"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?!" Lestrade barely waited for John to close the office door behind him, and didn't bother gesturing for him to sit down. He moved behind his desk, but did not sit down either.
"I was saving Sherlock's life." John folded his arms defiantly."You saw what happened. She had him by the throat. Do you realise how quickly that can kill someone?"
"Do you realise what a mess you've made?" Lestrade put his face in his hands. "What the hell is wrong with you? First you punch Dawson, then you assault a suspect in the interview room -"
"Dawson was years ago," John said. "I wish you wouldn't keep bringing that up. And I didn't assault her. I used pain compliance to prevent her hurting someone -"
"And she screamed like a banshee when you did it."
"She screamed like a banshee because she's unhinged, Greg. I twinged her median nerves, and it would have hurt her for all of maybe half a second. If you have a medical officer check her over right now I think they'll find nothing wrong with her wrists. You probably did more damage dragging her backwards like that."
Lestrade dropped into his chair. "John, do you know how many men on my squad have children?"
John frowned, honestly confused. "... What's that got to do with anything-?"
"Two. Thompson and me. And my kids are practically grown up. You know how many women on my squad have children? None of them. And divorce rates among the guys are well over the national average, too."
"Greg, is this about Mel -?"
"I realise you and Molly aren't getting any sleep right now, but that is not an excuse, clear? If you were on my team and you came in to work looking like a zombie and snapped at the slightest provocation like you just did, I'd be suspending you until you sorted yourself out. No questions, no excuses."
"You're kicking me off the case?"
"I'm warning you to shape up. I'm sick to death of being in the firing line because of your antics."
"My antics?"
"Fine, well, it's usually Sherlock," Lestrade conceded wearily. "But at least he's got a legal contract and a brother to back him up when he goes off the rails. You know whose permission you have to even be in this building? Mine. That's it. And that's why I'm going to have all sorts of fun explaining on paper why you were even in the interview room, let alone why you laid hands on a suspect in a scuffle. We're supposed to be treating Adelaide Bartlett with kid gloves -"
"Does that include letting her attack Sherlock?"
"You should have stayed out of the way and let us handle it."
"Which you were doing so well," John muttered.
"Oh, here we go." Lestrade threw his pen onto the desk. "John Watson: the only person in London capable of doing anything properly."
"That's not fair," John protested. "I didn't say -"
"But here's the thing, John, you're stretching yourself too far. You seem to think you can play detective and go back to work at the hospital and be a decent husband and raise a kid, and I'm sorry to tell you, but you can't. We have to make sacrifices around here to put our work first, and I expect that when you're here and on a case, you're going to do the same. If you're going to half-arse it because of your wife and kid, then stay at home with them."
There was silence so profound that both of them could hear Halloran pressing the buttons on the photocopier at the other end of the office.
"Are you done?" John asked sullenly.
"I'm not done with the bloody incident report I now have to file, and I can't and won't let you off on that, 'cause the whole thing's on tape." Lestrade was going through his work drawer. "How's Sherlock?"
Sherlock, sitting on the folding bed in the First Aid room with a cool compress around his throat, leaned his back against the wall and shut his eyes, thinking about what had happened.
The psychology of a poisoner is totally different to the psychology of a madwoman who leaps across a desk to strangle someone. Poisoners are calculated. If Adelaide Bartlett is psychotic, she'd probably make no attempt to secretly poison her husband... she'd have just attacked him as she did me. Perhaps with a knife in her hand...something doesn't match here...
He struggled to keep his thoughts on the case, and not on the pain in his stomach that had worsened in earnest since Adelaide had attacked him. It was impossible to ignore now, and the pressure of his hand was actually making it feel worse. He had no idea how to treat it, but he had to think of something, and soon. Because the alternative was to say something to John, who would likely get all... doctory about it.
His thoughts on both the case and the pain were interrupted when the door opened. Sally Donovan made an exclamation of surprise and took a step back.
"Sorry," she said. "Didn't know you were in here. You forgot to switch the sign on the door, genius."
"It's fine," he said, annoyed at how croaky he sounded. "I thought Lestrade told you to go home."
"He did, and I'm going." He could see the damp patches around her hairline and the irritated skin around her nose - she'd clearly been scrubbing at her face for some time. She took a couple of hesitant steps into the room. "I just realised I ripped one of my nails off - or at least, that crazy bitch did it for me." She looked at her bleeding finger ruefully. "Just looking for a sticking plaster, then I'm off home."
Sherlock pointed silently at the First Aid kit on the wall. She went over to it, sneaking a look at him over her shoulder, and then another, longer one.
"You okay?" she finally ventured.
Sherlock would have preferred a few snarky remarks about being a "freak" than to have Sally Donovan express actual concern for him. But Donovan hadn't addressed him as "freak" since... what had happened last Christmas. "What does it look like?"
"You look bloody awful." She was looking, he realised, not at his neck (he was sure that it was bright red, without needing to check in a mirror) but at his face.
"Well then, that's your answer, isn't it?"
She paused, fumbling with the sticking plaster and wrapping it around her finger, even though there was no longer any need for her to be in the room. "Bit of an adventure in there, wasn't it," she said at last. "Where's John?"
"Getting shouted at by Detective Inspector Lestrade, I imagine."
"That's a shame. I mean, he should've just kept out of the way, but..." She shrugged.
Sherlock sighed heavily, hoping she would take the hint and leave.
"Nobody's laughing at you," she said. "Just so you know."
He looked at her. "Sorry... what...?"
"We're not laughing about Adelaide Bartlett attacking you like that. Happens every now and then. Get the odd mental case in the interview room. Jones had one go for her once. So we're not laughing just 'cause it was you this time. I just thought I'd say."
Sherlock's eyes flickered back and forth in confusion. "Thank you," he said hesitantly. Before he could think further, John arrived in the doorway, knocking on the open door and then moving aside so that Donovan could leave.
"Everything okay?" he asked Sherlock, who answered by slithering off the bed sulkily, wincing as his feet hit the floor. He removed the cool pack from around his neck and John touched his gouged cheek for a second, inspecting it.
"For God's sake." Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.
"Have you got any idea how many germs are under people's fingernails?"
"Yes."
"Right, well, you look after that or you'll have a lovely scar there for your troubles," John said. "So what do we do next?"
"Next, we think," Sherlock said loftily as they headed down the corridor toward the lifts. "Or rather, I think."
"Yes, I know, because I'm an idiot," John said. "Fine. You can do your thinking at my place, then - I don't want to leave Harry in charge for any longer than I absolutely have to."
"We did gather a lot of information this morning," Sherlock said as they walked in the door. Molly came forward to greet John. She was still in her dressing gown, so on seeing Sherlock, she retreated a few steps in sudden embarrassment.
John went over and kissed her cheek. "How's our charming daughter been?" he asked her.
"Good," she muttered, flushed. "She's always good for Harry. She..." She took a deep breath. "She likes her... um... I'll just go and get dressed..."
She practically fled upstairs. Before John could react, Harry came through from the kitchen with Charlie, placid and cooing to herself, in her arms.
"No, dear brother, I didn't get rip-roaring drunk and accidentally put my niece in the oven or something," she said. "She's fine, aren't you, Sprout?" How Harry had managed to turn Charlotte into Sprout was a complete mystery. She turned to Sherlock. "What in God's name happened to you?" she demanded, looking at the scratches on his face and then down at his neck. "Never mind, here."
"No," Sherlock protested, but Harry was too quick. Before he had time to properly react he was holding Charlie up against his chest, cradling her neck with one hand. He glared at Harry, who shrugged.
"What can I say?" she said. "It amuses me to watch you squirm. You look like hell. Bad guy beat you up, did he?"
"Uh... yes," Sherlock muttered, hoping John wouldn't let on that he'd actually been "beaten up" by a bad girl. He shifted Charlie awkwardly in his arms, wincing both at the pain this produced and because he felt her drooling directly onto a silk shirt that had cost him well over a hundred pounds. "John," he called to the kitchen where he had gone to put the kettle on, "surely you noticed the glaring inconsistency in Adelaide Bartlett's story?"
"... Probably...?"
"Once again you've heard, but you haven't been listening. Tell me. What sort of symptoms would a person exhibit if they'd been acutely poisoned with chloroform?"
"Well, for the moments of consciousness you had left, you wouldn't be happy -"
"Exactly. And what did Adelaide say she was doing when she woke?"
John paused. "... His toe," he said. "Oh yeah, of course. There's no way a person who'd drank chloroform would be passive and quiet enough that someone who'd been asleep would still have hold of their toe. The slightest movement -"
"Exactly. Not to mention the... the fact... the..." Sherlock shut his eyes. "Harry," he blurted out urgently. "Take her - take her!"
"John!" Harry exclaimed, taking her niece back. John reached the doorway in seconds in time to see Sherlock, white-faced, lowering himself into a nearby armchair.
"What happened?" he demanded, going over to him. "Sherlock -"
"I'm all right," Sherlock replied through pale lips. "I'm fine. I just... felt dizzy, that's all."
"Are you in pain?"
Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and hunched forward, which was more or less an answer to John's question. Getting no immediate verbal response, John knelt by his chair and eased his hand away from his side to take his pulse. Just then Molly arrived at the foot of the stairs and paused in the doorway, watching in alarm.
"Sherlock, I asked you a serious question. If you're in a lot of pain, you need to tell me."
"I had a full-grown woman land on me a couple of hours ago," Sherlock snapped, snatching his hand away and sighing heavily when John yanked it back. "Which hurt, yes. Just give me a minute and I'll be off. I need to go and present myself to Lord Mycroft for my dressing-down."
"Yeah, I think we both need to do that," John said, putting down Sherlock's wrist and putting his hand against his forehead. "Pretty sure he's already heard all about how I assaulted his suspect. Well, you're not feverish."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine, and Mycroft is going to have to wait until after you've seen a doctor. And not me. I don't have the resources to examine you properly or make a referral."
Sherlock glanced up at him. God, John really sounded like a doctor sometimes.
"I'm calling the clinic to see if I can get you an appointment this afternoon, and you are going to it," he was saying. Then he leaned over and pinched the back of Sherlock's hand.
"Ow!"
"Bit dehydrated. No wonder you're dizzy."
"I'm not dizzy anymore," Sherlock protested, but John had already gone back to the kitchen. He sighed. The thought of swallowing even water made him want to heave. Tucking his hands back under his arms, he leaned forward again, trying to will the pain to just go away.