"Joh… John!" Sherlock yelled from his lying position on the floor. His letter sounds slurred together.

"Sherlock, you need to get up right now!" John yelled down at him, sober. His eyes were ablaze with panic and worry. His voice was stern.

"But…" Sherlock mumbled incoherent words for a moment, "Jawn!" he whined, stumbling and failing at sitting up from the hard wood floor.

Sherlock drank more than enough for one person. Bloody hell, more than enough for ever two people. Two empty bottles of whiskey which were both previously partially full and one completely spilled and tipped over rested on the sticky floor. John had been stupid enough to give Sherlock time to drink.

"Get up! If you do not get up you will be sleeping on this floor. Do you hear me Sherlock?" John all but growled down at the curly haired man. Nothing could describe his feelings of frustration towards the man supported in his arms.

"John… pwease…" Sherlock was a mess. His deep purple shirt was half un-tucked and wrinkled. One sock half covered a pale foot and the other was bare. His charcoal grey slacks were spotted with spilled alcohol.

John sighed; dragging Sherlock's fumbling body away from the sticky floor and onto the carpet. Sitting down, he gently placed Sherlock's head in his lap.

"Hey…" John idly stroked Sherlock's hair, trying to form the right words. "It will be okay Sherlock. I do not want you to promise me that you will not do this again, because I know you. At some point you will do this again and you will just feel worse because you promised me." John whispered to Sherlock.

The two of them had fought earlier in the day and John, as usual, stormed out in a mass of rage. That left Sherlock to suffer from the words John said to him. The words he vowed to never say again.

"John…" Sherlock's eyelids flicked and he squinted. "I sowry." His breath caught for a moment and he coughed. "No… promises…"

"Yes Sherlock." John cooed, "Just go to sleep. I will be here for you when you wake up." John sighed, wanting this disaster of a night to be done with. But this was Sherlock; nothing could ever be easy with him.

"I am not a pirate…" Sherlock accused John. "Nor do I have any pesos…." Sherlock's breath caught again and he shuddered violently, trying to regain the lost oxygen. John should have seen this coming.

"Sherlock?" John was worried now. "Hey, Sherlock, listen to me." John shouted softly.

"I am…. Imma throw up…" Sherlock rasped out before managing to sit up and retch violently onto the floor.

"Shit." John muttered, picking himself up and holding Sherlock steady. The sound of it was horrible. Sherlock's body convulsed and his back arched. He coughed and took sobbing breaths. His skin was covered in gooseflesh and ashen. Why had John not noticed earlier?

"Breathe Sherlock. Come on, you will be okay. Don't you dare pass out on me." John called out to Sherlock. The consulting detective took more shuddering breathes before his back arched and another round of vomiting hit him.

John quickly pulled his phone from his pocket and called Mycroft. The elder Holmes picked up in two rings.

"Holmes." the posh voice sounded.

"Mycroft, it is Sherlock. We had this fight earlier and he has drunk himself into a state of minor alcohol poisoning." John knew the elder Holmes could hear the sobbing and retching Sherlock in the background.

"I am sending paramedics over now. I will have a room prepared immediately. How much did he drink?" Mycroft's voice was not as clean cut and posh as it was seconds ago. His voice was laced with worry.

"Enough Mycroft. More than enough." John spoke smoothly, trying to calm the torrent of emotions surging through him.

"What did you say?" Mycroft questioned.

"Something I am never going to say again. I will inform you of it later Mycroft. I think he has stopped breathing." John's voice hitched at the end and he threw the phone away from himself as Sherlock collapsed.

Rolling Sherlock over quickly, John titled his head up and checked for any breathing. There was none. No tickle of air against his ear, no rasping sound, no rise of the chest. This was going to be a long night.

John started chest compressions immediately, going into doctor mode. His hands worked swiftly and firmly, forcing Sherlock's chest down with thirty compressions before blowing two breaths into the man's lungs. He repeated that over and over, his arms never tiring. He had to make sure Sherlock lived. He just had to. He would not be able to live with himself if Sherlock died.