Thanks for reading! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any characters in the story. I changed a few details for the sake of the fluff, so I hope you don't mind. I would love some feedback, negative or otherwise. Enjoy!

Sherlock examined the phone carefully, turning it over in his hands. His long fingers brushed the smooth surface gently, his green eyes raking over every detail.

"Give me the phone," Irene demanded.

"I think not," said Sherlock, turning his back to her. He pressed a few buttons, examining each reaction.

"Bad choice," she purred. He gave no indication that he had heard. He was absorbed, his curiosity outweighing his paranoia for once. Adler grinned like a Cheshire Cat, reaching for the syringe on her bureau.

"HYAH!"

She moved like lightning, stabbing Sherlock with the needle and yanking it back out before he could even register what was happening. The drug rushed through his veins. He stumbled slightly, vision swimming.

"What did you do to me?" he groaned. He fell to his knees.

"Give it to me!" Irene demanded, sticking her grabby hands in his face. He blinked rapidly, trying to stop the world from spinning, but it only got worse. He clutched the mobile phone with all his might. The room was doing 360's around him. His stomach turned, his legs numb. He moaned, eyes rolling.

"GIVE IT!" Suddenly, he was slapped across the face with a whip. Still, he held the phone. The whip kept coming, over and over, until the phone dropped from his noodle-like fingers. He slumped, back slamming against the cold wooden floor. He could feel the blackness trying to overcome him.

Irene stroked his face with the whip, saying things he couldn't understand. She knelt beside him, trading the whip for her hands. She caressed his face with one hand, the other running through his curly hair. She leaned down, pressing her lips to his. He didn't even notice, though. He was too busy fighting the blackness, refusing to surrender into unconsciousness.

"Sherlock?" John Watson appeared int he doorway. Irene jumped to her feet, moving to let the doctor get to his detective. She smiled softly as he knelt next to Holmes, checking his pulse. His hands were as slight as feathers, checking the beat in his neck and wrists.

"What did you do to him?" Watson demanded.

"Relax," she said, clicking her tongue disdainfully. "I've used it on plenty of my friends. He'll sleep for a few hours. Just make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit; it makes for a very unattractive corpse." She grinned coyly, and then jumped out the window, leaving the sound of sirens in her wake.

Sherlock threw his body up, the world around him moving in slow motion. He tried desperately to sit up, but his body wouldn't respond. He slammed back to the floor, gritting his teeth furiously. But he couldn't fight the blackness anymore. His last image was his friend leaning over him, eyes full of concern, calling his name with a voice of worry.

John watched in horror as Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. His body went limp, his face vacant. For a heart stopping moment, he thought his friend was dead. His hand's flew to Sherlock's slender neck, searching for a pulse.

THUMP

THUMP

THUMP

John sighed in relief. Sherlock was out for the count, but at least he was alive. John heard the front door open.

"LESTRADE!" he yelled.

He heard the officers scrambling through the house, and he rolled his eyes. What a bunch of morons.

He moved behind Sherlock, kneeling. He put his hands beneath Sherlock's dark curls, lifting his head onto his lap, supporting it. No one, ever, had described Sherlock Holmes as innocent. But, at that moment in time, he looked it. It was the calmest John had ever seen the man.

"What happened?" cried Lestrade, running through the doorway.

"Irene Adler," replied John gruffly. "Help me, will you?"

John stood, hefting Sherlock up with him. Together, the two men dragged Sherlock through the house, to the police car outside. Police men bustled about the house. Lestrade barked orders at a few of them, ignoring their questions about Sherlock and their stares.

When they finally made it outside, a detective John didn't know sat in the front passenger seat. The two laid Sherlock across the back seat as gently as possible. His long arms dangled over the edge of the seat, his feet pressing against the door as they shut it.

"You'll have to sit with him in the back," said Lestrade, stretching. John nodded, moving to the other side of the car to get in. He'd learned how bad Sherlock's feet could smell the hard way, and he would much rather be with his head.

Ten minutes later the group was speeding down the road. Lestrade had told the others that he was going out on personal business, happy for any excuse to skive off work. Him and the other detective chatted casually in the front seat, paying no attention to the men in the back.

John sat silently in the back seat. Sherlock's head rested on his lap. John could feel his deep breathing, but he kept two fingers on the pulse in his neck anyway. He startled mumbling in his sleep, twitching restlessly like he wanted to wake up but couldn't. The twitching changed to actual movement, and John had to restrain him.

"Sherlock," John whispered, holding down his arms. Lestrade and his friend paid no attention, chatting while they turned on the radio. "Sherlock. calm down."

Sherlock was going to start thrashing soon. John felt desperation building in his chest. He scrambled through his head, trying to think of way to calm the man and his apparent nightmares.

People are going to talk, he thought miserably. But he knew he had to. Sherlock was losing it.

John took his hands away from Sherlock's arms. He placed one hand back on his pulse, placing the other gently on Sherlock's thrashing head. The instant John's hands brushed Sherlock's head, he settled. His breathing went back to normal, his limbs still. John ran his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair, and his friend settled back into a calm sleep.

John sighed in relief.

The rest of the car ride passed without conflict. John kept stroking Sherlock's head, and the lanky man remained calm and asleep. When they reached 221 Baker Street, Lestrade helped him carry Sherlock up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson started panicked, demanding to know what had happened. Lestrade placated her while John dragged Sherlock to his bedroom.

He swung open the door, grumbling absently about how Sherlock should lighten up on the food. He yanked back the covers, and laid Sherlock down, not bothering to even take off his shoes. He made sure his head was comfortably on the pillows, and tucked Sherlock in, pulling the blankets up to his neck. Sherlock started mumbling again, but it wasn't agitated or scared this time. It was just random mumbling. As John adjusted the blankets, a familiar hand wrapped around his wrist. In his sleep, Sherlock had grabbed him.

John blushed violently. He carefully removed his hand, and finished tucking Sherlock in. He exited the room, cheeks burning.

Sherlock would never, ever, need to know.