Sherlock would always wake up as soon as he noticed another presence in his room. Sometimes, even before John had turned the knob on the door. He would find Sherlock on alert, slightly tensed in his body, visible even under his heavy blankets. He would not stir or open his eyes. His long, dewy eyelashes entwining together as he kept his eyes shut. Lips slightly parted.
John had checked upon him before he went to bed. Sherlock always had this thing with bed hours. Always in bed by ten o'clock. Sometimes eleven. Sleeping heavily, nowadays due to the unhealthy intake of different narcotics, ranging from caffeine pills to his seven-percent solution of cocaine. John hated that his best friend would violate his body in such ways. Pumping his veins with poison, dulling his mind and body (though Sherlock firmly believed it was sharpening his senses), making him… almost catatonic.
They'd had many arguments about his drug abuse, Sherlock sometimes denying it, sometimes not. John and Mrs Hudson had tried to hide the bottles of alcohol and various drugs he stashed around the flat, but Sherlock always had a way to locate their hiding places. Not that it surprised John; Sherlock was after all a master of deduction.
So now he stood there, in the doorway, hand around the doorknob, eyes caringly scanning over his friends battle worn body. He found himself monitoring his breath as the thick blanket slowly raised and sank. He then moved his gaze upwards: The dark circles beneath Sherlock's eyes made his already pale skin look even paler, more translucent. A thin sheen of sweat had gathered over his parched lips and on his forehead. The sweat made his luscious, dark curls plaster against his skin.
Even though he was looking at a decomposing, torn and crumbling human being, he couldn't help but notice how peaceful he looked. That made the heavy knot in his stomach loosen ever so slightly. He sighed and took one last glance at his friend before he closed the door gently behind him.

Sherlock Holmes untwined his long lashes to reveal a striking set of bloodshot, pale eyes. They stared intently at the door for a long time, deep lines of thought furrowing his brow. Then his whole face suddenly softened. The boring gaze slowly changed into something indistinct, a glossy haze cloaking them. It looked as if he was looking into a lost memory, buried deep within his soul. A memory he rarely ceased to remember. Then his eyes rolled backwards into his skull, and he fell into a dark, dreamless sleep.

John had spent the first hours of the day running errands, some for Mrs Hudson, some for Sherlock. It was pouring down with rain by the time he entered through the heavy, black door at 221B Baker Street, and he hurried inside, relieved to be out of the cold showers of rain.
"John? John, is that you? John?" he heard Mrs Hudson from upstairs.
"Ye—Yes, it's me! I'll be up in just a minute!" He manoeuvred himself out of the soaked jacket and hung it up to dry before he grabbed his groceries and jogged up the creaking stairs. He was met by a worried looking Mrs Hudson.
"Oh John! You have to check on him. He hasn't eaten all day! He doesn't want anyone near him!" She rubbed her hands anxiously together before she clutched her left arm around her slender frame and rested her right elbow on top of it, nibbling worriedly at her fingernails.
"I tried to give him some soup, but he just yelled at—"
"Yes, it's OK, Mrs Hudson," John set the groceries down on the kitchen table.
"And then he began throwing things—"
John hurried over to her and clutched both his hands around her shoulders.
"I'll go check on him right away."
"Will you try to get him to eat something?"
"Don't you worry Mrs Hudson, I'll get him some fodder, even if I have to force it down his throat myself."
Mrs Hudson gave him a slight smile. John smiled comfortingly back and gave her shoulders a light squeeze before he let them go.

John took a short pause, preparing himself for the worst, before he pushed open the door. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found inside.
Curled up in the darkest corner sat Sherlock, his chin leaning against his heaving, naked chest, his whole body soaked in a thin layer of cold sweat. Trembling and shivering. He was wearing his dark blue robe and some thin trousers, and his arms he held at a weird angle behind his arched back. Scattered around the floor at his feet lay used syringes, stale food, dirty spoons, a belt and several empty bottles of alcohol; the one closest to his feet had a green label on it. John didn't need to read the word written across it to realize it was absinthe.
"Dear God. Sherlock." He carefully closed the door in case Mrs Hudson would hear anything. John dreaded the thought of her seeing him like this. He ran across the floor and dropped to his knees next to Sherlock.
"Oh God, Sherlock. What have you done?"
He carefully lifted his chin up and tried to make contact with the distant, blue eyes. Sherlock's head swayed slightly as his neck tried to hold his head upright.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked desperately.
He placed his hand on Sherlock's damp forehead. He was burning up. He then moved his fingers down to the left side of Sherlock's throat, and his heart sank when he felt Sherlock's heart pumping far too fast.
"Sherlock, talk to me. Say something. Sherlock!" John snapped at him.
Sherlock groaned loudly, and his chin fell forward again, exhausted by the effort of his audible response.
"Sherlock?" John asked weakly and pushed him back again with both hands on his shoulders, steadying him against the wall.
"G… Get… Get out, Jo—", Sherlock moaned.
"No, Sherl—, Sherlock, listen to me. You have to keep talking. Just keep talking, all right?"
No response. He looked desperately into the damp mass of dark hair of Sherlock's limp head, and his eyes travelled backwards to Sherlock's arms. With a shock he realized that Sherlock arms wasn't being held back there by Sherlock himself; he had tied his arms up with belts and what looked like a white silk shirt.
"Sherlock? How did you? What the hell are you doing?"
"G—get out John…" Sherlock drowsily replied, and fell to the side, face pressed against the wall. His mouth fell open, and his breath came out in short, ragged gasps.
John's shaking fingers tried to open the restraints, but they wouldn't budge an inch.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, I need you to focus now." John hoisted Sherlock back from the wall, and cupped his face in his hands.
"Sherlock?"
"John, g—get ou…"
"No, I need to know what kind of drugs you took," John picked up the used syringe and held it in front of Sherlock's bloodshot, glossy eyes.
"Focus Sherlock; was it this one? Did you take this?"
"Mor…"
"No, you're not taking any more of this stuff. Sherlock – concentrate! I need to know what kind of cocktail you have poisoning your veins," John said firmly and bore his eyes into Sherlock's.
"John…! M… Mor…! Get—" Sherlock rasped loudly, his face suddenly changing from vacant to distressed.
"No, I already told you that you're not getting any more of this stuff."
Sherlock growled loudly in protest and slumped back against the wall, slowly falling to the side again. Breathing heavily, his watery eyes slowly rolled back, exposing the white of his eyes.
"No! Sherlock, no, wake up!" John slapped Sherlock hard in his face, and Sherlock's eyes flew open in shock to the brutal handling from his friend.
He blinked several times to regain his focus, and then he stared into John's worried eyes.
"John… lis—… John…" Sherlock momentarily trailed off, but quickly regained his strength and looked back at John.
"John… Mor…" his breath was heaving so badly; John was afraid he might pass out any second now. A tear of sweat streaked down from his hairline at his temple.
"Yes? What do you want?" John asked urgently.
"Nonononono…" Sherlock whimpered and fell forwards into John's arms, his face digging into John's secure shoulder. John wrapped his hands around Sherlock. He felt how the robe, now soaked in cold sweat, stuck against Sherlock's trembling skin.
"Sherlock?" John asked gently as he leaned to the side and spoke into Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"
It took immense effort for Sherlock to turn his head to the side, take a deep inhale of air and utter the small word he'd been trying to say to John from the moment he'd stepped through that door:

..

...

"Moriarty."