I don't own Sherlock, as much as I'd like otherwise. :)

Firstly, this isn't meant to be taken too seriously, except in one part (you'll know it when you read it) But mostly not serious. It was just an idea in my head that wouldn't go away. I've just had a bit of fun with it, and I hope you do too.

And this could be read as friendship, slash, or pre-slash. It's really up to you.

Ah. Just one warning for mentions of abuse.

It was never going to be an ordinary day. I could tell that from the moment I stepped in the door to 221B Baker Street, and saw that Sherlock was lying on the floor, with no shirt on, clutching his violin, plucking the air above it as if he were playing. But that wasn't even the weirdest part. No. The weirdest was yet to come. I walked over to Sherlock, who hadn't even flinched when I closed the door, and waved a hand in front of his face.

Sherlock, in response to this, grabbed my hand and licked it.

Yes, licked.

Then looked a bit confused, and glared at my hand before following the hand to the attached arm and up to my concerned face. I'll admit it; I was worried about what the hell Sherlock had taken. He'd said he was clean though, but I'd get to yelling at him about that after I got him sober enough that he wasn't licking me anymore.

He'd been fine before, when he'd rushed out after me. I was going to do the shopping, we were out of milk again, and since Sherlock refuses to do boring things like shopping, that left me to argue with those bloody stupid checkout machines. He'd ran out with a huge grin on his face, briefly explaining he'd cracked the code. I didn't know what he was going on about to be honest. Since I broke my collarbone on our last case, Sherlock has refused to let me anywhere near anything dangerous until it heals. He won't even let me near the bloody oven! It's a little bit sweet. If not a little worrying. But because of that, I have no idea what case he would have been on. He occasionally mumbles out loud about the husband this or the mob that, but I can't follow Sherlock's train of thought when I've heard it all, let alone bits and pieces. If I was going to take a guess at decrypting his mumblings… I'd say the cat did it. I'm pretty sure the cat was a suspect at one point.

But anyway, I got back from doing the shopping, taking double the amount of time than usual, because I got in another heated argument with the checkout machine and… Well… I threatened to shoot it.

Which then lead to a discussion with the manager.

Who then called the police.

And who happened to be on call? None other than Detective Inspector Lestrade, of course. Although why he was answering to a boring old disturbance I don't know. I suspect he may have been tipped off that I was involved and came down for a laugh on a slow day at the Yard. I've got no proof, but it's a solid theory, especially with the look he had on his face when he arrived.

So after three long hours, and ending up with no shopping, I came home. Sherlock wasn't back yet, and to be honest I didn't expect him to be, so I went down to play a little scrabble and watch crappy telly with Mrs Hudson, who was under strict orders from Sherlock not to let me near the oven.

Then after five hours with Mrs Hudson, I headed back to our flat. Which brings me to where I started. With Sherlock with no shirt on, licking me.

And before you even think about saying anything, shut up, not like that.

"John? Why does your hand taste like ink?" Sherlock wasn't actually imagining that, either. Lestrade had insisted on having me fingerprinted in case of anymore disagreements with the checkout machines. I was surprised he could even get that sentence out without laughing. But I told him there definitely would be more disagreements, because those things were a bloody stupid idea.

"No reason," I decided telling Sherlock about the incident in this state would be a bit pointless. "Sherlock, what did you take?"

Sherlock frowned a little. He seemed to be genuinely insulted at the question. "I didn't take… Anything… I'm…" He frowned, seeming to not be able to pick the word he wanted. "Squeaky…" He looked at me; in his head that sentence must have made sense. I could see his concentration was disappearing quickly, and if I wanted to get reasonable answers I only had a brief window.

"Sherlock, hey," I said, clicking my fingers to get his attention. "What happened?"

"They made me John. It was a big needle… And they poked me with it… And… And…" something over my shoulder caught Sherlock's eye at that moment, and he tried to stand up, wavering a little bit, but not falling over. "Has your coat always been that colour?" he asked me, walking over to the coat that was hanging on the hook near the door.

Looks like the window has just closed. Oh well, at least I got some of the information I needed. Sherlock had been drugged. Which meant he was technically clean, since it was against his will. All I needed to do was sober him up, and pray that Lestrade or Mycroft never found out. I walked over to where Sherlock was eyeing the coat as if it was a pair of eyeballs he just roasted. "That's your coat Sherlock. Come on, let's get you to bed."

"I don't want to, John!" Sherlock yelled, sounding a lot like a child and not at all like his usual genius self. If you hadn't gotten it by now, whatever the drug was, had lowered Sherlock's IQ to that of an over grown, slightly more intelligent than usual ten year old. Maybe that was the point, or maybe the point was to make my life hell for the hours to come, I don't know. But as time went on and Sherlock decided he was not going to bed, no matter what I said, the second option was looking far more likely.

After ten minutes of trying to convince Sherlock to do something he was set on not doing, I gave up. "Fine, let's watch some telly."

I had to more or less drag Sherlock over to the TV. He was convinced that it was going to suck his face off. I personally think he's been watching too much Doctor Who, but there you go. For the first fifteen minutes of some reality TV show (I wasn't really watching), he had his face covered, as if to hold it in place.

"Sherlock, I promise it won't suck your face off." I said.

"Promise John?" He asked from behind his hands, so it came out more as 'pom'se 'Ohn?'

"Yes Sherlock. I promise." I said softly. I didn't know what they'd given him, but I wanted to, just so that I could be sure he never got given any again. I don't care what else anyone could possibly give him, as long as it's not this. I didn't think I could handle this again.

Sherlock slowly removed his hands and gave a sigh of relief when the TV kept my word and didn't start face-sucking. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock stood up and walked towards the fridge, tripping over a few things and running into the table on his way there. He opened the fridge, only to close it and then open it again. He stared at the contents of the fridge, which at that particular moment consisted of a head, eyeballs, fingers, and for some reason, Sherlock's skull.

It made me slightly worried about what had happened to the ears that were there last time I looked.

When he just continued to stare, I asked, "What's wrong Sherlock?"

"Where's all the food?"

"We don't own food Sherlock." I explained. "You don't usually eat, remember?"

"But you went to do shopping." Sherlock stated as if the whole conversation was truly baffling him. "Where's all the food?"

"I didn't get any." I answered, trying to be as vague as possible and hoping he'd lose interest.

"Why not? I'm starving John." Sherlock said, still standing in front of the open fridge. I screwed my eyes shut. Great. Just bloody brilliant. Now he was getting the munchies.

I got out of the chair and skimmed through the cupboards, listing the very little supplies there. "What d'you want?" I asked, pointing to the cupboards.

"I don't know." Sherlock replied, still staring at the fridge, as if willing something to appear there. It was strange seeing Sherlock like this, and I'm pretty sure when he's back in his right mind he'll deny it, but he actually looked confused and just a little bit adorable.

"Chips?" I suggested. I was pretty sure I could find something for him.


"Toast?" Sherlock shook his head, his curls flopping everywhere.

"Cereal?" I was running out of foods to list and I don't think Sherlock even knew what he wanted.

"Ehhhh… No..." Sherlock replied, looking deep in thought. Suddenly, his face brightened and he announced he knew what he wanted, and raced out the door.

It took me a few seconds to realise that I'd just let a high as a kite Sherlock out of the flat. Unattended. And a few more to think to chase after him. He didn't get far though, in fact, just as I stepped out the door, there he was. He must have gotten a few meters down the street and realised he had no money.

Or that's what I thought anyway.

"No money?" I asked, trying to sound as innocent as I possibly could while trying to sound smug.

"What?" Sherlock's brow crinkled as he patted down his pockets. "No."

"Then… Why'd you stop?"

"Because I forgot where I was going." Sherlock replied as if it was obvious while he was still looking in his pockets for money, only pulling out a couple of scraps of paper with random words on them, a pen, his phone, and a paper clip.

"Right." I swiped my hands over my face. It was going to be a long night. I just needed to get him back indoors as soon as I could, so I headed towards the nearest supermarket that didn't have a self-serve checkout machine.

We arrived and I turned to Sherlock. "Go find what you want."

I swear the look on his face would rival the look he wears when he catches a serial killer's case.

I waited near the checkouts, but after half an hour, Sherlock hadn't reappeared and I was starting to worry. What if he tried to talk to somebody? I walked in the direction he had headed, barely keeping myself from running.

But instead of finding Sherlock talking to some poor bugger who only wanted to do his late night shopping, I found him loading as many different brands of fish fingers he could into a trolley. I noted that there were already around two dozen different brands of custard there too.

Oh yeah. Way too much Doctor Who.

"No. Sherlock! Sherlock. One." I said, trying to still his movements, placing my own hand over his. He stared at it as if it was a foreign object, and then looked at me, pouting.

"No Sherlock. One." I said, holding my ground.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed.

I shook my head and chuckled to myself. "How did your parents manage?"

"They didn't." Sherlock answered simply.

I stared at him. What did that mean? I didn't know, but Sherlock seemed determined to hide any sort of emotional attachment to the matter. "What d'you mean, 'they didn't'?"

"John, can we go home? I'm hungry," Sherlock said, changing the topic without seeming to even notice the implications of what he'd said. I decided to let it go, until we got home at least.

We reached the door to 221B in record time, due to Sherlock insisting that we run because there was someone following us. To be honest I couldn't tell you if he was being paranoid, if it was the drugs again, or if someone actually was following us.

We got inside, and I told Sherlock to sit down as I moved towards the oven to try and cook his snack. When he saw this however, he stood up so fast the chair fell over. "You can't! The oven! It's… Bad." I knew what he was talking about; if you were to ask Sherlock Holmes, in any state, the oven was, and always would be, 'dangerous.'

It was only because he caught himself on fire when he was six, trying to do an experiment. There was still a patch on his arm where the hairs refused to grow back. There were no burns though, just a bald spot.

"Sherlock. Sit." I ordered. I was amazed when he did. "Now, tell me about your parents."

"Mmmmmm… No." Sherlock replied.

"Why not?" I asked. I wasn't expecting the response I got, I was just genuinely curious. All I was expecting in reply was 'they're boring' or 'ordinary' or even 'because they're from another planet.' Which really, would explain a lot about Sherlock.

"Because he's bad, and she's gone."

"When you say 'bad' you mean…" I asked, shocked. The look Sherlock gave me, I swear right then it was the sober version of him, with his usual 'I know you're not an idiot, John, how could you ask that?' "Oh." Sherlock's father had abused him. I felt guilty all of a sudden. I knew he would have never told me that in a clear head. I didn't ask any more questions, but Sherlock seemed to figure 'why stop now?'

That was when I heard the whole life story of Sherlock Holmes. And bloody hell was it a shocking one.

"Mummy and my father," he almost spat the word, "were married for seven years when Mycroft was born, eleven when I was. They were happy enough, I suppose. There wasn't really much love in the relationship, but they did love Mycroft. I was just sort of… There. In fact, my father seemed to despise my existence. I knew why, of course. Mummy had had an affair around the time of my birth, everyone knew about it. But when she left father for the other man, he snapped. I didn't blame her for leaving. My father was a cruel man, John. But I reminded him of the woman who had gotten one up on him. It wasn't the betrayal; it was that she had outsmarted him. Mummy was much smarter than he ever could hope to be. But after she left, it just got worse. He said I wasn't even meant to be a Holmes. I wasn't meant to be his. Mycroft tried to stop him from hurting me, but it didn't help. I ran away when I was fifteen, one night when he beat me half to death. Mycroft kept track of me, but he never asked me to come home, even when I got into some things… Things I probably shouldn't have. He knew I wouldn't come home. I couldn't."

"Jesus Sherlock," I breathed out. Sherlock looked down at the table. I knew it would have been hard for him to tell me all that, even like this.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

I blinked, once, twice, three times. "Uh, yeah?" I asked, trying to get over the shock of Sherlock opening up to such a huge degree.

"I'm not hungry anymore." He said, but I could hear the hurt from the memories in the tone he used, even though he was trying to hide it. "I'm going to… Go to bed."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, only one in the world, IQ off the charts, grabbed my hard cover 'Introduction to Modern Medicine' and my jumper that I'd left hanging over the chair, then using the book as a pillow and the jumper as a blanket, fell asleep on our kitchen floor.

I watched him for a little while, making sure that he wasn't going to bolt up and start telling me about how his brother was a mean so and so, or how Anderson was an idiot, as he had done at least five time already that night. When I heard his breathing level out, I headed up stairs, quickly coming back with a proper blanket. "Night Sherlock," I said softly as I trudged up to my room.

Hope you enjoyed reading that, I enjoyed writing it! If Sherlock seemed out of character to anybody, just remember he's higher than a kite. Yeah. :)

Gold stars to anyone who can tell me where the Doctor Who references are from! :D

REVIEW IF YOU ENJOYED IT (Even just a little?) Please?