"Feeling better?" John asked from behind the morning newspaper as Sherlock slouched into the room. It was the day after he'd been drugged by Irene Adler. Sherlock wasn't sure what hurt more- his ego, or his reputation. He hadn't been played and manipulated like that in years, decades even. He only grunted in reply, sitting at the table and pouring himself a cup of tea. His body felt strangely light and hardly solid now that it had metabolized the drug, and Sherlock didn't like it. He didn't like that it made his head feel the same way, and that was, even though he wouldn't admit it, frightening. Sherlock's mind was the one thing he could always, always depend on. If that were taken away, he would be nothing but a dull, ordinary citizen. Pushing away that awful thought, Sherlock gulped his first cup of tea and then drank the second cup much more slowly. He mulled over his phone in the pocket of his dressing gown and the idea of staying in touch with the woman. As his thoughts moved over what he could remember of the time between her and now, his brows furrowed. He remembered John commenting on something, something about Lestrade and a phone…

"Did you say that Lestrade filmed me on his phone?" Sherlock asked, and after a second, John lowered his paper, looking very much like he was fighting to keep a straight face. That sent up a red flag in Sherlock's mind. He was correct, but did he want to be?

"Erm, yeah. You had a…strong reaction to the drug." John said carefully, dancing around the subject with skill. He'd learned to be a bit more diplomatic and political with his sentences from living with Sherlock. The man in question raised his eyebrows. If Sherlock lied to himself, he would say that he was more interested in studying the drug and finding out how it had affected him. In reality, he wanted to know just how badly he'd acted. Sherlock had a reputation for a reason and this…this was not good.

"Well, what did I do?" He asked, looking to John for answers…

"JOHN. This is my John." Sherlock said in an unusually loud and unsteady voice. That loud voice was right in John's ear. Sherlock was practically glued to John, his long arms wrapped firmly around the Capitan. Sherlock was bragging, showing off to Lestrade and anyone else in earshot. Sherlock was very happy with his John. John was nice, not at all dull, and most importantly, tolerant of Sherlock no matter how he was feeling. He was his best friend. "My John, my John, my Jawwwnn!" Sherlock very nearly sang, his deep voice making the situation even more comical to Lestrade, who was itching to get his phone out to document the most likely only time he would see Sherlock Holmes acting very un Holmes-esque. It was taking all he had as of that moment to not burst out into laughter that would surely anger John.

"Yes, yes, I'm your John. Look, Lestrade, taking him to the hospital will get us nowhere, not with him in this state. I'll just take him back home." John said around Sherlock's body, which was pressed as tightly against him as possible. Sherlock was practically intertwining his legs with John's, the idea of personal space completely out the window. Sherlock fluffed John's hair with his nose, fascinated by the texture. John tried to stay very gruff about the whole thing. He was, of course, worried about Sherlock- who wouldn't be? But at the same time, he was slightly enjoying the wild antics of his usually straitlaced friend. Considering Sherlock's face was very close to John's, he had an excellent view of the detective's beautiful eyes. The usually piercing grey was significantly dulled. Up close, John could see flecks of blue in Sherlock's eyes. He noted how his friend's pupils were dilated, very dilated. The drug was loose in his system.

"I'll get a car ready for you out front." Lestrade said, hiding his grin until he was out of sight on the stairs.

"Right, come on then, Sherlock. Let's go home." John said, and waited for Sherlock to unravel himself. "Home, Sherlock. We're going home." He repeated when Sherlock did nothing.

"Good. I like home. I like you." The detective murmured, burying his head into the crook of John's neck.

"So do I, Sherlock, but you have to let go of me so that I can walk." John said. When a few minutes ticked by and Sherlock didn't release his grip, John sighed. After a few more minutes of untangling himself and promising Sherlock that he could latch on to him again soon, he managed to lead the confused sleuth down the stairs and to the car. Almost as soon as they were to the car door, Sherlock panicked.

"JOHN!" He bellowed, leaping and wrapping his long legs around the doctor's waist, clinging to him. Unable to resist, Lestrade whipped out his phone as the moment unfolded. "John, there is a tiger right there! Right there!" Sherlock yelled, letting go with one of his arms to point with a shaking hand off across the street and by a telephone box. John, who was staggering under the weight of his friend, let himself rest on the car waiting for them. "It's clearly Siberian, judging by the markings…" Sherlock rambled about his hallucination as John slowly worked his arms free so that he could use his hands. Before, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around his friend and clamped his arms to his sides.

"Sherlock," John sighed, "There is no tiger. Trust me on this one. If there was a tiger, I'd protect you from it, ok?" He told Sherlock's silver eyes, which were literally right in front of him. The two men were nose to nose. John could see real panic on Sherlock's face, which made him worried again about his friend's health.

"Promise?" Sherlock asked, for the first time sounding like a scared child. John didn't break eye contact as he solemnly swore his promise. Lestrade got the car door, still filming, and accidentally shot a second or two of film where John was sending him an obscene gesture with his free hand as he helped Sherlock into the waiting vehicle. Lestrade shut the door and the car pulled away. John relaxed into the seat. For the first few minutes of the ride, Sherlock wrapped his entire body around one of John's arms, declaring that John was the 'bestest person ever'. Then, something new caught his attention. "John!" Sherlock exclaimed as the vehicle moved smoothly through an intersection. He sounded excited now. The detective was practically bouncing in his seat he was so thrilled. His eyes were shining, even though there were still dulled by the drug.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked, looking at his friend with amused eyes, thankful that Sherlock was at least calm.

"Cars. Go. VROOM." He said proudly, as if this was a previously unknown fact that would astound any scientific community. John, for his flatmate's sake, decided to play along.

"Really?" John asked, working to put incredulity in his voice whilst trying not to laugh at the same time. Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"So do airplanes, and trains, and buses. They all go vroom." He said factually, his face practically pasted to the window as he observed the city of London. For awhile, Sherlock looked at the world around them excitedly. However, as the ride progressed, he began to feel very, very tired. Considering his best friend John to be a comfy, warm pillow, Sherlock curled up on his seat and put his head on his friend's lap, burying his face into John's stomach and his warm wool jumper.

"Are you tired, Sherlock?" John asked, his medical instincts kicking in. The sooner Sherlock fell asleep, the sooner his body could metabolize the drug in his bloodstream. Sherlock nodded into John's stomach. Knowing that he would never get another chance to do anything like it, John brought down a hand and ran his fingers through Sherlock's mussed curly hair. He told himself that it would help Sherlock drift off. To be honest, however, John knew that he was doing it because he could hardly ever show any type of affection towards his flatmate. Their friendship was probably the furthest he could get Sherlock to go. Not that John minded- he didn't have any romantic feelings for his friend. However, even the wrong compliment could get Sherlock to flush up like a teenage girl. John's mates in the army would fluff and muss his hair all the time. Usually it was in more of a rough manner, but the occasional tossing of locks wasn't at all uncommon. This one moment to show affection would help John swallow all of the compliments and praise he usually wanted to bestow upon Sherlock. Whenever he felt the need to pat his arm or slap him on the back he would just remember this moment and resist the urge.

When the car arrived at 221B, John had to rouse Sherlock with a few shakes and even then he was practically limp with sleep- the drug was starting to fully kick in. Most of his amusement gone, John hauled Sherlock up two flights of stairs, through the flat, and to the detective's bedroom. With a grunt, the army doctor lifted Sherlock into his arms and plopped him on his bed. John removed the detective's shoes before pulling up the blankets over the already sleeping man…

"Well, what did I do?" Sherlock asked, turning a laser-like gaze onto his friend.

"How much do you remember?" John baited Sherlock, waiting, slightly hoping that the detective didn't remember John running his fingers through his hair. Sherlock scowled at his tea, apparently thinking hard.

"Nothing," he admitted finally, clearly angered by the fact that he remembered nothing about his time under the influence.

"You claimed me as your property, had a hallucination of a Siberian tiger, and told me quite seriously that 'cars go vroom'." John summarized. Sherlock looked at him a moment before pinching the bridge of his nose, letting the steam off of his tea wash over his face as he tried to process.

"How much did Lestrade get on film?" He inquired, his voice perfectly neutral.

"The bit about the tiger," John said nonchalantly, going back to his newspaper.

"Hmmm," Sherlock sounded out, wondering how quickly he could steal the DI's phone to delete any evidence of him acting anything like his usual dry self. He had lied to John- he did have one memory, a memory of feeling very comfy and safe with his face pressed into wool. His highly organized mind had already run over the idea of the memory not being real, but he felt very much so like it was. Storing the memory away for later analyzing, Sherlock turned his mind to a new problem.

He had to get rid of that damn video evidence before anyone saw it, especially Mycroft.