A/N: This is a sequel to Playtime.


It took Sherlock's brain about twenty minutes to haul itself back from the ionosphere. Sherlock, surprisingly, was hoping that it would take longer. Since his first "braingasm," he had been quite content to drift hazily in the sea of neurochemicals without the ability for rational thought. He found it quite liberating.

He came up with the term "braingasm" later, or course, to describe situations where his orgasm also shut down his brain. He was the first to admit it wasn't the best word, and it sounded cheesy, but it was descriptive, and there needed to be a word. For experimental purposes and documentation, of course.

For those blissful, quiet, so wonderfully quiet, twenty minutes, John, Lestrade, and Sherlock lay snuggled in a tangled mass on the bed. Greg had thought to grab the eiderdown after they were done. So, between their body heat, and the reflected warmth of the down feathers, they just basked in the glow of it all. Greg and John, lost in their thoughts. Sherlock, happily not thinking at all.

Mostly, those thoughts were happy, blissful ones. But if they'd been able to listen to each other's internal monologues, they would have had two disturbing thoughts in common, tugging at their brains. One: What was Sherlock going to do when he came back down? Two: Would there be any more experiments? Neither knew the answer to the first (although they both hoped it was "not lose it") and both were praying the answer to the second question was a definite Yes.

As soon as Sherlock started babbling about showers and the ambient temperature of the room and food (food? Sherlock?), they knew he was back. John was secretly relieved. Sherlock had never gone for that long neither thinking nor talking. He was even more relieved to discover that it was Playful Sherlock who had returned, and not Moody Sherlock. Even if the mood was (currently) bliss, he knew that could go downhill fast, and he didn't want this to go there.

Greg, not knowing Sherlock's moods like John did, was just glad it wasn't Sarcastic "What the Fuck Are You Doing Here, Lestrade?" Sherlock.

It was decided, unanimously, that showers were in order. Greg's shower wasn't large enough to hold three (a shame, that), and so, in the interest of fairness, each took separate showers. Sherlock wanted to go first, apparently needing a few minutes alone with his newly restored brain.

Greg and John lounged on the bed, still loosely wrapped in one another. Greg nuzzled the back of John's neck and murmured "that went better than I'd expected." John giggled.

"Seriously though, what the fuck?"

"It was your idea to confront him." He giggled again. "You didn't realize you were going to unleash a monster, did you."

"No," Greg replied. "If I had realized that, I would have confronted him a lot sooner." They both giggled at that and indulged in a bit of languorous kissing until Sherlock finished in the shower.

Sherlock either didn't want to discuss the experiment yet, or wanted all of them to be there, because he busied himself with his cell, finding the closest places for Indian food and cross referencing them with three separate restaurant review sites.

And then, the three of them got dressed and went out for a well-deserved meal.