A/N: My fics have taken a rather dark turn of late, I don't know if it's the potential darkness of this 'verse or if I'm just going through a patch of writing dark stuff. Anywho, Enjoy.

"Sherlock, I'm back" John let the door click gently shut behind him and he carefully checked the room around him. At first glance it looked the same as three days prior, (Harry had another breakdown and John, ever the good brother, had been roped in to make sure she didn't drown in her own alcoholic vomit), closer inspection revealed that the mess had in fact changed but mostly just position. He quickly looked into the kitchen to make sure Sherlock hadn't blown anything worth anything up before heading up to his room to dump his overnight bag and take a shower.

Sherlock showed up a few hours later absolutely reeking of stale sweat and smoke.

"Case?" John asked as Sherlock stumbled into the room,

He grunted an affirmation before collapsing on the couch.

They sat in silence, John's fingers diligently pecking away at the keys on his laptop as he replied to comments on his blog posts.

Sherlock heaved himself off the couch and pulled himself over to the window, staring at the street below.

"I'm going to be away for a few days."

John continued to look at the screen,

"On a case?"

"No, with Mycroft,"

John stopped typing and stared at the younger man,


"I don't have a choice."

John noticed Sherlock's shaking,

"…Are you ok?"

Sherlock didn't answer, continuing to stare at the street below. John set his laptop on the floor and walked over to him and grabbed his wrist, he didn't fight as John pulled up his sleeve to check how many patches he was using. John found none, only fresh track marks.


As if on cue, a black government car pulled up to the pavement and Mycroft's assistant stepped out and knocked on the door of 221B Baker Street.

"What happened?"

"I needed to, for a case. I knew I could control it… I thought I could." Sherlock didn't look at him; the flatness of his voice saying more than words ever could.

Mycroft's assistant – Anthea as John still called her – opened the door to the flat.

"Come on Sherlock." She didn't have her blackberry with her, her eyes fixed firmly on Sherlock

He pulled his wrist out of John's now lax grip and strode towards the door and down the stairs, closely followed by Anthea.

John stood in the middle of the apartment feeling very alone.