(AN: Hey. Thanks for reading. These aren't "chapters" in any sense of the word, I've just split the story up into more manageable bits. I'm not sure where I'm going with this story, I just wanted to write Sherlock strung out on drugs and vulnerable for once.)

Sherlock was missing, John was sure of it. He'd called Lestrade more times than he could count to try and find him, but of course the Yarders wasn't having any luck. It had been two days, almost three. The last time John had seen him, he was frustrated and looking for his cigarettes again. Then he'd gotten a text.

John was kicking himself for not demanding to read that text. He'd seen Sherlock's face turn paper white, the way he'd glanced at John and then out the window. It was so bloody obvious something was badly wrong, and yet he'd let him pull on his coat, turn up the collar and walk out the door without a word of protest. To be fair to himself, he did ask him where he was going. All he'd gotten in response was a quiet, "Out."

John originally thought Mycroft must've called him with some family news, but when Sherlock didn't respond to his texts, he began to suspect. He'd disappeared before, but he'd always left hints. There'd been a note in John's book he'd just bought secondhand, or a pair of new things in the fridge that started with the letters S and H. Sometimes Sherlock had taken the direct route and told him (in the vaguest, most open-for-interpretation way possible) that he'd be gone for a day or so.

Walking out the door without a hint of where he was going or what he needed to do? That was unheard of.

John flipped open his phone for the millionth time, checking if he'd missed a text from anybody. He was on the verge of phoning Mycroft, he was so worried. Sherlock hadn't been in contact with anyone for nearly three days. Mrs. Hudson was beside herself that the police couldn't find him. John wasn't sure exactly what she'd said to Lestrade when he'd come to the flat, but he'd never seen the DI so pale before.

He tapped his foot on the floor for a while, thinking. Thankfully, or maybe not so thankfully, he had the week off work.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. John obsessively checked his phone again. Nothing, of course. He hesitated, and then opened his contact list, scrolling to Mycroft's number.

I can only imagine what he's doing, middle of the day on a weekend. It was ringing out. I swear, if he doesn't pick up...

"Ah, hello John."

"Hello, Mycroft."

"What can I do for you?"

"It's your brother." A sigh.

"Oh dear, what's he done now?"

"Nothing. He's gone. Has been for a couple days." Silence.

"And he hasn't left you any indication of his leaving?"

"None whatsoever."

"I do apologize, John, but I find that very hard to believe, seeing as my men have informed me that Sherlock has not left your flat at all in two days and eight hours."

"That can't be right. It can't be, he got a text two nights ago, put on his coat and left. I haven't heard from him since." Mycroft was silent again.

"Well, we do have ourselves a problem. But I may have an answer to a...special question."

"For God's sake, you may not care, but I'm actually worried about Sherlock." John couldn't care less about offending him; if anyone could find Sherlock, it'd be Mycroft.

"Dr. Watson, rest assured, my care is rising by the second. Sherlock's sudden deviation from his life with you explains Moriarty's sudden silence." John stayed quiet, hoping he'd elaborate. "Moriarty is usually active in his own passive way, but these past couple days he has been remarkably still. I would argue that Sherlock received a text from dear old Jim, probably threatening harm to you, that gave him specific instructions to do something."

"Mycroft, if that has happened, we need to find Sherlock now. I've got half of Scotland Yard riled up, but God knows they won't be able to find him if he doesn't want to be found."

"John, has it ever occured to you that if he doesn't want to be found, I won't be able to find him either? Although, I suppose if I spread the word that you're looking for him...no. No, Moriarty's ears would pick that up long before my dear brother's." John could practically hear Mycroft pass a hand over his eyes. "You want my advice, do you, John?"

"Nah, I just called to ask about the weather and Korean politics."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John. It looks as if the only thing you can do that will produce reliable results is wait. I'm sorry, I really am. I'll put out my fingers." He paused. "I grew up with him, John. I don't want him to get-"

"Don't. I'll call you when I see him." John hung up, more than a little shaken.

John was wandering.

There really wasn't another word for it. He'd taken the tube to somewhere, and now he was wandering around London, surrounded by throngs of tourists. It was maybe 9:30 at night, so the pubs were filling up. An odd mix of two Scottish girls, an Irishman and several Americans were making their way to the nearest one now. The Irishman was telling a story so fast that the blonde American woman was constantly saying, "What? What?" as the Scots looked on, obviously bamboozled.

Despite the clamor around him, John kept glancing out the corner of his eye for Sherlock's profile, and wincing internally when it was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, he found himself in a quieter (albeit more dangerous) part of the city. He wasn't particularly worried; his time in the service hadn't left him defenseless.

John strolled down the street, looking over the seedy cafes and various clothing stores. He spotted a small street that led to some kind of statue and went down it. He looked up and down the work. It was rather nice, a man on a horse and all that. Graffiti was covering nearly every bit of it except the man's hat. Perhaps the vandalists couldn't be bothered.

John went around the statue. His foot caught on something that sent him sprawling on the pavement. He swore and held his chin; that was going to leave a nasty cut in the morning. He twisted around to see what had tripped him up.

He'd walked straight over a man. The guy was obviously high as a kite, he'd barely moved when John had fallen on him. The doctor in John kicked in and he squatted next to the man, looking him over.

That coat, rather posh for a bum. Wonder if he stole...oh my God. No. It can't be, how stupid would he have to...

John grabbed the man's shoulder and turned him over.

There was no mistaking it. He had stubble, his hair and face were dirty, and his mouth and eyes were half-open, but it was definitely Sherlock Holmes, lying under a statue in a Godforsaken part of London.

And John Watson had just happened to stumble onto him. That's likely. "Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?" He groaned, his eyes fluttering. "Come on, don't be like that. It's me, what happened to you?"

"John..." And that scared him more than anything else, that garbled, barely audible name. John hooked his arms under Sherlock's and lifted, but the noises Sherlock was making were too terrible for him to continue. He put him back down and stripped off Sherlock's coat. Dammit. His sleeves were rolled up-On both arms! What the hell?--and some of the puncture wounds were still bleeding slightly. Heroin, then. Wonderful, just great. What the hell did that text say? John put a protective hand on Sherlock's forehead and pulled out his mobile.

"Mycroft, I've found him. I dunno where I am, trace my mobile or something like that. Just send someone, fast. Heroin, looks like. He might have been beaten." Sherlock bumped his head against John's hand. "Just hang on, Sher, somebody's coming to help you."

It wasn't until the ambulance that Sherlock started to panic. He had been fine until then, as long as John was in his line of sight. His eyes were dull, which was terrifying by itself, but they didn't leave John's face. He kept trying to say something, but it was constantly coming out slurred, and broken with yips of pain. Eventually, John put a hand over his mouth when he tried to say it again, which kept him quiet for a while.

But when the ambulance finally arrived, he lost it. He started to struggle, and even though it was weak and uncoordinated, he still had leverage on John and the ambulance men. And he kept moaning and babbling incoherently. The only word John could make out was, "No."

Sherlock flung out an arm as a last-ditch attempt to make them let him go, and caught John squarely in the temple. He staggered backwards, not hurt, just caught off his guard. Sherlock failed to notice, as the men had finally caught his arms and were shoving him into the back of the ambulance, which naturally made him panic more. John shook his head to clear it and said to the attendant, "Can I ride with him? I might be able to calm him down." The woman nodded.

John climbed into the back and his heart twinged as he saw his friend being restrained. The ambulance workers were having less trouble now, as Sherlock was getting tired and was obviously still strung out on...whatever the hell he'd injected into his system. But the look of misery and confusion on his face was enough to make John want to unstrap him and let him do whatever he damn well pleased.

Sherlock was well and truly tied down now. His head was rolling his head from side to side and his hands were tapping irrationally. Even that, however, was becoming less constant, and his gaze eventually drifted into a corner of the ambulance as his movements stilled.

"Sherlock?" No reaction. "Sherlock, it's John." His head moved towards John's voice. "You stay awake, ok? Don't fall asleep."

John swore that he could hear Sherlock mumble the word, "Boring," as he found John again. John let out a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding. He reclined into the wall of the van, only to sit up again, as that apparently took him out of Sherlock's line of sight. Sherlock was wriggling his wrist around in some kind of attempt to get himself closer to John. John scooted forward and took his friend's hand.

Sherlock went still. His fingers were ice cold, but John could feel his pulse. It was terribly slow, almost nonexistent. John covered those pale fingers with his own, noticing a small burn scar on Sherlock's pointer, near the last knuckle. It looked a bit old, maybe he got it when he was a kid? John snorted. It was far too easy to imagine a small, messy-haired boy playing with Mummy Holmes' stove because he was curious as to how a gas flame worked.

Sherlock's fingers were twitching slightly. His eyes were fixed on John, the pupils pinpointed. Another bad sign. Christ, how much did he take?Sherlock's lips were moving, but no sounds were coming out. "Sherlock, just calm down, ok? We're going to get you to a hospital. I won't leave you." Sherlock's head drooped and he closed his eyes. "No, Sherlock, stay awake!" John yanked his hand.

The EMTs finished taking Sherlock's vitals and one of them said, "Alright, we've got maybe half an hour."

John looked up, alarmed. "He's not...that's not going to happen, is it?"

The man bit his lip. "At this point, it looks like he's been beaten, lightly, but still beaten, injected with heroin and then dumped right where you were walking, Dr. Watson. I can't tell for sure, but he may have a punctured lung. Whoever beat him knew what they were doing."

"Wait, injected with it? He's done drugs before, you sure he didn't just get high and then, I don't know, fall down some stairs?"

"He's done drugs before?" John bit his tongue. "That might save his life. He'll have a high tolerance for it, which increases his chances quite a bit. If he comes to, he'll have his own version of what happened, but I'm convinced that he didn't do the heroin himself. He's got two needle marks on both arms, the angle can't be from his own hands, and he's got signs of somebody holding his arms and wrists. Also looks like somebody punched him a great deal. Now, you said you're his flatmate?"

John realized his mouth was open and quickly shut it. "I, uh, yeah. He's been gone these past couple days and I was getting worried."

The EMT looked incredulous. "He'd been gone for two days and you hadn't worried until tonight?"

"If you lived with him, you'd understand."

The EMT pursed his lips. "'Spose with his brother being who he his, that makes a bit of sense."

"Wait, Mycroft sent you?"

"Well, yeah. He's not about to let some community hospital take care of his baby brother, is he?" Sherlock grunted unhappily at this. John squeezed his hand again. The EMT's eyes flicked to their hands and back to John's face, wearing a small smirk.

"I'm not above decking you in your own bloody ambulance," John said, tracing the burn scar on Sherlock's finger.