A/N: Here is the next part of this :) Hope it doesn't disappoint!
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Sherlock jerked into action leaping over the coffee table and gripping John's shoulders. He shook him, and was rewarded by a weak groan. When he checked his pulse, it was slow, too slow.
"John, you need to wake up. John? Come on, John!" He was babbling, but there was no further response from his friend. Sherlock swore and stood, grabbing John's arms under the armpits, and pulling up, until he was hanging over Sherlock's thin shoulder. "Stay with me, John."
Sherlock lugged John's limp body down the stairs, staggering a little. John may have been shorter than Sherlock, but he was no lightweight. He was still solid with compact muscle from his days in the army. Also, Sherlock wasn't sure if it was just the strain, or if the haziness behind his eyes was a result of the chemical, but regardless, it was getting harder to walk in a straight line when the world wouldn't stop rotating.
Finally, finally, they reached the open, biting air of Baker Street. Sherlock took a deep, grateful breath, and set John down onto the sidewalk. There were people staring, gathering around and Sherlock located with joy one of the homeless men that frequented the street. The man had done many small favors for Sherlock, and received what was probably most of his regular income from Sherlock's hands.
Billy MacPherson, for that was his name, started over towards them. Concern knotted his brow, and Sherlock felt a rush of gladness. He could trust this man to look after John, for the knowledge that Mrs. Hudson was still inside was pressing to the front of his muddled brain.
Sherlock called out to another person who happened to catch his eye.
"You there! Call an ambulance, and the police. 221B Baker Street!" Then he turned, and leaving Billy standing guard over John, flew back inside.
The smell was stronger back inside, even downstairs, and Sherlock felt his headache sharpen almost immediately.
"Mrs. Hudson?" He coughed, running into Mrs. Hudson's private flat. No sign of her in the living area, or the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled, running into the back rooms. He found her on her bed, covered in a knitted afghan. Her pulse was slow, and she didn't react to shaking or yelling, so he lifted her, carrying her in the same manner that he'd carried John.
A few steps from the bed, however, showed that this would be much more difficult. His eyesight was swirling in and out, and he could feel himself heading quickly towards unconsciousness. He shook his head savagely, and leaned on a wall. He concentrated on just one more step, just one.
He made it. The sun was blinding on the snow, causing him to squint when he exited the house. He stumbled, and hands grabbed him and Mrs. Hudson on his shoulders, lowering them to the ground. Sherlock saw more than heard people talking to him, and lights were flashing somewhere to the left. Then the world sort of blurred around him, and he felt cold slush against his cheek.
What seemed like a moment later, Sherlock saw Lestrade's face inches from his own. He was mouthing something, and there was a line between his eyes. This little furrow seemed to be massively important, and took up all his concentration, and what with the rushing in his ears, it was a while before Lestrade's words made sense.
"—erlock, what happened?" Sherlock blinked.
"L'strade?" He said, his voice was so hoarse he barely made a sound. He coughed. "What are you doing here?" Then it clicked. That furrow in his brow was worry. Lestrade was concerned. He felt oddly pleased with himself. Lestrade himself refused to confirm Sherlock's theory.
"Sherlock, you've got to tell us what happened." Lestrade was leaning over him and Sherlock just the realized that he was lying in the snow, though someone had thought to put a coat or something under his head. Thelights that were flashing were from an ambulance just yards away. Paramedics were busy lifting someone into the open back. John.
John was on a stretcher, covered in an orange shock blanket, and being administered oxygen. The lack of urgency in the medic's movements told Sherlock that John was going to be all right, but that knowledge wasn't enough to stop him from sitting forwards, and trying to scramble over to him.
Lestrade held him back, and then up, as the movement cause the world to spin again. He leaned on the arm Lestrade had braced across his chest, never taking his eyes off the steady movements of John's breaths.
"Sherlock, he'll be alright. Mrs. Hudson too. Don't worry." Sherlock nodded. He knew, he just…
"It's my fault." He said quietly. Stupid stupid stupid. "I left the burner on under some chemicals when I came to see you. I didn't realize…" He shuddered. It so nearly could have been fatal to all of them. Lestrade seemed to think his shudder had been because of the cold, for he turned to yell at some young paramedic.
"Can we get a shock blanket and some oxygen over here?" He sounded exasperated. Sherlock wanted to tell him, don't bother, but someone draped the orange blanket over his shoulder, and then there was a man in his face, asking him questions, and trying to fix an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose… it was too much.
He shouted something; it may have been shut up! and pushed and shoved until he was backed up against a wheeled stretcher. People were still around him, telling him to calm down, and he couldn't breathe and where was John?
Lestrade moved past his surprise at Sherlock's so-very-human reaction, and let his training take over. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, and forced his head down between his knees, keeping up a stream of that generic calming chatter.
"All right, Sherlock. It's all right. Everything is fine." He continued on, and Sherlock's erratic breaths slowed. Lestrade turned towards the young EMT crouching awkwardly behind him.
"Get him some oxygen, would you?"
The young woman fixed a mask over Sherlock's face without any protests from the detective himself, which Lestrade considered a huge accomplishment. He still had his hands on Sherlock's shoulder and head, and he kept up a steady pressure.
Sherlock gulped a breath of the tinny canned oxygen, and swallowed. Panic attack. Sudden overpowering fear, triggered by the present anxiety of a near death experience, adrenaline, endorphins from the bodily strain, the inability to breath—no, that was a result of the attack…his mind continued on, and a small detached part of him looked on with vague fascination. He'd never had a panic attack before…
A larger part of him, surprisingly large, was overwhelmingly worried for his housemates. That was strange as well. Where was John?
He could feel the continued weight of Lestrade's hands, steadying him. He was still shaking…odd.
Sherlock uncurled a bit from his slumped position, and cleared his throat. Lestrade took the hint, and the hands fell away. Sherlock went to remove the oxygen mask, but Lestrade prevented him.
"Leave it; you're still not getting enough air." Sherlock was annoyed. He wanted to ask Lestrade if he'd somehow gotten a medical degree. He wanted to sweep off, and be his usual distaining cold self, not the still gasping, shivering lump that was earning concern from Lestrade. But most of all, he wanted to get in that damn ambulance and make sure that John was as fine as everyone told him he was.
A paramedic touched his shoulder, and Lestrade backed off to give her more room.
"Sir, we need to get you to the hospital, and get you checked out. If you're feeling well enough we can skip the stretcher for the ride over?"
Sherlock nodded firmly, and stood up, using the stretcher behind him as a lever to pull him up. His head didn't take to kindly to that, and his vision swam.
Lestrade saw him sway, and gripped his arm.
"Holmes, just lay down on the bloody stretcher!" He exclaimed. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes or made some clever remark, but he was too busy attempting to keep down the meager contents of his stomach. However, he didn't allow them to push him down onto a stretcher, for that would have meant riding in a different vehicle to the hospital, and he couldn't have that.
He staggered up to the ambulance, and clamored inside, his usual grace severely lacking at the moment. An EMT sat him down on a side seat, and Lestrade slide in next to him. He was squeezed uncomfortably close; they were packed like sardines in the small back.
Sherlock could just see the oxygen mask over John's face, and the tufts of light brown hair that stuck up above the pillow. It was the comforting beeps of his heart monitor that finally convinced him that John was actually alive, and that everyone wasn't just lying to him, to make him feel better.
His head was feeling much clearer by now, with the oxygen clearing out the last of the effects of the chemical. Sherlock hated to think of its effects of the others. He'd only been in the room for a short time compared to John and Mrs. Hudson. If the effects were permanent…
His chest constricted with guilt. This was his fault, his careless mistake. He raised his hands to his head, gripping his curls. If he hadn't been so distracted this morning, if he'd only noticed!
John was just feet from him, and he felt an irrational urge to reach out to touch him, to make sure he really was all right. Before the counterargument had formed in his mind –you can see his monitor, hear him breathing—he'd caught hold of John's wrist. He felt Lestrade's eyes on him, but he didn't let go the whole ride to the hospital.
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A/N: Thank you for reading and supporting this! All the reviews and alerts have been marvelous! :) Be sure to check out the original canon version of this as well. You may have noticed, but at this point is where Sherlock really diverges from Canon!Holmes. He surprised me, and dragged me off in a totally new direction, much different from Holmes' experience in the original version of this. Let me know your thoughts, and thanks!