Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I have some insight on what happened to our poor Mister Thompson,” concluded Sherlock Holmes as he sat perched over his microscope.

John Watson was sitting crossed legged in the living room, lowering his newspaper as he eyed his companion curiously.

“Are you thinking out loud again or are you actually meaning to involve me?” John cast Sherlock a fleetingly annoyed expression, returning to his newspaper as Sherlock did not so much as raise an eyebrow to acknowledge him.

“Figures,” John muttered. 

Lowering his safety goggles over his eyes, Sherlock bent forward to open a small ice chest. He began removing several clear vials from the chilled container, examining them one by one. 

Clutching the contained fluid in his gloves, the detective set them upon his makeshift laboratory’s surface —or kitchen table as John very much likes to remind him on a regular basis. 

Cautiously dipping a pipette into a test tube and withdrawing a small amount of liquid, Sherlock transferred the substance onto a microscopic slide. “John, are you annoyed that I’m not filling you in on what I’m doing?” 

Had Sherlock’s back not been the angle facing John, the detective would have received a very frustrated and affronted stare. 

John huffed and rose from his seat. “Far from it actually,”

As Sherlock moved to place his laboratory goggles over his face, he turned to John. The doctor in turn was standing with arms tightly folded across his chest. John was suddenly filled with the kind of dread every unfortunate individual succumbs to when being dissected and analyzed by Sherlock Holmes.

“No, no, no, shut your mouth.”

A devious smile curved upon Sherlock’s lips. “I didn’t say anything,” he replied, returning his attention back to his experiment.

“Then shut your brain! I don’t want to hear what you have to deduce,” John spat from the other side of the room.

“I agree, it would be a bit extraneous to say aloud that you’ve been having a bit of a hard time dealing with your current girlfriend, your frustration is unmercifully written all over your face. And your quick succession to panic just facing me speaks louder than any deduction I could relay in words. Oops.” Sherlock drawled out the last word, signifying the conclusion of his tirade.

Although Sherlock was already busying himself with his microscope again, the doctor was glaring daggers at his companion’s back. “You’re an utter twa-"

Sherlock spun around, a vial clasped in his gloved palm, “Oh please John, you know how much I loathe the trivialness of relationship dilemmas. Jennifer is-“

“Elena,” John interrupted.

“Rachel, Sarah, Jennifer, whatever!” Sherlock scrunched up his face in disgust. “The point is, it doesn’t matter!”

A splitting tension pierced the room, John was livid. Not his usual lividness that served Sherlock with the affirmation his actions or words were childish and inappropriate. No, this lividness was laced with an anger gained from biting one’s tongue far too long. 

“You’re right Sherlock.” John spoke calmly. He straightened his body, his demeanor very composed. Calm yet unnerving. A calmness similar to the eye of a violent storm. A calm impending something else entirely…

Sherlock sensed the shift in mood, he paused, clutching a flask at eye-level in front of him. John would have sworn right there a twinge of paleness snuck upon the detective’s features. Gathering up enough determination to remain composed, Sherlock slowly lowered the glassware and turned to face John. 

There it was, John was smiling that unhinged, wry smile right at him. Where John appeared more menacing, Sherlock suddenly looked very regretful. 

It was common knowledge the doctor’s poor success with relationships was greatly due to Sherlock’s ruthless behavior toward John’s unaware, defenseless dates. The habitual berating which always transpired face to face, was sort of ritualistic. The doctor would bring home a new lady friend to 221B and Sherlock would ensure she would never return again. 

Though always far from apologetic for the damaging results of his actions, Sherlock was neither oblivious to the effects he had on John’s lack thereof love life. It was more so the detective did not fathom this pattern of destruction would ever catch up to them. After all, John never seemed to really mind that much. 

And yet it didn’t take a genius detective to realize this was the day it did matter; this one mattered.

“You’re right,” John continued, shaking his head. “Yea, the other ones might not have mattered as much. But you see, this one does. Elena does, Sherlock.”

Frozen to the spot with arms bent awkwardly in front as to prevent his gloved hands from contaminating his clothing, Sherlock’s eyes grew a smidgen wider. Had the situation not been so tense, John would have snickered at the fact his flatmate’s laboratory goggles were now slightly foggy.

John took another step forward and to Sherlock’s dismay, the menacing smile was still very present. “I’m making it a point for her to matter, I want this to work. Got it?”

Now only several feet away from each other, Sherlock noted John’s fists were clenched against either side.

“Now, you always botch it up. Am I right?” John pointedly directed his finger at Sherlock, who was still very much motionless.

Both men locked eyes, studying each other’s next move. 

“John, I-"

“It’s a yes or no question, Sherlock.” 

Exasperated, the detective finally lowered his gloved hands, exuding a whine before responding, “Ok, yes, I might mess up your dates sometimes. But-“

“Sometimes!” John threw his hands up in the air and narrowed his eyes at his friend. “You served my girlfriend blood in a wine glass. And don’t even try to make an excuse for mixing the two up, you knew bloody well what you were doing!” 

“No pun intended,” Sherlock muttered as a smirk began to spread across his face. John slammed his knuckles down onto the kitchen table’s surface, causing the glass containers and equipment to rattle. 

The cheeky smile immediately melted from Sherlock’s face, he seemed to shrink a little in height. 

“Now, you’re going to play nice from now on, d’you hear me?”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock gave John his most affronted look. John pointed his finger daringly back at his flatmate. 

“Fine! Fine! I’ll be nice… if I’m feeling up to it.” Mumbling the last bit, Sherlock tilted his head toward his abandoned experiment. John quickly rounded on him, crossing his arms again. 

“No, you will be nice. This conversation is not over ’til you swear to me-”

A buzzing noise broke through their conversation, both men glanced down at the mobile phone vibrating across the table’s surface.

Sparing each other a quick look, both reacted simultaneously and dove for the device. With Sherlock’s hands still confined to the thick yellow laboratory gloves, he fumbled as he attempted to pick up the vibrating phone. This queued John to swoop in and pluck it easily from Sherlock’s loose grasp.

Quickly regaining his composure, Sherlock looked challengingly at John. Upon peeling off his lab gear, Sherlock extended an open, expecting palm toward the doctor.

John glanced down the at the phone he was gripping, “Hm, it’s Lestrade. Might be a case. Would you like to answer it?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

Holding the phone tightly above Sherlock’s expecting hand, John gave his anxious friend a stern look. “Promise me you’ll be nice to Elena.” 

Sherlock groaned but was far too despaired by the potential of a new case awaiting him on the other line. “Okay! Fine, yes. I’ll be nice to Elizabeth.”

“Elena!”

“Yes, good! Elena.” Sherlock said hurriedly. 

Sighing, John dropped the vibrating phone into Sherlock’s eager hands. The detective answered it in a heartbeat. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answered into the phone. 

John began busying himself with making tea and Sherlock couldn’t help but notice he was looking far too pleased with himself. 

“Yes. Very interesting,” Sherlock spoke into the phone. He abandoned his post near his experiment and began pacing in the living room. “Ah, this sounds very good- good, yes, you know what I mean. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

Grabbing his gloves and safety goggles, Sherlock strode over to John and shoved the lab gear into the doctor’s hands. 

“I need you to stay here and observe the cerebrospinal fluid,” Sherlock ordered as he was already striding toward the front door.

“What! No, Sherlock, I’m not dabbling in your experiments,” John said, following Sherlock into the living room. 

Already tying his scarf around his neck, Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“John, I’ve agreed to be… pleasant… to your girlfriends,” John smiled as Sherlock struggled through the word. “All you have to do is write down what you observe. I’ll collect the rest of the data when I return.” 

“Sherlock-“

“Just don’t mix the two samples.”

Shooting John a bright smile and wink, Sherlock swung open the front door and was gone. 

“Wanker.” John huffed as he walked begrudgingly back to the kitchen and sat himself behind the microscope. 

John paused before putting on the protective gloves. He pulled out his mobile phone and began typing:

Grab wine on your way back. Elena’s joining us for dinner - JW

John smiled smugly to himself as he hit ‘send.’ Adjusting the safety googles to his head, he noticed Sherlock had already replied.

I’ll make it a point to stay out late then. -SH

John’s grin grew a little larger as he typed: 

What happens when I mix the two samples? -JW

He hadn’t even put on the second glove when his phone lit up.

White or Red? -SH 

 

Chapter Text

The London cab turned into a lavishly upscale neighborhood, each townhouse showcasing pristinely kept front landscapes. The cab slowly pulled aside to their destination —sanctioned off with bold yellow police tape, the door to the cab swung open as Sherlock Holmes stepped out. He was immediately greeted with the worst of weather conditions. The rain viciously beat down upon the consulting detective, who huddled beneath his Belstaff coat.

Despite his hurried attempt to reach the entrance, he was mercilessly drenched by the time he crossed through the entryway.

"Just when I thought my night couldn't get any worse," Sergeant Sally Donovan loudly mocked upon seeing Sherlock's presence.

Burrowing his hands deeper into his pockets, he countered with the best indifferent expression he could muster and attempted strolling past her. Soaked to the bone, he was in no mood to be antagonized.

"Just where do you think you're going," Donovan rounded on him. Stepping closer to the consulting detective, she realized the state of his sopping wet clothing. An obnoxious smirk crept across her features, she was enjoying seeing him so miserable.

"Like a poor, unwanted dog left out in the rain," she commented teasingly.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock brusquely responded.

As though on que, Lestrade poked his head around the corner from beyond the hallway.

"Oi, you're late. In here. Donovan, back off him, will you?"

Giving Donovan a quick sneer, he strode purposefully down the hallway toward the Detective Inspector. "Thanks for coming— bloody hell, you didn't have to swim here, a cab would've done the trick." Lestrade looked Sherlock up and down, noticing the watery trail he left behind.

"Otherwise referred to as a rainstorm," Sherlock replied. "What have you got for me."

"Was called in as a domestic disturbance. Gordon Nile, works in the Trade and Investment Department, acts as a business ambassador you could say. His wife over there is in a bit of a mess." Lestrade nodded toward the other end of the room. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and spotted the complacent woman settled on the couch, a blanket draped over her shoulders.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, studying the woman while Lestrade continued to debrief him.

Her face was incredibly pale — yet stoic? Her eyes were somewhat downcast, placid and seemingly blank, as though she was only partially registering the world around her. Shock? No, nothing perturbed about them. Nor did they exude indifference — mentally subdued?

Lestrade continued, "Neighbor made the call, was tending to her garden at the time of the incident, said she heard a man shouting in distress. Time police got here, they found Gordon Nile unconscious. A kitchen knife in his abdomen."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes back to Lestrade, "But alive, nonetheless."

"Critical condition," hesitancy crossed Lestrade's features. "Strange thing is, wife doesn't remember a thing. There's not a speck of blood on her and scene's showing no sign of a scuffle. Not only does she deny hearing any intrusion, she denies even hearing him yell for help. She's not usual suspect material, no record, not even a parking ticket."

"Suspect denies an attempted murder charge, how very dull," Sherlock rolled his eyes and made his way across the room to where the woman was sitting. Lestrade followed, shooing away an officer who was attempting to question the woman.

"Mrs.-," Sherlock turned to Lestrade to refresh him on this detail.

"Nile," provided Lestrade.

"Mrs. Nile, do you really expect us to believe you had nothing to do with the attempted murder of your husband?" Sherlock shot out the words at lighting speed yet Mrs. Nile didn't even seem distraught over the disparaging accusation, she merely slowly turned up her eyes to Sherlock.

"I don't know what to believe," Mrs. Nile replied very flatly.

Sherlock's eyes darted from the woman's face to her hands, which although were intensely trembling, were not matching the rest of her body's limp energy.

Now with a much closer viewpoint, Sherlock's mind began to race with observations. 'No excessive sweating, no physical implication of blatant guilt. High serotonin levels, traced to possible stress and trauma? Yet no recollection of what has transpired…Shaking hands, neatly manicured nails-'

"Would you care for some tea, Detective?"

A soft voice broke Sherlock away from his train of thought. His eyes darted to the source, the housemaid stood diligently nearby as she awaited his response.

"No. Go away," Sherlock circled the sofa where Mrs. Nile sat. He glanced outside but the rain cascading down the window obstructed a clear view of the backyard.

"Where is the neighbor who made the call?" Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, then circled around back to where Mrs. Nile was sitting.

"Donovan's already checked in with her," explained Lestrade.

"Bring her in, I have several questions that need answering," Sherlock said as he stood in front of Mrs. Nile.

"Mrs. Nile, may I see one of your hands?"

In complete compliance and without a word of protest, Mrs. Nile lifted both her hands to Sherlock. Noting she didn't seem to register his instructions for just one hand and instead supplying him with the pair, his eyes danced with a conclusion. The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly as he scanned the woman's hands quickly.

"Thank you, you've been very acquiescent," Sherlock said quickly to the woman in question. He glanced back to Lestrade, his mind suddenly racing.

"I'll be requiring a flashlight," Sherlock spoke to the room as he turned on his heel and opened the patio door. Rain immediately began back-splashing onto him. Turning up his still-damp collar, he braved into the rain. Lestrade and several other officers begrudgingly following in tow. Into the immense downpour they ventured.

The backyard was indeed very modest in space, which left Sherlock with the ability to quickly deduce where he should be focusing his attention.

"There!" He yelled to Lestrade and his men, "Hand me the light."

Shining the spotlight on the area beneath the townhouse, everyone's eyes rested on a small compartment door that led to a crawl space beneath the building. The surrounding grass appeared patchy, unleveled and showing signs of recent foot-traffic.

Kicking the opening's small door aside, Sherlock bent down in the mud. He shined a light into the opening, his furrowed brow dissipated upon seeing what lay before him. He began to laugh heartily as he crawled forward into the space. Lestrade and his team looked at each other in confusion.

"Sherlock, wanna fill us in out here?" Lestrade called down to the muddy consulting detective.

Although they could only view his bottom half, it was obvious Sherlock was reaching for something within the crawl space. Shuffling backwards on his knees, he finally reemerged from the opening. He was clutching several large, ivory, trumpet-shaped flowers.

"Brugmansia," Sherlock said as he raised the muddy flowers in his fist. Upon realizing his companions were not registering the importance of his discovery, he exuded a huge sigh of frustration. He eagerly began retreating back to the house with Lestrade following closely in tow.

"Would you care to expand? What's Bugmansee?" The detective inspector asked as Sherlock crossed through the back entryway. Now caked in mud, every eye in the room turned toward the haphazard looking man. Mrs. Nile merely glanced up from the couch, her expression was completely deadpan.

"Brugmansia," Sherlock corrected Lestrade. "Indigenous to select regions within South America. Now why would this very distinct species, seasonal to warm, tropic weather, be perfectly placed beneath a dark, drafty London home?"

Lestrade impatiently looked at Sherlock, "Well, go on then!"

"Do I really have to spell it out to you all?" Sherlock grunted with impatience.

Throwing the muddy evidence onto the table in front of Mrs. Nile, Sherlock pointed down to the flowers as he faced Lestrade. "Mrs. Nile, having no recollection of the events that transpired a mere few hours ago, is exuding signs of visual stress but only in her hands. Shock? Perhaps, yet a calm demeanor accompanying dilated pupils and raised blood pressure indicates disruption of an otherwise balanced nervous system. Shaking only visible in the upper extremities at a rate of 8 to 12 movements per second — a tremor. Don't you see? Mrs. Nile has been drugged."

Bewilderment filled the room as Lestrade looked to Mrs. Nile then back to Sherlock, "Now wait a minute, with what exactly? And how can you be so sure?"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Brugmansia," he gestured toward the plant in question. "Coined as 'Angel's Trumpet,' is riddled with scopolamine. Its toxicity levels are extremely high. Potent doesn't even begin to describe the poisonous effect it can have on the body if ingested. You see, one gram of scopolamine equals a gram of cocaine. Though the effects widely differ, this is certainly the perfect tool for coercion. Yes! The person who slipped Mrs. Nile this hallucinogen knew very well what they were doing."

Donovan stepped into the room, accompanying her was an older woman, who was wearing a raincoat and wellies. She looked questionably at Sherlock's weathered state.

"Ah, the neighbor, thank you for coming on such short notice," Sherlock crossed the room to the old woman.

"You are an avid gardener, are you not?" Sherlock inquired of the woman. He scanned her with his unrelenting eyes, gathering information as she responded.

"I would say so, yes."

"Tending to your garden once, even twice a day, would you agree?"

"Yes, but how do you know that-"

"And as an avid gardener and a bit of a neighborhood busybody," Sherlock ignored the old woman's indignant protest, "what would you say is one peculiarity, one oddity you noticed today while in your backyard?"

"I'm not sure what you mean Detective-"

"Think!" Sherlock shouted back at her. Donovan tried intercepting but Lestrade gestured to allow Sherlock to continue.

"Have you ever seen Mrs. Nile in her yard, tending to its upkeep? Have you ever? Her well-manicured hands indicate she is certainly not one to bother with such trivialities. Why? When you can just delegate the backbreaking task to someone else. What was different about today, tell me what you noticed."

The old woman looked uncertainly at Sherlock, she was desperately trying to recall any information that may be of some use to the detective. Sherlock continued to stare intensely down at her. Realization suddenly filled the old woman's eyes.

"I did notice two men come by the house this morning, but they were just the landscapers. They were planting some new trees in the yard."

Sherlock smiled approvingly at the woman for a fleeting moment, "And were either of these men carrying a plant that had flowers similar to those?" Sherlock pointed to the table where the Brugmansia flowers lay.

Peering around at the table, the old woman nodded in confirmation.

"Why yes, those are definitely new."

"Wonderful!" Sherlock triumphantly clasped his hands together as he turned to face Mrs. Nile. "I do believe you'll find your husband is associating himself with a very questionable crowd, a Columbian drug ring I might expect. Trade and Investments, yes, in very foreign matters it would appear."

Sherlock spun around and began to pace. "Oh, they thought they were most clever, using nature as their calling card. And what better way to ensure their threat be understood? Implement their threat by inducing their target's wife, allowing the drug to naturally incapacitate her free will. Manipulation through a seemingly innocent flower, all while the inability to recollect what happened. Very clever. Ah, and I'll take that tea now."

Sherlock quickly toned down his cheerful disposition as Lestrade gave him a warning look.

Helping Mrs. Nile up from the couch, Lestrade gestured over an officer. "Alright, let's take Mrs. Nile in for proper testing, we have to make sure we can trace this drug while it's in her system."

Having overheard Sherlock's request moments ago, the house servant began pouring a piping hot cup of tea and handed it over to him.

"Thank you," he said graciously as he watched Mrs. Nile escorted away. Mrs. Nile did not look back at Sherlock, she appeared to still be experiencing the drug's effects. Lestrade went over to Sherlock's side as the room began to clear out.

"How did you know where to find the plant?"

Sherlock set his teacup in its saucer. "Soil remnants beneath her otherwise flawlessly manicured nails. Whoever these criminals are, had her stash the plant beneath the house. I'd imagine she was already under the effects at that time."

"Ah, that makes sense," Lestrade nodded. "Well, this case has taken a real 360. Going to have some very interesting questions waiting for Mr. Nile once he's pulled himself out of his critical state."

As Sherlock resumed sipping his tea, Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'd never heard of that kind of plant before, pretty dangerous stuff then?"

Sherlock nodded, he gave an involuntary shudder. He became fully aware of the damp clothing he was wearing. "Completely dependent upon the individual and of course, the quantity administered, there is a huge array of symptoms. Coercion is its main usage, but despite its hallucinogenic qualities, it can be quite-"

Blinking hard against the lights, Sherlock tried to adjust his vision to room's brightness. The overhead lighting suddenly seemed overbearing, intense almost. Lestrade noticed this and clasped his friend's shoulder.

"You alright?"

"Fine." Sherlock bent forward to set the teacup down and suddenly stumbled forward. Lestrade quickly rounded on him, helping the taller man straighten up. Realization suddenly hit Sherlock.

"She was slipped the drug through her tea," he struggled to get the words out and tore himself away from Lestrade.

Stumbling toward the tray that was abandoned by the house servant, Sherlock clumsily tore the lid away from the teapot. His eyes grew large as he peered inside — one of the Brugmansia flowers floated about, its potent qualities infused within the liquid.

The room seemed to come alive. The colors, lighting, and people seemed ten times more dimensional. Everything appeared to be fluid, connected, no beginning or end. It was like he was ebbing on an ocean of unrelenting waves.

Lestrade was already by Sherlock's side, attempting to guide the taller man to the couch. Once he managed to sit Sherlock up, Lestrade grasped Sherlock's jaw in his hand.

"Bloody hell, this is not good. Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Lestrade's voice seemed to echo in Sherlock's head. The last semi-clear image he was able to distinguish was of Donovan lingering in the background with an obnoxiously amused grin stretched across her face.

Mustering together his remaining willpower to cling to reality, he finally managed to string together the two simple words that seemed almost impossible to verbally articulate…

"Call John," he mumbled to Lestrade as his eyes fluttered shut.

Chapter Text

Flickering a match above a candle, John Watson glanced out the window as the heavy rain continued to drum against the glass. He heard a soft approving hum from the sofa. Looking over his shoulder, he smiled playfully at the attractive brunette who in turn raised her wine glass toward him. 

“You sure he won’t be barging in here any second?” Elena took a sip of wine, glancing warily toward the front door. 

John chuckled as he joined her on the sofa, leaning an arm across the back of her seat. 

“I’ll have you know, I had a very stern talking to Sherlock. He won’t be giving you any more trouble.” 

He smiled reassuringly at his date, pausing to regard his watch. 

“From the way he rushed out of here earlier, it must have been an awfully good case. Hasn’t been in touch, so I guess I’m off the hook this evening.” John whispered the last bit as he began to lean in closer to Elena. 

Tilting her head invitingly, John advanced without any hesitation. Moving his hand to the base of her neck, their eyes fluttered shut as their lips inched closer and closer.

A loud vibrating noise broke their trance, Elena’s confused eyes opened to meet the apologetic look etched across John’s features. 

“Sorry, sorry. Let me just shut it off,” John struggled to retrieve the vibrating phone from his pocket. He suddenly shifted demeanors upon seeing Lestrade’s name displayed on the screen, his body tensed immediately, bracing himself at the edge of the sofa’s cushion.

“I’m sorry but I have to get this,” John said frustratingly as he stood up.

Elena rolled her eyes as she crossed her legs dejectedly. She grabbed her wine and chugged the rest down in several gulps.

“Lestrade? What’s wrong?” 

John’s face fell, he turned his back to his date and hastily moved to the entryway, grabbing his coat off the rack in one quick swoop.

“Text me the address, I’ll be there soon.”

Although John was far from being as perceptive as Sherlock Holmes, it didn't take any huge deduction to note how unpleased Elena was from this drastic shift in the evening. John sighed heavily as he shrugged on his jacket.

“You’re going to hate me,” he said with such sincerity Elena softened her stare, unfolding her arms in the process.

John had the look of defeat, a familiar expression he wore all too often when he could sense the end of a relationship due to his chaotic lifestyle. He knew this was the end, he knew he could not do or say anything to prevent the inevitable collapse in their short-lived romance.

“I can’t hate you, John,” Elana gave a soft sigh as she climbed to her feet and joined John at the entryway. She laughed when John looked surprised as she kissed him on the cheek.

“You’re being a great friend and I very much admire that,” she smiled sweetly at him as she wrapped herself up in her coat. “I’d like to come with you if that’s okay?”

John gave her a double look but recovered quickly, “Yeah, I mean- of course, you sure?”

Taking a step closer to him, Elena gripped onto John’s collar.

“We can always resume our evening later…” She looked unabashedly up at her counterpart, who couldn’t help but blush.

“Yes, that would be nice- ahem- that would be lovely,” John cleared his throat nervously, struggling to keep his attention at the matter at hand.

“Shall we?” He said as he held the door open for his date.

“We shall! Where are we off to anyway?” She asked curiously as John locked up their flat.

“To fetch Sherlock, he’s accidentally drugged himself,” John irately huffed in reply.

Elena looked wide-eyed at John’s back as she followed him, now with slightly more hesitation in her step.

 

Chapter Text

Medics hurriedly left the ambulance parked outside the Nile's residence as John and Elena's cab pulled to a stop just beyond the taped off perimeter. John watched as the medical team scurried across the front yard, disappearing beyond the entrance of the home. Paying the fare as quickly as he could, John jumped out of the cab, holding the door open for Elena.

Sparing his date another quick apologetic look, he nodded back at the very parked cab they just exited.

"You sure you're okay with this? Cab's still here if you change your mind."

Looking a bit shaken and slightly uncertain, Elena mustered up a small smile and nodded for John to lead the way.

"I'll make it up to you, I swear." John pressed on, grasping her hand and leading her along the same path the medics had taken moments ago.

They entered the Nile's home and immediately were greeted by a loud voice barking down the hallway.

No denying that's the sod's voice, John thought. He unconsciously let go of Elena's hand, quickly marching down the hallway toward where he knew he'd find his friend. She looked down at her now empty hand then back at John's oblivious back, she furrowed her brow in question.

As they both stepped into the living room, all eyes turned in their direction. Lestrade looked as though relief had just washed over him, Donovan was looking thoroughly entertained, and the newly arrived medics looked simply annoyed.

Finally, there was Sherlock Holmes, or rather the physical imitation of Sherlock Holmes, for his usual complacent and composed demeanor was eliminated from the surface. In place of his usual arduously attentive self was a man who seemed to be grasping at the brink of sense. Still covered in mud, his hair was tousled, his eyes wide and curious, his posture slouched ever-so relaxed into the sofa, long legs sprawled out messily before him on the floor.

"Jaaawn." Sherlock boisterously called, quickly turning to frown at one of the medics who was attempting to set up him up with an intravenous line.

"Humph- hey!" Sherlock shot up in his seat as the medic stumbled forward, the needle slipping away from its position on Sherlock's arm. The other medic attempted to restrain the fidgeting man who stubbornly kept resisting their grip. John immediately joined in the small scuffle, placing a hand firmly on his friend's shoulder.

"Sherlock, sit still. Everything's okay." John spoke slowly and firmly as Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile, his eyes immediately drooped.

"Don't worry John, everything's okay." Sherlock mumbled almost incoherently as his eyes fought to stay open.

With his hand still firmly planted on his friend's shoulder, John turned to one of the flustered medics.

"What are you administering?" John asked quietly, careful not to rile up the man being treated.

"Just sterile saline for now," The medical technician kept his eyes on Sherlock as though taking careful note of the man's exuded behavior. "At this point, we can only flush out what's in his system. His vitals are in check."

Sherlock tilted his head back, eyes glassy and transfixed on the ceiling. John waved his hand in front of the space where Sherlock was gazing, yet received no response.

"As long as he isn't showing any signs of distress, there's no need to sedate him."

The medic paused as Sherlock reached forward and began investigating the back of the medic's head. John gave a small apologetic smile, pushing away Sherlock's wandering fingers.

"Sorry, you were saying?" John asked as he half-patted, half-restrained Sherlock's exploring hand.

"Uh, we recommend bringing him in to ensure he's getting the correct amount of liquids to flush this thing out, restore electrolytes, monitor any strange reactions."

"Nope, no hospital," Sherlock mumbled, falling back into the sofa with eyes fluttering shut.

"Don't think you're really in any position to decide that," John muttered disapprovingly.

Turning to Lestrade, John nodded his head in Sherlock's direction.

"What was it he ingested exactly?" John quirked an eyebrow as he regarded the detective inspector.

Unbeknownst to the two chatting men, Sherlock was wide awake again and was conducting an awkward staring contest with Elena, squinting his hazy eyes again and again as he regarded her. Feeling entirely out of place, she desperately attempted to look anywhere but back at him.

"Brugmansia," Lestrade sighed as he sank his hands deep into his pockets. "It's a kind of plant Sherlock found here at the scene, he proved it was used on one of the victims."

"Or at least that's what he proposed," Donovan chirped in from across the room.

Lestrade gave her a sharp look, suggesting a very strong implication of 'not now.'

"And how exactly did Sherlock get himself this-" John paused to take in Sherlock's strange squinting mannerisms, "wrecked?"

"You know, that's precisely what he should have questioned too before concluding this case: the mystery of how the victim was drugged," Lestrade let out a dry chuckle as he nodded at the tea cup at the edge of the coffee table.

"He took a cuppa from the same teapot our suspect took her tea from and unfortunately that's exactly how the drug was administered," Lestrade noted John's still confused look. "One of the flowers was in the kettle, just soaking in there, their properties absorbed in the liquid."

"Just took a couple sips for him to lose his nerve," Donovan crossed her arms as she walked a bit closer. "Serves him right if you ask me, got a bit smug about his findings."

A trace of comprehension seemed to register with Sherlock as he lifted his index finger into the air, struggling to express indignation toward Donovan.

"Greg, can you please," John said to Lestrade as he gestured at Donovan's lingering presence.

"Oh c'mon, you can't seriously tell me you don't prefer him like this. He's more or less a mute right now. It's a miracle." Sally chuckled heartily.

"Alright Sergeant, wrap it up," Lestrade gave Donovan a commanding look, who in turn gave Sherlock one last cocky smile before retreating from the room.

"Thanks," John sighed gratefully as he eyed the Brugmansia flowers, which were now enclosed in an evidence bag.

"John, fragrant… flowers," Sherlock mumbled up at John. "Very pretty, don't touch 'em, don't… eat them."

"So I'm guessing this drug manifests hallucinations?" John looked from Lestrade to the medics. "I mean, how long are we looking at before this all wears off."

Sherlock was now sitting up without the support of the couch's back, swaying somewhat in his seat as he began tapping his fingers close to the IV in his arm.

One of the medics looked up from where he was kneeling next to Sherlock, "Luckily if he consumed only a small dosage, this should pass through his system within 24 hours."

"24 hours!" Elena yelped, Lestrade and John turning to look at her. "Sorry, it's just, well, that's a bit long isn't it?"

"You don't want to know what would've happened if he'd eaten the darn thing," the medic gave a dry laugh as he slipped the cuff of a heart rate monitor over Sherlock's arm. The compliant consulting detective seemed entranced by the air pump in the medic's hand.

"Well, his heart rate is slightly increased, but nothing life threatening," the medic patted Sherlock's knee as he rose from his seated spot on the ground, the two technicians began packing up some of their equipment.

"He can ride back with us," the medic then noted Sherlock's confused look at John before hastily continuing. "But there's no harm if he'd rather ride with you two."

John patted Sherlock on the shoulder reassuringly, "Thank you, I think I can handle him from here."

Lestrade joined John, both men standing on either side of Sherlock as they tried to hoist him up from the couch. As Sherlock let out an indigent huff, he tried shrugging both men off.

"It's fine. I'm fine," the taller man muttered lazily in his baritone voice.

John spared his friend an irate sideways glance, not budging from the stubborn man's side.

"John. Craig, I can do… this… stepping…walking… thing."

"It's Greg, Sherlock!" said Lestrade in full irateness, ducking out from Sherlock's right arm and causing all the weight to fall onto John. As the doctor was not entirely prepared for this abrupt shift, John stumbled to the left, causing Sherlock to veer also.

Elena gasped as John suddenly lost his footing, his feet entangling among Sherlock's ungraceful long legs. In a last attempt to prevent their impending crash to the ground, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders as though in a big bear hug. Swiftly positioning his legs in a lunge-like fashion, John tried to pivot them back into standing position. Unfortunately Sherlock's dead weight was far too great and both men soon stumbled into a heap on the ground. Even more unfortunate was John's and Sherlock's landing position: John's arms were still wrapped around his friend's upper half, Sherlock's limpness causing him to practically melt into John's embrace.

Since Sherlock clearly had not attempted to demonstrate any control over his body, his head, or rather face, was awkwardly pressed directly on top of John's. From Elena's standpoint, it indeed appeared both men were pressed lip to lip. And although it only took John a second to register their close proximity, he could have sworn he saw a twinkle of mischief lingering in his friend's eyes. John's face reddened from the exertion it took to push Sherlock off him — and admittedly from their fleeting and awkward collision.

Bloody hell. John knew despite the ridiculous state of his friend, he was up certainly up to something. The doctor rubbed the back of his head, wincing from the recent impact. He clambered to his feet, catching Elena's stare as he regained his composure.

Is she blushing? John thought, shaking his head as he smoothed out his clothes. Surely she doesn't think-

"Oomph," Sherlock exuded from the ground. He began struggling to make sense of his legs.

As the consulting detective finally managed to sit up, the next objective proved much more difficult. Swaying from his position on the floor, Sherlock placed both palms flat on the ground, hunched over on all fours. He clumsily began to attempt to find his balance.

Struggling to rise, the bumbling detective finally gave up, looking up to see John and Lestrade both looking down at him disapprovingly.

"You are being a stubborn git," John scolded from where he hovered over Sherlock. "Now, we are going to help you up and you're going to let us. Nod your head if you understand."

Looking up at John through the messy curls that fell partially over his eyes, Sherlock glanced down to his flat palms on the ground, then looked back up at John. He seemed completely unaware of how he'd gotten himself into this position in the first place. With bewilderment clouding his features, Sherlock relented, giving one big nod at John.

"Alright, c'mon, we got you," Lestrade said as he hooked his hand beneath Sherlock's arm, John following suit.

"Try to find some footing, Sherlock," John huffed.

"You are far too heavy for someone who looks so bloody thin," Lestrade muttered in unison.

Sherlock held his head a bit straighter. Beneath his disorientation he appeared to be struggling with a train of thought. He shook his head and scowled, there was no possible way he could make any kind of deduction in his state and it frustrated him to no end.

"Weight, it's…it's…" Sherlock looked backward at the tea tray as Lestrade and John carried him further out of the room.

"Sherlock, it's okay, just try to focus on walking." John said firmly yet soothingly in response.

Sherlock squinted his eyes and struggled to find clarity, a surge of energy suddenly jolted through him as he struggled to escape away from his friends' clutches.

"Tea! Made it, she made it, it was made, humph, uh—" Sherlock lunged back toward the sitting room, John managing to catch him around the waist just before he collapsed. Lestrade quickly followed suit and helped John straighten up Sherlock.

"What's gotten into you?!" Lestrade bellowed.

"Is he okay, John?" Elena asked as she stood cautiously away from the struggle.

Eyes frozen to the tea tray, Sherlock sighed frustratedly as John and Lestrade pulled him away with slightly more force this time. As they continued to drag him outside, Sherlock finally gave up resisting, allowing them to guide him into the back of Lestrade's car.

Once they both managed to get him situated in his seat, John shut the car door slightly as to prevent the wildcard from springing out.

"You think you can give us a ride to St. Barts? Might want to get him looked over before taking him home." John asked Lestrade.

"Of course," Lestrade suddenly realized Elena's presence. "And sorry for ruining your night, I'm sure you had a few other things you'd rather being doing than babysitting."

John smiled at Lestrade as he climbed into the backseat to join Sherlock, who was slumped up against the car's dampened window.

"You have no idea," John muttered to himself as Elena joined him in the backseat.

 

---

 

Upon arriving at St. Barts, Sherlock seemed much calmer, much quieter, and even lesser than his usual self. As Lestrade opened the door for Elena and John to climb out, Sherlock merely glanced over in their direction, staring blankly out the open door.

"C'mon Sherlock, can you get out?" John extended a hand toward the sitting detective.

Lestrade returned with a wheelchair in tow. "Being difficult?"

"Sherlock, please get out of the car." John locked eyes with his friend, who seemed to understand John's request this time.

"Okay," Sherlock quietly muttered and almost mechanically began scooting toward the car's opening.

John glanced sideways at Lestrade who looked equally surprised.

The second Sherlock was within reach, John gripped onto Sherlock's arms and guided him into the wheelchair. "Sit still, alright?"

Sherlock glanced upward at John and despite his previous struggling and fidgeting behavior, he merely sat obediently in the wheelchair.

"Alright," Sherlock responded flatly.

"This is definitely a new side I've never seen before," Lestrade laughed.

John could hear Elena breathe a sigh of relief as Sherlock allowed John to push him into the waiting area. John didn't have to speculate too intensively to realize how thankful she must be to not be dealing with his usual cynical personality.

After wheeling Sherlock up to the nurse at the front desk, John jostled down some information onto the ledger. The nurse raised an eyebrow down at Sherlock who in return regarded her with heavy lidded eyes.

"Oh dear, rough evening?" The nurse took in the detective's disheveled state.

"You could say that," John smiled briefly at her as she began reviewing the information he had written down.

"Sherlock Holmes. Where have I heard that name before…"

Without so much as moving in his seat, Sherlock muttered out flatly, "Newspapers, tabloids, some news segments depending on the scale of how gruesome the murder. And possibly John's blog."

The nurse raised an eyebrow first at Sherlock who did not react to her inquiring look, then shifted her gaze to John.

"He's not in his right mind, um— he hardly ever is, but more so tonight than other occasions," John gave a small nod as he wheeled Sherlock over to where Elena was sitting.

"Alright, I better get back, it's going to be a long night for me," Lestrade regarded John for a moment. "And for you too I'm sure."

Shaking Lestrade's hand, John was about to say his thanks when a flash of bright light caused him to shield his eyes briefly. When he reopened them, he found there were several reporters aiming their cameras at Sherlock.

"Is it true Sherlock Holmes is badly injured!?" One of the reporters asked eagerly. John immediately stood in front of Sherlock, blocking their view of the dazed detective. Sherlock quirked his head to the side, as though trying to find a better view.

"Not injured. Just very high—" Sherlock began muttering to no one in particular.

His response caused the reporters to flash their cameras again, asking their questions more frantically. John rolled his eyes in frustration as he and Lestrade tried to barricade themselves in front of Sherlock.

"This is a hospital, you can't be in here," Lestrade flashed his badge at the reporters who couldn't care less. "Alright that's it, you're all going to be under arrest in a minute if you don't turn around and get out of here!"

"That's highly unlikely you alone are capable of such a thing," Sherlock muttered from behind him.

The nurse at the desk must have called for security as three guards ran down the hallway toward them. Intervening between the two groups, security began pushing the reporters toward the exit, the journalists eagerly shouting out questions even louder as they were escorted out of view.

Lestrade, John, and Elena slowly shifted their eyes toward Sherlock, who looked completely unfazed by the whole ordeal. Realization slowly set in as Lestrade looked uneasily at John.

"Christ. He mentioned one of the side effects was coercion. He's going to have to be closely monitored, John. He knows a lot of sensitive information. Can't be spilling that out to just anyone."

John plopped into one of the chairs and leaned back heavily, "World's only consulting detective who won't keep his mouth shut. This is definitely going to be one hell of a long night."

Elena looked down at her watch then back at the men. Her patience was wearing thin. She fancied John, but she was starting to wonder how much he liked her. She chewed on her lip uncomfortably as she shifted in her seat.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Lestrade looked down at John who seemed to brainstorming their next plan of action.

"Should we call…" Lestrade began.

"Mycroft." John finished.

Both men glanced back at Sherlock, who seemed to frown in response.

Chapter Text

Midnight fell upon London and St. Bart's corridors settled into a more quiet state, with many of its patients already retired to their rooms. Despite the occasional raised voices, which sounded very much like bickering, one could say it was one of the more calm evenings at the hospital.

In one of the more tucked-away hallways of the clinic, Sherlock Holmes sat atop a hospital gurney, slouching forward with arms stubbornly folded across his chest. An IV stand was stationed closely nearby, connected oh-so-tediously to his arm. The detective's eyes were still glazed over, the drug's effects still lingering in his system.

"How do you feel?" John asked, as he stood beside the makeshift bed.

Sherlock didn't budge but continued to stare ahead, his eyes fixed on God knows what.

"Sherlock, answer me," John sighed frustratedly.

"I am fine, I feel fine, I want to go home," Sherlock muttered, his speech hardly an improvement from his previous slurring.

Elena turned the corner carrying two cups of coffee, keeping her eyes focused on John as she cautiously crossed in front of Sherlock. It was as though she was the prey trying to avoid attracting the attention of a predator.

"Thanks, I really needed this," John smiled warmly at Elena, who in turn raised her coffee in salute.

"John I know this isn't the best time, but we need to talk—" Elena began.

"Save us the time and end it now," Sherlock mumbled flatly as he continued staring straight ahead.

Giving Sherlock an angry glare, it was obvious John was teetering on the edge of patience.

"Sherlock, shut up."

Upon hearing Sherlock mutter a compliant "K" back in response, John pulled Elena gently off to the side, his face hiding none of his exhaustion and frustration.

"I really do like you John, I do. But I don't think we should see each other-"

"Give me another opportunity, please, I promise— this has just been one big bizarre scenario… this was just one time…" John trailed off helplessly, he suddenly looked completely defeated. Elena smiled sadly at him and placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

"Maybe another time?" Elena asked uncertainly. "When life is less… busy." She glanced at the back of Sherlock's head, who was completely fixated on the wall in front of him.

"Sure, yeah." John said softly back as Elena pecked him on the cheek, quickly turning to retreat.

"Sherlock, I hope you feel better," she said promptly as she made to quicken her pace.

"Better already," Sherlock struggled to sound cold, instead only managing to slur the syllables in a weak retort.

John watched as Elena turned the corner, disappearing from sight. He suddenly looked back at Sherlock, marching over to stand in front of the seated man.

"You know this is your fault, again! Why couldn't you— why did you have to—why do you—always—" John cut himself off, struggling to subdue his anger.

Sherlock tugged at his IV so he could lean back against the hospital's wall, he looked stoically back at John. "I know, I messed it up again."

John immediately calmed down a few notches upon hearing such an acknowledgement come from his usually painfully stubborn friend. While it may have been the product of the ruthless drug still present in the man's system, he was still not accustomed to hearing Sherlock admit to personal fault. Yes, there had been some miscalculations made on certain cases, but in terms of their friendship, well, that was a completely different story. The words felt so honest, so straightforward, they tugged at reason and John suddenly felt guilty.

"Yea, it's okay," John shuffled his feet. "I mean, you're not exactly in tip top shape right now."

Sherlock looked down at the IV needle in his arm, "True."

John immediately raised an eyebrow, retracting a fraction of his sympathy.

"You did insist you were fine just several minutes ago, so which is it?"

"I… don't… know," Sherlock muttered back slowly. "A bit of both."

John gave Sherlock a hard questioning look before taking a seat beside him.

"Yes, well, we'll continue this conversation later. You're not completely off the hook."

Sherlock lifted his hand up, struggling to compose his wavering palm. He began sloppily patting John on the knee.

John raised an eyebrow questionably at his friend, as the act came across more awkward than comforting.

"Might be the drugs, but I don't know what you saw in her," Sherlock muttered.

"Even on sober occasions you've never grasped what I see in anyone," John pointedly replied. "So there's that."

Sherlock scrunched up his face and slumped further into the wall.

"People, John, what's the point!"

"Yes, people, some who cannot abstain from finding their way into trifling situations. Again and again," Mycroft Holmes cast the two men a disapproving look as he began approaching closer.

Sherlock's posture straightened before he began attempting to climb down from the gurney. He immediately stumbled, John quickly grabbing hold of the man's shirt. As John pushed Sherlock back into a seated position, the detective cast both men a very annoyed look.

"Brother, dear, not this again," Mycroft tilted his head to the side as he stood in front of Sherlock.

"Lestrade didn't debrief you? This isn't his doing," John immediately interjected, Mycroft sparing him a quick pitiful smile.

"Yes, quite. My apologies, old habits die hard," Mycroft leaned on his umbrella as he regarded Sherlock.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine," Sherlock attempted to growl back, his voice sounding uneven and weak.

"You should have called me sooner," Mycroft turned back to John. "It appears the press is already fixated on assembling half-truth stories about London's beloved detective. While I don't imagine anything truly damaging can come of it, I'd predict they shall be pestering you both for some time."

"Yea, well, nothing we can do about it now," John said as he kept a firm had atop his friend's shoulder, semi-prepared to restrain him should he decide to leap from his seat again.

"Well, I sincerely hope the case was at least a seven," Mycroft said, returning his attention back to his disgruntled brother. "And of course, a full circle of deduction leading to a closed case?"

Even in his hazy state, Sherlock knew Mycroft was antagonizing him.

"Needtotalktothemaid," Sherlock mumbled back quickly.

"I'm sorry? Didn't quite catch that." Mycroft asked back teasingly.

"Need to speak to maid," Sherlock threw Mycroft a dirty look as he swayed in his seat. "She's involved, need to tell Lestrade."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow then gave a small nod before turning back to John.

"Perhaps lock his bedroom door tonight, in case he impulsively decides to chase down this maid. I daresay, no more adventures for this evening," Mycroft quietly regarded John, who nodded in agreement.

"I'm perfect— perfectly capable of—" Sherlock stumbled over his words as he attempted to interject, John spared him a stern look of 'not now'.

"Yes, well, I'm happy to assist in derailing the media as far as my authority permits, along with providing you with a quick and smooth departure back to Baker St." Mycroft paused and cleared his throat as he addressed Sherlock. "However, I would like your word that will you will assist one of my old colleagues on a particular matter, once you're feeling better of course."

"No chance," Sherlock mumbled back.

"Sherlock, we're in no position to barter. Don't be difficult," John said as he reprimanded his friend.

Sparing John a quick glance, Sherlock turned back to Mycroft to find a smug smile set in place.

"Alright," Sherlock mumbled finally, he began edging himself slowly from his seat. He managed to climb to his feet, swaying dangerously as he attempted to stare down his older brother.

"But if they're boring, I can only promise half of my attention," Sherlock said slowly, careful to annunciate each word. He tried turning on his heel, which caused his legs to entangle, the semi-smooth diss ruined by his crumpled up form on the ground.

Mycroft sighed, John joining him as they both hoisted the lanky man from his spot on the floor. They both ignored the detective's incessant rambling and protests as they finally situated him into a nearby wheelchair and made their strategic exit from the hospital.

Chapter Text

If there was any indication drugs had been in Sherlock’s system only a mere 12 hours ago, it might have been the throbbing aching covering every inch of his body. Or perhaps it was his extreme sensitivity to the faint light creeping past his bedroom curtains. No matter the symptoms, he concluded he had not felt this hellish in a very long time.

Attempting to roll over onto his stomach, he let out a loud groan. The clinking of dishes could be heard from the kitchen down the hall.

“Could you please desist on whatever it is you’re doing in there?” Sherlock gruffly called out.

The faint noise stopped abruptly and the door to his bedroom creaked open shortly after.

“Oh, you’re alive. How’d you feel?” John poked his head in and took in the ridiculous sight bestowed before him.

Sherlock lay shirtless with both pillows thrown onto the ground. The top sheet was pulled over his head as though it were a hood, while also entwined around his upper half. Tufts of black curls poked out of where Sherlock’s head rested beneath the haven of his cover. Muttering something into the bedding, the man didn't even bother to turn his head toward John.

“Hm?” John prompted.

Fully irate, Sherlock rolled onto his side to face John better. “I said, like death. I feel like death.”

Folding his arms, John took several steps toward the bed and wordlessly placed the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked as he braced his eyes against the light.

Raising his eyebrows in question, John took a small step back. “You don’t remember?”

“Argh, John, if I remembered, would I be asking?”

John quirked a smile. “Sassy are we?”

Exuding a sigh of frustration, Sherlock attempted to roll out of bed, struggling find his footing upon making contact with the ground. John merely raised an eyebrow as he watched.

“I’ll recap you. You were drugged. You wrecked my date. Then you passed out.”

Still clutching his bed sheet over his head, Sherlock swayed as he did his best to give John his most affronted stare.

“I did no such thing.”

“Pardon? That you were drugged?”

“No, the latter.”

“That you wrecked my date?”

“No, no, no, the last bit,” Sherlock said, waving his hand impatiently back at John.

“That you passed out?” John blankly stared back at his flatmate.

“Yes, that!” Sherlock’s legs wobbled as he began patting down his trouser pockets for something.

“I was there Sherlock, you did pass out.”

Whatever words John was wasting his breath on, Sherlock seemed to already have been worlds away. The sheet has slipped from his head and was now comfortably wrapped around his shoulders, he began pacing at the opposite side of the bedroom.

“Drugs effects… faltered…relative to dosage and subject…” Sherlock muttered beneath his breath. Realization suddenly hit him as he turned to John with wide eyes.

“Mrs. Nile would have also had a similar reaction. Her lifestyle clearly indicates a clear void of any drugs past or present, yet I, who has clearly grown a strong tolerance could be subdued —lose consciousness even. They must have been planning to return, Mr. Nile wasn’t their target, she is just as involved in this— I need to inform Lestrade.”

One look at Sherlock’s fatigued state and his frantic mannerisms, John knew he couldn’t let his friend leave the flat. Firmly taking hold of Sherlock by the shoulders in mid beeline for the door, John cleared his throat and braced himself for an argument.

“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock looked down at John, confusion clouding his features.

Still firmly grasping Sherlock by the sides of his shoulders, John looked pointedly back at the taller man.

“Whatever lead you need to share with Lestrade, you can do so by phone.”

“John I-“

“You’re not fine, so don’t even bother with that. You need rest.”

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock gave John his most challenging look. “You cannot confine me to the flat, John. I’m not a child!”

“Yes, however, one step outside and Mycroft has promised to send you off to St. Barts for a proper day of recovery. He’s got people monitoring, he called to inform this morning.”

Sherlock’s face went from affronted to appalled as he took a step back from John.

“You think Mycroft could stop me? Oh please, I’m more than capable of fleeing from the ridiculous man’s confinements. I have done so on more than one occasion.”

“I’m not challenging you Sherlock, I’m advising you. One step outside this flat and you’re opting for the atmosphere of a stuffy hospital with nurses fussing over you every hour. Or you can settle here for the day and carry on with research while I make tea.”

The two men stood their ground for a few moments with John naturally adopting his military persona, which Sherlock noted bemusedly had always made the smaller man seem several inches taller.

Such stare downs were becoming more and more frequent here at 221 Baker Street. Strangely, had it been any other individual to attempt such an obvious power play, Sherlock would have merely rolled his eyes and continued on his defiant path. However, there was never any doubt in Sherlock’s mind that John implemented such silly restrictions because he cared. John cared if Sherlock skipped meals, he cared if Sherlock was in too deep on a case. He definitely made it a point to call out Sherlock on his more careless moves — such as chasing after a serial murderer without notifying anyone of his whereabouts—

“Sherlock, are you even listening?”

Shaken away from his thoughts, Sherlock locked eyes with John.

“You checked out,” John worryingly searched Sherlock’s face.

Batting away John’s doctoring hands, Sherlock pushed past John as he grabbed his robe while exiting the bedroom.

“I’m fine, John. But if you insist on ratting on my whereabouts to the British government then I’ll have to make due here. You mentioned tea?”

—

In the span of just a few short hours, Sherlock managed to text a resolution for the Niles case, accompanied by various bursts of outrage in declaring Scotland Yard’s incompetence. He had also managed to drink a dozen cups of tea (provided by the attentive John Watson), and now in present time, he was now attempting to persuade John to partake in his latest experiment.

“For the last time, you’re not testing that concoction on me,” John held his ground as Sherlock looked imploringly up at him from his microscope.

“It’s harmless, I promise… once the side effects subside it’s no more severe than a hit of—“

“No.”

“John, it was your suggestion that I remain indoors for the duration of one day. I am bored.”

“And that grants you experiment on me? You’re ridiculous.”

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson called as she peeked her head into their living room. She didn’t wait for a response before opening the door past ajar and stepping through the threshold.

“Your brother’s here, dear,” she said, brining in a tray of biscuits and pot of tea.

“Wonderful! You can tell him I’ve left the country,” Sherlock said moodily.

“Ah, how gracious of you, little brother. Is that how you thank the person who tidied up that little mess you made last evening?” Mycroft was close behind Mrs. Hudson as he eyed Sherlock with slight contempt.

“Don’t give yourself so much credit Mycroft. I’d hardly call it a mess.”

“Oh dear, you were far from your normal self last night,” Mrs. Hudson interjected. “You made such a fuss when the boys carried you up the stairs.”

Sherlock crossed the room and lazily plopped himself into his chair.

“Feeling all better I see,” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“At everyone else’s expense,” John muttered from the kitchen’s threshold.

“I do believe it was both of your agendas to confine me to this flat, so yes, I am feeling better. Mission accomplished, bravo to you both. And as the result of your lockdown, I am riddled with complete boredom. So thank you for that also.”

Mycroft gave half a smile as he took a seat across from Sherlock.

“Well then, consider me the resolution to your boredom.”

Sherlock didn’t budge from his relaxed posture. “Please Mycroft, you’re not suggesting your presence brings me excitement?”

“Hardly,” Mycroft gave Sherlock his best tight lipped smile as he tossed a file on the table between them.

“What’s that?”

“The case I mentioned last evening.”

A sparkle seemed to alight in Sherlock’s eyes, though that was quickly masked by his distaste to help his brother.

“And why would I care?”

“No?” Mycroft regarded Sherlock with a strong will to call his bluff.

John sipped on the tea Mrs. Hudson had brought up, he watched entertainingly as he regarded the two brothers. Both were far too stubborn to give in, it was like watching two left arms wrestle each other.

Sherlock remained silent until Mycroft began reaching forward to retrieve back the folder.
“My apologies for assuming you might be interested,” Mycroft said as he stood up with the case file.

Sherlock straightened in his seat, his eyes following Mycroft as he walked toward the exit.

“Good day gentlemen, and Sherlock do feel better soon.”

“Wait.”

Mycroft stood in his tracks but didn’t turn on his heel just yet. John couldn’t help but note how Mycroft was really making Sherlock work for it.

“I did give you my word yesterday and since I do not take sworn promises lightly, my word is still my word.” Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly as he finally reached out a hand to where Mycroft was standing.

“Ah, that is most admirable of you little brother,” Mycroft said as he turned on his heel, looking most pleased with himself.

“I’d first like to debrief you—“

Before Mycroft was able to finish his sentence, Sherlock plucked the file from his grasp and was already retreating back to his chair.

“I’ll be able to manage, thank you.”

As Sherlock was already completely submerged in the details of the case, Mycroft looked over his shoulder one last time at Sherlock.

“We are a bit pressed for time on this one, so please try to be most efficient.”

Mycroft paused as he awaited a response but when it didn’t come, he sighed loudly while turning to John. As always, John was prepared to fill in the blanks.

“We’ll do our best,” John nodded at Mycroft.

And with that simple acknowledgment and a tight smile, Mycroft made his exit.

“What kind of case is it?” John knew not to give Sherlock too much time when first surveying a case’s new information. Wait too long and one gambles the likelihood of his brain palace swallowing him up.

When Sherlock only hummed in response, John moved to join him in the living room.

The moment John crossed the threshold, he noticed a strange reaction flicker across Sherlock’s face. Was it his perception wrecked from a lack of sleep or was Sherlock’s excitement for the chase replaced with utter apprehension.

“What’s wrong?” John frowned as he moved to look over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock shifted abruptly in his chair, shutting the file upon realizing how close John was to him. He looked panicked for a split second, though recovering quickly with an air of nonchalance as he rose from his chair. ‘He probably thinks that was a smooth recovery,’ John thought.

“You alright dear? You’re looking peckish,” Mrs. Hudson spoke from the kitchen.

Not that smooth.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock’s voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he looked from John to his hands then back at Mrs. Hudson.

Locking eyes with John, Sherlock knew his cover was blown. He may be able to fool the masses, but John could see right through him. Something was wrong and it had something to do with the case he was clutching with an iron grip.

“Sherlock, what’s the case about?” John asked demandingly. He took a step toward Sherlock.

“Did you hear that? Someone's at the front door.”

Before John or Mrs. Hudson could say a word, Sherlock had grabbed his coat and was at the base of the stairs. It only took another moment for John to realize there had been no one at the buzzer and Sherlock was already shutting the front door behind him, fleeing away from Baker Street.