Everything was clear.
The tapestry of the crimes he'd solved, the cases he'd won, the sheer victories of intellect spun wildly through his mind.
He'd forgotten how good it felt to be high. He'd promised Mycroft that the run-in with the needle which left him comatose seven years ago would be his last. To be fair, he'd kept to that. This was an accident. This was John's accident.
John was giggling. Sherlock joined in. John was spinning, pirouetting through the living room and fell down, which only made them both laugh harder.
They should probably go to hospital or something. Sherlock had first noticed that something was off about five minutes after finishing his tea.
"John, I don't think that was sugar."
The reaction he'd gotten was a laughing fit. Yes. They were both very, very high.
One thing Sherlock learned about his flatmate was that John had a secret ballerina gymnast inside of him. He gave him full marks for his leap from one chair to the other.
Sherlock, for his part, couldn't stop talking. To anyone else, he would make no sense at all.
"John! The crumbs! The crumbs that proved that my brother is a killer! They were moist with icing and saliva and the promise of broken birthday dreams! John, are you listening? From a young age my brother decided that if he couldn't have her, no one could, so I never got the filling! Particularly the custard cream! I love custard cream! He ruined my childhood that day. And then he denied it! I know he killed Patricia! I've never called the cake that before, but her name is Patricia, alright? And then he went and threw beef at me! I mean bees! Bees, John! But beef, too. I don't like beef being thrown at me. John, are you listening!"
John was dancing. And singing. "I could have danced all night! I could have danced all night! And still have begged for more! I could have spread my wings and done a thousand things I'd never dreamt before!"
This set Sherlock off. He started jumping on the sofa, flapping his coat like wings, cawing like a crow. John joined in. Eventually they fell back into their seats from exhaustion.
"Oh, I'm hungry," John grinned.
"I'll get it!" Sherlock leapt up and ran to the kitchen. John followed, laughing madly. Sherlock threw a crumpet at him and he missed.
"Hey!" John picked up the first thing he could find, a handful of flour (he for once didn't care if it wasn't actually flour) and threw it. Sherlock, in retaliation, sloshed a jar at him and John was quickly covered in sticky strawberry jam. The food fight continued, with anything and everything that may possibly have been edible ending up in the air at some point or other. Then it somehow turned into a Judo fight and John flew through the air, landing in the middle of the rug, his jumper slid up to reveal a tattoo. Of a kitten. A cute, innocent, adorable tabby kitten. Sherlock laughed.
"Kitten?"
John blushed. "It was that or a mermaid."
Sherlock's eyes widened even more, if that was possible. "No! John! You mustn't say that word!"
"What word?"
"The M-word!"
"Mermaid?"
"Don't say that!" Sherlock practically screamed. "Mermaids are a serious issue!"
John, his jumper dripping with jam and milk, was shocked. So shocked that the nervous giggles overtook him again and he fell into a fetal ball, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Sherlock, too, had curled into a ball at the mere mention of mermaids. He was shaking in terror.
There was a knock at the door and a bleary-eyed Mrs. Hudson answered.
"Are you boys alright? It's three in the morning…"
John had passed out. Sherlock was still shaking.
"They—" And then he, too, passed out.