I think I have made a mistake.




Tell John and Mary that I'm sorry.


What the hell are you talking about Sherlock. Do I need to come over? Where is Mrs Hudson? Are you at the flat?


I'm at the flat. Mrs Hudson is out.


I suppose you could come if you want.


You may be a bit late.


Late for what?




I'm calling your brother.




I'm five minutes out. Don't be stupid.




"Sherlock?" Lestrade bellowed, bursting in the door of 221b. Last time he'd done that there were a dozen police cars behind him. This time, he came alone.

There was no response from the detective, not that Lestrade expected one.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he turned over the possibilities in his mind. Either Sherlock had done something incredibly stupid, or he was incredibly bored.

One was a clear preference.

Sherlock wasn't in the living room, or in a bloody mess in the kitchen from an experiment gone wrong. Of course, there was always the bathroom, since experiments were frequently done in there as well.

A quick glance in the bathroom showed it was empty, as Lestrade moved down the hallway to Sherlock's room.

The detective was sprawled on his bed, looking disinterested at Lestrade's appearance. His phone sat beside him, on the other side was his violin and a needle.

"You fucking idiot," Lestrade growled.

Sherlock sighed impassively.

"Sit up," Lestrade demanded, hauling the detective into a semi-sitting position, propped up on some of his pillows.

Sherlock allowed him to be positioned like a rag doll.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, looking at Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock shrugged. "S'pose..." he said thoughtfully, "The problem...s'that I wasn't..."

"No shit Sherlock," Lestrade snapped, grabbing his arm. There was only one puncture on the left arm, and none on the right, which meant he'd only taken one dose. One dose of unknown size, concentration, and some unknown drug. Great.

"Tell me what you've taken Sherlock," he ordered. "And why the hell you've done this..." he added, frowning at him.

Sherlock blinked at him, slouching over on the pillows precariously.

"They're going to have their own baby," he slurred. "They don't need me."

He shrugged, blowing uselessly at the stray curl that had fallen into his eyes.

"What?" Lestrade said, baffled, as usual, by the things that came out of Sherlock's mouth. Of course, this could just be drug induced rambling, but Lestrade suspected there was some truth in it.

He blinked slowly. "Oh... I s'pose it was still secret."

"What? Oh, never mind that. What have you taken Sherlock?" he demanded.

He shrugged again, slipping further down on the pillows.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled, taking him firmly by the shoulders and pulling him back upright.

Sherlock blinked at him. "Oh..." he sighed. "The usual."

With his eyes wide, and slowly blinking, he reminded Lestrade of an owl.

"Seven... p'cent..." He blinked again, but didn't open his eyes.

Lestrade frowned. "You idiot. Why did you start using again? Open your eyes!" he demanded.

Sherlock obeyed, looking annoyed at him. "Already told you. One baby's'nough."

"Mary's pregnant?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and nodded, obviously still unimpressed with Lestrade's deductive powers, even while he was overdosing on cocaine.

"She loves you, you clot. They both do."

Sherlock shrugged, closing his eyes again.

"Why did you text me?" he demanded.

He shrugged. "Slight m's'clation. Forgotten... 'm not as t'lerant 'nymore."

Lestrade glared at him. "Alright," he said. "That's enough. I'm calling an ambulance."

"S'prised s'not one here already," he muttered. "Last time... s'a helicopter an' everything."

Lestrade paused, startled that Sherlock remembered that. That had been the day he was about to make the arrest of his career, when he'd received frantic texts from Sherlock, practically begging for help, only to find him struggling over the best man speech for John's wedding.

Oh, how he longed this situation was something like that.

"Yeah, well haven't you ever heard of crying wolf?" he retorted.

His phone vibrated in his pocket just as he went to pull it out to call.

Ambulance on the way. Do take care of him.


He threw his phone down and went back to examining Sherlock's face.

"Open your eyes," he said loudly.

Sherlock only sighed.

"Sherlock! Open your eyes!" he demanded, patting his cheeks roughly.

"Careful... y'll cut y'rself..." He giggled. "Th'woman wanted to try."

He looked at Lestrade for a second, and there was something in his eyes that looked almost like regret.

"I thought she was dead," Lestrade countered, wanting to talk about anything that would keep Sherlock with him for another few moments.

Sherlock sighed loudly. "No... I saved her... S'easy, really."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Well, explain it to me then."

Sherlock sighed softly, and his eyes remained closed.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade bellowed. "Stop doing this to me."

He slapped Sherlock's cheeks again, but the man didn't stir. Lestrade felt the heat coming off him, and realized the detective was burning up.

"Screw you Sherlock," he muttered, pulling Sherlock into a laying down position and yanking the buttons off of his shirt. "You promised me, you promised John, that you would come to us first before using again." He pulled one arm out of the sleeve, then the other.

"Dammit, you're too hot."

He moved onto the socks, yanking them off. Why the hell was Sherlock wearing socks anyway? He usually wandered around the flat in bare feet. He sighed at the pants, but undid the belt and slid them off, leaving Sherlock in his boxers, and still far too warm.

"Don't fucking do this to me Sherlock!" he bellowed, voice cracking.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "'course not. Silly..."

"That's right," he said gruffly. "Because I'd throw you in jail if you ever died on me."

"Again," Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah," he agreed. "The once was abd enough,"

"...course... f'I'm dead... can't go t' jail..." he murmured.

"Why didn't I think of that," Lestrade commented as Sherlock curled around him on the bed. "You shouldn't be touching me, you're overheated."

Sherlock ignored him.

"Don't wanna b'lone."

Lestrade sighed, but didn't fight the long arms that reached out and encircled him.

He smoothed Sherlock's hair down to comfort him. He'd done that the first time, and supposed he would be doing it again.

"I'm glad you're here Greg," Sherlock whispered, his hands around Lestrade's waist, the older man's fingers halted at running through his curls.

"What?" Lestrade choked.

"I'm glad you're here Greg," he repeated, sighing into it, the effort to form words too much for him.

His grip loosened.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, untangling his hands from the man's hair to feel for a pulse, for breathing.

Sherlock didn't respond, and the breathing was shallow and rapid, much like his pulse, bounding along, like the final hurrah before the finish line.

"Sherlock, stay with me," he pleaded, as the ambulance sirens stopped outside the flat, and the flashing lights echoed down the hall to his bedroom.

But Sherlock didn't listen. He stopped panting for breath, content to just simply lay there and cease to exist. His bounding heart beat collapsed just before the finish line, destined not to make it to the end.

Lestrade felt hot tears on his face as paramedics barged into the room and gently shoved him aside.

He stood back and watched as they tried to revive Sherlock, to no avail.

And Sherlock's final words could only make him wonder.

Why did he use his last breaths to say my name?

And then as the paramedics pronounced it, the tears continued to flow freely down his face.

Of all the times for Sherlock to remember my name... it has to be when he's taking his last breaths.