We're All Mad Here - for abitnotgood

"I'm speaking as your doctor!"

John was flabbergasted, but this was a typical state for him.  Sherlock either blinded him with his brilliance or made him want to renounce his Hippocratic Oath.  Currently it was the former, though that created all sorts of interesting problems given that he was trying to keep Sherlock from bringing more harm to himself!

John still had cement in his hair, the fine pulverized material like large grains of sand causing it to take on an alabaster shade.  He had come out of the explosion more or less unscathed, the bruising and lacerations to his face and hands were minor.  Sherlock, on the other hand, was a bloody mess.

Though he knew that head wounds, no matter how slight, could bleed profusely, that did not mean that Sherlock should go about being a manic mess while he was injured.  And, frankly, he didn't want Sherlock to find the mad man that had strapped that explosive to his chest either!

"Come away from there!"

Addiction of Choice - for sherlockisms

John spent half an hour in the bathroom scrubbing gunpowder residues off of his fingers.  He doubted DI Lestrade would come back for a second time tonight, not with a mound of paperwork on his desk thanks to the shooting of the man that had tempted Sherlock's fancy and ego a bit too drastically.

"You were really going to take that pill, weren't you?" John asked, for the seventh time at least.  He lost count.

Sherlock was in his meditative repose, flat on his back, hands folded under his chin as if he was praying.  John knew better than to think he was doing that, however.

"Do you just take anything that interests you?  Any drug at all?"