Decorated Emergency

"How can you tell it was cocaine?" 

"The ambulance said that they found a needle very close to the person that still had traces of the substance." 

"Right." John studied the patient intently. "Any identification on the body?"

"No sir. They're running the database for anyone who lives at the address as we speak." The young medical student, despite his panic, seemed to keep up a front of composure. 

"He's in obtundation, no use in trying to get anything out of him." John was buying himself time as he wracked his brain for what to do. 

"He's volume depleted, look at the vomit, so get him on 0.9% intravenous isotonic saline. Someone give me his blood pressure and make sure that he's breathing alright!" He was pacing back an forth before the man while the others ran furiously trying to follow orders. 

The monitor of the machine that he was hooked up to flashed ravenously. The unconscious body seemed to have an increasing heart rate.

"Tachycardia...." He mumbled, more to himself than anything. 

"140/90mmHg Doctor." 

"Brilliant. Get him on  benzodiazepine for the tachycardia and the evident seizures. I assume hypertension will only get worse one it sets in, but we'll just have to keep an eye on it."

"What, sorry Doctor?"

"Valium you insufferable prat! Do they teach anything in med school these days?!" He barked angrily. Although caring for his patient would hardly save him, he would do his damnedest not to let some junkie die on account of misdirection on his part. 

Needles and pills were being thrust into the mans body at such an alarming rate that John had to stop for a minute and actually go over his decision to make sure he hadn't made some drastic mistake. 

However, it didn't take long for his vital signs to become stable, and John knew he must have at least done one thing right. Still unconscious and hooked up to several machines, he was wheeled into a ward. Dr James was settling one of John’s patients in near the window, and spun around hearing the ruckus. 

“John Watson? They said you weren’t in.”

“Slept late.” John mumbled, the adrenaline wearing off. 

“I’ve just taken care of Mister Henson.”

“So I can see.”

Doctor James looked over at the man, a puzzled look on his face. 

"Who's that?" 

"Don't know, can't get any sort of identification. Came in due to a cocaine overdose." 

"Selfish bastard..." He muttered, putting his hand on John's shoulder. "You'd better stay with him, and get ID as soon as you can. Then we can have the guy removed as to not waste beds for those who really need them." 

Confused by the man's logic, John just nodded. He saw the patent as any other, not as scum who had used recreational substances for the sole purpose of taking up hospital beds, as Doctor James did. 

"That's a good lad." A pat and a condescending look later, he was gone. 

God, John disliked him. He was one year older than John, but had a superiority complex that required him to make everyone else feel about three feet tall. He also insisted everyone call him by his first name, which John detested. If he thought it made him 'hip' and 'cool', it certainly didn't. More like 'desperately-trying-to-be-young'. 

John shrugged and took a seat next to his patient, who looked as though he were sleeping, not unconscious. 

His hair was twisted every which way, a deep brown mop of loose curls that framed his face like a halo. His eyes were shut, and long eyelashes almost covered the bruised circles that lay beneath them. Certainly not a one for sleeping then. His lips were startlingly red in contrast to the pale skin, and his cheekbones so defined that the rest of his features seemed perpetually sunk into the surface of his face. 

However, there was a prominent trail of snot that ran from the tip of his ski-slope nose down to his chin, as well as vomit coating various strands of deep chocolate hair in a unpredictable pattern, showing where his seizures had convulsed his limbs in such a fashion that would have delighted a puppeteer. He reached out in a vain attempt to try to clean him up, and wiped some of the fluid on his sleeve. 

He looked so peaceful for a guy who was coming down from a drug overdose. 

At the contact, John hesitated as he felt the body beneath him stiffen. He pulled back immediately, to see eyelashes flutter and eyes behind them come to life. He couldn't quite make sense of the colour; green/blue/grey/damn georgous. 

"Hello." He looked down, regaining his composure. John didn't get a reply. 

"Do you feel okay?" It was a stupid question, which John knew was going to be answered with a 'no', but he felt compelled to say it anyway. 

The man did a quick skim of the room, and John followed his eyes with confusion. 

"I'm in a hospital." He concluded, after a moments thought. 

"You are." 

"That would be due to the fact that for some reason my cocaine had an adverse effect." His baritone sounded silky, as though each syllable had been dipped in honey. 

"You overdosed. That's a little more than 'adverse'." John had never heard a more analytical overview from a patient before, and raised an eyebrow at it in his confusion. 

The conversation ended as abruptly as it began, as he just sat in his bed, staring at his hands. 

"We couldn't get any ID... You are?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm surprised, it's on my website." He mused. 

John didn't know whether he was having a laugh, or whether his name was genuinely Sherlock. It sounded like it was from a novel, but John couldn't put his finger on it. 

"I'll add it to the database. I'll need to get your medical history, but I'm sure you're tired." He could feel the man stare at him, and he didn't know what to do. His limbs suddenly became paralysed, forcing him to keep eye contact too long for John's liking. 
"Do you need anything?" He pulled his eyes away with all the willpower he could muster. 

"Can I borrow your phone?"