FILL: Dosage 1c/2 (WARNING: NON CON)
anonymous
August 11 2011, 16:20:09 UTC
It takes a fair amount of kicking before John is able to look over Sherlock's shoulder to see what the fuck Lestrade is up to, and it fills John with anger when he finds that he's up to absolutely nothing, not even staring at the map, just hunched over, one hand braced on the arm rest and John just shouts his name, once, twice, but the third time it just dies in his throat.
Partially because Sherlock took that moment to yank his jumper upwards, off him, before returning with both hands to rip open the button-down underneath, and partially because John realizes then, Lestrade is flushed, Lestrade is unresponsive, Lestrade's been dosed?
The milk? Can't be, John is so far unaffected, and the only thing the two of them had for the past hour is-
John's attack on Sherlock returns with new vigor as his mind whirls. Taking advantage of his distraction, Sherlock's curled into him, pressing his face to John's neck as he runs palms and sharp fingers nails up and down his torso, hands trembling like he's not quite sure what to do with himself, but steadying when they settle on his belt as his teeth bite down on John's neck.
With a violent twist, John slides to the ground, letting his body weight pry him out of Sherlock's hands before landing a punch in the vicinity of his solar plexus. Reports state that the drugs symptoms take over ten to fifteen minutes after ingestion, Sherlock finished his coffee around fifteen minutes ago, makes sense, but Lestrade just finished his, there might still be time...
"Lestrade!" John shouts again, "We need to call Gregson." He says as he shoves his way past Sherlock. "We need to get you and Sherlock to a hospital."
It's an awkward sprint to the coffee table, to John's mobile, sitting calm and peaceful as if the lives of two great men aren't very much in jeopardy. Lestrade seems unmoved, hunching forward more, but even as he approached John can see how flushed he is. Really, it's a great mercy that Lestrade has yet to be affected, and John doesn't waste any time, just focuses on his mobile; he goes through his contact list with steady hands.
It's when he's selected Gregson, he's clicked on it, and phone to his ear, he starts to run- to put any sort of distance between them- but he never makes it past the first step.
A hand grabs his collar, and John's shirt is open, he could have slipped out, he could have, but that would require letting go of the phone, which would mean no help, no medical attention, would mean high blood pressure and heart attacks and death, almost certainly death, and so he holds on.
He holds the phone, still ringing, to his ear, as the hand- on God, Lestrade's hand- pulls his backwards, makes him stumble, pulls him to lie flat on his back over the coffee table. Lestrade is on him immediately, one hand pushing his chest down while the other impatiently tugs on his belt. John kicks and pushes, shoving Lestrade at his shoulders with both hands, left one still awkwardly clutching the phone; John can hear it ringing, just faintly, when it halts mid-tone and a tinny voice murmurs a greeting.
John speeds the phone to his ear just as Lestrade swings an irritated punch. Their hands collide.
The phone goes flying.
With wide eyes, John tracks the arc it makes, twisting onto his front and throwing himself forward in hopes of catching it.
He doesn't. He doesn't even leave the coffee table; Lestrade shoves him back onto it hard, knocking the wind out of him. Four feet away, the voice from John's mobile makes another inquiry.
Partially because Sherlock took that moment to yank his jumper upwards, off him, before returning with both hands to rip open the button-down underneath, and partially because John realizes then, Lestrade is flushed, Lestrade is unresponsive, Lestrade's been dosed?
The milk? Can't be, John is so far unaffected, and the only thing the two of them had for the past hour is-
John's attack on Sherlock returns with new vigor as his mind whirls. Taking advantage of his distraction, Sherlock's curled into him, pressing his face to John's neck as he runs palms and sharp fingers nails up and down his torso, hands trembling like he's not quite sure what to do with himself, but steadying when they settle on his belt as his teeth bite down on John's neck.
With a violent twist, John slides to the ground, letting his body weight pry him out of Sherlock's hands before landing a punch in the vicinity of his solar plexus. Reports state that the drugs symptoms take over ten to fifteen minutes after ingestion, Sherlock finished his coffee around fifteen minutes ago, makes sense, but Lestrade just finished his, there might still be time...
"Lestrade!" John shouts again, "We need to call Gregson." He says as he shoves his way past Sherlock.
"We need to get you and Sherlock to a hospital."
It's an awkward sprint to the coffee table, to John's mobile, sitting calm and peaceful as if the lives of two great men aren't very much in jeopardy. Lestrade seems unmoved, hunching forward more, but even as he approached John can see how flushed he is. Really, it's a great mercy that Lestrade has yet to be affected, and John doesn't waste any time, just focuses on his mobile; he goes through his contact list with steady hands.
It's when he's selected Gregson, he's clicked on it, and phone to his ear, he starts to run- to put any sort of distance between them- but he never makes it past the first step.
A hand grabs his collar, and John's shirt is open, he could have slipped out, he could have, but that would require letting go of the phone, which would mean no help, no medical attention, would mean high blood pressure and heart attacks and death, almost certainly death, and so he holds on.
He holds the phone, still ringing, to his ear, as the hand- on God, Lestrade's hand- pulls his backwards, makes him stumble, pulls him to lie flat on his back over the coffee table. Lestrade is on him immediately, one hand pushing his chest down while the other impatiently tugs on his belt. John kicks and pushes, shoving Lestrade at his shoulders with both hands, left one still awkwardly clutching the phone; John can hear it ringing, just faintly, when it halts mid-tone and a tinny voice murmurs a greeting.
John speeds the phone to his ear just as Lestrade swings an irritated punch. Their hands collide.
The phone goes flying.
With wide eyes, John tracks the arc it makes, twisting onto his front and throwing himself forward in hopes of catching it.
He doesn't. He doesn't even leave the coffee table; Lestrade shoves him back onto it hard, knocking the wind out of him. Four feet away, the voice from John's mobile makes another inquiry.
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