John said softly. "I'll be back."

John cleaned out the bucket in the bathroom, and he felt all his anger disappear. Sherlock was suffering. He needed comfort right now, not a scolding. If he took all of those drugs, he had to be in some sort of turmoil. John was glad he stayed at Baker Street. Sherlock couldn't go through this alone. John needed to know what led Sherlock to this.

When John came back to Sherlock's room, he was lying on his side, looking up at John in...shame?

"Hey, it's okay," John sat on the edge of the bed again, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You'll be okay."

Sherlock looked torn between being defensive and accepting John's help.

Just let me in. "Tell me why you did this," John said insistently. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock's eyes were glassy, and John had a sinking feeling it wasn't solely due to drugs. Sherlock's mouth opened and closed, struggling to find words, but he clamped his jaw and his bottom lip quivered.

"Sherlock," John's eyes widened, "what is it?"

Sherlock sucked in a shuddering breath, "John, I can't do this," he whispered shakily. He looked absolutely dejected and hopeless. "I thought I could have gone on, but I can't. I'm-I'm tired, John, so tired of everything."

John didn't know exactly what he was talking about, but he didn't like this. He knew what to do. He climbed next to Sherlock on the bed and lay down next to him.

Sherlock rolled over to face him, glassy eyes now uncertain.

Without a word, John embraced Sherlock, bringing their bodies together, and buried his face in his curls.

Sherlock gasped and tensed, his face in John's neck. John wasn't discouraged. He held him tightly, running his hand over Sherlock's back. This was the first time he truly hugged Sherlock, not counting that awkward one at his wedding, and it was heavenly. He wanted-needed-to take care of Sherlock. He wondered how often the man received loving, human contact.

Not often, evidently, because Sherlock started to tremble in his arms, "John!"

"Shhh," John hushed into his soft hair. "You're going to be okay. I'm here. It's just the two of us."

That struck Sherlock somehow, and he trembled more, a low whine coming from his throat. John wasn't entirely sure, but he thought Sherlock may have been holding back tears. Sherlock's breathing was unsteady and the spot on John's neck where Sherlock's face was nestled felt suspiciously wet. John made more shushing sounds, nuzzling Sherlock's hair with his face. Seeing a man who was normally so reserved like this, shaking and out of sorts, was jarring but not unwelcome. John wished he opened up more often. John was his friend. It was his job to be there for him.

He held Sherlock in silence for a few minutes, save for the occasional shushing sounds, waiting for Sherlock to calm down. He kept rubbing his muscular back and breathed steadily, hoping Sherlock would match his rhythm. It worked. Their chests were pressed together, hearts beating in sync. Sherlock was warm and solid in his arms and John wanted to hold him all night. Once Sherlock stopped shaking and his breathing got back to normal, John was ready to talk.

"Tell me what's wrong," he whispered one last time.

Sherlock took three deep breaths and then lifted his head, revealing his face. His face was red and he was biting his lip. "John, I can't hold it back anymore."

Oh god. "Can't hold back what? I want to hear," he added when Sherlock's gaze darted away. John's heart was pumping quickly and he had an idea where this was going. He needed to hear it from Sherlock, though. He cupped Sherlock's jaw, his skin warm beneath John's hand.

Sherlock held his hand. "I think," he gulped, "I think-I know-I love you quite a lot."

John sucked in a breath through his open mouth, overwhelmed at actually hearing those words come from Sherlock's perfect mouth.

"I wasn't going to see you again," Sherlock blurted out, pressing on. "I would have never seen you again and I could not bear the thought, so I had to cope somehow," his voice broke.

"Wait," John cut in, "you weren't coming back?" he almost yelled.

Sherlock shook his head. "I would have been dead within six months."

John's heart almost stopped.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock went on, "I couldn't handle it. You're the best thing that ever happened to me and I almost lost you. I don't deserve you." Sherlock's blinked back tears. "I do nothing but hurt you," he said in horror.

And, fuck it. John almost lost Sherlock too many fucking times. Fuck his stubbornness. Fuck his marriage with Mary. Sherlock was his best friend, the love of his life. He had known for years, but was always too damned scared to admit it. But enough was enough. Sherlock was here, crying, in his arms. It also clicked that Sherlock nearly overdosed because he thought he would never see John again. Before Sherlock could say another word, John kissed him firmly, but briefly. When he pulled away, Sherlock was wide-eyed and flabbergasted.

"You do not," John said sternly moving his hand to cup Sherlock's chin and rubbing his thumb softly over his full bottom lip. He licked his lips when Sherlock just barely puckered his lips. "You do not do nothing but hurt me. You make me happy. Jesus, Sherlock, I love you, too. How could you have not known?" John stroked his thumb across his jaw. "Of course I love you." He swallowed past a lump in his throat. "I'm shit at this, but I need you, okay? No one has made me feel more alive than you."

Sherlock, though his eyes were still huge and a single tear was running down his cheek, began to smile tentatively. Fuck, he was so beautiful. "Really?"

"Really. You've always been my top priority. I want to spend my life with you." He wiped the tear from Sherlock's face.

"Not Mary?" Sherlock asked warily.

John could have laughed. "No, not Mary. I can't stand her anymore, Sherlock, she tried to kill you!"

Sherlock was smiling brightly now. "You want to leave her?"

John had to mirror that gorgeous smile. "Yeah, if you'll have me."

"Yes!" Sherlock surged forward and kissed John forcefully, clumsily. "John, I love you, I love you so much."

John giggled into the kiss and stroked Sherlock's cheek, gently slowing down the movement of their lips. "I love you, too, madman," he mumbled and brought their mouths together. Sherlock's lips were divine, pink, soft, and plump. They felt like silk, and John could have sobbed at how perfect it felt, how much time they wasted.

"I won't get high anymore," Sherlock mumbled against John's lips.

"You won't?" John asked skeptically.

"I promise," Sherlock said firmly. "I won't need it if you're with me."

John kissed him again, humming when Sherlock's large hand wrapped around the back of his neck. He sucked lightly at Sherlock's lower lip, feeling closer to him than ever before. Sherlock sighed happily. John wanted to draw that sound of him every day, for the rest of their lives. They held each other and kissed in the low afternoon light of Sherlock's bedroom, filing the empty air with the sound of their lips gliding and sucking together. Their lips slid against each other comfortably, not driven by lust (yet), but the desire to be close.

John ended the kiss and rested their foreheads together, noses bumping, so close they could feel the heat from each other's faces.

"How do you feel?" John asked.

"Getting better," Sherlock murmured. "I still feel weak. I promise I won't anymore."

"I believe you," John kissed his cheek.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "When will you end things with Mary?"

"The next time I see her," John said, and he meant it. "I don't care about the baby. I mean, I hope she'll be healthy and all, but you're more important." He was tired of putting things before Sherlock. Not anymore. Not after almost losing him again. "To be honest, I never really wanted to be a father." Since he found out about the pregnancy, he had never said that out loud and god, did it feel good to finally say it. It felt like a weight lifted off his shoulders.

"Work out the details later," Sherlock said and burrowed his face in John's chest in an unexpectedly affectionate display. "I want you here."

"I'm here," John reassured. "I'm right here."

Sherlock smiled against his chest. "You really are, aren't you?"

John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, "I am." John cleared his throat, adding quietly, "You're not alone anymore."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's torso, rubbing his nose against John's chest. John felt privileged to be loved by this amazing, gorgeous, misunderstood man. Now that he knew he had that privilege, he would always cherish it. Never again would Sherlock have to deal with his demons by himself.

Their problems weren't over. There was still Mary and the threat of Moriarty, and John knew he always had to worry about Sherlock relapsing. But, they were together now. They would be fine in the end.

I'm looking forward to canon Johnlock more than high school graduation.