insides.

He wakes up on his back, a Very Bad Idea, everything considered, his arse sticky from a lovely addition of dried cum and that’s -- just something he’ll leave for the morning. One of several things, he imagines.

Ouch.

It’s three AM, Sherlock’s still sound asleep and John doesn’t really move enough to worry that he might wake him, his body feeling completely drained.

And empty. He still feels -- empty, as if Sherlock’s drilled into him, leaving a hole behind that he'll need refilled here on out.

Except, in this case -- John isn’t the doctor making the prescriptions anymore, is he?