[ While he counts, passing 20 - 21 - 22, Sherlock reaches out and touches his forehead, because apparently even when high off his tits, the man can deduce stuff like the fact that if John were to measure his own temperature right now, it would undoubtedly be crawling towards 39 degrees Celsius. In the meantime, as he gets as far as 30 bpm, Sherlock informs him that he has a fever, as if he's not perfectly capable of making that diagnosis himself, and pushes himself up, swaying a bit over the coffee table and John lets his wrist slip from between his fingers, slowly rising up from his crouched position, too. You should go to bed, says the man who's so damn clever that he just had to go and shoot up with the most volatile, unreliable drug on the market in order to slow down his brain. But no, John's a doctor and he's his flatmate and he's his fucking friend, he has absolutely no business leaving for anything else than to pick up a pack of Methadone. ]

And you should have told me you were relapsing.

[ His voice is matter-of-fact as he crosses his arms over his chest. He isn't reaching out to stabilize the other man who looks, frankly, like a tower of Jengas about to come down, because he isn't here to mollycoddle any drug addicts, he didn't do it when he actually worked in that division and he's not going to do it now either. Instead he pierces Sherlock with a stare, chin raised and lips pursed. ]