Thanks to zxully for the prompt.
John grunted as he set his basket of clean clothes down on his bed.
"God, this is long overdue," he said to himself.
It seemed like ages since he had had a chance to put his clothes through the wash; Sherlock and work had been running him ragged.
As usual.
John turned his clock radio to the BBC news, bored when it was simply covering recent football scores. He changed the station to some classic jazz. With a contented sigh, he began unloading his laundry hamper, sorting the closet clothes from those that went in his bureau. It was pleasing to smell the fresh scent of detergent and dryer sheets.
"John!" he heard Sherlock call from downstairs.
He immediately tensed up, knowing that whatever his flatmate wanted was going to be time-consuming and rather labour intensive. And John really needed a break. Reluctantly, he put down his green jumper on the bed and stepped out into the hallway.
"What is it, Sherlock? I'm busy!" he called back down.
"Your clothes can wait, John. I need your help."
John looked back at his recently laundered clothes and sighed.
"Fine," he said, submissively.
He jogged down the stairs into the sitting room.
"What is it you need my help with?" John asked. "Homicide or theft?"
"Neither," Sherlock said as he stepped out from the kitchen. "An experiment."
John narrowed his eyes.
"I am not giving you any more of my plasma." He crossed his arms. "Unwillingly, I might add."
"I only borrowed-"
"Stole."
"Borrowed your plasma once. And that was completely necessary for my research." Sherlock cleared his throat. "More to the point, this particular experiment involves myself as the test subject."
Alarm bells started going off in John's head.
"Sherlock Holmes, whatever you're thinking of doing, don't do it."
"John, I need your help because you're not only my friend and therefore convenient, but you're also a doctor. Therefore, your opinion and regard for my safety is reliable. Not valued, necessarily, but reliable."
John tapped his foot.
"What exactly does this experiment involve?"
"A hallucinogen."
John rolled his eyes.
"Why in God's name would you want to take a hallucinogenic drug?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"Curiosity."
John bit his lip and thought for a moment.
"Okay," he said finally, sounding resigned. "But we're going to take all possible safety precautions. I don't want you getting hurt."
"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock mumbled.
"Shut up," John scolded him. "You might be an annoying prick, but I still care about you. So if you're going to insist on drugging yourself, I'm going to supervise you the whole time."
"That was the initial plan."
"Good," John nodded. "I'll measure the dosage for you. That way you won't get too drug-happy and overdose. Then I want you to lie down on the couch. I'll have my phone nearby to dial 999 in case anything goes wrong. And if you'll give me time, I'll grab my med-kit from my room."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"You're being oddly supportive."
"Yeah, well if I don't agree to do this, you're going to go through with it anyway on your own. And I can't have that."
Sherlock's lip twitched awkwardly.
"Oh. Well. Shall we get started?"
After about ten minutes, the living room had been properly prepared for testing. John had his phone set on the side table and his med-kit beside a stool in front of the couch, blankets and been set aside, and plenty of pillows were at the ready.
He sat on the stool in front of Sherlock who was on the couch.
"After you administer the drug, I want you to give it fifteen minutes to take full effect. Then, start taking notes."
John nodded and swallowed.
"I can't believe I'm condoning this," he said as he tapped the vein in Sherlock's arm. "This is wrong."
"It will be fine, John."
With a nervous breath, John carefully injected the hallucinogen. The detective seemed to groan with pleasure.
"Don't do that," John told him. "Please."
Sherlock smirked.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?"
John tightened his lips out of annoyance.
After about fifteen minutes, John noticed that Sherlock's pupils had gotten considerably larger.
"Okay, Sherlock. Here we go," he muttered to himself.
"I feel strange," Sherlock said.
John jotted down a note.
*Already lacking lucidity*
Jesus Christ, was he really doing this?
Sherlock giggled.
"Fascinating."
John couldn't help but smile to himself.
*Giggle is adorable*
"He'll love seeing this."
"That head is mocking me," Sherlock said with a frown. He was looking at the bull head on the wall.
John shook his head and took note.
"Shut up," Sherlock said. "Shut up!"
John furrowed his brow.
Damn, this drug was more effective than he thought. Even in small doses.
"Your obvious inability to protect yourself in the wild lost you your body! At the hands of humans! I believe you aren't in any position to make any sort of comment in regards to my intelligence!"
Was he arguing with the bull?
"My intelligence far exceeds that of your species!"
John took more notes.
"Ha! Afraid to engage in an argument! Exactly what I expected!"
He quieted down, taking rapid breaths. John was becoming a bit concerned. His eyes shifted to his kit, then to his cell.
No. Sherlock was fine. He was just experiencing the effects of the drug.
John sat there for about an hour, taking careful notes. Mostly, Sherlock just seemed loopy and experiencing mild hallucinations. All to be expected.
Then things began to take a turn.
Sherlock turned his head to look at John. And he began to sweat.
"You," he hissed, his breath becoming erratic.
John's eyes widened. What the hell was happening?
"Sherlock?"
"No. How can-? No! Get away from me!" Sherlock shouted.
Well, this turned out horribly.
"Sherlock, relax," John said.
How was he supposed to reason with a drug-infused sociopath?
"Leave me alone!"
John saw his friend winding up his arm, and he immediately threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding the punch.
"Christ, Sherlock!" he cried out.
This was a bit not good.
John jumped to his feet.
"It's me, Sherlock. Calm down," he reassured him.
Sherlock lunged at him and grabbed the collar of his shirt.
"Sherlock, please relax!" John begged him.
He knew what Sherlock was capable of. And he didn't want to be the victim of it.
"You belong in the ground," Sherlock growled. "Where you can't hurt anyone."
He pinned John up against the wall.
"Sherl- ack!"
"I've got you exactly where you deserve to be; at my mercy. Jim," the detective hissed.
John felt his own breathing stop. Maybe that was due to Sherlock's impressively strong hold on his throat.
Maybe it was because of the sudden mention of Moriarty. The slimy bastard.
"Oof!" John grunted as he felt Sherlock knee him in the stomach.
Okay; that hurt.
"Sherlock, please," he wheezed.
Sherlock threw him to the ground and grabbed the stool, standing threateningly above him.
Shit.
Sherlock woke up to find himself collapsed on the kitchen floor.
God, his head was throbbing.
He sat up, rubbing his temples.
What had happened with that drug?
He looked around to find the kitchen in disarray. The table was overturned and broken plates were strewn about the place. It resembled the crime scenes Sherlock deduced.
Deduction. Right. He should use that.
Shakily, he got to his feet.
He willed his brain to think; to do something other than complain about how much pain he was in. But he couldn't seem to focus.
This experiment had been a terrible idea.
"John?" he called.
His throat felt scratchy and sounded incredibly hoarse.
Thirsty.
He stumbled over to the sink ad turned on the tap, cupping his hands to collect the cool water. He drank every drop.
After taking another handful of water and splashing it on his sweat-covered face, he turned off the water and gripped the edges of the sink, taking deep breaths as he tried to regain his bearings.
"John!" he called again.
There was no response.
"John, I am in desperate need of a panacea. Or aspirin. Either will suffice."
He turned around to face the sitting room, disturbed when he found it in an even worse state than the kitchen.
Both his and John's chairs laid on their side, the objects on the mantle of the fireplace were scattered across the floor, the lamp beside John's usual spot was shattered, and the bull head had fallen on the table, its fall having dented the cover of Sherlock's laptop.
"John?"
Sherlock was getting worried. It was obvious he had gotten out of control while under the influence. But what had happened to John?
"Sherlock?" a quiet-sounding voice responded.
It was John.
"John, where are you?" Sherlock asked.
"Depends," John said with a pained gulp. "Have you... have you calmed down?"
Sherlock turned to the bathroom door. It sounded like John was in there.
He shuffled to the door and knocked.
"I've come down, John. I'm fine," he said. "Can you come out? I think I need headache medication."
"Sherlock, I... okay. Hold... hold on."
There was an uncomfortably long pause as John unlocked the bathroom door. Sherlock opened the door to find John sitting on the floor holding the lower left side of his chest, blood slowly oozing through his fingers.
"It looks... worse than it is," John said. "I think I might have a uh... a concussion."
Sherlock hastily got down to his knees and pried John's hand away. There was no wound on his chest, but John's hand was full of broken china from one of the shattered plates. Looking at John's face, he saw a bruise that was beginning to form on the man's jaw, one of his eyes was swollen, and his upper lip was coated in dried blood from an apparent nosebleed.
"John, did... did I do this?" Sherlock asked.
A stupid question.
"It's alright. Things just... got a bit out of control."
"How...?"
"Apparently you... you thought I was him."
Sherlock paled when he realised who John meant.
"Oh."
"Yeah," John said. "Look, my... my ribs are bruised. I checked: none of... them are... you know..."
"Broken?"
"Yeah. That."
"John, I'm so, so sorry."
"Just... can you help me up?"
Sherlock nodded and lifted up his friend, sitting him down on the top of the toilet.
"Hold out your hand," Sherlock commanded him.
"Your head..."
"My head can wait. Just let me take care of you. It's the least I can do."
Sherlock grabbed the tweezers from the medicine cabinet.
"Are you... lucid enough?" John asked.
"John, please."
Sherlock gently began pulling shards of china out of the palm of John's hand, not missing the doctor's slight wince at each pull.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said every time he removed a piece.
John simply stared at the floor.
As soon as all of the shards had been cleaned out, Sherlock took a cloth from the towel rack and wet it with soap and water. Then he started cleaning John's wounds. He felt his own hands shake as he carefully scrubbed the blood away; the blood he was responsible for.
He gently rinsed away the soap and dried off John's hand. Of course, the cuts began to bleed again.
"John-"
"In the sitting room."
With an apologetic look, Sherlock walked out of the bathroom to fetch the med-kit. As he searched the room through the mess, he noticed John's cell was on the floor, dented and broken beyond recognition. He picked it up, brushing his index finger across the surface.
Jesus.
He carefully pocketed the broken phone and scanned the floor. He finally saw the kit and grabbed it, making a swift return to the bathroom.
Without a word, or even dating to look John in the eye, he opened it and got out the gauze, proceeding to wrap it around John's hand with absolute precision.
After clipping the bandages in place, he took a look at John's face. There wasn't much he could do about the bruising, other than icing it, but he assumed John would prefer to do that himself. But that blood needed cleaned off.
He gave John a pleading look.
"You know, you can... talk to me," John said.
Those ribs must have been painful.
"I- right. Do you mind if I... you know...?"
John sighed.
"Go ahead."
Sherlock nodded and took a different cloth, wetting it in the sink and then gently wiped the blood from beneath John's nose. This process didn't take nearly as long.
Sherlock set the cloth aside and reached in the kit for painkillers. He handed two tablets to John.
"Thanks," John said with a tired smile. He swallowed them both.
"I would recommend ice for your bruises," Sherlock said.
John shrugged.
"I don't want to."
"Okay."
Sherlock leaned against the wall with crossed arms, nervously drumming his fingers on his elbow.
"John, I-"
"It's fine. Can I go to bed? My bed?"
"Certainly. Would you like-"
"Please."
Silently, Sherlock aided his flatmate upstairs, resisting the urge to carry him after hearing his many pained grunts. But soon enough, he had successfully gotten John into bed, having moved the laundry basket to the floor.
He left the room without so much as a 'goodnight'. But John didn't seem like he wanted one.
John groaned as he woke up and stretched. He'd partially forgotten the full extent of the damage done to his body yesterday.
Or was it yesterday?
He looked at his bedside clock.
It was eight in the morning.
Obviously what happened hadn't happened today. But was it yesterday? Or two days ago? A week?
How long has he been out?
"Sherlock?"
"I'm here!"
John struggled to sit up, but managed to lean himself against the headboard as his flatmate came bounding into the room.
"I do apologise, John. I had intended to arrive home earlier, but-"
"What day is it?" John asked him.
"The last time I checked, it was Wednesday."
John's eyes widened.
"But... what happened to Tuesday?"
"It passed us by. As any day is wont to do."
"Sarah's going to kill me," John moaned.
"Never mind that. I informed her that you were incapacitated and therefore unable to make it into the office."
"Did you phrase it as politely as that?"
Sherlock shifted his gaze to the right.
"Perhaps."
"How did I end up sleeping that long?" John yawned.
"Morphine."
"Dare I ask: How in the hell did you manage to get morphine?"
"Irrelevant. You're awake now. And hopefully feeling better."
John nodded.
"Yeah, actually."
"Here," Sherlock said, placing a box on John's lap.
The doctor looked confusedly at the rectangular box, his gaze drawn to the large Apple logo on the front.
"Is this what I think it is?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Your phone was a bit... broken. So I bought you a new one."
"An iPhone?"
"You finally have a mobile device that works efficiently."
"What was wrong with my old phone?"
"It was slow and horribly ugly."
John frowned.
"Well... thanks. That's actually really nice of you."
He heard his stomach growl.
"God, I'm starving."
"Let's go downstairs, then," Sherlock said.
John found it a bit hard to stand after having spent a bit too long in bed, but he was able to make his own way down the stairs. With each step he took, he dreaded more and more the mess he would encounter. But when he entered the room, he found it surprisingly spotless. Everything was put back in its proper place and looked the way it had before Sherlock's drug-fuelled rage. The kitchen was in the same state.
"I would say Mrs. Hudson was responsible for this, but she's out of town," John said. "But that means that you actually cleaned up the flat."
Sherlock smiled.
"I also took care of the laundry you were so adamant needed put away. Surprised?"
John laughed a bit.
"I guess, yeah. I never thought I'd see the day."
Sherlock walked ahead of him into the kitchen and began filling up the tea kettle.
"I'm assuming you would like tea?"
John nodded.
"Oh God, yes."
He sat down at the kitchen table and inspected his hand. The bandages were nicely done.
"No concussion," Sherlock said. "Surprisingly enough."
John licked his lips, noticing just how dry they actually were.
"Yeah. I guess that's good."
Suddenly, Sherlock turned off the tap and stood still at the sink.
"Sherlock?" John questioned.
"John, I'm terribly sorry."
"Sherlock..."
"I didn't..." Sherlock sighed and turned around to face him. "I had no clue that the drug would have such an adverse effect on my... well, sanity. And my own stubbornness ended up injuring you, and I can't... there aren't words..."
John looked down at the table.
"Yeah... you went kind of crazy." He sighed. "But I won't hold that against you."
"But John-"
"I knew this was a bad idea, and I should have insisted that you not go through with it." He gave Sherlock a penetrating look. "Not that you aren't mostly to blame. Because you are. But I think you've learned your lesson, as harsh as it was."
Sherlock nodded.
"Indeed."
"And as long as I know that you won't even think about doing this sort of crap again, I'll let it go."
Sherlock looked at him with an expression that seemed to resemble that of a guilty child.
"I promise you, John, this won't be happening again."
"Good." He leaned back in his chair. "I hope you at least got a chance to look at my notes."
Sherlock blushed.
"Yes." The detective cleared his throat. "So... my giggle..."
"Is about the cutest damn thing I've heard in a while," John said with a smirk.
Sherlock turned even redder.
"Hardly an observation that needed made."
"Are you kidding me? That giggle gave me life."
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his posture.
"Yes, well... you talk in your sleep. Something about a love for puppies?"
"You can shut up now," John said.
"But you and I both know I won't."
John sighed.
"And that scares the hell out of me."
Sherlock grinned.
"Shall I put the kettle on?"
"Please. I'm dying of thirst."