Of Mouse and Sherlock

Notes: This isn't set anywhere particular in the timeline. It can be considered slash, although I wrote it as just very good friends.

I also gotta admit, I was inspired by rosetyler39, so a little bow to her.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock. I don't own Watson, either.

Feedback: is always welcome. English is not my mother tongue.

Enjoy!

Somehow he knew the experiment was going to be a bad idea. Actually, he literally always thinks Sherlock's experiments are bad idea. Like the time when he measured how eyeballs deteriorate in Pepsi. Or when Sherlock would spend every free minute dripping vinegar on a grown man's foot (what for, John never found out). Or when he put duct tape on a stray cat's back only to calculate how many steps will the cat take before falling over (although John has to admit that it was funny to watch the cat then; he did feel sorry for it, though).

So anyway this new experiment was definitely going to be a failure. It wouldn't be the first time John observed Sherlock try various combinations of drugs; also not the first time when Sherlock would test various combinations of drugs on John (though mostly without John's consent).

This time Sherlock wanted to try something different and it didn't help how many times John told him it was a bad idea. He wanted to test the drug on himself, but have John take notes about his behaviour, since it was going to be some sort of an experimental hallucinogen (John wouldn't dare to ask).

"What kind of effects do you think it's going to have?", he asked Sherlock worriedly. "And what am I supposed to do if you start doing something crazy, like try to hurt yourself?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, apparently surprised at John's concern. "It's been already tested on mice. They exhibited very different reactions. When they were alone, absolutely nothing happened, the mouse just sat in the corner until the drug wear off and went about its usual business".

"And when there was some mice company?", John asked, already suspicious.

"I'm not sure, the report didn't specify it. Just said there were various reactions, so the drug trails should be continued on different subjects," Sherlock shrugged. "That's why I want to test it on myself," he added as if it was absolutely normal to test experimental drugs on yourself. "Don't give me that look. I didn't give you any!"

"So if things get out of hand I'm just supposed to leave you alone?", John asked.

Sherlock gave him a cheerful look, "Congratulations, John! I guess my company starts rubbing off on you, since you developed the ability of deduction," he patted his head like he would a child, then his face got darker. "But no. No matter what happens don't leave me alone. It is an experimental drug after all. Think, John, think!"

John rolled his eyes and prepared his laptop. Then he watched Sherlock inject himself with a white, thick substance from a syringe.

For the first fifteen minutes nothing happened. John was sitting across from Sherlock, slowly typing on his keyboard as the minutes passed by. Sherlock just sat there, looking at his hands and waiting, surprisingly peaceful.

Seventeen minutes after injection Sherlock suddenly looked at John. His pupils were dilated so much that it seemed his eyes were black. His gaze was intense, dark, terrifying. Small droplets of sweat formed on his forehead and his fists clenched. John gulped, looked at his watch and slowly began typing again.

That's when it all went to hell.

Before John could blink, Sherlock lunged at him at pushed him to the ground forcefully. John's head hit the floor, but John didn't have the time to worry about it, because in that same second an avalanche of punches came down his face and torso as Sherlock viciously hit him over and over again.

Somehow John managed to push Sherlock back and stand up. His face was hurting, blood from a split eyebrow covering his right eye. He quickly wiped it with the back of his hand, carefully watching Sherlock the whole time. The young detective was breathing heavily, his knuckles blood-stained, his face glistening from sweat.

"Sherlock... Sherlock, calm down," John said very slowly, very patiently, as if he was talking to a wild, terrified creature. "Sherlock, I don't want to hurt you. I'm not particularly fond of the idea of you hurting me either. Please, try to calm down. It's me, John," he spoke softly, his arms raised in a protective gesture.

The soldier almost fainted with relief at the flash of recognition on Sherlock's face. For a second he blinked and relaxed.

But that was just a second.

A second later his eyes became dark again and his face stern and unforgiving.

"Yes, little John, little soldier," he was surprised to hear Sherlock's voice. He almost relaxed at the sound of this deep, comforting baritone he loved to listen to every day, but this was different. This wasn't Sherlock's usual tone, full of various emotions (from passion to hate, from elation to frustration, from impatience to serenity). John didn't recognize this tone, but he was sure he never wanted to hear it again.

"Yes, Sherlock, it's me," he tried, although he knew it would be in vain. This wasn't Sherlock. This was some weird man under the influence of an apparently very dangerous drug.

Sherlock smirked in a very dangerous way. "Yes, it's little John. The one who doesn't think for himself. Who couldn't handle living on his own after he came back from war," he said slowly, waiting for the words to sink in. "The one who can't make the simplest deduction. The one who failed in the army and now fails in comparison to the great Sherlock Holmes".

John took a deep, shaky breath. He tried telling himself it wasn't Sherlock who was talking, it was the drug, but he couldn't. Maybe it was Sherlock talking. Maybe that's what he really thought about him.

"A soldier, who came back home with a walking stick. A cripple, a parasite on the society, unable to fend for himself," Sherlock continued, hitting this time too close to home.

Without thinking, John swung his arm and delivered a solid blow to Sherlock's chin. A brilliant detective just looked at him smugly, a bruise already forming on his cheek. He was waiting for it. He lunged for the smaller man again, hitting him in the face one more time. After a couple of solid punches he stood up and, hovering over John, kicked him in the stomach.

Kick after kick after kick. He was delivering his blows furiously, with rage and hate, muttering curses under his breath. John curled in a small ball and covered his head with his arms. He cried out when he felt one of his ribs crack. He tried screaming at him, tried begging, but nothing worked. Sherlock was in a drug-induced fury and he was after all a big and strong man (John had no idea how, since he barely saw Sherlock eat, sleep or exercise).

John saw dark circles before his eyes. If this carried on, Sherlock would eventually kill him, so in the last attempt to save himself, he waited for the right moment, kicked Sherlock in the stomach and then crawled out of the room on all fours, closing the door behind him. Sherlock said that mice left alone under the influence of the drug didn't do anything, so John could only hope that same rule would work for Sherlock.

Luckily, it did, but John wasn't around to experience it. As soon as the door closed behind him, he passed out on the floor.

When Sherlock came to it the first thing he felt was the blinding headache. He brought his hands up to his temples and then he felt a second thing. His hands were swollen, covered in cuts, bruises and blood. He couldn't move his right hand and assumed it had to be broken.

How on earth did he break his hand?!

"John, what happened to my hand?", he asked John, only to realize after a moment that John wasn't there. "John, are you here?"

He precisely remembered instructing John not to leave him while he was under the influence of the drug, so John had to be there somewhere. Cradling his right arm close to his chest, he looked around the apartment, noting a broken lamp on the floor and a chair that got knocked down. On the floor, close to the chair, there were red droplets that Sherlock didn't remember.

"John!", Sherlock called this time, slightly panicking. His ability of deduction told him the connection between his broken hand and blood on the floor, but he wasn't going to accept it just yet. He had to find John first.

Deciding maybe John was in the hallway, he slowly opened the door, only to find it blocked by something. He opened it as far as he could and slipped through the gap.

Then his voice got caught in his throat. There, on the floor, laid John in a bloody heap, his arms around his head, his knees close to his chest. He was unconscious.

Sherlock dropped to his knees next to him and carefully touched his shoulders with his left hand (which was also bloodied and bruised, but in a better shape than his right one). "John?", he asked softly. "John, wake up. What happened?"

John of course didn't respond. Sherlock didn't really expect him to. So he did the only thing that he could do.

"Mrs Hudson!"

John woke up in a hospital. He hated hospitals. Pretty ironic for a doctor, but he hated them. He hated being on the receiving end of the health care system.

Slowly opening his eyes, he took in his surroundings. He was in a nice, white room and there weren't any machines attached to his body, so that was a good sign. He felt sore, but the pain was dull, as expected.

There was, however, something he didn't expect. There on the chair next to his bed sat the world's only consulting detective, his arm in a cast and a sling and his eyes closed.

"Sherlock?", John found himself saying before he could even think what he wanted to tell the other man. Sherlock immediately opened his eyes and was by John's side in a nanosecond.

"John! Are you alright? How are you feeling?", he asked hastily, looking John over.

"I feel... fine," John answered. "Obviously they have me on some pretty strong painkillers," he added, remembering how he felt before he lost consciousness. Then he remembered why he lost it in the first place and looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. "Are you... alright? Are the drugs flushed out of your system?", he looked at the cast, "And what's wrong with your arm?"

Sherlock nodded sheepishly, then said very quietly, "I'm afraid I broke my hand on your face."

"You didn't hurt yourself in any other way though, right?"

"You shouldn't worry about me, it's not logical!", Sherlock raised his voice, evidently troubled. "I hurt you. You have three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a cracked pelvis and a broken nose. Not to mention dozens of bruises, which I caused. I apologize, John. You were right. We shouldn't have done that experiment."

"Not to mention you called me a stupid cripple and a useless parasite on the society," John added softly, trying not to sound hurt. He knew it wasn't Sherlock's fault. It was the drug that wanted to make John aggravated. But it still hurt.

Sherlock didn't say anything at first. He just looked at John with such a sorrowful expression that something inside John almost broke. He grabbed John's hand and held it delicately, afraid the other man might take it away. After a long while, he whispered, "You know I didn't mean a word of it."

John nodded, unable to say anything due to the catch in his throat.

For a moment there they looked at each other and John was finally able to say, "No more experiments, Sherlock. Leave them to the people with mice."

"But John-"

"No."

The End.