Sherlock lies bonelessly across the leather armchair, head tipped back and eyes closed. He has approximately fifteen minutes before the full effect of the drug crashes down on him, rendering his cognitive processes as useless as it has already rendered his body, but in this brief heightened state his mind is reeling with information.Empty jacket pockets. Flecks of dried wood varnish on left pant leg. Old bruise under chin. Dirt ground into left palm. He mentally catalogues evidence, trying to fill the holes in his knowledge. He loathes to admit it, but this case has him grasping for a lead; his current state of self-induced stupor is a desperate last resort.
Pollen smeared on shoes.He clenches his eyes tighter, considering this fact for a moment, then files it as Most Likely Unimportant; his mind whirs, searching for something to replace it with. His body is becoming more and more sensitive, a side effect of the stimulants, and the leather grates at his skin distractingly. He shoves the discomfort down. Contact in one eye. She was murdered before she could remove the other lens, presumably upon returning from work.
A rustle from across the room calls Sherlock's attention. He stiffens imperceptibly, his breath hitching. He hadn't heard anyone come in. John should be at work for at least another hour, and Mrs. Hudson left for her biweekly social outing earlier in the afternoon. It isn't Mycroft's style to come in without knocking. Feet pad across the carpet, moving toward Sherlock. He doesn't stir. He knows he is too weak to defend himself, but if his assailant believes him to be asleep, he will have the advantage of surprise. A presence looms over him, fingers digging into the arms of his chair.
"Sherlock."
The detective breathes a sigh of relief. He peers through his eyelashes, John's image swimming above him. His gaze is met by one of severe disapproval. John's touch, however, is in sharp contrast to his expression, unwaveringly gentle as he brushes a dark curl from his flat mate's face. The drag of his fingers makes Sherlock shiver.
"Sarah let me off work early," he murmurs.
He leans closer to the detective, and Sherlock watches thoughts flashing through the doctor's eyes as he takes careful note of Sherlock's condition, concern turning to annoyance once it's obvious that he hasn't put himself in any real danger. John turns away, his sights set on the kitchen.
"John."
It's no more than a trembling whisper, but it's enough to stop John in his tracks. He squares his shoulders, clearly struggling with his better judgement, but a moment later his frame slumps in defeat. Sherlock observes this inner conflict with bleary satisfaction. The drug is beginning to overwhelm his brain, but he can still celebrate a silent victory as John slides two arms around his waist and lifts him from the chair. He clings tightly, tucking his unruly mop of curls into the crook of John's neck and pressing a tiny kiss there as he is carried across the sitting room and through the flat. Sherlock is taller, but John has the advantage of bulk, and he sets his flat mate on the bed with only minimal panting and wheezing.
He pulls away again, but Sherlock fists a hand in his jumper, tugging him down. He sinks onto the mattress with an exasperated sigh. Sherlock can tell that the next breath he draws precedes a torrent.
"I can't leave you alone for bloody a second," John begins. "How did you live before I moved in? No, don't answer that. What do you think would happen if you took too much while Mrs. Hudson and I were out? People die of overdose all the bloody time, Sherlock. I work in a clinic, I should know."
He's winding himself up, getting ready to start shouting, and alarm flares somewhere in Sherlock's comfortably muddled thoughts. He blinks a few times and slides a shaky hand into John's hair.
"Maybe you think the world's only consulting detective is invincible-"
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
John freezes. His mouth opens, then closes; silence stretches between them, and John's face is plastered with disbelief.
"What?" he finally manages to ask.
"I said I'm sorry," Sherlock repeats, his fingers slipping down the column of John's neck and falling back to the bed. He turns his face into the duvet, wishing John was closer.
John seems to read his mind, shifting his weight to peer into the detective's face. "Are you really, though?" he asks, sounding uncertain.
"Yes."
John squints at him, obviously thinking there must be something more to this unexpected confession.
Sherlock obliges him. "I did solve the case."
He snorts quietly. "Is that what you've been thinking about all this time?"
"No." He reaches up again, questing for the doctor's face. It's new to him, this burning desire for another's approval, but it does not surprise him that it should be John who makes him feel this way. John is different from everyone else. He's warm, and he smells of detergent, and he wears jumpers that would be rubbish on anyone but him, and most of all he thinks that Sherlock is brilliant. No one has ever called Sherlock brilliant before.
Cool air glides over Sherlock's skin, sending shivers down his spine as John moves alongside him, pausing an imperceptible measure from his face. Sherlock raises his head expectantly.
"Promise you'll never do it again."
Sherlock frowns. He intends to kiss John, and this does not fit into his plan. He presses up hopefully, to be met by empty air.
"Promise."
"John," he whines, twisting, only to have his arms pinned.
"Promise." A finger slips under the hem of his shirt, and then there are flames licking at his skin, blazing through his veins like wildfire, and John is drawing a fiery line along his torso. He whimpers in sudden desperation and fleetingly wonders if normal people react to drugs this way.
"I promise," Sherlock gasps.
John's lips descend, sending bolts of electricity pulsing through his pale skin, and there is thunder rolling along his body as John presses closer. No, he decides. Only John could make someone feel like this, drugs or no drugs. He wraps his arms helplessly around the doctor's waist, aching to draw closer; his back arches involuntarily as John strokes a searing trail across his stomach, lingering over the dusting of fuzz on his navel. As the doctor kisses a glowing line of embers down his throat, resolutely gentle, Sherlock muses that sociopaths probably can't fall in love.
Most sociopaths, he rationalizes, have not met John Watson.