Never Pickle a Gleeful Seagull
Doctor John Watson just about managed to get Sherlock into the recovery position in time before he projectile vomited all over the floor. Irene Adler certainly hadn't been understating the effects of the drug upon the human body, he thought – just before she'd oh so conveniently escaped out of the open window – and Lestrade had arrived just in time for the Consulting Detective to empty his meagre stomach contents all over the Detective Inspector's shoes.
"Oh great!" Lestrade exclaimed as he leapt backwards, but not nearly in time to prevent himself from getting splattered in Sherlock's vomit.
"He can't help it," John explained, "he's been injected with something!"
"Well can't you give him anything?" Lestrade asked.
"I don't know what he's been injected with." John told him. "If I do I could end up overdosing him, or he could have a potentially fatal drug reaction. I could be doing more harm than good."
Sherlock whimpered and John was down on the floor and at his side in an instant.
"Look, just help me get him back to Baker Street will you?" He asked, putting a hand to Sherlock's warm forehead, and feeling the clammy flesh beneath his fingertips – before checking his pulse. It was elevated, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in that – he had after all just emptied his entire stomach contents all over the bedroom floor.
"Wouldn't a hospital be a more appropriate place for him?" Lestrade asked, taking in the consulting detective's drooping eyelids and pale complexion. He was quite sure that the vomiting spell had subsided, at least for the moment, but remained at a short distance away from Sherlock just to be on the safe side.
"Not unless I can tell them what it is he's been injected with." John sighed as he heaved the semi-conscious Detective to his feet, and did his best to support his meagre frame – which really wasn't as heavy as he'd initially expected, and it surprised him a little that Sherlock really weighed so very little for a man of his stature. "Which," he continued, "I thought we'd already established I cannot. I'll keep a close eye on him for the next few hours, and if there's any change in his condition I'll be sure to let you know."
The doctor and detective both turned as they heard two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs behind them, and Donovan and Anderson entered just as Sherlock began to dry heave again – but there was nothing left for him to bring up.
"Oh that's disgusting!" Donovan exclaimed, and Anderson turned away with a grimace, as the two observed the vomit as they entered – so, John observed with a smile, Anderson, who dealt with dead bodies every day of his working life, also happened to be squeamish about bodily fluids. Well, that was unexpected, he thought to himself.
"Never pickle a gleeful seagull…" Sherlock murmured, and John looked at him and frowned.
"What was that Sherlock?" He asked, not quite believing what he had just heard come from the Consulting Detective's mouth. "What did you say?"
"John…" Sherlock slurred, his head drooping sideways, and it became increasingly apparent that he was by now only partially conscious and therefore probably not even aware of what he was saying. "You shouldn't laugh at a sad giraffe…" He muttered.
Upon hearing this both Anderson and Donovan struggled to conceal a fit of the giggles and Lestrade immediately pulled out his smart-phone and proceeded to film the whole scene now unfolding before his very eyes. There was a small part of him which was still really rather worried about Sherlock, but an even larger part which wasn't about to let this opportunity pass him by without finding some way to document the occasion for future leverage.
"Hey, hey, and just what is all this in aid of?" Watson asked, perplexed by the Detective Inspector's unusual behaviour. "Just how exactly is that going to help us?"
"Blackmail." Lestrade smiled. "You never know when this," he pointed to the small screen of his phone as he said this – the red light indicating that it was currently filming, "might prove useful."
"The woman, woman, woman…" Sherlock grinned to himself, his words all rolling into one, and John's eyes rolled.
"Look, just help me get him home will you?" The doctor pleaded as he started dragging a by now pretty close to unconscious Sherlock towards the stairs. Anderson and Donovan quickly moved out of the way as Watson struggled to negotiate Sherlock's dead weight past them through the open doorway, Lestrade following closely behind with his phone – but the consulting detective said nothing more to embarrass himself further. This didn't stop both Donovan and Anderson from continuing to chuckle to themselves lightly in the corner though, evidently both significantly amused by what they had just heard.
John was sure that there would come a time in the very near future when Sherlock would feel the need to come up with some very elaborate plan to get the camera phone off Lestrade and wipe the potentially compromising footage from existence, but for now that was not his main concern. His main priority was to get Sherlock back to Baker Street and into bed as soon as possible so he could sleep off the effects of whatever the substance was Irene Adler had given him.
He could only hope that the drug would have no long lasting effects on his friend, and that Sherlock would be back to his normal, irritating, obnoxious self by the morning.