Stamford nudged John as he took a seat next to him, shifting him from his humiliated reverie. John looked up and about as if the nudge had been directional instead of unintentional. When he did, he quite clearly saw Sherlock shuffling after Victor Trevor, being tugged along somewhat intently. Sherlock didn't appear to be resisting as such, but his movements were unsteady and graceless, two things Sherlock most definitely was not.
At first glance, John thought Sherlock had simply decided to leave him, abandon him here with Stamford, dozens of aspiring doctors, and the corpse of a criminal. He's leaving me was his precise thought, with the word 'leaving' quite open to interpretation. The thought caused a stupid little lump to rise in his throat. It was almost a relief to have the revision He's being taken bubble up in his brain. Sherlock needs me.
John pushed himself up with his cane just as Stamford had properly settled in beside him. The rounder man looked up at him in surprise.
"They're just about to begin."
"I apologize, Stamford. I must be off. We're on Baker Street. Do come 'round for tea sometime, won't you?"
John moved away before Stamford could find his voice again and object. The crowd had begun to arrange themselves into their seats, moving down the steps against John. He focused on moving quickly and politely through the esteemed gentlemen, and very deliberately did not think about the possibility that he was wrong. The fear of being wrong, that Sherlock was going to laugh at John as he stumbled after Sherlock racing away with his lover, would have kept John humiliated in his seat. He could not take that chance, however.
And if that supposition turned out to be true, John would rather not discover it under the watchful eyes of the theater full of inquisitive scientists and doctors. Likely enough of them had overheard Victor's injurious remarks and particularly that the normally loquacious Sherlock saying nothing in opposition. He did not need to add a tremendous row to the hospital gossip.
John's quarry had reached the door quite before him and had moved far from view once John reached the outer hall. Waving away the porter's offer to retrieve his greatcoat, John impatiently demanded from him the direction of the last two gentlemen to exit. They had apparently abandoned their belongings as well and gone directly to the nearest outer door.
John rushed as fast as he was able, praying that he'd not be too late. He'd have been, if Sherlock hadn't been afflicted with an utter inability to climb the step into the Baron's carriage.
John blew out a breath of relief before intruding between Sherlock and Victor Trevor with the tip of his cane.
"John," Sherlock breathed. John hoped he was actually as relieved as he sounded.
"I'm afraid you'll have to decline whatever invitation the Baron has offered, Sherlock. We have an appointment tonight, you remember?" John hoped his voice wasn't as shaky as he felt it might be.
Victor's glare was murderous. John met it with a quite adequate display of 'unhand my husband or I'll thwack you with the knob of my cane, you blighted todger.'
Victor's face brightened suddenly, as if everything was going just the way he'd planned.
"Oh, do let me offer my congratulations on your marriage, Doctor Watson." He reached forward to shake John's hand with one heavily-ringed hand. Sherlock took momentary control of his jelly legs to lunge forward and grasp one of Victor's hands. John saw him frantically pawing at a ring, which must have had a sharp edge on the setting since, after tossing the offending jewelry towards the gutter, Sherlock stared blankly at his bleeding hand.
"Now, Sherlock, that was rude." Victor's voice was oh-so-playfully scolding. "I was just going to give John a gift, a little something for the honeymoon."
"No," Sherlock croaked out. "John… home."
"Have fun, Doctor Watson. I apologize that the delights of your evening will be so one-sided, but that one," he gestured at Sherlock, "is so utterly selfish." Victor pushed past and climbed into his carriage.
John pulled Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, bracing him enough to pull him away from the carriage wheels as it jerked forward.
"Sherlock, are you alright? Have you become ill? You were fine this morning." John had a hard time examining Sherlock supporting half his weight as he was.
Sherlock gestured with his bloody hand, a shallow scrape across his palm. John pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket. "Hold this." He couldn't tie the cloth around Sherlock's hand just yet, but if Sherlock could clutch it for a few minutes, it would at least slow the bleeding.
"We need to get you back into the hospital."
"No… John… home."
"But if you're ill, Sherlock…"
"No hospital. Please."
He sounded so broken and weak that John wanted to simply overrule him, but he couldn't bear to do so. He glanced around, certain he wouldn't be able to carry Sherlock far, not with only one firm leg between them. Fortunately, carriages for hire circled the hospital with some frequency, what with visitors, arrivals, and checkouts, and it was mere minutes before John was able to convince one to stop.
"Looks like you're already where you ought to be, with that one there."
"Baker Street, if you please," John said, ignoring the pointed comment. "Two-twenty-one."
The driver gave him an assessing glance. "Not catching, is it?"
"Just a bit too much to drink."
The driver scowled, "No puking in my hack."
"I'll make sure of it."
The driver grunted; he's surely heard that lie before. Still, he gestured for them to embark, not offering to help John as he struggled to coax Sherlock into the hack. Still, it was finally done, though John was a bit out of breath by the time they were moving towards Baker Street.
"Sherlock, open your eyes." John twisted in his seat to examine his listless husband. The first thing he did was secure the handkerchief around Sherlock's hand; he could wash and properly bandage it at home. "There is something very wrong with you." John pressed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead. His temperature seemed slightly elevated, perhaps, or maybe John's hands were just cold. He'd left his warm gloves in his greatcoat back at the hospital.
When Sherlock obeyed, blinking his eyes slowly as he tried to focus, John leaned in close to check Sherlock's pupils.
"Are you very sure you wouldn't rather be under observation in the hospital?"
"No, John, please. Promise me."
"Then you must tell me how long you've been feeling ill. It can't have gotten so bad, so quickly. I was only away from you for a few minutes."
"Not ill." Sherlock waved his bandaged hand around as if that would mean anything to John.
"Not ill? Something is clearly the matter. I think you're a bit warm, you can't focus…"
"Drugged," Sherlock finally blurted.
"Victor Trevor drugged you?" John was taken aback. "Do you know what he gave you? Is there an antidote?" Pain clenched within him. "Are you… will you… is it poison?"
Sherlock patted John's leg awkwardly, nearly missing entirely in favor of the seat cushion.
"Recreational," he slurred. "Had it before."
"Had it before? Are you saying that you've done this to yourself purposely?"
"Yes." With this, Sherlock wrapped his arms over his waist and slumped into the corner away from John, closing his eyes and looking for all the world like he was just going to take a little rest while the hack rocked over the cobblestones. He allowed John to slip his fingers over his wrist and count his pulse, but after that, John's worried hands fell away.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Sherlock's head waggled back and forth. "Run its course," he muttered.
"I see. Can you at least tell me what effects I might expect to see?"
Sherlock let out a deep sigh.
"Lethargy, at first, loss of fine motor control. Second phase. Elevated body temperature." It clearly took a lot of effort for Sherlock to marshal his brain and tongue to simultaneously do his bidding. "Perspiration. Elevated heart rate. Heightened… skin sensitivity." That word alone took Sherlock three tries to pronounce. "Hallucination, fever dreams. Lowered inhibitions. Priapism."
"Pria… Sherlock, are you saying that you've been dosed with an aphrodisiac?"
"Yes."
John fell silent, leaning back against the seat and directing his attention to the buildings they passed. Victor Trevor had dosed Sherlock with an aphrodisiac, a powerful one by the symptoms Sherlock listed. Victor Trevor had been trying to get Sherlock into his own carriage. There John's stomach clenched again. Sherlock had not wanted to go, though John wasn't certain if that made it better or worse.
And Sherlock had taken this before. He'd even admitted it was on purpose. John tried to stop the images from coming, but he could not: Sherlock, half-undressed and draped over a chaise as the languor stole over him. Victor Trevor's head resting on Sherlock's thigh, perhaps, that burnished chestnut hair brushing against the fall of Sherlock's trousers. And then, when the more hedonistic symptoms emerged… John swallowed, knowing he was flushed and embarrassed.
"How long will the symptoms persist?" he asked, trying to keep some sort of professional detachment.
"Not sure. Experimental dose." Sherlock waved his hand again, the one with the handkerchief wrapped around it. John finally caught on.
"His ring? Is that why you threw it into the street?"
"Pin," Sherlock said sagely. "He was going to dose you, too."
I was just going to give John a gift, a little something for the honeymoon, John remembered. That would have made quite a memorable? spectacular? shocking? honeymoon.
"Couldn't let him. I don't want you that way, John."