[ He meets John's gaze, the other man's body language screaming... uh... yeah, all right, not quite anger, something like disapproval? That's not a feeling, that's an act. Scowling at his own incompetence, Sherlock makes his way towards the door shakily, trying to plan ahead with his mind slugging along like it can't be bothered. Boltholes, he's got - yeah, there's one near Regent's Park, he can make it there and sleep it off, it'll be (hellish, painful, disgusting) fine. He blinks again, moving past John at an uncertain distance. ]

It's not a re-lapse - [ He has to work for the pronunciation, here. ] - it's tem-po-ra-ry - [ Yet another terrible word but he's clever, he can manage it. ] - it'll go away. [ Pause. He stops in the doorway and starts searching around for his coat until he realises it's in his bedroom and not in the hallway. With a snort, he sets a new course and sways his way towards the bedroom, one hand coming out to balance himself against the wall whenever his legs try to send him crashing. ] Just let me --

[ He doesn't finish, feeling suddenly too tired and light-headed to do anything but come to a stop, right in the doorway, staring blankly at his bedroom. ]