Alone on Baker Street

Chapter 8

Sherlock's mind was swimming. The cookies were...poisoned? Pain. So much pain. John. Moaning. Who was moaning? Was he moaning? Bright lights. Movement. More pain.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, and he gasped in pain. His head was throbbing, and he was fairly certain he'd broken a few ribs. Expecting to have been kidnapped by some psychopath, he was surprised when he found himself lying in the same position he fell in.

"John," Sherlock rasped, gently shaking the shoulders of his blogger. John was still out cold.

Sherlock stood up, feeling like he had a huge hangover, and lifted John up, bridal style. He walked over and placed him on the couch. John stirred, but remained unconscious.

Sherlock then stumbled out of the flat and knocked--beat--on Mrs. Hudson's door. "What?? What is it, Sherlock?!"

"When did you come over with those coo...kies?" Sherlock asked, still drowsy.

"About an hour ago. Why?"

"They were poisoned. Some kind of drug. Not...sure what."

Mrs. Hudson looked worried. "But they were from your mother!"

"My mother isn't...a sociopath...like I am. She wouldn't poison...cookies...for the fun of it. Obviously these...were sent by someone who is out to get me."

"Sherlock, you need to lay down."

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine. John is on the couch anyway. I'm sure I'll be fine as soon as the effects wear...off." Sherlock stumbled back to his flat before Mrs. Hudson could argue.

He knew there was only one way to figure out the poison in the cookies. He had to take a blood test.

He walked over with a small syringe and injected John's finger, and with a different syringe, injected his own. He brought them over to his workstation in the kitchen, and began his work.

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When John finally opened his eyes, he was extremely confused. He sat up, and almost cried out, due to the blinding headache affecting him. He realized he was on the couch, but panicked when he didn't see Sherlock beside him. "Sherlock?" he called out.

"Lysergic acid diethyl amide!" Sherlock yelled from the kitchen. He seemed excited, like he hadn't been drugged by cookies just an hour earlier.

"What the hell is that?" John tried standing drowsily. He tried to make his way into the kitchen, but he tripped. Sherlock had lightning fast reflexes and caught John in his arms. John blushed furiously, and Sherlock kissed him.

As soon as they pulled apart, Sherlock stood John up. "Lysergic acid diethyl amide," he said again. "You may know it as LSD. Judging by what our blood samples show, there was a small amount in each cookie. Enough to cause damage, but not to kill, unless 10 or more cookies were consumed." Sherlock looked solemn, but there was still a small twinkle in his eye.

"Why did they do that to us, Sherlock?" John asked, furrowing his brow.

"I don't know who it was, or what their intention was. It was likely just a prank pulled by a psychopath with too much time on his hands."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either, John."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, hugging him. "I don't like not knowing," he said.

"Neither do I."

John pulled away. "We should rest," he told Sherlock. "We have just been drugged."

They sat on the couch, and watched crap telly until they both fell asleep.

Sherlock woke up, scratching himself all over. "UGH. John, we have bugs."

John sat up quickly. "What do you mean?"

"Can't you feel them? Itching. Crawling under your skin." All of the sudden, Sherlock jumped up. "Oh God, look! They're everywhere, John! Get them off of me!" Sherlock was practically wailing as he tried to claw the imaginary bugs off.

John stood and took Sherlock's hands. "Sherlock. Look at me. LSD is a hallucinogenic drug, right? The bugs don't exist. I don't see them anywhere on you. It's just a hallucination, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a breath. "Of course. Those stupid cookies." He walked over to the tray that held the drugged cookies and flipped it angrily, the plate shattering.

"For God's sake, Sherlock," John said, hurrying over to clean up the shattered plate.

A small piece of paper was wedged in between two of the broken shards. "Sherlock, look at this."

Sherlock had recovered from his bout of rage, and he came and knelt beside John. "What is it?"

John unfolded the note. There, in messy handwriting, read, "When were you going to tell me you were back from the dead, you bastard? P.S. This is for drugging my tea on my birthday three years ago. -Greg Lestrade"

Sherlock stared at the note, expressionless, and then his face broke out in a smile. He started laughing, and John joined in with him. "We've got to pay him a visit tomorrow," Sherlock said in-between gasps. John nodded, tears rolling down his face.