Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson

POV: John

Prompt: Sherlock's recovery after being drugged by Irene Adler in S2E1 "Scandal."

Submitted by: popular request

Author's Note: I've had a lot of requests to do this one, so here it is, finally. A little humour, a little H/C, a lot of love - please enjoy!

"What have you given him?!"

"Oh, don't worry. I've used it on loads of my friends. He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. Makes for a very unattractive corpse."

John can hear the sirens as he kneels beside Sherlock, watching helplessly as he struggles against the effects of - whatever it is Irene's given him. Probably a cocktail of things, if her reference to recreational use is to be trusted. A sedative of some sort, to be sure - ketamine, maybe? Valium? Something else too.

A resounding thump gets John's attention and he sees that his flatmate has ceased his efforts to get up off the floor; instead, his head is lolling as he clings to consciousness.

"S'okay, Sherlock, relax," John says, thumbing his eyes open one at a time. His pupils are wide. "Hey, can you hear me?"

"Mnh," is Sherlock's reply. His gaze has wandered toward the ceiling now, flitting amongst several different points.

John looks up to see what he's staring at and doesn't see anything of note.

"Puppies," Sherlock says, frowning.

So, a hallucinogenic as well, then?

The door bursts inward before John can answer.

It's Lestrade who enters the guestroom first, decked out in kevlar and clutching a nine millimeter, and his eyes go as wide as saucers when he sees John kneeling on the floor beside the prone detective. John realizes suddenly that Lestrade is here on a 'shots fired' call, and that Sherlock is half conscious on the floor, and how that must look to him.

"He's fine," the doctor says quickly. "Just drugged out of his mind."

The DI looks relieved, but it shortly turns to confusion. "Wait - what?"

"It's a long story," John sighs, rolling his eyes. The Woman's theatrics are on par with Sherlock's own - it's amazing how quickly something like that can get very, very old.

Inexplicably, Sherlock giggles, and both men turn their attention to him. "Clever," he says, then snorts loudly and allows his eyes to fall shut.

John and Greg exchange a glance, mirrored expressions a mix of amusement and confusion. They each take an arm and haul the detective to his feet. "Who's clever?" John asks, knowing that while Sherlock is probably not in any danger, he'll feel a little more at ease with the whole thing if he can keep him talking for a bit.

Sherlock's head lolls and suddenly his face is very close to John's. He smells like tea and sugar, with a hint of coppery blood from where his cheek was split open. "You."

Greg snorts.

John rolls his eyes. "You've never said that before."

The detective makes a great effort, which elicits a groan, and manages to turn his head to the other side, where Greg is bolstering him up with an arm around his waist. "I haaaaave done. Haven't I?"

"Oh, sure." Lestrade gives a nod as they drag Sherlock toward the door. "Actually, I think you wrote your dissertation on it."

"Don't encourage him." John dumps his armful of consulting detective onto the DI and precedes them out onto the pavement to hail a cab.

"Should he go to hospital?" asks Greg, brows knitting, now with both arms wrapped around the limp detective.

John shakes his head. "No. He hasn't got any allergies; it's just a waiting game til it wears off. Whatever it is." He returns to his flatmate's side as the taxi pulls up to the kerb, and takes his share of Sherlock's weight again.

"You don't know what it is?" Greg's voice is filled with alarm.

"Nope," answers John, with bitterness. The two of them dump Sherlock into the backseat. "He'll be fine, though. If she'd wanted him dead, she had the opportunity in the safe room. I'll… explain later."

As John gets into the cab beside his flatmate, Greg hesitates on the kerb, his eyes going from Sherlock to the crime scene and back again, his hand on the open door of the taxi.

John pokes his head out. "He's gonna be fine, I promise."

Sherlock giggles weakly.

"No, I know," Lestrade mumbles, unstrapping the vest so that he can access his phone. "I'm just not sure I want to miss this." There's a wry smirk on his face. He seems to make a decision, then makes a quick excuse to a uniformed officer, and climbs into the back with the other two.

Smiling in spite of himself, John gives the driver their address and the car eases away from the flat. As he settles back, Sherlock leans over and rests his head on his shoulder as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Greg takes a photo with his phone.

"Don't," John scowls. "This is the last thing the internet pep squad needs."

"Puppies," Sherlock pipes up.

John shakes his head. "I said, 'pep squad.'"

"Corgis, specifically. Pembroke… something or other. Welsh! Something. D'you know why they're so short? It's to keep from being kicked by cows." His eyes slide shut and he sighs heavily.

Lestrade snorts. "Okay. John's clever and corgis are short and, er, Welsh." He's still holding his phone up in Sherlock's direction, and John realises abruptly that he's filming.

"John's not Welsh," mumbles Sherlock. He turns his face toward John's arm, screwing up his eyes tightly.

Pleadingly, John looks to Greg, but the DI is too busy giggling into his phone screen to be of any help.

It's a long drive back to Baker Street.

"Yes, you need to go to bed, because the sooner you sleep this off, the better, for all of us."

John and Greg have managed to wrestle Sherlock out of his shoes and coat and have even successfully kept him from ruining whatever experiment is running in a petri dish on the sideboard, but it's become clear that he's a danger to himself and everyone around him in this state, so now they are trying to convince him to just go to bed.

"I don't feel well," Sherlock is grumbling now. It's a strange sentence coming from him. He hardly ever complains of bodily discomforts, on the rare occasion that they even occur.

"All the more reason to go to bed," Lestrade points out sensibly.

A cheerful "Yoo-hoo" interrupts them, and Mrs Hudson lets herself into the flat. She stops up short beside the coatrack at the sight of Sherlock being more or less manhandled by both John and Greg from either side, however. Her hands go to her mouth in surprise. "Oh!"

"No," John begins, heading off the rest of her protest before it can even cross her lips. "It isn't that. He's, er - not well. And not listening."

"Well, it's none of my business if - "

"He was drugged!" John blurts out in an attempt to avoid further accusations. "It's a long story, Mrs Hudson, I'm just trying to get him into bed."

On the other side of their charge, Greg snorts. Sherlock laughs too, without even knowing what he's laughing at. (He mumbles something about John being Welsh again.)

John fumes silently.

Sherlock whines nonverbally.

Mrs Hudson places her hands on her hips. "Sherlock Holmes, do as you're told!"

The detective goes practically limp between the two men, and John finds himself staring in wonder at his landlady. Only the increased weight of his patient distracts him, and he and Greg manoeuvre Sherlock awkwardly down the hall to his room, where they manage to get the tangle of long, floppy limbs safely into bed.

"Should we…" Greg starts, eyeing Sherlock's fully-dressed form.

"Nope," John replies decisively. They've gotten him out of his shoes and coat, and if he wrinkles his Armani blazer by sleeping in it, well - John can't bring himself to care. He yanks the covers up over the detective.

"No," moans Sherlock, lifting his head off the pillow.

"Sleep!" John orders, pushing him back down. "You'll feel better if you do."

"Unh." Sherlock's head drops down again.

Thank God. John and Greg make a quick getaway.

"No, no, no, no - ugh, back to bed! Just sleep. You'll be fine in the morning."

"Of course I'll be fine, I am fine. I'm perfectly fine."

"Of course you are."

It's just after two in the morning, and John starts awake, realising suddenly that he must have dozed off in his chair some hours ago. The fire has died down to a soft ember glow, but its comfortable warmth is still spilling out through the sitting room. He can't decide what's woken him - until he hears the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hall. Sherlock. Again. He groans and gets to his feet, preparing to escort his flatmate back to bed for the second time tonight. "Sherlock, I told you - " He stops up short when he actually sees Sherlock, who is stumbling with purpose toward the washroom. "You okay?"

Sherlock grunts and staggers into the bathroom, shutting the door with a snap.

John hears the distinct sounds of retching and decides to wait in the corridor.

After a time, the toilet flushes and the tap runs and shuts off again. Sherlock emerges, looking haggard, his face an unnatural shade of yellow-green. John steps back into view. "Hey. You okay?"

The detective pauses in the corridor, using the wall for support. He nods, but he's frowning. "What… what happened…?"

They've already had this conversation. This will be the third iteration. "You don't remember? You were drugged?"

Sherlock nods.

"How are you feeling?"

"Hungover," the detective replies. He wobbles a little, and John closes the gap between them.

"Careful. Dizzy?" John steadies him easily.

More nodding, then more wobbling. Sherlock groans and clutches his stomach.

"Back to bed," the doctor orders.

Sherlock scrubs at his uninjured eye with the back of a fist. "I'll be fine in the morning," he mutters.

"Yes," John agrees. "Right as rain."