"Mmm," Sherlock replied, barely stirring.
"Why the hell are there multiple drugs hiding in your bedroom."
"I think the better question is, what were you doing in my bedroom?"
John rolled his eyes. "Looking for my medical kit. Which I found by the way. In your closet. Right next to the pills bottles. Now, tell me why the hell you have them before I call Lestrade for a very real drugs bust."
Sherlock opened an eye a crack to see John standing there, fuming, hold his medical kit in one hand, and the ziploc bag containing the pill bottles in the other.
"Did you check the label?"
"Why would I need-"
"Check the label," Sherlock interjected, sitting up on the couch.
"They have the names of the drugs- sertraline, clonidine- Sherlock these are serious!"
"Check the label," Sherlock insisted.
"Sherlock... oh. They're in your name."
Sherlock applauded slowly, much to John's disdain.
"Co-morbidity John! I expect you know all about that." Sherlock winked.
John only frowned and looked more confused.
Sherlock sighed, a bit dramatically. "Oh come on, don't tell me your memory is that poor." He waited. John showed no signs of comprehension. "Remember? You determined that I was not a psychopath or sociopath."
John nodded slowly. "Right. You just claim you're a sociopath cause it's preferable to everyone knowing you're autistic."
Sherlock scowled. "High functioning," he muttered.
John grinned. "What? Sociopath or autistic?"
"Both," he snapped.
John held up his hands, surrendering.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a 'deduce it' sort of way, and got up and began pacing around the room, hands placed in the typical thinking position. John was still sitting in his chair, pondering this.
"Oh," he said suddenly, and Sherlock could practically see the light bulb flicking on inside his head. "They're for that?"
"Sertraline for depression and some of the obsessive symptoms and repetitive behaviours," he said, reciting as if he was reading from a textbook. For all John knew, he could have been. "Clonidine for anxiety, and it's also a mild sedative. Stimulants for attention deficit and anti-convulsants, although those aren't quite necessary anymore. There are also ones for sleeping, but those don't require a prescription and are thus not kept in that bag."
John stared, open mouthed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"And you call yourself a doctor."
"I was never really one for psych or paeds," he retorted, whipped a pillow at Sherlock.
Sherlock attempted to dodge the pillow, and partially succeeded, as it only hit him in the shoulder instead of the face as John intended.
"So," John started, then hesitated. "Are you saying, that, before you started meds, that you were... worse?"
Sherlock glared at John who shrunk.
"Hard to imagine isn't it?" he replied, smiling broadly to let John know he was kidding.
John couldn't seem to decide whether to laugh or make a disapproving noise, so what came out was an interesting mix of the two.
Sherlock eyed him.
"So, you're actually saying that before you started taking meds... that..." he paused rather awkwardly, not knowing of a better way to say it, "I mean, your sleeping patterns were worse, your mood swings were worse, your obsessive behaviours were worse, your..." he trailed off, feeling Sherlock's harsh glare.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded.
"If you're feeling particularly brave you could ask Mycroft about it sometime," he commented dryly.
John's face went from fascinated to blank to horrified in a matter of seconds.
"Umm... yeah," he mumbled.
The flat was silent as John pondered that for a while, until he spoke again.
Sherlock smiled. He figured John would get there eventually.
"Why did you even have my medical kit anyway?"
"An experiment," he replied innocently.
"No..." John said, thinking out loud. "If it was, you would have returned it. Unless it was the experiment. You wanted me to go looking. You wanted me to find it. You wanted me to see your pills."
"Oh, you think what you like John. Whatever makes you happy, really."