He walked over to the young man and picked up the box. Upon opening it, his worst fears were confirmed.
"What's this?"
"You know what it is," Sherlock's voice was shaky.
"Morphine, Sherlock. A dose like that will knock even you out!"
"Don't underestimate my resilience."
"Where did you get this?"
"Present from Mycroft."
"Why?"
"He thought I might need it."
"But you didn't."
Sherlock did not respond to this.
"What's wrong, Sherlock?"
"Nothing," a quiet voice replied.
"Nothing," the doctor echoed.
"No," the detective grumbled.
"There's something wrong with you, I can tell."
"There's NOTHING wrong with ME!" Nerves.
"Okay. Fine. If you say so. I'll just pretend you're not here then."
"Hmm," the moan was barely audible.
John had said nothing else.
He had picked up his book again but found himself unable to concentrate.
Surely, something was wrong with the detective.