A/N: Bit of a trigger warning for Victor's behavior in this chapter and the next. A bit of drugging for nefarious/amorous purposes.
"Did you enjoy that, Victor?" Sherlock hissed as his husband stalked off.
"Immensely." Victor gloated while toying with a gaudy ring on his right hand.
"Juvenile."
"On the contrary, dear Sherlock, very adult." Victor stepped closer. Sherlock tried to step away, but the press of people and the orientation of seats in the theater kept him closer than he wished. "Something in which you used to indulge. How sad and boring for you."
Sherlock glanced across the room to where John was pointedly not looking at him. The man's face was still red and tight. He'd done something wrong again, though for once he thought he might understand what that was without being informed.
"I must request that you leave John and me alone, Victor. I do not wish for you to be part of my life any longer. I don't understand how that isn't clear to you."
"What is clear to me, dear fellow, is that you neither rushed to your husband's defense nor departed with him. What conclusions must we draw from that?"
Sherlock didn't answer. Victor flustered him; well, really, everyone did in these sorts of situations. And he didn't know why he didn't raise a defense against Victor, aside from that he'd never really been able to do so.
"You really ought to come by and see my latest experiments, Sherlock. I've no doubt your scientific curiosity would be thoroughly and most satisfactorily aroused."
Victor's right hand wrapped around Sherlock's upper arm, pinching it sharply. No, not quite a pinch – a puncture. Sherlock felt his stomach drop and a bit of all-too-familiar warmth seep through his veins. He pulled his arm free, but it was too late.
"I've been trying to concentrate one of our favorite antidotes to boredom. Poisons can be effective in such miniscule proportions; why not other physics and remedies? Shall we retire to my townhouse and measure the effects of my latest preparation?"
"I have little choice, I see." Sherlock could already feel some of the effects of the drug: dizziness, pounding pulse, a certain indolence of spirit.
"Well, we certainly want to study the effects in a controlled environment, do we not? How overwhelming the symptoms, the length of their endurance, with an especial focus on comparing quantity and quality with the previous responses we've recorded."
"No," Sherlock said. "No, I will not let you force this… congress, Victor. You must let me go."
"Go, Sherlock? What, home with the enfeebled husband you've fettered yourself with? You've become domesticated, my beautiful, wild Sherlock." Sherlock jerked back when Victor raised his hand, but it only whispered down his cheek. The underside of the ring came into view for a brief second; a sharp point extended towards the wearer's palm. "It saddens me to the core to see you broken to bit. Unless, of course, it was my bridle and bit."
The ringed hand grasped Sherlock's upper arm again, this time with more purpose. The pin bit through the fabric of his coat and shirt and into Sherlock's skin once again, delivering a headier dose of the drug. Victor took advantage of Sherlock's chemically-induced disorientation and began to guide him most forcibly towards the door.
Sherlock's brain stuttered. He might have thought of a way to attract John's attention, or extricate himself from Victor's clawed grip, or even driven the drugged stickpin into Victor's own skin, rendering him more tractable and easier to escape. His magnificent mind could form none of these thoughts, however, barely processing a cacophony of jeering voices speaking in gibberish all around him and he stumbled out the door after a triumphant Victor Trevor.