Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. As always, thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. But for now… Onwards!
CYNICAL SOULS
Hudson appears within moments bearing a tray with a teapot, a cup, a wide, deep bowl of water, some towels and- Sherlock silently thanks the young window's sense- a pouch of charcoal from his room.
Mycroft looks confused but he hasn't time to explain: whatever John has ingested, it's best they get it out of his system as soon as possible.
And if there's one thing the staff in this house knows how to deal with, it's an overdose.
To that end he has Hudson and Mycroft help him manoeuvre John upright and into his chair. Hudson opens the pouch of charcoal and starts grinding the black substance into the cup as quickly as she can; Sherlock tips John's head back as she works and forces his mouth open, sliding his fingers in to check whether there's any more vomit within. (Thankfully there is not). He then sets the bowl of water on John's desk and without ceremony dunks his friend's face swiftly into it, yelling his name as he does. He does this twice, thrice, before it has any effect.
Icy as the water is- and loud as Sherlock's voice is- both cut through John's loss of consciousness eventually.
He comes back to himself with a series of hacking, painful-sounding gasps. Tears come to his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a desperate, struggling-to-breathe rhythm.
"John?" Sherlock barks, "John, I need you to swallow something for me, alright? Do you understand?"
His shaking has not abated and he appears to be unable to control himself beyond opening his eyes. He does, however, seem to nod his head- at least that's how Sherlock chooses to interpret it- They don't have time for him to do anything but interpret-
With an impatient motion Sherlock demands the charcoal-filled cup from Hudson. He splashes some water into it, brings it to John's lips. Still holding his head tipped backwards, he pours the concoction into John's mouth, forcing him to swallow it down.
The doctor sputters but Sherlock doesn't relent; with Mycroft holding John's arms steady Sherlock repeats the manoeuvre three more times until John appears to be more awake. As his eyes clear his trembling eases, though it doesn't stop. Sherlock's not surprised; they'll need to know what's causing his condition before they can treat all of its symptoms.
Speaking of which-
"We'll need more charcoal," he tells Hudson. "Go to my room and take all you can find there. Then send one of the footmen down to Pomfreys' to buy whatever else they have in stock."
"Very good, Sir." Hudson nods grimly, bobbing a quick curtsy before dashing out. As soon as she's gone Sherlock brings the cup to John's lips once again and forces him to drink. This time however he turns away, shaking his head, so Sherlock lets him take water instead. Watson looks balefully at his friend- "Is this revenge for Budapest?" he croaks- to which Sherlock smiles, relieved.
"There can be no revenge for Budapest," he says dryly. "What happened in Budapest is beyond revenge, and beyond redemption."
He smiles as he says it and John matches him. Just for a moment they're who they once were again, two best friends who have been through the wars but are holding one another fast-
The thought brings an ache to Sherlock's chest.
"Do I want to know how you knew to do that?" Mycroft asks dryly then, breaking the moment. Breaking moments being what he's best at. He's eased his hold on John's arms and stepped away, examining the teacup's contents with a sort of interested disgust.
Sherlock remembers the expression clearly from his own boyhood experiments.
"I discovered the medicinal effects of charcoal when I was serving with your brother," John rasps. His voice sounds sore, and Sherlock makes a mental note to check his throat for inflammation later. "It soaks up just about anything in your stomach," the doctor continues, "and the only real effect is that it turns your shite black-"
"Charming." Mycroft cocks an eyebrow , looking slightly queasy. Sherlock and John share a tight smile: they are well acquainted with the elder Holmes' squeamishness. "And might you have any idea what caused this little… incident?"
John's cheeks colour, a familiar, mulish set coming to his mouth. "I can't imagine."
"You'll have to do better than that," Mycroft says condescendingly.
"Oh will I?"
"Yes, John," Mycroft growls. "I'm afraid you will."
"You're not my commander anymore," John says, "I don't have to answer to you-"
He tries to stagger to his feet; the effect would be rather more impressive if he were not still grey in the face and unsteady. He needs to lean on his desk for support.
"You don't need to answer to me," Mycroft shoots back, "you need to answer to your family and your loved ones." He crosses his arms angrily over his chest. Gestures to Sherlock. "One would have thought you familiar with the pain of watching someone you care about abusing their body, considering what you and my brother have endured together, and yet here you a-"
"Enough."
Sherlock glares at both of them. He is not being put in the middle of Mycroft and John again, no good will come of it. It never has.
They've been having some variety of this argument since Mary died and it has yet to produce a fruitful result.
Rather he turns his attention to John, gestures for him to take a seat. Mutinous as he looks, the good doctor nevertheless does as he's asked, sitting back down. As soon as he does so the strength seems to go out of him, his pallor turning more ashen. Sherlock stands, about to grab the coal bucket from the fireplace should John need to get sick again but the doctor waves him away. Instead he takes deep breaths in through his nose, spreading his hands flat on the desk before him. Forcing his fingers out with great deliberation, digging the fingertips into the wood. Sherlock recognises this method as his, a way he used to calm himself in the aftermath of a bad opium episode-
It's somehow both chilling and soothing, seeing John do something he has done so many times himself.
He finds himself wincing, imagining that this is how Mummy and Mycroft felt every time they watched over him.
A long, uncomfortable beat.
"Do you know what you took?" he asks John quietly. "Or might one of the girls have offered-?"
"I didn't take anything," John snaps. "And I didn't accept anything from a doxy, either. I'm not a fool."
At the brothers' disbelieving reaction he rolls his eyes and pushes his chair angrily away from his desk. Again he struggles to his feet. His shaking has quieted, it's only his hands he has trouble keeping steady now. And yet, he still looks like death warmed over, like he might drop at any moment. The thought frightens Sherlock more than he would ever say. "I don't. Take. Narcotics," John is biting out. A feral, harsh grin at Sherlock. "One addict in the house is quite enough, I assure you."
Sherlock feels the jab but doesn't answer it. John is trying to turn his attention to self-defence and he is unwilling to let him: What he has seen today proves his friend is in too much danger to allow himself to become sidetracked.
So he schools his expression to calmness, leans back and crosses his arms.
If John wants to bring up his past foolishness then he's welcome to: Sherlock will use it to bolster his case.
"Fits like the one you just endured are not usually associated with alcohol," he points out evenly. "As you have so thoughtfully articulated, I would know. So are you saying that you took enough liquor last night to give you alcoholic poisoning?"
He raises his eyebrows in question; irritatingly, Mycroft matches him.
John opens his mouth to retort and then closes it with a snap.
For a moment he remains stubbornly silent, but then-
"I don't remember," he allows, his voice very quiet. He almost sounds like he's sulking. Sulking- Or afraid. "I- I'm not sure how I could have managed to drink enough to make myself truly sick," he says. "I've always known how to hold my liquor… I don't see what would make last night special." Sherlock purses his lips, not pointing out the obvious: that last night was by far the largest night's carousing John had subjected himself to in the years since Mary's death. The words hang in the air, however, and John must be aware of it for he opens his desk drawer, takes out the tumbler of whisky hidden therein. He sets it on the table, the honey-coloured liquid glinting in the light, and gestures to it as one might an exhibit in a courtroom.
There's very little of it left.
John frowns, noticing: he clearly thought that he hadn't drunk as much as he had, that's obvious.
On the other hand, overindulgence is an easy thing, Sherlock muses, when one is already out of one's wits.
And being out of one's wits still seems to be the state which John is craving. Almost without thinking, it seems, he opens the tumbler and tries to pour himself a drink. Sherlock swoops in, grabbing it from him before he can do so, pushing the teacup of charcoal towards him instead. John shoots him an annoyed, martyred glare but picks it up and starts to sip. Sherlock picks up the tumbler's stopper, makes to put it back in the bottle's neck. He's going to make sure this is put out of John's reach. As he does so however, he catches a whiff of the liquid inside-
Sherlock halts. Frowns. Sniffs.
He gestures to Mycroft to join him.
Mycroft sniffs the liquid in distaste. "Good God, John," he says, "what sort of rotgut are you drinking these days?"
There's something wrong with that whisky, Sherlock hasn't a doubt of it.
"It's not rotgut," John objects. He sounds scandalised. "That's twelve year old whisky, I'll have you know. It was a gift from the Duke of Carlisle-"
"Twelve year old whisky doesn't smell like a decaying rat's carcass," Mycroft retorts. Another sniff and this time he looks truly nauseated.
He pushes the tumbler away decisively.
Sherlock, on the other hand, examines the liquid. It doesn't look like anything's amiss but he trusts his nose. Setting it down he swipes his index finger along its inner rim, wetting his fingertip. He then licks the tip of said finger, trying to sort through the taste as both his brother and his best friend glower at him. Neither looks best pleased.
He gets the smack of the alcohol, the notes of amber and spice. The liquid is definitely whisky but there's something else within it too. Something trips along his tongue… Something familiar… A bitter-sweet after-taste that lingers. That coats his mouth. It's cloying, unpleasant yet also… sweet?
It reminds him of something and Sherlock cannot put his finger on what.
He closes his eyes, concentrates, trying to isolate the alien substance… A numbness seems to be edging its way across his tongue, the inside of his lips...He's so intent on isolating it that he almost doesn't feel it when his legs go out from underneath him…
He collapses on the floor just as John had earlier and as he falls he realises just what's in John's whiskey...
Meanwhile
Back In Mycroft's House
It's not often that one is roused by the lady of the house, but that is who comes up to awaken Molly.
Gorgeous, elegant and with a distinctly mischievous smile on her face, Lady Anthea Holmes seems utterly delighted to make Molly's acquaintance, something which rather surprises the young widow. (Not that she is rude enough to give a sign of it).
After all, shouldn't Lady Holmes be circling her warily, wondering whether she is trying to trap her brother-in-law into marriage or some such rot?
And yet, her hostess is politesse itself.
She even delivers a missive from Sherlock- "He made me promise to put it into your hands myself, poor lamb,"- before shooting Molly another sly smile and leaving her to read the note in peace. The message merely relays that he has gone to check on John and that her mother-in-law has been appraised of her and Georgiana's location-
Because she's alone in the room and there's nobody to see her foolishness, Molly brings the paper up to her nose and inhales.
She catches the whiff of Sherlock's pomade and cologne on it, something which makes her grin like a giddy little schoolgirl.
What on earth has come over her?
Before she can make a further fool of herself there's a knock at the door and a female servant enters, holding a fresh dress. "Missus said you'd want to change," the girl says, bobbing a curtsy. "Shall I help you get started?"
"Yes, please." Molly stands and strips out of her slip; fortunately for her the new clothes include fresh underthings. She slides the pelisse over her head, wriggles into her stays. The servant helps her, keeping up a lively stream of chatter which surprises Molly: Mycroft Holmes' servants are not known for their friendliness- Perhaps this is because she is a guest of Sherlock's?
Once she is dressed the girl offers to dress her hair, something Molly acquiesces to gratefully. (She's embarrassed to admit she wishes to look her best should Sherlock rejoin them soon). She sits in front of the vanity, allows the girl- her name is Betsy- to dress her hair. All the way through the girl keeps up her chatter, her smile bright and friendly in the mirror's reflection and Molly allows herself to enjoy the attention, to bask in the pleasure of the morning after the pleasures of last night-
Of course, those pleasures can't last, and they come to a rather dreadful and abrupt halt when the door to her room opens without so much as a knock.
In sweeps her mother-in-law, her face set in a rather supercilious smile.
"So this is where you've been hiding," the older woman says, and the pleasures of Molly's morning pop like a soap bubble in a bath.