John set to checking his vitals, pleased with how his blood pressure had responded, when he heard footsteps behind him. Not Mrs Hudson, because she was out with Mrs Turner on a day trip to somewhere in the country. They wouldn't be back until late.
No, they were heavy footsteps, the footsteps of a man.
John turned to find a large man in the doorway. Not a client, because clients rang the doorbell. (Mrs Hudson had finally fixed it.) No, this was bad news.
"What the hell-" but before John could finish exploding at the man who'd barged into Sherlock's bedroom, there was a loud noise. A gun.
John's head hurt. He didn't see any blood, but was rapidly growing dizzy. He held a hand to his head, but puzzled, held it out again to look at. Since when did he have two left hands? And since when did Sherlock's bedroom have two of everything?
Drugged, his brain whispered. It was a little slow on the uptake, but that was understandable. Considering the circumstances.
Glancing back down at his body again, there was indeed no blood, but there was two tiny darts sticking out of his leg. No, just one, his brain corrected.
He took a step towards the man who'd shot him with a bloody dart gun, but his leg refused to cooperate and gave up, dumping him unceremoniously onto the floor.
"Sherlock-" he gasped. But it was too late. The man stepped over him with ease.
Roll onto your side, his brain urged. You don't want to choke if you vomit. He managed to shuffle himself into a sort of recovery position, and could only watch through darkening vision as the man heaved Sherlock over his shoulder and stepped back over John, pausing over him to leer.
"I'd intended to shoot him with the dart," he said kindly. "But considering the state he's in, everything turned out just as well, don't you think?" John wanted to snap at him, that no, it was not at all turning out well, but he was distracted by something shiny. What the hell? Why is he sparkling? Light bounced off the man's face and seemed to dance in front of John's eyes. He didn't think the drugs were hallucinogenic, but he could always be wrong.
"Bye," the man said, straightening up.
John wanted to protest, but that turned out to be that and he was head over heels into the rabbit hole.
He awoke an indeterminable time later with a fuzzy mouth and a pounding headache. At least he hadn't thrown up. That would have been all he needed, to choke to death on his own vomit while Sherlock was unceremoniously carted away, afflicted with some mysterious illness.
Sherlock.
John struggled to his feet, almost passing out again as all the blood rushed from his head. He clutched Sherlock's bed for support. His head cleared slowly, and he was able to grab his phone from where he left it on the side table.
Just as he picked it up, it began to vibrate.
John only stared at it. It took him a minute to remember that he should probably answer it. Coherently.
He shook his head a couple of times, as if the physical motion would clear the mental fog. It never did, but he kept doing it anyway.
"Hello?"
"John. We've gotten the lab results back. You need to take Sherlock to the hospital immediately."
John blinked. "What?" he managed.
"Are you listening? Sherlock needs to go to the hospital now."
"He's not here," John mumbled.
Mycroft was silent.
"What?!"
"Some man came in and drugged me and took him... I don't know... I don't..." he trailed off helplessly. Surely Mycroft should have seen this coming.
"Why? What did the lab results show?"
Mycroft chose his next words carefully.
"Sherlock has contracted anthrax."
John collapsed onto Sherlock's bed.
"Oh."
