Addiction of Choice - for sherlockisms

[substituteskull]

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?"