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“Tiiiiny bubbles!”
John sighed. Sherlock's expression shifted from slightly annoyed to really annoyed. “Can't you give him something to knock him out?” he asked John.
John shook his head. “Not yet. Until Storch decides to talk and we know what he put in the food, giving him something else could do serious damage to his heart or liver.”
“Okay, okay,” Sherlock grumbled as random snatches of “Tiny Bubbles” drifted down the hall. “It would have been better had he been on time. He would have been knocked out, just as Anderson was. I rather liked that part.”
“Sherlock!”
“What? Anderson's going to live.”
John rubbed a hand across his eyes. PC Storch, disgruntled for reasons known only to him—well, and Sherlock, who had tried to interest anyone at the scene who would listen, except everyone was rather busy trying to save the lives of the major crimes division—had poisoned several batches of hors d'oeuvres bound for Detective Brody's retirement party. “It's lucky Lestrade was late then,” John said.
“Not for us.”
“Tiiiiiiny bubbles!”
“Shut up!” Sherlock shouted.
“Well, it's lucky we were in the building at the time,” John said. They'd been on their way up to Lestrade's office when they were told he was at the party—and specifically, that Sherlock was not to interrupt. John had turned to go but Sherlock had grabbed John's coat and spun him back the other way, insisting they would only be a second.
“Lucky you recognized they were poisoned and not merely drunk.”
“As I recall, you first asked me if it was some party game. Because yes, people stagger around clutching at their throats for fun. In what universe does that happen?”
Sherlock reminded him, “They weren't doing that when we arrived. They were laughing like hyenas and dancing about.”
Apparently, in small quantities, whatever substance the officers had ingested had psychotropic properties, similar to Ecstasy. Due to his tardy arrival, Lestrade had only had a few bites from a pastry puff when Sherlock had interrupted. Watching his colleagues' bizarre behaviour, Lestrade had first wondered if someone had gotten at the punch bowl with something stronger than fruit juice. But as soon as he began feeling strangely—and he hadn't yet gotten around to the punch bowl—he directed John to call for an ambulance. Just as emergency services arrived, the other party attendees began choking and coughing.
Everyone else was taken to hospital. John volunteered to watch over his friend until the drugs were out of Lestrade's system. He wasn't having any life threatening symptoms, so really, there was nothing to be done for him besides wait. He'd be much more comfortable at 221B than in A & E anyway. Sherlock was less than thrilled with the arrangement. Unfortunately for him, he had been out of earshot when John had made the deal.
Deal or no, Sherlock had absolutely drawn the line at Lestrade waltzing—literally, dancing the waltz—across the flat. He'd shut the inspector in the bathroom for the time being.
John rose from his armchair. “Well, I'd better check to make sure he isn't drowning himself.”
“Tiiiiiny bubbles!”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock said. “If he'd drowned himself, he wouldn't be singing that stupid song.” Idly, he wondered if that was a real song or Lestrade was making things up.
Five seconds later, John yelled for Sherlock. Lestrade hadn't drowned himself, obviously. If he had, John wouldn't sound quite so...cross.
John was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, hands on his hips, looking completely furious. The bathtub was filled with bubbles. In fact, they'd spilled over the bathtub, across the floor, and were slowly but surely filling up the bathroom. Lestrade was standing in the middle of the room, fully clothed and sopping wet. A cluster of bubbles rested in his palm, and he blew them toward John and Sherlock.
“Oh, hello Sherlock," Lestrade said. “I was in the bath, but really, this is much more fun. Tiiiiny bubbles!”
“At least he had the presence of mind to turn off the tap,” Sherlock said mildly.
John pushed past Sherlock and stalked back toward the sitting room. He grabbed his coat from the back of a kitchen chair. “I'm going.”
“Where?”
“To the station. I'm going to sit there until Storch gives it up. If he doesn't, I am going to beat it out of him!”
The door made a very satisfying slam.