A story wherein we borrow one infinitely charming characteristic of Benedict Cumberbatch, and give it to Sherlock, while at the same time (eventually) finding a reason to get on with some sexing.
He was very, very high. And it felt very, very good.
He was going nowhere and doing nothing for the next—he looked at his watch—three hours, so he methodically cataloged the somewhat unique, largely familiar sensations: Dizziness. A sort of buzzing around the lips. A gentle, rolling euphoria. Distractibility. A hyper-awareness of his breathing. Horniness. Auditory hallucinations. Laziness. Light-headedness. Yes, he was really quiet remarkably—
Stretched out like a crash victim on the loo's floor, Sherlock Holmes blinked a lazy gaze to the closed door behind his head. Dr. John H. Watson was on the other side of that nice door, and Dr. John H. Watson probably would not approve of what was going on behind it, so the consulting detective within said quite loudly, "Shhhhhh! Don't say anything and he won't know you're here!"
Yes, Sherlock was pretty damned high.
The sound of a hand brushing against his door: "What'd you say?"
Without being aware he was doing it, Sherlock shoved at his cock with the heel of his hand and sort of giggled.
The sound was muffled enough that John just nodded to himself and shouted, "Yeah, well I'm going back out, just had to drop off some milk and cheese—by the way, you are having a sandwich and soup tonight and I don't care if I have to puree it and feed it to you by hand. Protein, Sherlock, protein."
Sherlock shoved at his cock again and said "La de da!"
Fortunately John didn't hear him. In moments he was gone again.
Fortunately? Wait, what? Sherlock looked down at his own hand manhandling him on top of his trousers, then he tilted his head back and looked at the closed door again and wondered whether he'd actually heard John or was he just—
"Hi!" Sherlock shouted. He did that thing that sounded a lot like a giggle again, closed his eyes, fell asleep in seconds, and slept for the next two hours.
And curled on his side like a child in that small warm room Sherlock probably would have slept another two if the loo door hadn't eventually opened, slowly and carefully, followed by a softly whispered, "Uh, hey sorry, are you—"
What he'd expected to find in there John didn't know, but his lover curled up in a drowsy ball on the ratty shower mat—something like a hundred bottles of open nail polish scattered over every flat porcelain surface—was not even in the top one hundred.
"Jesus Christ," John clamped a hand over his nose and mouth. The fumes were completely overwhelming in the small room. That's when John's eyes popped wide in realization and he dropped down behind his lover's head.
"Wake up!" John patted Sherlock's cheek with one hand, leaned backward and grabbed the door behind him, swung it wide, with the other. "Wake up love, hey, hey, wake up—"
Sherlock's eyes opened, wide and startled, then he looked up at the man crouching over him and said, "Oh, hi. What are you doing here?" He blinked and stared and then said, bright and cheery, "You needed bread and milk didn't you?" Sherlock squinted one eye tight, thinking. "No, you got bread and milk." He squinted the other eye closed. "No, cheese. It was cheese. Wasn't it cheese?"
John tugged at Sherlock's arm. "God, you're stoned. Come on, get up, we have to get you away from these fumes and into fresh air."
Sherlock lay there calmly, thrumming his fingers on his breast bone for a moment. "Fumes? Mmm, I think that was the point." He pointed to nothing in particular. "Ah, yes, that was it! I was doing an experi—"
John barked "Later!" and shoved his hands under Sherlock's arms. He tried to pull, but the other man was just too big. "Come on, help me Sherlock, you need to get up and get out of here. I need to get out of here, I feel dizzy already."
The detective thought about all of this for a moment, then realized that thinking felt hard. That spurred motion. Sherlock quickly rolled over onto wobbly hands and knees, and instantly found his head spinning and his vision whiting out. "Fefflester," he said, with no idea what it meant. Then there it was again, that persistent tugging and he shrugged and was just about to follow it, when he remembered something that seemed fairly important. Gesturing off to his left he said, "Did you know we have thpiders under the think?"
John froze in the act of half-dragging his sweetheart across the floor, completely shocked at the sound of his lover's schoolboy lisp. When the other man swayed dangerously on one knee John shook his head, refocused, grabbed Sherlock's arms, and tugged. "Up! Easy now."
It took them nearly a minute to get Sherlock's feet soundly beneath him, and long seconds more before he could put one foot in front of the other reliably enough to actually locomote forward.
John draped Sherlock's arm over his shoulders, grabbed his waist tightly. "Easy does it, take it slow." There was no other way Sherlock could take it. He dragged the toe of each foot as he took small steps, watching his legs as if they belonged to someone he was only vaguely acquainted with.
Eventually they made it to through the door and one, two, just three steps further on and Sherlock actually felt his brain—well, could a brain sigh in relief?
As they crept toward the living room and the couch, John's arm like iron around Sherlock's waist, the smaller man quite nearly carrying the taller one now that he had leverage, John had to ask half in exasperation, half in absolute wonder. "What were you doing? Seriously, what could you have possibly been doing in there?"
The answer was going to be mildly convoluted. It was going to involve two manicures and possibly a pedicure. Quite likely some sex. And eventually as many things that started with S as John could possibly think of on short notice.
That infinitely charming lisp? Search YouTube or Google for "The Last Enemy - Bloopers." At precisely 2:10 your head will 'esplode. You may thank me later.