Author's note: If you want the back story to this, check out my story, Crossfire


Chapter 43- Calling the Police in Belgravia Part One


Greg was enjoying the last bit of his tuna mayonnaise sandwich at his desk when his mobile phone rang. Caller ID identified it as John Watson, so he answered with his mouth still half full.

"John. Is everything OK?" When there wasn't a case on, it wasn't like the doctor to call him unless there was a problem.

"Sherlock's just fired a gun; his idea of calling the police."

"Christ- whose gun? Anyone hurt? Where are you?"

"26 Boscobel Place, Belgravia. I've already called Mycroft; this could be messy because there is a dead American on the floor of the living room."

Lestrade closed his eyes for a second. In his nightmares, he took a phone call from a hospital to say they'd found a drug overdose victim. Or worse, a morgue to say that Sherlock had been found dead- the victim of some criminal who had just had enough of the consulting detective. But rarely in this imaginings had he thought of Sherlock being arrested for killing someone. He didn't think that the brunet would ever go so far- it would be like an admission that he wasn't smart enough to think his way out of a tight spot.

"Don't touch anything. I'm on my way."

"Wait- Greg- you misunderstood. Sherlock isn't responsible for the dead guy. He didn't fire the gun. In fact," here John seemed to hesitate, "nobody did."

"Are you in shock or something, John, because that didn't make a whole lot of sense!?" Greg could hear the sound of sirens in the background.

"Hurry. I think we're going to need a friend on the force to smooth things over." John hung up.

oOo

It only took ten minutes to get there, but by the time Lestrade arrived, the scene was crawling with police cars, an ambulance and too many armed SO19 officers. Gunfire in one of London's most exclusive residential areas always made the Met nervous. Packed with aristocracy, millionaire immigrants and a sprinkling of embassies and consulates, Belgravia was supposed to be one of the safest parts of town.

He flashed his badge and got through the police cordon, ducking under the tape and in through the front door of Number 26. He was stopped in the hall by a plain-clothes officer, wearing all the hallmarks of SO6. Uh oh; that mean's something has happened to Sherlock. His badge was checked, and then he was waved through. To his left, he spotted the medical examiner on his knees beside a body through the door to the drawing room, which was packed with officers. A pair of them was hoisting up a handcuffed but barely conscious man. Before he could walk into the room, his attention was drawn to the sight of a suited man on the hall stairs landing. "Up here, sir. He's in the master bedroom." One of Mycroft's minions?

Even before he got through the bedroom door, he could see Watson bent over the figure of Sherlock, lying on floor. There was a para-medic alongside.

"What the hell happened?!" Greg went down on one knee beside Sherlock, his eyes scanning the man for obvious wounds. Sherlock was barely conscious, being held down in the recovery position on his side, but still struggling weakly against John's grip. The para-medic was trying to shine a penlight into his eyes.

John answered tersely. "He was drugged." He was holding an empty syringe, and he handed it to the agent who had followed Lestrade into the room. "Get it tested. As quickly as possible. She said she'd used it on people, presumably her clients, said he would sleep for a few hours. But she also warned me to watch for aspiration."

The paramedic nodded. "My guess is GHB- a pretty hefty dose, given intravenously, so very quick acting. At first, it makes them a bit dopey, but soon enough the other effects should emerge."

"Which are?" John glared at the paramedic, who looked a bit surprised.

"I thought you said you're a doctor."

"Yes, but I'm a trauma surgeon- so date rape drugs aren't exactly in my repertoire. Look- it matters, because he's not neuro-typical, and can have paradoxical reactions to drugs. So, I need to know what you think will happen."

As if on cue, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. In a very unfocussed gaze. He turned his head and his grey green eyes latched onto Lestrade. The brunet smirked, a slurred "ooops" came out. He struggled to sit upright. "Uh oh." He looked at the DI with a sheepish grin. "I seem to be under the influence, and that's not…good, with you standing there." He pointed unsteadily at the DI, who tried to give him a reassuring look.

"Take it easy, Sherlock. Not your fault this time." Greg and John helped him sit up, because he seemed to be having difficulties coordinating those long legs and arms.

Sherlock looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. "Where am I? What happened?" He wasn't at all anxious; in fact, he looked like he was trying hard not to giggle.

John answered. "She drugged you."

"Who?" Both Sherlock and Lestrade asked the question at exactly the same time. That made Sherlock giggle. "Like an owl…whoo."

John sighed. "Never mind; this will have to wait until the drug has worn off." The doctor turned to the paramedic. "What's likely to happen next?"

The paramedic smirked. "Well, if he follows the norm, he's going to get rather affectionate- it loosens inhibitions, and it's been known to make people suggestible and…ah...randy."

As he struggled to get Sherlock to his feet, the tall brunet giggled and hung onto John for dear life, as if he'd just discovered a life sized teddy bear. Lestrade could hardly contain his smirk.

Oh, joy. John just closed his eyes. Now people will REALLY talk.

oOo

John convinced Lestrade to come with him to Baker Street- first to provide a police car there, because a taxi driver would take one look at a man who couldn't stand up and assume he was drunk and likely to throw up in the back. No matter how much they charged for a clean-up, it was never enough to compensate for having to take the cab out of action for the rest of the day and night to get rid of the vomit smell- so nobody would agree to take them, and John knew it.

And Lestrade wasn't about to let this one go. "Mycroft may get to the Kensington boys to stifle this one, but…I want the truth, the whole truth. Nobody who drugs Sherlock is going to get away with it, if I have anything to say about it. So, I'll take a statement from you once we've got Mr Sunshine here safely home."

The man in question was now sitting quietly with a bemused grin on his face, in the back seat of the squad car. John wasn't convinced that Sherlock wouldn't throw up and suddenly react to the drug in an unpredictable way. This was the guy who could be given a shot of haloperidol by an A&E team at a hospital and become even more agitated, on a dose that should have floored an elephant. So, he didn't trust a non-medical person in the back. That said, he also wanted to keep his distance, too, lest the rumour mill at the Yard get even more material.

When John got in on the other side of the back seat, he was greeted by a cheery "Hello, John. I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten me."

As if I could. John slid across the back seat toward his friend, put on his doctor face and looked at Sherlock's pupil dilation. Still constricted beyond belief; the man was high as a kite. The expression on Sherlock's face was just …open, relaxed, and somehow it made him look ten years younger and vulnerable, rather sweet. He was holding his seatbelt as if he'd never seen it before, and hadn't a clue what to do with it.

The DI got into the front passenger seat and the constable driving put the car into gear, moving off while John was still trying to get Sherlock's seatbelt latched- and took a sharp right turn onto Elizabeth Street, throwing John's balance completely off kilter. He ended up virtually sitting in his flatmate's lap. Usually, his flatmate avoided any physical contact, but this time Sherlock laughed out loud, and just hugged John to stop him from ending up on the floor. Greg sniggered, and he heard the ominous sound of a phone taking a picture behind him.

"Don't you start!" John growled this. The sloppy grin on Sherlock's face vanished, and he looked like a ten year old kid who'd been caught doing something wrong.

"I'm …sorry, John." He let go of him and shrank back like he'd been slapped.

Oh, Christ. Now I've upset him. John put on a big smile, and said, "It's OK Sherlock; I'm not mad at you, just at Lestrade." He clambered back into his seat and clipped himself in. Sherlock was watching his every move, with the usual fascination reserved for murder victims or three week old cadavers. It made John uncomfortable.

Sherlock might be seriously drugged, but he was still able to deduce John's discomfort, and his expression crumpled. "You are mad at me. What have I done wrong this time?"

"No, I'm not. I'm worried about you. This is me being worried."

Now, the brunet wouldn't meet his eye at all. He tried to look out the window, but then scrunched his eyes shut as if the sight of moving traffic, pedestrians and all the buildings was too much to bear. He gasped and looked back into the taxi in a bit of a panic. He pulled absently on his seatbelt, as if fighting the restriction. Greg was watching, using the mirror on his sun visor.

Uh oh. Sensory overload. He's going to get scared in a minute.

"Pull over for a minute, will you?," he asked the PC driving.

When the car stopped, he got out of the front seat and opened the passenger door on Sherlock's side. He unlatched the man's seatbelt and told Sherlock to slide over into the middle, which he did.

He put his right arm on the back of the seat behind Sherlock, who instinctively moved in to lean toward the older man. ""It's alright, Sherlock. I've got you. It's OK, just close your eyes."

John looked at Lestrade in surprise. He'd not seen this before from the man. And Sherlock's response was just more eye-opening. He knew that the DI had known Sherlock for years before he'd arrived on the scene, but most of his contact over the past two years had been at crime scenes, standing around a body or working at the Yard on investigations. The doctor knew that there was history between them, but he'd never really probed much. He didn't like talking about his own history- why bother, when Sherlock was able to deduce everything he wanted to about his flatmate? Sherlock never volunteered anything about his own past. Boring, tedious- the standard answers to any sort of half-hearted query by John.

When the police car went around Hyde Park Corner and turned onto Park Lane, Sherlock leaned even more onto Lestrade, tucking his head into the man's shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut. John looked at the DI, and made a silent gesture of "what's happening?"

Very quietly, Lestrade just said. "The drug is pushing him into sensory overload; not nice. He needs to get home fast, or he'll end up having a meltdown or panic attack."

Around Marble Arch, the car had to speed up and move across lanes of swirling traffic to get into the correct lane to get onto Baker Street. The lurches brought a low moan from Sherlock, who clung onto the DI as if to a lifeline. "Just hang in there, Sherlock. Not long now, and then the world will stop spinning out of control, I promise."