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Summary
"So," John says, setting down his mug, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, "what exactly did you drug me with, this time?"
Sherlock blinks at him for a good few seconds, standing - dithering - beside his armchair. "I," he says, delicately, before breaking off, as close to stunned as he gets, and John crosses his legs, lacing his fingers in his lap like he's got all day.
(To be fair; he does. It's only Wednesday, and they won't need him at the clinic until Saturday).
