Sherlock cursed his stupidity the moment the needle entered his arm. Of course he couldn't trust her. Of course she'd have taken the first opportunity to get her phone back from him. He should have been able to recognize it as soon as she sent John out of the room. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Whatever it was, it was fast acting, because his muscles gave up and she slapped him and he was on the floor within seconds. She kept demanding her phone, and he didn't want to give it to her, but he was slipping slipping and then there was the whip, and he was doing alright until then, but she slapped him and he slipped, his balance already precarious, falling onto his back and his precious phone slipped out of his hand.

Damn.

And it was all he could do to lay there and breathe, gasping at her as she stroked his face with the whip, telling him not to get up, and it was only then that he realized he was trying to, just a bit, the fight or flight response kicking in without his brain getting a say.

And she was murmuring at him, but it was a little hard to hear over the sound of rapidly approaching unconsciousness, but there was one thing he heard clearly.

"This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you."

Then there was John and she was no longer there, but John looked for her, all concerned as per usual. But Sherlock was spiralling down the rabbit hole and there was nothing else except for a final thought in response to Irene's assurance to John.

"He'll be fine. I've used it on loads of my friends."

But not me... his mind whispered.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

And he could, but he couldn't respond, because he was spiralling, spiralling, spiralling...

Gone.

John cursed his stupidity the moment he came back into the room to see Sherlock lying on the floor and Irene standing over him, stroking his face with a leather whip.

"Jesus. What are you doing?"

"He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse." What the?...

"What's this? What have you given him?" he asked, picking up an empty needle off the floor. "Sherlock?" But Sherlock wasn't responding, was a little busy trying to keep his head off the floor, watching her as she left, still wearing his bloody coat and nothing else.

"He'll be fine. I've used it on loads of my friends."

Yes, but none of them are Sherlock, a man with a history of substance abuse and currently on a cocktail of medicine, and of which could interact with this one in such a way it could kill him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?"

And then he cursed his stupidity for biting when she asked if he knew. And then as she swooped out of the window like something out of an old spy movie, he went to peer out, leaving Sherlock on the floor alone, arching his back and gasping like some dying sea creature. The sirens stopped though, meaning Sherlock was indeed correct about shooting into the air, which was effective, while being extremely unsafe. John really could have cared less at the point as Sherlock stopped moving altogether, collapsing onto the floor after one final arch. Just before his eyes slid shut, they were vacant of anything, which perhaps was what scared John the most.

Lestrade and his crew burst in a few minutes later to find John curling Sherlock's body into the recovery position, heeding Irene's advice about ensuring he didn't choke on his own vomit, in case he was to throw up.

"What the hell happened?" he gaped.

John sighed. "Sherlock's been drugged. A man has been shot. The other ones have been otherwise incapacitated, and there is an escaped woman wearing nothing but Sherlock's coat."

"She's naked?" Lestrade protested.

John huffed at him. "That's what you got from that?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Is he okay?" he asked, gesturing to Sherlock.

"I think he should be fine. She said that he'll sleep it off, so I mostly just want to get him home."

John tucked Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and heaved him up, Lestrade standing beside in case he needed help. Sherlock groaned and mumbled something they couldn't make out.

John exchanged a look with Lestrade. "The drugs," he sighed. Lestrade nodded in agreement.

He shifted Sherlock, who sighed.

"Take your clothes off..." he muttered.

Lestrade snickered behind him, holding his phone out, filming the event.

John glared at him. "Really?"

He shrugged.

John huffed at him, and heaved Sherlock up over his shoulder for a better grip. The consulting detective was too ridiculously tall and John was having a hard time staying upright.

"A little help?" he suggested, almost stumbling into a wall, Sherlock first.

"Right, of course," Lestrade apologized. He handed the camera to Sally, who grinned as Lestrade helped John shift the man so he was holding his legs and John was supporting his upper body. Sally continued pointing the camera at him as they shuffled awkwardly towards the front door and managed to shove him into Lestrade's car.

Again with Lestrade's help, he managed to get Sherlock upstairs into their flat and into his bed.

"Thanks," he said finally, surveying the sleeping man, on his side, just to be safe. "What are you going to do with the video?"

"Nothing yet. Maybe never. I'll just keep it in case."

John nodded and walked Lestrade out.

"I expect the hear this story another time," he warned.

John smiled. "Of course."

And with that he returned to Sherlock's room, where the man still lay, to examine him.

His breathing was shallow and barely there, like the man kept forgetting to in his sleep, like he was overly preoccupied with his dreams.

But it wasn't just that.

"Oh god," John said suddenly, staring at his patient. "Oh god."

Drug interactions. Irene couldn't have possibly known that Sherlock was taking multiple other medications, and there was no telling how they would react with whatever it was he'd been given.

"Right... right..." John said, pacing around the room and he dragged his hands through his hair. "Most likely candidates would be... barbiturates or benzodiazepines. Given that barbiturates are not used as often anymore, it's probably a benzodiazepine. But which one?" he pleaded to Sherlock, who still only lay there. John shook his head. "Right. That doesn't matter that much. They all pretty much act the same. And when overdosed..." he trailed over, frowning at Sherlock, still completely unaware. "The dosage..." he mused. "She couldn't have known that you had a high tolerance, could she? I mean, it was in her room, so was it prepared for one of her... clients, or did she prepare it for you?" John shook his head. "I wish I knew the dose. And the drug," he added. "Either would help." He sighed again.

He wracked his brain for possible interactions, or side effects that could be worsened by the bonus drugs. Respiratory depression, that much was clear. Sherlock was breathing much too slowly for John's liking. He went through the motions of checking his vitals, heart rate normal, temperature normal, respiratory rate low, and blood pressure low. Lower than usual anyway, as Sherlock usually had a low BP. "Typical," he scolded Sherlock. But he was worryingly pale and John fretted about his breathing and the other central nervous system depressant effects. "What am I supposed to do with you?" he scolded Sherlock. "If we go to the hospital, they'll ask all sorts of questions, and you just may kill me for doing that. But I'm not going to sit through this all night."

He needed to reverse the effects. Of course!

"Naloxone," he muttered. "I think I have some. Don't... do anything," he ordered Sherlock, who was still breathing. Occasionally. Not nearly enough for John's liking.

But the drug wouldn't be in with his other things that composed his basic medical kit, but probably buried somewhere in the back of his closet. And of course it was in the last place he looked (because he wouldn't have kept looking if he'd found it, obviously, a voice very much like Sherlock's informed him). But he ignored the voice and grabbed the vial and syringe, racing back down the stairs, hoping that Sherlock was still breathing, which, thank goodness, he was.

He calculated a rough dosage in his head and drew it up, jabbing it into his leg through his pants. No time for bothering to pull them down, and besides, Sherlock would kill him if he figured out what he did. And he would. He always did.

And he waited, anxiously, as Sherlock's breathing improved and his blood pressure increased incrementally, back to the normal range. Or what passed as normal for Sherlock.

Finally, Sherlock just slept.

John had never been more relieved for the sight in his life.

And even if Sherlock had no recollection of anything that had gone on while he was drugged, well, it was probably for the best anyway.

"How did I get here?" John smiled a little and tried not to laugh as Sherlock stumbled around the room and finally toppled onto the floor, looking very much like he was drunk. John settled him back in the bed and told him to sleep it off.

"You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep," John ordered him.

"Of course I'll be fine," Sherlock huffed into the pillow. "I am fine. I'm absolutely fine."

Right.