"Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

John Watson had spat out similar words only several months ago upon finding the detective in a crack house. Now the same phrase flowed out once more, the same intensity of emotion giving the words their true force.

He visited Baker Street once a day, now, when he could, finally accepting that he was indeed addicted to a certain type of lifestyle. Normally he arrived before Sherlock was out of bed, and so he'd pass the time browsing websites and newspapers for another case to distract Sherlock from…

Well, from drugs. Yes, he knew now that Sherlock's drug charade was a façade designed to entice Magnusson, but had it been necessary for the needle to slip in his veins? For the long ago abandoned addiction to once return? For that beautiful mind to be needlessly wasted?

No. John knew that while the drug house was a convenient pawn against their enemy, the heroin was a mere perk. The last thing he needed—the last thing London needed—was for Sherlock to fall back into his habits.

So he would come over every day, only failing to show when Mary's morning sickness was erratic or the clinic absolutely needed him. For six weeks he'd been there when Sherlock awoke, always offering a case and fresh cup of tea.

Yet today, when he stepped into the dusky flat he still considered home, the two needles lying on the coffee table penetrated his vision as though they'd been shoved directly into his eye. Just beyond lay an unconscious detective who, from the looks of it, had been sleeping off his high for at least several hours.

At first John felt a twinge of satisfaction—that the hours spent here hadn't been a waste, that his suspicions had been correct—but it lasted no more than half a second before being replaced with irrevocable rage.

He quietly stepped into the kitchen, dialing Molly's number. "I need you at Baker Street. Now," he said, screaming through his whispered tone. "Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

Molly was on her way now. Though John had no doubt in his mind that the needles were Sherlock's, a lab result was infallible ammunition against any excuse the detective tried to make.

John stood over Sherlock's limp body, did all he could to suppress the urge to grab his gun, and yanked Sherlock up by the ear with enough force to nearly rip it off.

"Ow!" He awoke instantly and did his best to wriggle free, but the doctor's hand was set. His confused and wandering eyes searched the room for an explanation before landing on the needles before him. Oh.

"John, I can ex—"

John through him against the couch's back, only now releasing his ear. "Molly's on her way. How dare you, Sherlock? What were you thinking?" He grabbed a needle, apathetic to any biological threat it held, and shoved it in front of Sherlock's face. "No excuses this time. No explanations, no case requirements. You are addicted, Sherlock, and that's not going to go away until you let us help you."
John watched as Sherlock's eyes darted, the sure sign that he was searching for a creative, believable reason why the needles were in his possession. But with Molly on the way, no solution presented itself.

"John…" Sherlock retreated further back into the sofa's cushions, all at once calling out for his doctor but distancing himself as far as he could. His eyes were red; from crying or usage, John wasn't sure. He really didn't care, not now, as the disheveled man before him cowered like a dog.

"You knew I was coming over," John said, his voice cracking. "You knew. You forgot to clean it up? Fell asleep before you could? Or…Sherlock." He waited for eye contact. Sherlock gave it, reluctantly, tears pooling in his eyes. "Were you trying to get caught? Is that your way of asking for help? Goodness, Sherlock, you know why I've been coming over. You know I've been worried. If you were anywhere near this stuff, tempted at all, you could have talked to me about it. You knew that."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut; he was unable to comprehend the emotions pouring out of his friend. Not sure what to say.

"Just tell me why. Hmm?"

"I didn't…" Sherlock's voice was hoarse. "I didn't know what else to do. My mind, John, it needed…I just didn't know what else to turn to."

John stood, pacing, lost. How was he supposed to act in this situation? Maybe he was being too rough; the man had an addiction, a disease, and he needed help. Yet the thought of him—so well looked after, so showered with care (however new that was to him)—still turning to this instead of those nearest sickened John. Either way, getting the man into a rehabilitation center was an impossibility. There was only one way to offer Sherlock what he needed, and John wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"You're moving in with me and Mary. Come on. Let's get your stuff packed. Now."