It had been a week since Lestrade had gotten a case that he could take to Sherlock and wouldn't be laughed out of the flat at. It still wasn't quite up to Sherlock's standards, but Lestrade knew that Sherlock needed to get out of his flat, even if it was just for an hour or so.
He didn't bother knocking, knowing that even if Sherlock was awake, or not thinking, he wasn't likely to come to the door anyway. Lestrade had a key for a reason, but it wasn't needed today. The clot had left his door unlocked, which really wasn't safe, a fact which Lestrade had urged Sherlock to consider before, with him only shrugging in response. He said he had nothing to steal, which was true, but still made Lestrade uneasy.
"Sherlock," he called, letting himself in to the tiny flat. There was no sign of Sherlock in the room that passed as a living room and kitchen, although he could have been buried in one of the stacks of papers that were precariously placed around the room. The kitchen was mostly taken up by the pieces of glassware and plastic containers that Sherlock called a chemistry set. Lestrade recalled a rant during which Sherlock went on about how Mycroft had taken away his good chemistry set until he could 'behave'. Sherlock had even said it like that, making quotations in the air with his fingers as he rolled his eyes. Lestrade smiled and headed towards the bedroom.
Sherlock was sprawled on top of the covers of his unmade bed. Lestrade was surprised that Sherlock had slept in it recently enough that it appeared unmade.
"Sherlock," he called, not wanting to wake the detective up if he was indeed sleeping.
The consulting detective cracked his eyes open at the mention of his name, but didn't say anything, and almost seemed stunned.
Lestrade looked closer and noticed that Sherlock's eyes were huge and his face was flushed. He placed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead, like a mother would do with a sick child. He was burning up. Lestrade didn't know if it was because Sherlock was sick with a fever, or from the drugs, or something else entirely.
"You're high," he said accusingly.
Sherlock grinned stupidly at him and wagged his fingers.
"La'erz..." he mumbled, and shortly after that, he stiffened.
"Dammit!" Lestrade swore, attempting to turn Sherlock on his side, knowing that the risk of him throwing up was increased.
He didn't know what sort of effects cocaine could have on epilepsy, or the reverse. Did seizures happen sometimes with a cocaine overdose?
Lestrade had no clue, and made up his mind that if the seizure went past the four minute mark, which no seizure that he'd witnessed Sherlock have had done before, then he would call an ambulance.
He struggled to remove Sherlock's shirt as he kept pulling his limbs away. He finally tore it off, perhaps yanking a couple buttons off, but not really caring.
He was torn between running to the kitchen and grabbing a cold cloth for Sherlock and making sure he stayed on his side.
Lestrade glanced at the timer on his phone. Three minutes, thirty seconds.
Sherlock didn't stop in the next thirty seconds.
Lestrade called for an ambulance.
At the six minute mark, Sherlock finally stilled.
Lestrade took that opportunity to dash to the sink in the kitchen, douse a dishcloth, and fill up a cup with cold water. He didn't bother to look for ice in the freezer, knowing he was more likely to find body part, and he sure as hell wasn't using those to cool him down.
He dripped water all over his chest and placed the washcloth on his forehead, scanning the room for something else he could use. Socks.
Lestrade grabbed them and dipped them in the cup, draping them around Sherlock's neck.
He became vaguely aware of sirens like one would of an alarm clock waking them up in the morning, so distracted by what he was doing that it almost didn't register.
It was hard to ignore when paramedics started beating on the door.
Lestrade bellowed at them to come in, and two paramedics appeared, one older than the other, carrying bags of equipment and pulling a stretcher along.
"What's going on?" the younger man asked.
"He's epileptic," Lestrade blurted, not caring what Sherlock would think. If he would ever think anything again, Lestrade would be damn well pleased. "He'd been seizing for about six minutes, which was when I called for the ambulance, but he's stopped now. I also think he's overdosed on cocaine, which could be related, but I don't know. He probably hasn't been taking his meds, so..."
The younger man stared at him for a second before nodding and setting to work.
"Diazepam?" he asked his companion, who froze for a second before resuming inserting a cannula into Sherlock's arm.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "For overdoses yes, but not for the status. Go with lorazepam."
The younger man nodded, drawing up a syringe and injecting it into the line the other man had taped firmly to Sherlock's arm.
Sticky pads were placed on Sherlock's chest and a cuff was placed around the arm that didn't have the IV. The sticky pads were connected to wires which led to a machine with a digital readout, marking Sherlock's heartbeat, and when a probe was placed on his finger, the amount of oxygen in his blood.
The older man looked at the screen and back to the blood pressure cuff.
"His blood pressure is through the roof. Give him adenosine, 6mg push."
The younger man obeyed, and an oxygen mask was placed on Sherlock's face.
"The fever is worrying," he told Lestrade, "but you did good with the water to cool him down."
Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief as they loaded Sherlock onto a gurney and carried him down the flight of stairs to the waiting ambulance.
The younger man looked at him for a second, about to ask if he was family, when Lestrade flipped his badge out.
"I'll be coming too," he informed them, leaving no room for argument.
He nodded, and Lestrade clambered in after Sherlock was in place.