The horrid day started as one of those rare peaceful mornings. They had just solved a case two days ago,and the residents of 221B Bakerstreet were once again surrounded by peace, comfort, and silence. Remembering the recent adventures they had, John pondered how to write his new installment in his blog. Sherlock on the other hand, was trying to keep himself busy by searching for a new topic to experiment or research on. Something interesting enough to preoccupy him until a new client approached the consulting detective.

John peeked over his newspaper and silently turned his gaze toward the book shelf which was placed along the wall behind Sherlock's favorite leather chair. John thought that Sherlock was looking for a book because he's been hovering there for quite a while.

"What are you looking for…" but John's voice trailed away before he could finish the sentence.

Sherlock, dressed in his usual blue gown, was leaning against the bookshelf, head bowed down. His shoulders were heaving. "Sherlock?" he called out, slightly alarmed by the sight. John frowned and placed the papers to the side. He raised himself up and took a step toward Sherlock. John noticed that Sherlock was gripping the edge of the bookshelf firmly with his shaking hands. His long fingers were tensed and the knuckles white. John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, and tried to peel him away from the bookshelf. The tall man's face was blocked from John's view. John's instinct as a man of medicine quickly told him that something was wrong with Sherlock.

As John tugged at the lean figure, Sherlock's knees buckled and he tumbled down to the floor. John caught him just in time before he hit the ground.

"Sherlock," John called out. He kneeled down beside the heaving man and held his hands around Sherlock's head. Sherlock was sweating like mad. Drops of sweat were forming on his forehead. He was paler than usual, and his teeth were chattering. Lips unhealthily purple, brows furrowed in pain, and his eyes unfocused. "Sherlock!" John placed his hand on Sherlock's forehead. It was burning hot. Sherlock's clouded eyes shifted toward John. The former army doctor placed Sherlock's head down on the carpet floor and stretched his neck so that he will be able to breathe easier. Shallow breathing, incredibly high pulse, dilated pupils, unnatural perspiration, high temperature, and twitching hands… John reached for his mobile phone, ready to call the ambulance, but Sherlock's pale, clammy hands flew at John's arm and grasped it tightly.

"…Cold" He rasped heavily, and squeezed John's wrist so hard that, John had to grit his teeth from the pain.

"Alright…alright…" John breathed to himself and then to Sherlock, "don't worry, I' m going to get help right now, hang in there." And started punching the numbers on his phone hastily but Sherlock shook his head and pulled John's phone down weakly.

"Don't…" John yanked the phone free from Sherlock's grasp.

"Don't be ridiculous, this is serious Sherlock. I may be a doctor but I can't treat you if I don't know what's happening to your body right now. Whatever this is, it isn't normal." Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head again. Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His hair matted heavily over his forehead. He opened his mouth and murmured something weakly. John frowned.

"What?" he said and leaned closer to Sherlock's mouth. The detective shuddered and said weakly,

"Withdrawal….symptoms." John straightened up.

"You WHAT?" He exclaimed.