A dangerous mix
By thebakerstreetgirl
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters - they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the boys in this incarnation also belong to the BBC. I just borrow them and then give them back. I do own this story, though.
Once again, they were chasing criminals through the seedy back alleys of London, but what else was new?
Lestrade had called with a promising case and Sherlock had grabbed his coat and run out of the Baker Street flat in a flash, leaving John slightly perplexed but only seconds behind.
Within minutes of arriving at the crime scene, Sherlock had deduced that the victim must have been fairly docile due to the lack of defensive wounds found on the body, but a tox screen would show whether drugs had been involved, or whether the nasty head wound could have had anything to do with the victim's subdued state of mind. This particular body was the fourth one that had been found like this.
The victim couldn't have been in the alley long - even John could tell that, as the body was still fairly warm and rigor mortis had not yet set in. The tip-off must have been sent to Scotland Yard only minutes after it had happened.
They really were in a shady part of town. Old warehouses, brothels and crack dens lined the streets door to door and John thought more than once that it was almost a miracle that someone had called in finding a body.
Seeing the back streets around here and judging by the amount of bile and urine, unconscious people, passed out in the middle of the alley, seemed to be a common occurrence.
When John pointed this out to Sherlock, the detective's eyes went wild and he had one of his "lightning strike" moments, as John liked to call them, when everything came together.
"He's still here! The murderer called it in, he likes to watch!"
Turning around to DI Lestrade, he said: "Get snapshots of the crowd. The murderer likes to watch his handywork, he's around here somewhere. You check that crowd..." he pointed towards the small crowd of druggies, prostitutes and pimps that had gathered near the crime scene tape.
"John and I will check the alleys around here."
With that, Sherlock Holmes dashed down the street and into the next alley, and John excused himself and followed suit. After all, his friend had a penchant for getting himself into trouble.
But Sherlock was quick this time, dashing through the maze of lanes and John soon lost track of him.
When the army doctor spotted a suspicious looking person lurking around a street corner, John called out for his flatmate before giving chase. The person legged it and John's warrior instincts took over during the pursuit. He gained ground and lunged himself forward and tackled the suspect to the ground, going down with him.
In a flash, he was back on his feet and fighting. It had been a while since John did some proper fighting but apparently they were skills you'd never forget, especially not when survival instinct kicks in. He landed a few precise punches, even though he also received quite a kicking.
Eventually, he managed to get the suspect into a chokehold, applying pressure for 8 seconds to render his opponent unconscious. It was a military hold he knew too well. He was concentrating on counting the seconds and calling out for Lestrade and Sherlock, which is why he never saw it coming.
Someone stepped out behind John and knocked him over the head with a lead pipe. The blow was unexpected and disorientating and John went down, out for the count.
The suspect and his accomplice got away mere seconds before Lestrade and Sherlock rounded the corner. The consulting detective didn't waste any time and crouched down next to his blogger, checking for vital signs.
Relieved to feel a steady pulse, he looked over John, noting that although there was blood gushing from a head wound, as expected, it all seemed superficial. John had been knocked unconscious but that seemed to be just about it.
While Lestrade called an ambulance and told his team to secure the parameter, John came to. "Owww... oh my head!" he winced, grabbing his head with both his hands, trying to hold it still and steady so the world would stop spinning.
"Did you get them?"
"Them?" Sherlock and the DI asked in unison.
"Yeah, had one of them in a chokehold when someone else clocked me over the head with something..."
Sherlock gave his friend a hand up and held him for a moment as John swayed a little before regaining his balance.
"I'm alright guys. Just a scratch. Gonna have a headache tomorrow but nothing worse" the doctor said as he was led over to a waiting ambulance.
"Right then, just let them stitch you up then and you can go home, John" the DI said and John agreed.
In the end, he needed four stitches, but the wound was fairly superficial. He got the standard warning about concussions and was told not to fall asleep. As a medical man, he knew the drill.
All John wanted was to go home, but Sherlock insisted that he wanted to stay and track down the suspects. In the end, John hailed himself a cab and went back to 221b Baker Street alone, promising to take care of himself.
Once back at the flat, John decided it would be best to take a cold shower to get the alley stench off him and shock his system a bit in order to stay awake. Even though he had weighed the pros and cons against each other, in the end, John decided to take his meds even though they would make him slightly drowsy.
The headache from the wound would be bad enough and he didn't want to have to deal with all those violent visions, the thrashing around and screaming on top of it all.
Once he was freshly showered and he'd put on his pyjamas, John went back downstairs, made himself a cup of tea, swallowed his medication and stretched out on the sofa.
He felt a bit odd, but that was probably just the head wound. He lay there, watching the door and wondering how long Sherlock would be when he started to feel his eyes getting heavier. Eventually, he couldn't fight it any longer, and despite better judgment gave in to temptation and closed his eyes.
When Sherlock returned to the flat 1 1/2 hours later with Lestrade, they found John passed out on the couch, one arm hanging down the side, the other loosely flung over his abdomen.
"John, we got them! Lestrade wanted to get your statement so I brought him with me. Just tell him what happened."
Sherlock had said all that without so much as looking at John. When he didn't get an answer, he turned to the man on the couch and looked at him properly.
While John seemed to be resting peacefully, Sherlock could now see that John had been throwing up and a bit of sick was on his shoulder and arm.
Lestrade had noticed too.
"Damn it John, this is why you should not fall asleep with a concussion!" the DI said and called John by his name to wake him.
When that didn't work, he gently shook the doctor's shoulders but that didn't get him any replies either.
"Shit! John, come on, John, wake up!" Lestrade shook him harder now.
"Sherlock, he's not responding!"
Sherlock pried one of John's eyes open and found his friend's pupils fixed and dilated. The ceiling light was shining right into John's eyes, but John didn't react.
"Lestrade, this is not a concussion! What's happening?"
Sherlock was frantically trying to get John's eyes to open and he was slightly smacking his friend's cheeks to wake him.
"Shit! John! Wake up! John, what did you take? Come on mate, don't do this!" Lestrade was getting more worried.
"Take? John doesn't do drugs, Lestrade! What do you mean?"
"Sherlock, you of all people should recognise this! John has taken an overdose of something. Get a bucket! Quick!"
Lestrade pulled out his phone and barked "DI Lestrade requesting a bus to 221b Baker Street asap, suspected drug overdose!" before flinging it to the side and propping John up a little by putting an arm across John's back and shoulders and tugging him into a slightly more upright position.
Sherlock returned with the bucket and stood back, unsure of what to do. Greg Lestrade placed the bucket next to John on the floor.
He looked at John and said "Sorry mate, but you'll thank me for this later" and stuck his fingers into John's throat.
"What are you doing?"
If he didn't know any better, the DI could have sworn that Sherlock sounded afraid.
"Whatever he's taken, I need to make him throw up, get it out of him. Seriously, Sherlock. Do you really not remember me doing this to you when you OD'ed on cocaine?"
Sherlock just watched and shook his head. Lestrade was about to say something else when John started to empty his stomach.
"That's it, John, come on, spit it all out, that's good."
He brushed sweat-soaked hair away from the doctor's forehead and then he added quietly "What have you done, John?" while holding John's upper body up and the bucket close to his mouth.
John slumped back against Lestrade's arm and the DI gently let him down again to the sofa.
Sherlock just stared. Lestrade ran downstairs and opened the door already so that the paramedics could come straight up when they got there.
As soon as he stepped back into the living room, John started to convulse and spasm.
"Shit! I was hoping to get him to hospital before this happened..."
Before either of them could do something, John started to shake and jerk so violently that he fell off the sofa. It was horrifying to watch and Sherlock stood frozen in his spot, seeing his best friend so helpless and in trouble.
Luckily, Lestrade kept a cool head and knew what to do. Lestrade grabbed the first thing he could, which happened to be Sherlock's coat, and was at John's side within seconds, folding the garment into a cushion and carefully placing it under John's head before stepping away.
"Aren't you gonna do something? Hold him down?"
"No, Sherlock, that's the worst you can do, it'll only injure him. As long as we can cushion his head, it's best to leave him until the spasms stop. I just hope the ambulance gets here soon..."
John's seizure lasted for about four minutes before he fell completely still. Sherlock was immediately next to him checking for and finding a very weak pulse and noticing John's skin covered in cold sweat.
Every now and then, John seemed to skip a breath for so long that Sherlock was afraid he might stop breathing altogether.
"Hold on, John, help is on the way!" he whispered, his hand still wrapped around John's wrist.
As if on cue, he heard the sirens outside and Sherlock picked John up bridal style, cradled him close and carried him downstairs to meet the paramedics.
"His name is Dr. John Hamish Watson, he's 41, blood group A+, Kell negative. He takes a mixture of anti-anxiety, anti-hallucinogenic pills and mild sedatives to treat PTSD when his episodes become too bad. He's been taking them for the past 3 days again. He got injured earlier today and sustained a head injury and possible concussion. We suspect an overdose, he's thrown up and been seizing for four minutes. We're not sure what drug it could be; all his meds are accounted for."
Sherlock gave his update without drawing a breath and placed John on a stretcher. Greg Lestrade listened and gasped when he heard about John's post-traumatic stress disorder.
He'd had no idea, and John had never let on that not everything was as peachy as he made them believe. The paramedics wheeled his friend away and he jumped into the ambulance after them.
"He's my best friend and his next of kin live out of town."
The medic nodded and closed the door, leaving Lestrade standing on the street by himself. He returned back inside, calmly informed Mrs. Hudson of what had happened and went back into 221b to have another look for anything that could explain John Watson's condition.
He sniffed the half-empty tea mug but he could only smell tea. All meds were in John's room and neatly arranged. They didn't look disturbed.
And he found himself wondering again and again why John would have reason to self-harm. He was not a drug addict.
Sherlock telling the medics that John was suffering from PTSD to the degree of needing strong medication occasionally had come as a bit of a shock, but he figured this wasn't really something completely unheard of when it came to returning, invalided military personnel.
Not finding anything, Lestrade shifted his focus and went about preparing a bag for John. Looking for a gym bag under the bed, Lestrade found a camouflage duffel bag, filled with pyjamas, slippers, underwear, a robe and toiletries.
He had to smile. Military training and medical school... of course Dr John Watson would have a ready packed emergency kit. He let himself out of the flat and drove to the hospital.
Sherlock was pacing up and down in the waiting room of the A&E department. John had been taken straight through 45 minutes ago and there had been no news since. While he'd been waiting, Sherlock had texted his brother.
"JOHN OVERDOSED. UNSURE OF DRUG. QE HOSP. - SH"
Instead of texting or calling, Mycroft showed up in person not even a minute after Sherlock's text.
He had not seen such an open display of worry - open in such a way only a Holmes or possibly John himself could tell - since they were children.
As soon as he spotted Mycroft, Sherlock's expression changed to something resembling smugness.
"Ah, Mycroft, I should have known. Did you spy on us again or how come you're here already?"
"We intercepted a 999 call for a suspected overdose at 221b..."
Mycroft was relieved to find his brother alive and well, but then the implications hit him as he came to terms with who else could have taken an overdose in that flat.
"And you immediately assumed it was me. Typical, Mycroft. I told you before, I'm clean!" Sherlock said defiantly.
Sighing, Mycroft sat down on a cheap plastic chair next to his little brother and put a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's resolve seemed to crumble under the touch.
"What happened, Sherlock?"
"I'm not sure, Mycroft. We were at a crime scene, he... John got hit over the head. But he was fine when he went home. When Lestrade and I got back to Baker Street, he was passed out and unresponsive... He's been taking his PTSD meds again since Tuesday - the thunderstorm triggered new episodes. I don't understand though, Myc. John would never touch narcotics, nor would he take an overdose deliberately. He must have been drugged..."
A sudden realization hit Sherlock.
"Mycroft, John didn't do this to himself. They'll think this was a suicide attempt! He'll be committed and placed on suicide watch and he shouldn't have to go through that. I don't know why, and I don't know how yet, but if there is one thing I'm 100 percent sure of, Mycroft, then it's that John Watson would never take an overdose."
The look Sherlock gave his brother was almost pleading. The older Holmes was taken slightly aback by the worry in his younger brother's face.
Years ago, when Sherlock had taken an overdose of cocaine, he had been committed, evaluated, restrained and placed on suicide watch for four days while he detoxed.
It was touching, that Sherlock so desperately wanted to spare his friend from the same fate. And in that moment, Mycroft began to realize just how much Sherlock cared for Dr. Watson.
He wasn't like any of Sherlock's other acquaintances. He was a true friend. The first and only one worth being called a friend since Sherlock left college. Sherlock sat there, with his arms on his knees and his head in his hands, running his fingers through the messy curls.
The look he gave his brother said just how much he hoped they hadn't found John too late. Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor.
"Understood. Leave it with me, Sherlock. I'll see to it that this gets treated as an accident. I do agree with you. This seems very out of character for our dear doctor. And overdoses are never a pretty sight. I suggest you talk to Detective Inspector Lestrade again while you wait for John."
And with that, Mycroft left to work his magic that would guarantee that John would not be committed and Sherlock would be allowed to see him.
Greg Lestrade found Sherlock exactly where Mycroft had left him. He handed John's emergency bag over which Sherlock accepted with a nod.
"Uhm... Lestrade... what you did before... for John... That was… uhm… good… uhm… Thank you."
The DI was taken slightly aback. A thank you, from a Holmes? On someone else's behalf? He never thought he'd live to see the day. Lost for words, he just nodded.
"Was I ever...? I mean, when you found me... back then... did I... did you have to...?"
Seeing John overdose must have been a bit of a shock to the detective. Even though he was a former junkie, he'd never seen an overdose first-hand. Unfortunately, Lestrade had seen Sherlock OD three-times.
"Yeah... well, at least with you it was fairly obvious what drug you had taken... but yes... erm... you seized on me twice... once I just about got your throat cleared so you wouldn't suffocate... You scared the shit out of me back then, Sherlock. But I've gotta be honest, John was the last person I ever expected to see like that and frankly, it scared me even more. I just hope they can identify the drug and treat him in time. His chances are good though, John threw some of it up, and whatever is out of his system can no longer cause havoc."
Sherlock nodded. "I hope so too… And Lestrade?"
"Yeah?"
"Uhm… Thank you... for back then, too. What you did for me."
"No worries, Sherlock. Needed to have someone around to annoy me all the time, didn't I?"
The tone was light but it thinly veiled his concern for John.
Eventually, after what seemed an eternity to the consulting detective, a doctor came out into the waiting room. Sherlock sprang to his feet.
"Are you here for John Watson?" he asked.
"Yes. He's my cousin. How is he?"
Lestrade was amazed by how easily the lie had slipped past Sherlock's lips.
"The good news is, he's stable. We had to pump his stomach and we've started him on IVs to replace lost fluids. Preliminary tox screens have so far revealed anti-anxiety drugs, anti-hallucinogenics and sedatives. Is there any reason at all why your cousin would take such a strong cocktail?"
"Yes, he's a war veteran and was invalided home with a gunshot to the shoulder. He is taking these meds to deal with his PTSD. He was diagnosed more than 4 years ago. They are all legit and he only takes them when he is having acute episodes that he can't handle any other way. The last one was triggered three nights ago by the thunderstorm and he's had violent nightmares and semi-wake hallucinations since then." Sherlock quickly explained.
"Do you know in what form your cousin takes his medication? Are they injections or tablets?"
"Tablets, he hates injections"
"Well, Mr...?"
"Holmes"
"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson has had a very high concentration of sedatives in his system. He's lucky you found him when you did, that dose could have proven to be fatal. But from what we can tell, this is something else, not anything to treat PTSD with. He's being moved to a room now and you can see him in about 20 minutes. He might still be unconscious for a while, though, but he should not slip into a coma."
"Thank you."
Sherlock went over to Greg Lestrade and told him the news.
"Oh good, I'm glad, he'll be ok now, you'll see. Well then, I'll go back to the Yard, let me know how he's doing, okay?"
"Of course."
Sherlock hesitated at the door to John's hospital room. Behind the door, his best friend lay with the remnants of a drug overdose being flushed out of his system and the consulting detective was still no closer to finding out what had happened than he was when John was first admitted.
But the one thing that he was still sure on was the fact that John Hamish Watson was not suicidal.
Yes, the former soldier strived on adrenaline and as a soldier, he threw himself in the line of fire to protect what he held dear, but he wasn't such a thrill seeker, that he'd resort to drugs and unnecessarily risk his life.
And Sherlock was sure that if something had been troubling John, more than his PTSD-induced visions, Sherlock would have been able to spot the signs.
So the question remained. Why was John now in a hospital bed after having his stomach pumped to get a potentially fatal dose of sedatives out of his body?
Sherlock sighed and quietly opened the door to John's room. It was dark outside, and the light above John's bed just barely illuminated the room. Sherlock swallowed hard when he saw his friend's still and pale form in that hospital bed, so completely at odds with John's usual friendly, approachable and warm demeanor.
The soldier did not look well at all; he was hooked up to an IV drip and lay completely still, head turned slightly to the right and his arms above the covers. Only when Sherlock moved closer did he see the soft rising and falling of John's chest that meant his blogger was actually alive and breathing.
Sherlock sat down next to John's bed and studied his chart. The doctor was right; the concentration of sedatives in John's system was sky-high and much higher than it should have been with his PTSD meds alone.
In his mind, Sherlock ran through all possibilities of when John could have come in contact with these drugs.
Had there been another attack on John in the cab on the way home? Sherlock was sure that in such a case, John would have called or texted him or Lestrade for help.
After all, John had made it into the flat, had showered and changed, so his mental faculties were still all there when he'd gotten back to 221b Baker Street.
"I need your help John. Tell me who did this to you." Sherlock whispered while watching the other man sleep.
It took John almost five hours to wake up.
When he started coming to, he started moaning and wincing in pain and turned his head from side to side, eyes darting wildly behind closed eye lids.
"Hey, hey, John. It's alright. You're safe, I'm here. It's alright!" Sherlock tried to calm him, lightly holding John's shoulder down and speaking softly.
He had the funny feeling that this was one of John's nightmares on top of the crash from his drug-induced high. John let out a strangled cry that Sherlock knew too well as part of his Afghanistan flashbacks, before finally opening his eyes again.
Disorientated and squinting, John looked around the room, willing his eyes to focus. After a while, his gaze settled on his flatmate.
"Sh… Sh'rl'ck?" John was frowning.
"I… I.. don't… feel… too well…"
"Shhh… it's alright John. You're in hospital."
"Hosp'tal? Wh… Why? What happened? Sherl'ck?"
John looked around the room and back to his flatmate, panic rising and evident in his eyes.
"Calm down, John, you'll be fine now."
Sherlock handed John a cup of water from which the other man gladly took a sip.
"John, I need you to tell me everything that you did since the alley. It's vital."
"Uhm… I don't know Sherlock. It's all a bit fuzzy. Uhm… I hailed a cab, went straight home. I… I took a shower, got changed, made tea and then waited for you... why is this important?"
"Just trust me on this, John. Now, did you take your meds tonight?"
"Uhm… yes. I thought about not taking them, as they make me drowsy, but the headache was getting too much and I was not feeling too well as it was. Didn't want to add the nightmares on top…"
Sherlock's gaze scanned John's body before looking him in the eyes again, satisfied that he could not spot any indicators that John had told him a lie.
He lifted his right hand and cupped John's left cheek with it, his thumb brushing against John's cheekbone and holding him almost gingerly.
"Sherlock?"
"Did you take your normal dosage, John?"
"Yes of course! As if I'd be daft enough to take more than I absolutely have to."
The consulting detective looked at him and John could have sworn that the unsociable, feeling-deprived Sherlock Holmes looked sad and worried.
"Sherlock? What's going on? You're really starting to freak me out!"
John tried to sit up but was pushed back by Sherlock. And again with that x-ray stare from the detective.
"John, you took an overdose."
"I… what? What?!"
John's eyes went wide in shock and surprise.
"What do you mean, overdose?"
"Lestrade and I found you at home, you were unresponsive. You had thrown up and you had a seizure. They had to pump your stomach. John… you had a very high concentration of sedatives in your system and you've been unconscious for the past 7 hours. John, I need to ask you again: Is there any chance someone could have slipped you something or that you took more of your pills than you should have?"
John looked at his flatmate, not really believing he was hearing right. Did Sherlock really think so lowly of him? Did Sherlock really think that he'd deliberately take an overdose?
"Sherlock… I swear, I only took my usual meds. One of each, like every time. You can check. There are only three pills missing from each pack, they were brand new on Tuesday. I didn't take anything else, except for a cup of tea. Sherlock, I'd never…. I'd never do anything like that. You have to believe me! Why would I have reason to… to… you know?"
"I know, John. And I believe you. I just had to hear it from you."
Sherlock squeezed John's hand and then sat back in his chair.
"Greg and Mycroft are already on it. And don't worry, we've convinced the staff that this was not a suicide attempt. They won't put you on 48h watch."
"Oh shit. I hadn't even thought of that!" John groaned, rubbing his hands across his face.
"Was I really out for 7 hours?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Yes. But I'm glad you decided not to slip into a coma. That would have complicated matters."
"Blimey!"
He stared up and straight into the light above his bed, and closed his eyes, wincing in pain.
"Ahhh… oh god my head! Everything's throbbing…. It feels like my head is about to explode. Uhm… Sherlock… better get a bucket or something… I feel like I need to hurl…"
Sherlock had just enough time to retrieve a plastic bowl from the cupboard when John started to throw up again.
"It's alright John. This is a good sign, the drugs are wearing off" the detective said while holding the bowl for John.
John gave him a pained but apologetic look as he tried to take a break from retching up nothing from his empty stomach long enough to catch his breath.
"Believe me, I've been much worse, this is nothing John. You'll be fine."
Still holding the bowl, he also got out his mobile and texted Lestrade and Mycroft.
"JOHN'S AWAKE. FULL RECOVERY EXPECTED. HE ONLY TOOK HIS PRESCRIPTION. ANY NEWS? –SH"
Greg Lestrade came by to visit John the next morning before his shift started at Scotland Yard.
"Hey! Good morning!" he said cheerfully as he entered John's room.
John sat up and smiled back, still tired.
"Geez, John, you gave us a right fright last night!"
"So I've heard. And I've been told that I owe it to you that I'm still alive. Thank you, mate, I mean it!"
John extended his hand towards the DI who shook it.
"That's alright, mate. Just try not to do that again, aye?"
"Not planning to, Greg! I still don't know how I could have overdosed! I've taken my meds in exactly the same way and dosage for 4 years, and only during acute episodes. I've never even come close to OD'ing."
"Yeah, we're all scratching our heads a bit with this one. But we all know this is not like you and we're all glad you're ok!"
"Cheers, Greg. I appreciate it."
"Where's Sherlock? I thought he'd be here."
"Yeah he was. He left about an hour ago to go to Bart's. Apparently, Mycroft managed to get him one of my blood samples from when I was admitted. He's trying to analyse it to narrow down the drug I had in my system."
"Ah alright, fair enough. I'll catch up with him later. Speaking of His Excellency, he… he was really worried about you last night, John. I don't think he's ever seen someone OD before. And yes, I know, he has OD'ed himself, but I don't think he's ever witnessed it as a bystander before. He did all he could to make sure you were alright and as comfortable as possible. The entire time you were out, he was pacing up and down the A&E department and then sat by your side. He's a good man, deep down. And he does care, at least for you. I've known him for 9 years and you're still the only one he calls a friend."
Lestrade was shifting around a bit, fidgeting with the pocket flaps on his coat.
"Look mate, next time Sherlock goes off on one, try and cut him some slack ok? And for god's sake, don't tell him what I just told you, he'll kill me."
"Sure. Uhm... thanks, Greg. I'll keep that in mind."
"Ok. Anyway, best be off. We got the guys from last night by the way. I'll come back later to get your statement, ok? Need a coffee first though" Lestrade grinned.
"I hear ya!" John replied.
They said their goodbyes and John went back to sleep. His head was still throbbing and pounding against the back of his eyes. Under normal circumstances he would have asked for painkillers, but given his recent overdose, he knew he wouldn't be given any.
It was nearly lunchtime when Sherlock returned.
"I found it, John! I know what you've been drugged with!" Sherlock said by the way of greeting.
"Let's hear it then. What am I meant to have taken?"
"Horse tranquilizer."
"Beg your pardon? Horse what?"
"You heard me, John. I analysed your blood sample. Breaking the drugs apart wasn't easy, as some of them reacted with each other which resulted in some nasty side effects for you like the apnea and spasms last night. But I narrowed it down, reversed it back to its original state. It was a weird mix of chemicals, but essentially it's horse tranquilizer and not a small amount either. The adrenaline from the chase must have kept you going until you were back at Baker Street. The worst reaction came once you'd taken your medication, otherwise I can't explain who you kept going for so long after the initial contact with the drug."
"Hang on, Sherlock. Horse tranquilizer? Where on earth would I get that from?"
"Well, vet supplies I would assume. It's also a common party and date rape drug. But this was industrial grade. And the concentration high enough to knock out… well, a horse, funnily enough. It would have been fine, on its own. Yes it would have knocked you out, but you would have woken up a bit worse for wear and that would have been it. Your prescription drugs reacted with the tranquilizer though, worst of all the sedatives. As the drugs kept reacting with each other, the toxicity levels of the sedatives got too high, resulting in an overdose."
"I don't know what to say, Sherlock. Other than that I have no idea how I could have come in contact with horse tranquilizer. You didn't leave any lying round the flat or in a tea mug, did you?"
"No, good god John, I've not experimented with that stuff in three years. Although now I know what effects it can have with certain prescription drugs, I think more tests might be in order."
"Oh no, you won't! I'm not gonna risk ending up like this again."
"Hmm" Sherlock made a dismissive noise that John knew too well.
It meant 'You say that now, but I'll get my way anyway'. John rolled his eyes and moved his head slightly and regretted it immediately.
"Geez, my head is still pounding. That must have been one decent whack, they gave me… I had the guy in a chokehold, never saw it coming…"
John absentmindedly scratched the back of his neck just by the hairline and turned his head away a bit to grab a drink from the bedside table. That's when Sherlock noticed.
"Stop. John, hold still!"
"Why? What is it?"
"Why did you just scratch your neck?"
"Dunno. It's been a bit itchy, why?"
"Turn your head again, they way you just did."
"Why?"
Sherlock just gave him an impatient look.
"Fine..." John turned his head with a huff.
Sherlock took out his magnifying glass and John was just about to point out how ridiculous he looked, combing through his hair with a magnifier and that he didn't have head lice, when Sherlock pressed a fingertip to John's neck.
"Is this where the itch is?"
"Yeah, why? Did something bite me?"
"Bite, no. Sting, yes."
"What do you mean?"
"John, there's a puncture wound here. It's small, barely visible. This was made by a syringe."
"A syringe? So someone drugged me on purpose?"
"That's what it looks like, yeah. If you are certain that this didn't happen on the way to Baker Street, then… Oh! Ooohhh!"
"Here we go, you're doing that thing again, Sherlock. Care to share?"
"What if it happened at the crime scene? You said that you had one of the guys in a chokehold, when you were attacked by someone else. What if they injected you when you were unconscious? They only would have had seconds before Lestrade and I came along, but they wouldn't have needed long. Maybe that was part of their MO… It all makes sense now, don't you see?"
"I'm sorry Sherlock, I don't think I follow."
"None of the victims had defensive wounds. What if they got injected with the tranquilizer to make them placid?"
"… So they wouldn't fight back."
John was catching up on Sherlock's train of thought.
"Exactly. When the guy saw you fight back, he didn't hesitate and slipped you the drug. You were out from the blow to your head but they didn't want to risk it."
Sherlock got out his mobile and pressed number 3 on his speed dial.
"Lestrade? The victims, did they have puncture wounds? In the neck or along their hairline?"
There was a pause in which John assumed Greg answered.
"They were drugged. They were all drugged! John had been injected with a knock-out dose of horse tranquilizer. It reacted with his meds causing him to OD."
This time, John could faintly hear Greg swear "Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Horse tranquilizer?"
"Yes, keep up, Lestrade. I suspect that all the victims were given the drug so they wouldn't fight back. Run their tox screens again. And you may want to add charges for drug possession to the suspects' charge sheets."
John was kept in hospital for another day for observation, but once everybody had explained that he had been drugged by a murder suspect and had definitely not taken a deliberate overdose, he was free to return home.
Sherlock accompanied him in the cab, and Mrs. Hudson was already dashing around 221b making tea and carrying up home-made scones for her boys, glad that John was fine and fully intending on fussing over the two of them for the near future.
Shortly after the three of them had settled down for scones and tea, Mycroft showed up.
"Ah John, glad to see you recovered. Your medication is not a problem, I trust?"
"Thank you, Mycroft. No, as long as it's just my PTSD meds, which I still need, I'll be fine. I will talk to my therapist to reduce the dosage though."
"Good. I'm glad to hear."
"Care to join us? There's plenty for all of us" John said and pointed at the tea pot and cake stand.
Sherlock just rolled his eyes and gave John an annoyed look.
"Why, yes. Thank you, John."
Mycroft reached for the teapot and poured himself a cup, and then reached across the table again for the cream and sugar.
"Given up on another diet, have you?" Sherlock remarked snidely.
"On the contrary. But one cup of tea won't hurt."
Mycroft smiled at Sherlock with thin lips and barely concealed anger. Sherlock just smirked.
"Afternoon, all" DI Lestrade said as he entered the flat.
"Hey Greg! Grab a pew" John said and pointed to the chairs.
The DI let himself flop down into John's armchair.
"You were right, Sherlock. The victims had been drugged. So we got them on possession and murder. But we're adding attempted murder and reckless endangerment causing grievous bodily harm as well, because of John."
John's tea cup hit the saucer with a bit more force than necessary and a click of porcelain hitting porcelain.
"Attempted murder? Geez, I hadn't even thought about that!"
John took another bite from his scone.
"Yeah, well. While the others were deliberate targets, injecting you with a drug without knowing what medication you're on put you at a severe risk. You would have been collateral damage and they would have left you. That's reckless endangerment in the least. Given that they knew they'd whacked you over the head and you were unconscious, and they decided to still drug you after that, that is attempted murder. Given the cocktail of PTSD meds you had taken, plus the tranquilizer, it's almost a miracle you're still alive and kicking, John."
"Well, it wasn't pleasant, that's for sure. Just glad it's over. And thanks again, Greg, for everything."
They sit together for more than an hour, discussing the case in detail. It turned out one of the suspects had a cousin who recently got fired from a job working as a vet technician, who had easy access to the tranquilizer and had cleaned out his employer's medicine cabinet before finally leaving.
The conversation shifted to stories from the Yard's squad room and the mood got a bit lighter. John was nearly doubled over with laughter at a story about Anderson who'd once got his hand stuck quite unfortunately at a crime scene.
Suddenly John winced and shot a hand up to his head. The room went quiet immediately.
"John? Is everything alright?"
Sherlock's hand slightly touched John's knee. Four pairs of worried eyes looked at the doctor who had folded in on himself on the couch.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm not allowed painkillers for the moment, what with my recent overdose, but my head is still pounding. Just the way I moved my head just now pulled at the skin around the stitches. I'm fine. Honestly."
"Well, dear, I think I'd best return downstairs, give you some space. Let me know if you need anything, ok? Just this once, though. I'm not your housekeeper, lovely!"
Both John and Sherlock smirked at that. Mrs. Hudson hugged John before making her way back to the flat below.
Once their landlady was out of sight and earshot, Sherlock got up and went to his bedroom without saying a word. Greg decided to give John a break and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on again as Mycroft didn't make any moves to leave either and John looked like he could do with another cuppa.
Greg brought the fresh tea over to the living room and Mycroft served each of them another cup. They were all happily sipping their teas when Sherlock re-emerged from his bedroom.
He stopped short in front of the coffee table, hands in his pockets and fidgeting nervously.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft prompted.
Sherlock looked up at his brother, then to Lestrade and then to John. When he took his hand out of his trouser pocket, he held a small plastic bag containing white powder.
"Sherlock! Are you mad?"
The three men seemed to all be thinking the same thing as they leapt up and nearly smacked the consulting detective.
"Seriously, Sherlock? Drugs? After all John's just been through and with me in your bloody flat?" Lestrade nearly shouted.
"It's not what you think, Lestrade. I'm clean. Have been for four years. Since John moved in."
He held the bag on his outstretched palm, offering it to Lestrade.
"This… I don't know… I kept this, for emergencies… I never used it and it's all there is. I… I want you to get rid of it."
Mycroft gave his brother a calculating and analysing stare, then sat down again. John also relaxed a little. Lestrade just stared.
"You want me to get rid of your drugs?"
"Yes. I… As you know, I have overdosed before… Back then, it was the only way to shut my mind up. I just never… I mean, I never witnessed…" he gestured wildly, his arms eventually waving in John's direction.
"You never witnessed an overdose before" John offered. Sherlock nodded.
"Now that I know what it's like… it scared me." Sherlock confessed and looked at his older brother.
"I never knew… I realize now why you were so adamant I get clean. I didn't know what to do, didn't know how to help John. If I was like that, then I'm sorry. For putting you through that. Repeatedly."
Mycroft nodded his understanding. John felt a smile creep across his face. For Sherlock to admit fear and that he was clueless, and the fact he actually worried about John, was a very big deal indeed.
Lestrade looked around the room and then looked straight into Sherlock's eyes as he grabbed the tiny bag.
"Ok, Sherlock. I'll destroy this. I could charge you with possession of a class A drug, but I think you learned your lesson." Lestrade said and pocketed the drugs.
Sherlock looked at his brother again.
"I'm clean, Mycroft. You can test me if you like. I don't use anymore."
"Good. Let's ensure it stays that way, shall we?"
"I thought that's what I just did."
"That's good, Sherlock. Really good. I'm proud of you" John said.
"There are just two things I need to ask of you. And both are non-negotiable."
Sherlock stared at his flatmate.
"First: you're going to show me where you hid that stash. Even if we have to take this whole flat apart, no more secret hiding spaces. You clearly want our help, so I need to be able to make sure you're not hiding anything whenever you feel tempted."
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but the stare John gave him, the commanding stare that tolerated no talk-back, stop him in his tracks. Weighing his options, Sherlock finally nodded.
"Good. And the second thing is that you're doing a refresher course in First Aid. We can do it here it the flat and I can instruct you, or you can sign up for an official course, but I want you to be able to offer assistance as a first responder. Giving our jobs, it might come in handy."
This was something Sherlock could more easily agree to. Plus it would gain him more knowledge and skills, so he didn't complain.
"Mycroft, Lestrade, you're welcome to join if you want a refresher course but that's up to you."
"Actually" Greg said "I think my entire team could do with a refresher. I know I need to update my First Aid qualification, I'm the designated First Aid Officer. What do you think, John, would you be able to do a course down at the Yard?"
"Sure, that would work. I think that's a good idea."
"Thought so. Knew you wouldn't resist the chance of making Anderson kiss a rubber doll."
"Oh, not just Anderson…" John grinned.
"Right, I'm off then. Sherlock, I do appreciate this, but I'll keep an eye on you. Just to make sure. And John, I'll run some dates past you next week or so, regarding that refresher course, yeah?" Lestrade turned to go.
"Excellent. Bye Greg! And thank you again." John called after him.
Eventually, Mycroft got up to leave too. He grabbed his umbrella and stopped next to Sherlock, squeezing his brother's shoulder slightly and giving him a nod. Then he went over to John and whispered something in his ear, while twirling his umbrella around.
John's eyes went wide but then his expression softened somewhat and he looked up at the older Holmes and nodded before Mycroft took his leave. Sherlock looked over at his flatmate.
"What was that all about then?"
"Oh, Mycroft is taking me up on the offer of a first aid course. Apparently his team could also do with a refresher. He's gonna pick me up tomorrow."
"Ah. Dull. I'll do the course with Lestrade thanks." John grinned.
"Well, you'll do the course twice. You're coming tomorrow. First on the agenda: CPR. You know, it can't hurt, and you'll be able to show off in front of Anderson."
Sherlock had to concede that John did have a point.
"What's so funny?" he asked, a bit irritated.
"Oh, nothing."
John chuckled and leaned back against the sofa cushion, cradling his cup of tea contently and took a nonchalant sip.
"Just that Mycroft volunteered you as our practice victim…"